Timeline

"My Lord, they are Irishers, or perhaps Hebrideans."

"Oh? Then they are not English. That is something in their favor." He circled them, then stared at their faces. "Do you understand me?"

Chris said, "Yea, my Lord." That seemed to be understood.

"Are you English?"

"No, my Lord."

"Faith, you do not appear it. You look too mild and unwarlike." He looked at Kate. "He is as fresh as a young girl. And this one . . ." He squeezed Chris’s biceps. "He is a clerk or a scribe. Certes he is not English." Arnaut shook his head, his nose twitching.

"Because the English are savages," he said loudly, his voice echoing in the smoky church. "You agree?"

"We do, my Lord," Chris said.

"The English know no way of life except endless dissatisfaction and interminable strife. They are always murdering their own kings; it is their savage custom. Our Norman brethren conquered them and tried to teach them civilized ways, but of course they failed. Saxon blood is too deeply barbaric. The English delight in destruction, death and torture. Not content to fight among themselves on their wretched chilly island, they bring their armies here, to this peaceful and prosperous land, and wreak havoc on a simple people. You agree?"

Kate nodded, gave a bow.

"As you should," Arnaut said. "Their cruelty is unsurpassed. You know their old king? The second Edward? You know how they chose to assassinate him, with a red-hot poker? And that, to a king! Little wonder they treat our countryside with even greater savagery."

He strode back and forth. Then turned again to them.

"And the man who next took power, Hugh Despenser. According to the English custom, in due course he too must be killed. You know how? He was tied to a ladder in a public square, and his privates were cut off his body and burned in front of his face. And that was before he was beheaded! Eh? Charmant."

Again he looked at them for agreement. Again, they nodded.

"And now the latest king, Edward III, has learned the lesson of his forebears  –  that he must perpetually lead a war, or risk death at the hands of his own subjects. Thus he and his dastard son, the Prince of Wales, bring their barbarian ways to France, a country that knew not savage war until they came to our soil with their chevauchees, murdered our commoners, raped our women, slaughtered our animals, ruined our crops, destroyed our cities and ended our trade. For what? So that bloodthirsty English spirits may be occupied abroad. So that they can steal fortunes from a more honorable land. So that every English Lady can serve her guests from French plates. So that they can claim to be honorable knights, when they do nothing more valiant than hack children to death."

Arnaut paused in his tirade and looked back and forth between their faces, his eyes restless, suspicious. "And that is why," he said, "I cannot understand why you have joined the side of the English swine, Oliver."

Chris said quickly, "Not true, my Lord."

"I am not patient. Say sooth: you aid Oliver, for your Magister is in his employ."

"No, my Lord. The Magister is taken against his will."

"Against . . . his . . ." Arnaut threw up his hands in disgust. "Who can tell me what this drowned rascal says?"

The handsome knight approached them. "My English is good," he said. To Chris: "Spek ayain." Speak again.

Chris paused, thinking, then said, "Magister Edwardus . . ."

"Yes. . . ."

". . . is prisoner."

"Priz-un-ner?" The handsome knight frowned, puzzled. "Pris-ouner?"

Chris had the feeling that the knight’s English was not as good as he thought. He decided to try his Latin again, poor and archaic as it was. "Est in carcere  –  captus  –  heri captus est de coenobio sanctae Mariae." He hoped that meant "He was captured from Sainte-Mère yestermorn."

The knight raised his eyebrows. "Invite?" Against his will?

"Sooth, my Lord."

The knight said to Arnaut, "They say Magister Edwardus was taken from the monastery yesterday against his will and is now Oliver’s prisoner."

Arnaut turned quickly, peered closely at their faces. In a low, threatening voice: "Sed vos non capti estis. Nonne?" Yet you were not taken?

Chris paused again. "Uh, we . . ."

"Oui?"

"No, no, my Lord," Chris said hastily. "Uh, non. We escaped. Uh, ef  –  effugi  –  i  –  imus. Effugimus." Was that the right word? He was sweating with tension.

Apparently it was good enough, because the handsome knight nodded. "They say they escaped."

Arnaut snapped, "Escaped? From where?"

Chris: "Ex Castelgard heri. . . ."

"You escaped from Castelgard yesterday?"

"Etiam, mi domine." Yes, my Lord.

Arnaut stared at him, said nothing for a long time. On the second-floor balcony, the men had ropes put around their necks and then were pushed over. The fall did not break their necks, and so they hung there, making gargling sounds and writhing as they slowly died.

Arnaut looked up at them as if annoyed to be interrupted by their death gasps. "A few ropes remain," he said. He looked back at them. "I will have the truth from you."

Chris said, "I tell you sooth, my Lord."

Arnaut spun on his heel. "Did you speak to the monk Marcel before he died?"

"Marcel?" Chris did his best to appear confused. "Marcel, my Lord?"

"Yes, yes. Marcel. Cognovistine fratrem Marcellum?" Do you know Brother Marcel?