Timeline - Crichton Michael (книги без регистрации бесплатно полностью TXT) 📗

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."

"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-Mere 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?

"No, my Lord."

"Transitum ad Roccam cognitum habesne?" For this Chris didn't need to wait for the translation: The passage to La Roque, you know it?

"The passage… transitum

…" Chris shrugged again, feigning lack of knowledge. "Passage?. ..To La Roque? No, my Lord."

Arnaut looked frankly unbelieving. "It seems you know nothing at all." He peered closely at them, his nose twitching, giving the impression that he was smelling them. "I doubt you. In fact, you are liars."

He turned to the handsome knight. "Hang one, so the other talks."

"Which one, my Lord?"