Timeline

35:25:18

Following the boy, Chris came to the entrance to Castelgard: double wooden doors, heavily reinforced with iron braces. The doors now stood open, guarded by a soldier in a surcoat of burgundy and gray. The guard greeted them by saying, "Setting a tent? Laying a ground cloth? It is five sols to sell in the market on tournament day."

"Non sumus mercatores," the boy said. "We are not merchants."

Chris heard the guard reply, "Anthoubeest, ye schule payen. Quinquesols maintenant, aut decem postea." But the translation did not follow immediately in his ear; he realized the guard was speaking an odd mixture of English, French and Latin Then he heard, "If you are, you must pay. Five sols now, or ten later."

The boy shook his head. "Do you see merchant wares?"

"Herkle, non." In the earpiece: "By Hercules, I do not."

"Then you are answered."

Despite his youth the boy spoke sharply, as if accustomed to commanding. The guard merely shrugged and turned away. The boy and Chris passed through the doors and entered the village.

Immediately inside the walls were several farmhouses and fenced plots. This area smelled strongly of swine. They made their way past thatched houses and pens of grunting pigs, then climbed steps to a winding cobblestone street with stone buildings on both sides. Now they were in the town itself.

The street was narrow and busy, and the buildings two stories high, with the second story overhanging, so no sunlight reached the ground. The buildings were all open shops on the ground floor: a blacksmith, a carpenter who also made barrels, a tailor and a butcher. The butcher, wearing a spattered oilskin apron, was slaughtering a squealing pig on the cobblestones in front of his shop; they stepped around the flowing blood and coils of pale intestine.

The street was noisy and crowded, the odor almost overpowering to Chris, as the boy led him onward. They emerged in a cobbled square with a covered market in the center. Back at their excavations, this was just a field. He paused, looking around, trying to match what he knew with what he now saw.

Across the square, a well-dressed young girl, carrying a basket of vegetables, hurried over to the boy and said with concern, "My dear sir, your long absence does vex Sir Daniel sorely."

The boy looked annoyed to see her. He replied irritably, "Then tell my uncle I will attend him in good time."

"He will be most glad of it," the girl said, and hurried away down a narrow passage.

The boy led Chris in another direction. He made no reference to his conversation, just walked onward, muttering to himself.

They came now to an open ground, directly in front of the castle. It was a bright and colorful place, with knights parading on horses, carrying rippling banners.

"Many visitors today," the boy said, "for the tournament."

Directly ahead was the drawbridge leading into the castle. Chris looked up at the looming walls, the high turrets. Soldiers walked the ramparts, staring down at the crowds. The boy led him forward without hesitation. Chris heard his feet thump hollowly on the wood of the drawbridge. There were two guards at the gate. He felt his body tense as he came closer.

But the guards paid no attention at all. One nodded to them absently; the other had his back turned and was scraping mud from his shoe.

Chris was surprised at their indifference. "They do not guard the entry?"

"Why should they?" the boy said. "It is daytime. And we are not under attack."

Three women, their heads wrapped in white cloth, so that only their faces showed, walked out of the castle, carrying baskets. The guards again hardly noticed. Chattering and laughing, the women walked out - unchallenged.

Chris realized that he was confronted by one of those historical anachronisms so deeply ingrained no one ever thought to question it. Castles were strongholds strongholds, and they always had a defensible entrance - a moat, drawbridge, and so on. And everybody assumed that the entrance was fiercely guarded at all times.

But, as the boy had said, why should it be? In times of peace, the castle was a busy social center, people coming and going to see the lord, to deliver goods. There was no reason to guard it. Especially, as the boy said, during daytime.

Chris found himself thinking of modern office buildings, which had guards only at night; during the day, the guards were present, but only to give information. And that was probably what these guards did, too.

On the other hand…

As he walked through the entrance, he glanced up at the spikes of the portcullis - the large iron grate now raised above his head. That grate could be lowered in a moment, he knew. And if it was, there would be no entry into the castle. And no escape.

He had entered the castle easily enough. But he was not sure it would be as easy to leave.

They entered a large courtyard, stone on all sides. There were many horses here; soldiers wearing maroon-and-gray tunics sat in small groups, eating their midday meal. He saw passageways of wood high above him, running the length of the walls. Directly ahead he saw another building, with three-story-high stone walls, and turrets above. It was a castle within the castle. The boy led him toward it.

To one side, a door stood open. A single guard munched a piece of chicken. The boy said, "We are to the Lady Claire. She wishes this Irisher to do her service."

"So be it," the guard grunted, uninterested; they went inside. Chris saw an archway directly ahead, leading to the great hall, where a crowd of men and women stood talking. Everyone seemed richly dressed; their voices echoed off the stone walls.

But the boy did not give him much opportunity to look. He led Chris up a winding, narrow stair to the second floor, then down a stone corridor, and finally into a suite of rooms.

Three maids, all dressed in white, rushed forward to the boy and embraced him. They appeared very relieved. "By the grace of God, my Lady, you are returned!"

Chris said, "My Lady?"

Even as he said it, the black hat was thrown away, and golden hair tumbled down over her shoulders. She gave a little bow that turned into a curtsy. "I am heartfelt sorry, and beg your forgiveness for this deception."

"Who are you?" Chris said, stunned.

"I am called Claire."

She rose from her curtsy and looked directly into his eyes. He saw that she was older than he had thought, perhaps twenty-two or -three. And very beautiful.

He gaped and said nothing. He had no idea what to say, or to do. He felt foolish and awkward.

In the silence, one of the maids came forward, curtsied and said, "If it please you, she is the Lady Claire of Eltham, newly widowed of Sir Geoffrey of Eltham, who holds great estates in Guyenne and Middlesex. Sir Geoffrey died of his wounds from Poitiers, and now Sir Oliver - ruler of this castle - serves as my Lady's guardian. Sir Oliver feels she must be married again, and he has chosen Sir Guy de Malegant, a nobleman well known in these regions. But this match, my Lady refuses."

Claire turned and shot the girl a warning glance. But the girl, oblivious, chattered on. "My Lady says to all the world that Sir Guy lacks the means to defend her estates in France and England. Yet Sir Oliver will have his fee from this match, and Guy has-"

"Elaine."

"My Lady," the girl said, scurrying backward. She rejoined the other maids, who whispered in the corner, apparently chastising her.

"Enough talk," Claire said. "Here is my savior of this day, Squire Christopher of Hewes. He has delivered me from the predations of Sir Guy, who sought to take by force what he could not win freely at court."

Chris said, "No, no, that is not what happened at all-"

He broke off, as he realized that everyone was staring at him, their mouths open, their eyes wide.

"Sooth, he speaks queerly," Claire said, "for he comes from some remote part in the lands of Eire. And he is modest, as befits a gentle. He did save me, so I shall today introduce him to my guardian, once Christopher has proper attire." She turned to one of the ladies. "Is not our horse master, Squire Brandon, of his same length? Go to and fetch me his indigo doublet, his silver belt, and his best white hose." She handed the girl a purse. "Pay what he asks, but be quick."

The girl scurried off. As she left, she passed a gloomy elderly man, standing in the shadows, watching. He wore a rich robe of maroon velvet with silver fleurs-de-lis embroidered on it, and an ermine collar. "How now, my Lady?" he said, coming forward.

She curtsied to him. "Well, Sir Daniel."

"You are safely returned."

"I give thanks to God."

The gloomy man snorted. "As well you should. You strain even His patience. And did your trip yield success equal to its dangers?"

Claire bit her lip. "I fear not."

"Did you see the Abbot?"

A slight hesitation. "No."

"Speak me the truth, Claire."

The girl shook her head. "Sir, I did not. He was abroad, on a hunt."

"A pity," Sir Daniel said. "Why did you not await him?"

"I dared not do so, for Lord Oliver's men broke sanctuary, to take the Magister away by force. I feared discovery, and so fled."

"Yes, yes, this troublesome Magister," Sir Daniel reflected gloomily. "He is on every tongue. Do you know what they say? That he can make himself appear in a flash of light." Sir Daniel shook his head. It was impossible to tell whether he believed it or not. "He must be a skilled Magister of the gunpowder." He pronounced it gonne-poulder, and spoke the word slowly, as if it were exotic and unfamiliar. "Did you set eyes upon this Magister?"

"Indeed. I spoke to him."

"Oh?"

"With the Abbot gone, I sought him out. For they say the Magister has befriended the Abbot, these recent days."

Chris Hughes was struggling to follow this conversation, and he realized belatedly that they were talking about the Professor. He said, "Magister?"

Claire said, "Do you know the Magister? Edward de Johnes?"

He immediately backpedaled. "Uh… no… no, I don't, and-"

At this, Sir Daniel stared at Chris in open astonishment. He turned to Claire. "What does he say?"

"He says he does not know the Magister."

The old man remained astonished. "In what tongue?"

"A kind of English, Sir Daniel, with some Gaelic, so I believe."

"No Gaelic as I have ever heard," he said. He turned to Chris. "Speak you la Langue-doc? No? Loquerisquide Latine?"

He was asking if he spoke Latin. Chris had an academic knowledge of Latin, a reading knowledge. He'd never tried to speak it. Faltering, he said, "Non, Senior Danielis, solum perpaululum. Perdoleo." Only a little. Sorry.

"Per, per… dicendo ille Ciceroni persimilis est." He speaks like Cicero.

"Perdoleo." Sorry.

"Then you may profitably be silent." The old man turned back to Claire. "What did the Magister say to you?"

"He could not assist me."

"Did he know the secret we seek?"

"He said he did not."

"But the Abbot knows," said Sir Daniel. "The Abbot must know. It was his predecessor, the Bishop of Laon, who served as architect for the last repairs of La Roque."

Claire said, "The Magister said that Laon was not the architect."

"No?" Sir Daniel frowned. "And how does the Magister know that?"

"I believe the Abbot told him. Or perhaps he saw it among the old papers. The Magister has undertaken to sort and arrange the parchments of Sainte-Mère, for the benefit of the monks."

"Does he," Sir Daniel said thoughtfully. "I wonder why."

"I had no time to ask before Lord Oliver's men broke sanctuary."

"Well, the Magister will be here soon enough," Sir Daniel said. "And Lord Oliver himself will ask these questions…" He frowned, clearly unhappy at this thought.

The old man turned abruptly to a young boy of nine or ten, standing behind him. "Take Squire Christopher to my chamber, where he may bathe and clean himself."

At this, Claire shot the old man a hard look. "Uncle, do not thwart my plans."

"Have I ever done so?"

"You know that you have tried."

"Dear child," he said, "my sole concern is ever for your safety - and your honor."

"And my honor, Uncle, is not yet pledged." With that, Claire walked boldly up to Chris, put her hand around his neck, and looked into his eyes. "I shall count every moment you are gone, and miss you with all my heart," she said softly, her eyes liquid. "Return to me soon."

She brushed her lips lightly across his mouth, and stepped back, releasing him reluctantly, fingers trailing away from his neck. He felt dazed, staring into her eyes, seeing how beautiful-

Sir Daniel coughed, turned to the boy. "See to Squire Christopher, and assist him in his bath."

The boy bowed to Chris. Everyone in the room was silent. This was apparently his cue to leave. He nodded, and said, "I thank you." He waited for the astonished looks, but for once, there were none; they seemed to understand what he had said. Sir Daniel gave him a frosty nod, and Chris left the room.