According to the medieval texts, the great challenge of the joust was not to carry the lance, or to aim it at this target or that. The challenge was to hold the line of the charge and not to veer away from the impact - not to give in to the panic that swept over nearly every rider as he galloped toward his opponent.
Marek had read the old texts, but now he suddenly understood them: he felt shivery and loose, weak in his limbs, his thighs trembling as he squeezed his mount. He forced himself to concentrate, to focus, to line up his lance with Sir Charles. But the tip of his lance whipped up and down as he charged. He raised it from the pommel, couched it in the crook of his arm. Steadier. His breathing was better. He felt his strength return. He lined up. Eighty yards now.
Charging hard.
He saw Sir Charles adjust his lance, angling it upward. He was going for the head. Or was it a feint? Jousting riders were known to change their aim at the last moment. Would he?
Sixty yards.
The head strike was risky if both riders were not aiming for it. A straight lance to the torso would impact a fraction of a second sooner than a lance to the head: it was a matter of the angles. The first impact would move both riders, making the head strike less certain. But a skilled knight might extend his lance farther forward, taking it out of couched position, to get six or eight inches of extra length, and thus the first impact. You had to have enormous arm strength to absorb the instant of impact, and control the lance as it socked back, so the horse would bear the brunt; but you were more likely to throw off the opponent's aim and timing.
Fifty yards.
Sir Charles still held his lance high. But now he couched it, leaning forward in the saddle. He had more control of the lance now. Would he feint again?
Forty yards.
There was no way to know. Marek decided to go for the chest strike. He put his lance in position. He would not move it again.
Thirty yards.
He heard the thunder of hooves, the roar of the crowd. The medieval texts warned, "Do not close your eyes at the moment of impact. Keep your eyes open to make the hit."
Twenty yards.
His eyes were open.
Ten.
The bastard raised his lance.
He was going for the head.
Impact.
The crack of wood sounded like a gunshot. Marek felt a pain in his left shoulder, stabbing upward and hard. He rode on to the end of the course, dropped his shattered lance, extended his hand out for another. But the pages were just staring at the field behind him.
Looking back, he saw that Sir Charles was down, lying on the ground, not moving.
And then he saw Sir Guy prancing and wheeling around Chris's fallen body. That would be his solution, Marek thought. He'd trample Chris to death.
Marek turned and drew his sword. He held it high.
With a howl of rage, Marek spurred his horse down the field.
The crowd screamed and pounded the railings like a drumbeat. Sir Guy turned, and he saw Marek coming. He looked back down at Chris, and kicked his horse, making it move sideways to stomp him.
"Fie! Fie!" the crowd shouted, and even Lord Oliver was on his feet, aghast.
But then Marek had reached Sir Guy, unable to stop his charge but sweeping past him, shouting, "Asshole" as he struck Guy's head with the flat of his sword. He knew it wouldn't hurt him, but it was an insulting blow, and it would make him abandon Chris. Which it did.
Sir Guy immediately turned away from Chris as Marek reined up, holding his sword. Sir Guy pulled his sword from the sheath and swung viciously, the blade whistling in the air. It clanged off Marek's blade. Marek felt his own sword vibrate in his hand with the impact. Marek lashed out in a backswing, going for the head. Guy parried; the horses wheeled; the swords clanged, again and again.
The battle had begun. And in some detached part of his mind, Marek knew that this would be a fight to the death.
Kate watched the battle from the railing. Marek was holding his own, and his physical strength was superior, but it was easy to see that he did not have the expertise of Sir Guy. His swings were wilder, his body position less sure. He seemed to know it, and so did Sir Guy, who kept backing his horse away, trying to open space for full swings. For his part, Marek pressed closer, keeping the distance between them tight, like a fighter staying in the clinch.
But Marek could not do it forever, she saw. Sooner or later, Guy would get enough distance, if only for a moment, and make a lethal blow.
Marek's hair was soaked with sweat inside the helmet. Stinging drops dripped into his eyes. He could do nothing about it. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision. It didn't help much.
Soon he was gasping for breath. Through the slit of the helmet, Sir Guy appeared tireless and implacable, always on the attack, swinging repeatedly in a sure, practiced rhythm. Marek knew that he had to do something soon, before he became too tired. He had to break the knight's rhythm.
His right hand, holding the sword, already burned from constant exertion. His left hand was strong. Why not use his left hand?
It was worth a try.
Spurring his horse, Marek moved closer, until they were chest to chest. He waited until he had blocked one swing with his own sword, and then with the heel of his left hand, he punched upward at Sir Guy's helmet. The helmet snapped back; he felt the satisfying thunk as Guy's head struck the front of the helmet.
Immediately, Marek flipped his sword over and slammed the butt of the handle against Guy's helmet. There was a loud clang, and Guy's body jerked in the saddle. His shoulders slumped momentarily. Marek struck again, banged the helmet harder. He knew he was hurting him.
But not enough.
Too late, he saw Guy's sword hiss in a broad arc, toward his back. Marek felt the brutal sting like a whip across his shoulders. Did the chain mail hold? Was he hurt? He could still move his arms. He swung his own blade hard against the back of Guy's helmet. Guy did nothing to ward off the blow, which rang like a gong. He must be dazed, Marek thought.
Marek swung again, then wheeled his horse, coming around; and he swung broadly for the neck. Guy blocked it, but the force of the impact knocked him backward. Reeling, he slid sideways in the saddle, grabbed for the pommel, but could not prevent his fall to the ground.
Marek turned, started to dismount. The crowd roared again; looking back, he saw that Guy had leapt easily to his feet, his injuries a sham. He swung his blade at Marek while he was still dismounting. Marek, with one foot still raised in the stirrup, parried awkwardly, somehow got clear of his horse, and then swung back. Sir Guy was strong, sure of himself.
Marek realized his situation was now worse than before. He attacked fiercely, but Guy backed up easily, his footwork practiced and quick. Marek was gasping and wheezing inside his helmet; he was sure Guy could hear it, and would know what it meant.
Marek was wearing down.
All Sir Guy had to do was keep backing away, until Marek exhausted himself.
Unless . . .
Off to the left, Chris obediently still lay flat on his back.
Marek swung at Guy, moving to the right with every stroke. Guy continued to move lightly away. But now Marek was driving him back - toward Chris.
Chris awoke slowly to the clang of swords. Groggy, he took stock. He was lying on his back, staring at blue sky. But he was alive. What had happened? He turned his head inside his black helmet. With just a narrow slit for vision, it was hot and stuffy and claustrophobic.
He began to feel sick.
The sensation of nausea built quickly. He didn't want to throw up inside the helmet. It was too tight around his head; he would drown in his own puke. He had to get his helmet off. Still lying there, he reached up and grabbed the helmet with both hands.
He tugged at it.
It didn't budge. Why? Had they tied it on him? Was it because he was lying down?
He was going to throw up. In the damn helmet.
Jesus.
Frantic, he rolled on the ground.
Marek swung his sword desperately. Behind Sir Guy, he saw Chris begin to move. Marek would have shouted to him to stay where he was, but he had no breath to speak.
Marek swung again, and again.
Now Chris was pulling at his helmet, trying to get it off. Guy was still ten yards from Chris. Dancing backward, enjoying himself, parrying Marek's blows easily.
Marek knew he was almost at the limits of his strength now. His swings were increasingly weak. Guy was still strong, still smooth. Just backing and parrying. Waiting for his chance.
Five yards.
Chris had rolled over on his stomach, and he was now getting up. He was on all fours. Hanging his head. Then there was a loud retching sound.
Guy heard it, too, turned his head a little to look -
Marek charged, butted him in the breastplate with his head, and Guy staggered backward, fell over Chris, and went down.
Malegant rolled quickly on the ground, but Marek was on him, stamping on Guy's right hand to pin the sword down, then swinging his other leg over to pin the opposite shoulder. Marek held his sword high, ready to plunge it down.
The crowd fell silent.
Guy did not move.
Slowly, Marek lowered his sword, cut the laces to Guy's helmet, and pushed it back with the tip of his blade. Guy's head was now exposed. Marek saw he was bleeding freely from his left ear.
Guy glared at him, and spat.
Marek raised his sword again. He was filled with rage, stinging sweat, burning arms, vision red with fury and exhaustion. He tightened his hands, prepared to swing down and cut the head from the body.
Guy saw it.
"Mercy!"
He shouted, so everyone would hear.
"I beg mercy!" he cried. "In the name of the Holy Trinity and the Virgin Mary! Mercy! Mercy!"
The crowd was silent.
Waiting.
Marek was not sure what to do. In the back of his mind, a voice said, Kill this bastard or you will regret it later. He knew that he must decide quickly; the longer he stood here, straddling Sir Guy, the more certain he would lose his nerve.
He looked at the crowd lining the railing. No one moved; they just stared. He looked at the stands, where Lord Oliver sat with the ladies. Everyone was motionless. Lord Oliver seemed frozen. Marek looked back at the cluster of pages standing by the railing. They, too, were frozen. Then, in a move that was almost subliminal, one page raised a hand to midchest and made a flicking wrist motion: cut it off.
He's giving you good advice, Marek thought.
But Marek hesitated. There was absolute silence in the field, except for the retches and groans of Chris. In the end, it was those retches that broke the moment. Marek stepped away from Sir Guy and extended a hand to help him up.
Sir Guy took his hand, got to his feet in front of Marek. He said, "You bastard, I'll see you in Hell," and turned on his heel and walked away.
31:15:58
The little stream wound through mossy grass and wildflowers. Chris was on his knees, plunging his face into the water. He came back sputtering, coughing. He looked at Marek, who was squatting beside him, staring off into space.
"I've had it," Chris said. "I've had it."
"I imagine you have."
"I could have been killed," Chris said. "That's supposed to be a sport? You know what that is? It's a game of chicken on horses. Those people are insane." He dunked his head in the water again.
"Chris."
"I hate to throw up. I hate it."
"Chris."
"What? What is it now? You going to tell me I'll rust my armor? Because I don't give a shit, Andre."
"No," Marek said, "I'm going to tell you your felt undershirt will swell, and it'll be difficult to take the armor off."
"Is that right? Well, I don't care. Those pages will come and get it off me." Chris sat back in the moss and coughed. "Jesus, I can't get rid of that smell. I need to take a bath or something."
Marek sat beside him, said nothing. He just let him unwind. Chris's hands were shaking as he talked. It was better for him to get it out, he thought.
In the field below them, archers in maroon and gray were practicing. Ignoring the excitement of the nearby tournament, they patiently fired at targets, moved backward, fired again. It was just as the old texts said: the English archers were highly disciplined, and they practiced every day.
"Those men are the new military power," Marek said. "They decide battles now. Look at them."
Chris propped himself on his elbow. "You're kidding," he said. The archers were now more than two hundred yards from their circular targets - the length of two football fields. So far away, they were small figures, and yet they were confidently drawing their bows toward the sky. "Are they serious?"
The sky was black with whistling arrows. They struck the targets, or landed close by, sticking up in the grass.
"No kidding," Chris said.
Almost immediately, another thick volley filled the air. And another, and another. Marek was counting to himself. Three seconds between volleys. So it was true, he thought: English archers really could fire twenty rounds a minute. By now, the targets bristled with arrows.
"Charging knights can't stand up under that kind of attack," Marek said. "It kills the riders, and it kills the horses. That's why the English knights dismount to fight. The French still charge in the traditional way - and they're just slaughtered, before they ever get close to the English. Four thousand knights dead at Crecy, even more in Poitiers. Large numbers for this time."
"Why don't the French change tactics? Can't they see what's happening?"
"They do, but it means the end of a whole way of life - a whole culture, really," Marek said. "Knights are all nobility; their way of life is too expensive for commoners. A knight has to buy his armor and at least three war-horses, and he has to support his retinue of pages and aides. And these noble knights have been the determining factor in warfare, until now. Now it's over." He pointed to the archers in the field. "Those men are commoners. They win by coordination and discipline. There's no personal valor. They're paid a wage; they do a job. But they're the future of warfare - paid, disciplined, faceless troops. The knights are finished."
"Except for tournaments," Chris said sourly.
"Pretty much. And even there - all that plate armor, over the chain mail - that's all because of arrows. Arrows will go clean through an unprotected man, and they'll penetrate chain mail. So knights need plate armor. Horses need armor. But with a volley like that . . ." Marek pointed to the whistling rainfall of arrows and shrugged. "It's over."
Chris looked back at the tournament grounds. And then he said, "Well, it's about time!"
Marek turned and saw five liveried pages walking toward them, along with two guards in red-and-black surcoats. "Finally I'm going to get out of this damned metal."
Chris and Marek stood as the men came up. One of the guards said, "You have broken the rules of tourney, disgraced the chivalrous knight Guy Malegant, and the good offices of Lord Oliver. You are made arrest, and will come with us."
"Wait a minute," Chris said. "We disgraced him?"
"You will come with us."
"Wait a minute," Chris said.
The soldier cuffed him hard on the side of the head, and pushed him forward. Marek fell into step beside him. Surrounded by guards, they headed toward the castle.
Kate was still at the tournament, looking for Chris and Andre. At first, she thought to look in the tents ranged beyond the field, but there were only men - knights and squires and pages - in that area, and she decided against it. This was a different world, violence was in the air, and she felt a constant sense of risk. Nearly everyone in this world was young; the knights who swaggered about the field were in their twenties or early thirties, and the squires mere teenagers. She was dressed in ordinary fashion, and clearly not a member of the nobility. She had the feeling that if she were dragged off and raped, no one would take much notice.
Even though it was midday, she found herself behaving the way she did in New Haven at night. She tried never to be alone, but to move with a group; she skirted around the clusters of males, giving them wide berth.
She made her way behind the bleachers, hearing the cheers of the crowd as the next pair of knights began to fight. She looked into the area of tents to her left. She did not see Marek or Chris anywhere. Yet they had left the field only minutes before. Were they inside one of the tents? She had heard nothing in her earpiece for the last hour; she assumed it was because Marek and Chris had worn helmets, which blocked transmission. But surely their helmets were off now.
Then she saw them, a short distance down the hill, sitting by a meandering stream.
She headed down the hill. Her wig was hot and itchy in the sun. Perhaps she could get rid of the wig and just put her hair up under a cap. Or if she cut her hair a little shorter, she could pass for a young man, even without a cap.
It might be interesting, she thought, to be a man for a while.
She was thinking about where to get scissors when she saw the soldiers approaching Marek. She slowed her pace. She still heard nothing in her earpiece, but she was so close, she knew she should.
Was it turned off? She tapped her ear.
Immediately, she heard Chris say, "We disgraced him?" and then something garbled. She saw the soldiers push Chris toward the castle. Marek walked alongside him.
Kate waited a moment, then followed.
Castelgard was deserted, shops and storefronts locked, its streets echoing and empty. Everyone had gone to the tournament, which made it more difficult for her to follow Marek and Chris and the soldiers. She had to drop farther back, waiting until they had gone out of a street before she could follow them, hurrying ahead at a near run until she caught sight of them again, then duck back around a corner.
She knew her behavior looked suspicious. But there was no one to see it. High in one window, she saw an old woman sitting in the sun, eyes closed. But she never looked down. Perhaps she was asleep.
She came to the open field in front of the castle. It, too, was now deserted. The knights on prancing horses, the mock combats, the flying banners were all gone. The soldiers crossed the drawbridge. As she followed after them, she heard the crowd roar from the field beyond the walls. The guards turned and shouted to soldiers on the ramparts, asking what was happening. The soldiers above could see down to the field; they shouted answers. All this was accompanied by much swearing; apparently, bets had been made.
In all the excitement, she walked through, into the castle.
She stood in the small courtyard known as the outer bailey. She saw horses there, tied to a post and unattended. But there were no soldiers in the bailey; everyone was up in the ramparts, watching the tournament.
She looked around for Marek and Chris but did not see them. Not knowing what else to do, she went through the door to the great hall. She heard footsteps echoing in the spiral staircase to her left.
She started up the stairs, going round and round, but the footsteps diminished.
They must have gone down, not up.
Quickly, she retraced her steps. The stairs spiraled downward, ending in a low-ceilinged stone passage, damp and moldy, with cells along one side. The cell doors were open; no one inside. Somewhere ahead, beyond a bend in the corridor, she heard echoing voices, and the clang of metal.
She moved cautiously forward. She must be beneath the great hall, she thought. In her mind she tried to reconstruct the area, from her memory of the ruined castle she had explored so carefully a few weeks earlier. But she did not remember ever seeing this passageway. Perhaps it had collapsed centuries before.
Another metal clang, and echoing laughter.
Then footsteps.
It took her a moment to realize they were coming toward her.
Marek fell back into soggy, rotting straw, slippery and stinking. Chris tumbled down alongside him, sliding on the mush. The cell door clanged shut. They were at the end of a corridor, with cells on all three sides. Through the bars, Marek saw the guards leaving, laughing as they went. One said, "Hey, Paolo, where do you think you are going? You stay here and guard them."
"Why? They are not going anywhere. I want to see the tourney."
"It is your watch. Oliver wants them guarded."
There was some protesting and swearing. More laughing, and footsteps going away. Then one heavyset guard came back, peered in through the bars at them, and swore. He wasn't happy; they were the reason he was missing the show. He spat on the floor of their cell, then walked a short distance away, to a wooden stool. Marek could not see him anymore, but he saw his shadow on the opposite wall.
It looked as though he was picking his teeth.
Marek walked up to the bars, trying to see into the other cells. He could not really see into the cell to the right, but directly across from them he saw a figure back against the wall, seated in the darkness.
As his eyes adjusted, he saw it was the Professor.
30:51:09
Stern sat in the private dining room of ITC. It was a small room with a single table, white tablecloth, set for four. Gordon sat opposite him, eating hungrily, scrambled eggs and bacon. Stern watched the top of Gordon's crew-cut head bob up and down as he scooped the eggs with his fork. The man ate fast.
Outside, the sun was already climbing in the sky, above the mesas to the east. Stern glanced at his watch; it was six o'clock in the morning. The ITC technicians were releasing another weather balloon from the parking lot; he remembered that Gordon had told them they did it every hour. The balloon rose quickly into the sky, then disappeared into high clouds. The men who had released it didn't bother to watch it go, but walked back to a nearby laboratory building.
"How's your French toast?" Gordon said, looking up. "Rather have something else?"
"No, it's good," Stern said. "I'm just not very hungry."
"Take some advice from an old military man," Gordon said. "Always eat at a meal. Because you never know when your next one will be."
"I'm sure that's right," Stern said. "I'm just not hungry."
Gordon shrugged and resumed eating.
A man in a starched waiter's jacket came into the room. Gordon said, "Oh, Harold. Do you have coffee ready?"
The man in the jacket said, "I do, sir. Cappuccino if you prefer."
"I'll have it black."
"Certainly, sir."
"How about you, David?" Gordon said. "Coffee?"
"Nonfat latte, if you have it," Stern said.
"Certainly, sir." Harold went away.
Stern stared out the window. He listened to Gordon eat, listened to his fork scrape across the plate. Finally, he said, "Let me see if I understand this. At the moment, they can't come back, is that right?"
"That's right."
"Because there is no landing site."
"That's right."
"Because debris blocks it."
"That's right."
"And how long until they can come back?"
Gordon sighed. He pushed away from the table. "It's going to be all right, David," he said. "Things are going to turn out fine."
"Just tell me. How long?"
"Well, let's count it off. Another three hours to clear the air in the cave. Add an hour for good measure. Four hours. Then two hours to clear the debris. Six hours. Then you have to rebuild the water shields."
"Rebuild the water shields?" Stern said.
"The three rings of water. They're absolutely essential."
"Why?"
"To minimize transcription errors."
Stern said, "And what exactly are transcription errors?"
"Errors on the rebuild. When the person is reconstructed by the machine."
"You told me there weren't any errors. That you could rebuild exactly."
"For all intents and purposes, we can, yes. As long as we're shielded."
"And if we're not shielded?"
Gordon sighed. "But we will be shielded, David." He glanced at his watch. "I wish you'd stop worrying. There's several hours more before we can fix the transit site. You're upsetting yourself needlessly."
"It's just that I keep thinking," Stern said, "that there must be something we can do. Send a message, make some kind of contact. . . ."
Gordon shook his head. "No. No message, no contact. It's just not possible. For the moment, they're entirely cut off from us. And there's not a thing we can do about it."
30:40:39
Kate Erickson flattened herself against the wall, feeling damp stone on her back. She had ducked inside one of the cells in the corridor, and now she waited, holding her breath, while the guards who had locked up Marek and Chris walked back past her. The guards were laughing, and they seemed in good humor. She heard one of them say, "Sir Oliver was sore displeased with that Hainauter, to make a fool of his lieutenant."
"And the other one was worse! He rides like a flopping rag, and yet he breaks two lances with T
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