Timeline

Kate slid off the saddle and onto the ground. The knight barked an order, and a man carrying a flag with diagonal red-and-white stripes came running up. He examined Kate’s head injury, cleaned it and stanched the bleeding, then bandaged it with linen.

Meanwhile, the knight dismounted, unlaced his helm, and removed it. He was a tall and powerful man, extraordinarily handsome and dashing, with dark wavy hair, dark eyes, a full, sensuous mouth, and a twinkle in his eyes that suggested amusement at the foolish ways of the world. His complexion was dark, and he looked Spanish.

When Kate had been bandaged the knight smiled, showing perfect white teeth. "If you will do me the great honor to accompany me." He led them back toward the monastery and its church. At the side door to the church stood a group of soldiers, and another on horseback, carrying the green-and-black banner of Arnaut de Cervole.

Chapter 13

As they walked toward the church, every soldier they passed along the way bowed to the knight, saying, "My Lord . . . My Lord . . ."

Following, Chris nudged Kate. "That’s him."

"Who?"

"Arnaut."

"That knight? You’re kidding."

"Look how the soldiers behave."

"Arnaut saved our lives," Kate said.

Chris was aware of the irony. In twentieth-century historical accounts of this time, Sir Oliver was portrayed as something close to a soldier-saint, while de Cervole was a black figure, "one of the great evildoers of his age," in the words of one historian. Yet apparently the truth was just the opposite of the histories. Oliver was a despicable rogue, and Cervole a dashing exemplar of chivalry  –  to whom they now owed their lives.

Kate said, "What about Andre?"

Chris shook his head.

"Are you sure?"

"I think so. I think I saw him in the river."

Kate said nothing.

Outside the church of Sainte-Mère were long rows of men, standing with their hands bound behind their backs, waiting to go inside. They were mostly soldiers of Oliver in maroon and gray, with a few peasants in rough garb. Chris guessed there were forty or fifty men in all. As they went past, the men stared sullenly at them. Some of them were wounded; they all seemed weary.

One man, a soldier in maroon, said sarcastically to another, "There goes the bastard lord of Narbonne. He does the work too dirty even for Arnaut."

Chris was still trying to understand this when the handsome knight whirled. "Say you so?" he cried, and he grabbed a fistful of the man’s hair, jerked his head up, and with his other hand slashed his throat with a dagger. Blood gushed down the man’s chest. The man remained standing for a moment, making a kind of rasping sound.

"You have made your last insult," the handsome knight said. He stood, smiling at the man, watching as the blood flowed, grinning as the man’s eyes widened in horror. Still the man remained standing. To Chris, he seemed to stand forever, but it must have been thirty or forty seconds. The handsome knight just watched silently, never moving, the smile never leaving his face.

Finally the man fell to his knees, head bowed, as if in prayer. The knight calmly put his foot under the man’s chin and kicked him so he fell backward. He continued to watch the man’s death gasps, which continued for another minute or so. At last he died.

The handsome knight bent over, wiped his blade on the man’s hose, and wiped his bloody shoe on his jerkin. Then he nodded to Chris and Kate.

And they entered the church of Sainte-Mère.

The interior was hazy with smoke. The ground floor was a large open space; there would be no benches or pews for another two hundred years. They stood at the back, with the handsome knight, who seemed content to wait. Off to one side, they saw several soldiers in a tight, whispering knot.

A solitary knight in armor was down on his knees in the center of the church, praying.

Chris turned back to look at the other knights. They seemed to be in the middle of some intense dispute; their whispers were furious. But he could not imagine what it was about.

While they waited, Chris felt something drip on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw a man hanging directly above him, twisting slowly on a rope. Urine dribbled down his leg. Chris stepped away from the wall and saw half a dozen bodies, hands tied behind their backs, hanging from ropes tied to the second-floor balustrade. Three wore the red surcoat of Oliver. Two others had peasant garb, and the last wore the white habit of a monk. Two more men sat on the floor, watching silently as more ropes were tied above; they were passive, apparently resigned to their fate.

In the center of the room, the man in armor crossed himself and got to his feet. The handsome knight said, "My Lord Arnaut, here are the assistants."

"Eh? What do you say? Assistants?"

The knight turned. Arnaut de Cervole was about thirty-five years old and wiry, with a narrow, unpleasant, cunning face. He had a facial tic that made his nose twitch and gave him the appearance of a sniffing rat. His armor was streaked with blood. He looked at them with bored, lazy eyes. "You say they are assistants, Raimondo?"

"Yes, my Lord. The assistants of Magister Edwardus."

"Ah." Arnaut walked around them. "Why are they wet?"

"We pulled them from the river, my Lord," Raimondo said. "They were in the mill and escaped at the last minute."

"Oh so?" Arnaut was bored no longer. His eyes gleamed with interest. "I pray you tell me, how did you destroy the mill?"

Chris cleared his throat and said, "My Lord, we did not."

"Oh?" Arnaut frowned. He looked at the other knight. "What speech is this? He is incomprehensible."