Timeline. Part 44

"You must have great dedication to your Magister, to give up your s.e.x."

"My Lady, I do."

"Then I pray most earnestly that you survive."

The door opened, and the toad gestured to them. "Worthies, come. My Lady, pray remain, the Abbot will do your bidding soon enough. But you worthies-come with me."

Outside in the courtyard, Chris leaned close to Marek and whispered, "Andre. That woman is poison."

Marek was smiling. "I agree she has a certain spark...."

"Andre. I'm telling you. You can't trust anything she says."

"Really? I thought she was remarkably straightforward,"Marek said. "She wants protection. And she is right."

Chris stared. "Protection?"

"Yes. She wants a champion," Marek said, thoughtfully.

"A champion? What are you talking about? We have only-how many hours left?"

Marek looked at his wristband. "Eleven hours ten minutes."

"So: what are you talking about, a champion?"

"Oh. Just thinking," Marek said. He threw his arm over Chris's shoulder. "It's not important."

11:01:59.

They were seated at a long table with many monks in a large hall, a steaming bowl of meat soup in front of them, and in the center of the table, platters piled high with vegetables, beef and roast capons. And no one moving a muscle, but all heads bowed in prayer, as the monks chanted.

Pater noster qui es in coelis Sanctivicetur nomen tuum Adveniat regnum tuum Fiat voluntas tua Kate kept sneaking looks at the food. The capons were steaming! They looked fat, and yellow juice flowed onto the plates. Then she noticed that the monks nearest her seemed puzzled by her silence. She should know this chant, it seemed.

Beside her, Marek was chanting loudly.

Panem nostrum quotidianum Da n.o.bie hodie Et dimmitte n.o.bis debita nostra She didn't understand Latin, and she couldn't join in, so she stayed silent until the final "Amen."

The monks all looked up, nodded to her. She braced herself: she had been fearing this moment. Because they would speak to her, and she wouldn't be able to answer back. What would she do?

She looked at Marek, who seemed perfectly relaxed. Of course he would be; he spoke the language.

A monk pa.s.sed a platter of beef to her, saying nothing. In fact, the entire room was silent. The food was pa.s.sed without a word; there was no sound at all except for the soft clink of plates and knives. They ate in silence!

She took the platter, nodding, and gave herself one large helping, then another, until she caught Marek's disapproving glance. She handed the platter to him.

From the corner of the room, a monk began to read a text in Latin, the words a kind of cadence in her ears, while she ate hungrily. She was famished! She could not remember when she had enjoyed a meal more. She glanced at Marek, who was eating with a quiet smile on his face. She turned to her soup, which was delicious, and after a moment, she glanced back at Marek.

He wasn't smiling anymore.

Marek had been keeping an eye on the entrances. There were three to this long rectangular room: one to his right, one to his left, and one directly opposite them, in the center of the room.

Moments before, he had seen a group of soldiers in green and black gathering near the doorway to the right. They peered in, as if interested in the meal, but remained outside.

Now he saw a second group of soldiers, standing in the doorway directly ahead. Kate looked at him, and he leaned very close to her ear and whispered, "Left door." The monks around them shot disapproving glances. Kate looked at Marek and gave a little nod, meaning she understood.

Where did the left-hand doorway lead? There were no soldiers at that door, and the room beyond was dark. Wherever it went, they would have to risk it. He caught Chris's eye and gave a small jerk with his thumb: time to get up.

Chris nodded almost imperceptibly. Marek pushed away his soup and started to get up, when a white-robed monk came up to him, leaned close, and whispered, "The Abbot will see you now."

The Abbot of Sainte-Mere was an energetic man in his early thirties, with the body of an athlete and the sharp eye of a merchant. His black robes were elegantly embroidered, his heavy necklace was gold, and the hand he extended to be kissed bore jewels on four fingers. He met them in a sunny courtyard and then walked side by side with Marek, while Chris and Kate trailed behind. There were green-and-black soldiers everywhere. The Abbot's manner was cheerful, but he had the habit of abruptly changing the subject, as if to catch his listener off guard.

"I am heartfelt sorry for these soldiers," the Abbot said, "but I fear intruders have entered the monastery grounds-some men of Oliver-and until we find them, we must be cautious. And my Lord Arnaut has graciously offered us his protection. You have eaten well?"

"By the grace of G.o.d and your own, very well, my Lord Abbot."

The Abbot smiled pleasantly. "I dislike flattery," he said. "And our order forbids it."

"I shall be mindful," Marek said.

The Abbot looked at the soldiers and sighed. "So many soldiers ruin the game."

"What game is that?"

"The game, the game," he said impatiently. "Yesterday morning we went hunting and returned haveless, with not so much as a roebuck to show. And the men of Cervole had not yet arrived. Now they are here-two thousand of them. What game they do not take, they frighten off. It will be months before the forests settle again. What news of Magister Edwardus? Tell me, for I am sore in need to have it."

Marek frowned. The Abbot did indeed appear tense, chafing to hear. But he seemed to be expecting specific information.

"My Lord Abbot, he is in La Roque."

"Oh? With Sir Oliver?"

"Yes, my Lord Abbot."

"Most unfortunate. Did he give you a message for me?" He must have seen Marek's puzzled look. "No?"

"My Lord Abbot, Edwardus gave me no message."

"Perhaps in code? Some trivial or mistaken turn of phrase?"

"I am sorry," Marek said.

"Not so sorry as I. And now he is in La Roque?"

"He is, my Lord Abbot."

"Sooth, I would not have it so," the Abbot said. "For I think La Roque cannot be taken."

"Yet if there is a secret pa.s.sage to the inside ...," Marek said.

"Oh, the pa.s.sage, the pa.s.sage," the Abbot said, giving a wave of his hand. "It will be my undoing. It is all that I hear spoken. Every man wishes to know the pa.s.sage-and Arnaut more than any of them. The Magister was a.s.sisting me, searching the old doc.u.ments of Marcellus. Are you certain he said nothing to you?"

"He said we were to seek Brother Marcel."

The Abbot snorted. "Certes, this secret pa.s.sage was the work of Laon's a.s.sistant and scribe, who was Brother Marcel. But for the last years, old Marcel was not well in spirit. That is why we let him live in the mill. All through the day, he muttered and mumbled to himself, and then of a sudden he would cry out that he saw demons and spirits, and his eyes rolled in his head, and his limbs thrashed wildly, until the visions pa.s.sed." The Abbot shook his head. "The other monks venerated him, seeing his visions as proof of piety, and not of disorder, which in truth it was. But why did the Magister tell you to seek him out?"

"The Magister said Marcel had a key."

"A key?" the Abbot said. "A key key?" He sounded very annoyed. "Of course he had a key, he had many keys, and they are all to be found in the mill, but we cannot-" He stumbled forward, then stared with a shocked expression at Marek. he had a key, he had many keys, and they are all to be found in the mill, but we cannot-" He stumbled forward, then stared with a shocked expression at Marek.

All around the courtyard, men were shouting, pointing upward.

Marek said, "My Lord Abbot-"

The Abbot spat blood and collapsed into Marek's arms. Marek eased him to the ground. He felt the arrow in the Abbot's back even before he saw it. More arrows whistled down and thunked, quivering, in the gra.s.s beside them.

Marek looked up and saw maroon figures in the bell tower of the church, firing rapidly. An arrow ripped Marek's hat from his head; another tore through the sleeve of his tunic. Another arrow stuck deep in the Abbot's shoulder.

The next arrow struck Marek in the thigh. He felt searing red-hot pain streak down his leg, and he lost his balance, falling back on the ground. He tried to get up, but he was dizzy and his balance had deserted him. He fell back again as arrows whistled down all around him.

On the opposite side of the courtyard, Chris and Kate ran for cover through the rain of arrows. Kate yelled and stumbled, fell to the ground, an arrow sticking in her back. Then she scrambled up, and Chris saw it had torn through her tunic beneath her armpit but had not struck her. An arrow skinned his leg, tearing his hose. And then they reached the covered pa.s.sageway, where they collapsed behind one of the arches, catching their breath. Arrows clattered off the stone walls and struck the stone arches all around them. Chris said, "You okay?"

She nodded, panting. "Where's Marek?"

Chris got to his feet, peered cautiously around the pillar. "Oh no no," he said. And he started to run down the corridor.

Marek staggered to his feet, saw that the Abbot was still alive. "Forgive me," Marek said as he lifted the Abbot onto his shoulder and carried him away to the corner. The soldiers in the courtyard loosed answering volleys at the bell tower. Fewer arrows were coming down at them now.

Marek took the Abbot behind the arches of the covered pa.s.sageway and placed him on his side on the ground. The Abbot pulled the arrow out of his own shoulder and threw it aside. The effort left him gasping. "My back ... back ..."

Marek turned him over gently. The shaft in his back pulsed with each heartbeat. "My Lord, do you wish me to pull it?"

"No." The Abbot flung a desperate arm over Marek's neck, pulling him close. "Not yet ... A priest ... priest ..." His eyes rolled. A priest was running toward them.

"He comes now, my Lord Abbot."

The Abbot appeared relieved by this, but he still held Marek in a strong grip. His voice was low, almost a whisper. "The key to La Roque ..."

"Yes, my Lord?"

"... room ..."

Marek waited. "What room, my Lord? What room?"

"Arnaut ...," the Abbot said, shaking his head as if to clear it. "Arnaut will be angry ... room ..." And he released his grip. Marek pulled the arrow from his back and helped him to lie on the floor. "Every time, he would ... make ... told no one ... so ... Arnaut ..." He closed his eyes.

The monk pushed between them, speaking quickly in Latin, removing the Abbot's slippers, placing a bottle of oil on the ground. He began to administer the last rites.

Leaning against one of the cloister pillars, Marek pulled the arrow out of his thigh. It had struck him glancingly, and was not as deep as he had thought; there was only an inch of blood on the shaft. He dropped the arrow to the ground just as Chris and Kate came up.

They looked at his leg, and at the arrow. He was bleeding. Kate pulled up her doublet and tore a strip from the bottom of her linen undershirt with her dagger. She tied it around Marek's thigh as an impromptu bandage.

Marek said, "It's not that bad."

"Then it won't hurt you to have it," she said. "Can you walk?"

"Of course I can walk," Marek said.

"You're pale."

"I'm fine," he said, and moved away from the pillar, looking into the courtyard.

Four soldiers lay on the ground, which was pincushioned with arrows. The other soldiers had departed; no one was shooting at the bell tower any longer: smoke billowed from the high windows. On the opposite side of the courtyard, they saw more smoke, thick and dark, coming from the area of the refectory. The whole monastery was starting to burn.

"We need to find that key," Marek said.

"But it's in his room."

"I'm not sure about that." Marek had remembered that one of the last things Elsie, the graphologist, had said to him back at the project site had to do with a key. And some word that she was puzzled by. He couldn't remember the details-he had been worried about the Professor at the time-but he remembered clearly enough that Elsie had been looking at one of the parchment sheets from the pile that had been found in the monastery. The same pile that had contained the Professor's note.

And Marek knew where to find those parchments.

They hurried down the corridor toward the church. Some of the stained-gla.s.s windows had been broken, and smoke issued out. From the interior, they heard men shouting, and a moment later a party of soldiers burst through the doors. Marek turned on his heel, leading them back the way they had come.

"What are we doing?" Chris said.

"Looking for the door."

"What door?"

Marek darted left, along a cloistered corridor, and then left again, through a very narrow opening that brought them into a tight s.p.a.ce, a kind of storeroom area. It was lit by a torch. There was a wooden trapdoor in the floor; he flung it open, and they saw steps going down into darkness. He grabbed a torch, and they all went down the steps. Chris was last, closing the trapdoor behind him. He descended the stairs into a dank, dark chamber.