Timeline - Crichton Michael (мир бесплатных книг txt) 📗

He lay down on the rocks, and he must have fallen asleep for a few minutes, because when he awoke he heard:

"Howbite thou speakst foolsimple ohcopan, eek invich array thouart. Essay thousooth Earisher?"

The boy was speaking. An instant later, he heard the tinny voice in his ear, translating: "The way you speak plainly to your friend, and the way you dress. Tell the truth. You are Irish, is it so?"

Chris nodded slowly, thinking that over. Apparently, the boy had overheard him speaking to Marek on the path and had concluded they were Irish. There didn't seem to be any harm in letting him think that.

"Aye," he said.

"Aie?" the boy repeated. He formed the syllable slowly, pulling his lips back, showing his teeth. "Aie?" The word seemed strange to him.

Chris thought, He doesn't understand "aye"? He would try something else. He said, "Oui?"

"Oui… oui…" The boy seemed confused by this word, as well. Then he brightened. "Ourie? Seyngthou ourie?" and the translation came, "Shabby? Are you saying shabby?"

Chris shook his head no. "I am saying `yes.' " This was getting very confusing.

"Yezz?" the boy said, speaking it like a hiss.

"Yes," Chris said, nodding.

"Ah. Earisher." The translation came: "Ah. Irish."

"Yes."

"Wee sayen yeaso. Oriwis, thousay trew."

Chris said, "Thousay trew." His earpiece translated his own words: "You speak the truth."

The boy nodded, satisfied with the answer. They sat in silence a moment. He looked Chris up and down. "So you are gentle."

Gentle? Chris shrugged. Of course he was gentle. He certainly wasn't a fighter. "Thousay trew."

The boy nodded judiciously. "I thought as much. Your manner speaks it, even if your attire ill-suits your degree."

Chris said nothing in reply. He wasn't sure what was meant here.

"How are you called?" the boy asked him.

"Christopher Hughes."

"Ah. Christopher de Hewes," the boy said, speaking slowly. He seemed to be assessing the name in some way that Chris didn't understand. "Where is Hewes? In the Irish land?"

"Thousay trew."

Another short silence fell over them while they sat in the sun.

"Are you a knight?" the boy asked finally.

"No."

"Then you are a squire," the boy said, nodding to himself. "That will do." He turned to Chris. "And of what age? Twenty-one year?"

"Close enough. Twenty-four year."

This news caused the boy to blink in surprise. Chris thought, What's wrong with being twenty-four?

"Then, good squire, I am very glad of your assistance, for saving me from Sir Guy and his band." He pointed across the river, where six dark horsemen stood watching them at the water's edge. They were letting their horses drink from the river, but their eyes were fixed on Chris and the boy.

"But I didn't save you," Chris said. "You saved me."

"Didnt?" Another puzzled look.

Chris sighed. Apparently these people didn't use contractions. It was so difficult to express even the simplest thought; he found the effort exhausting. But he tried again: "Yet I did not save you, you saved me."

"Good squire, you are too humble," the boy replied. "I am in your debt for my very life, and it shall be my pleasure to see to your needs, once we are to the castle."

Chris said, "The castle?"

Cautiously, Kate and Marek moved out of the woods, heading toward the monastery. They saw no sign of the riders who had galloped down the trail. The scene was peaceful; directly ahead were the monastery's farm plots, demarcated by low stone walls. At the corner of one plot was a tall hexagonal monument, carved as ornately as the spire of a Gothic church.

"Is that a montjoie?" she said.

"Very good," Marek said. "Yes. It's a milestone, or a land marker. You see them all over."

They moved between the plots, heading toward the ten-foot-high wall that surrounded the entire monastery. The peasants in the field paid no attention to them. On the river, a barge drifted downstream, its cargo bundled in cloth. A boatman standing in the stern sang cheerfully.

Near the monastery wall were clustered the huts of the peasants who worked in the field. Beyond the huts he saw a small door in the wall. The monastery covered such a large area that it had doors on all four sides. This was not the main entrance, but Marek thought it would be better to try here first.

They were moving among the huts when he heard the snort of a horse and the soft reassuring voice of a groom. Marek held out his hand, stopping Kate.

"What?" she whispered.

He pointed. About twenty yards away, hidden from easy view behind one of the huts, five horses were held by a groom. The horses were richly appointed, with saddles covered in red velvet trimmed with silver. Strips of red cloth ran down the flanks.

"Those aren't farm horses," Marek said. But he didn't see the riders anywhere.

"What do we do?" Kate said.

Chris Hughes was following the boy toward the village of Castelgard when his earpiece suddenly crackled. He heard Kate say, "What do we do?" and Marek answered, "I'm not sure."

Chris said, "Have you found the Professor?"

The boy turned and looked back at him. "Do you speak to me, squire?"

"No, boy," Chris said. "Just to myself."

"Justo myself?" the boy repeated, shaking his head. "Your speech is difficult to comprehend."

In the earpiece, Marek said, "Chris. Where the hell are you?"

"Going to the castle," Chris said aloud. "On this lovely day." He looked up at the sky as he spoke, trying to make it appear as if he was talking to himself.

He heard Marek say, "Why are you going there? Are you still with the boy?"

"Yes, very lovely."

The boy turned back again, with a worried look on his face. "Do you speak to the air? Are you with sound mind?"

"Yes," Chris said. "I am with sound mind. I wish only that my companions might join me in the castle."

"Why?" Marek said in his earpiece.

"I am sure they shall join you in good time," the boy said. "Tell me of your companions. Are they Irisher, too? Are they gentles like you, or servants?"

In his ear, Marek said, "Why did you tell him you are gentle?"

"Because it describes me."

"Chris. `Gentle' means you are nobility," Marek said. "Gentle man, gentle woman. It means of noble birth.

You'll draw attention to yourself and get embarrassing questions about your family, which you can't answer."

"Oh," Chris said.

"I am sure it does describe you," the boy said. "And your copains as well? They are gentles?"

"You speak true," Chris said. "My companions are gentles, too."

"Chris, goddamn it," Marek said through the earpiece. "Don't fool with what you don't understand. You're asking for trouble. And if you keep on this way, you will get it."

Standing at the edge of the peasant huts, Marek heard Chris say, "You just get the Professor, will you?" and then the boy asked Chris another question, but it was obscured by a burst of static.

Marek turned and looked across the river toward Castelgard. He could see the boy, walking slightly ahead of Chris.

"Chris," Marek said. "I see you. Turn around and come back. Join us here. We have to stay together."

"Most difficult."

"Why?" Marek said, frustrated.

Chris didn't answer him directly. "And who, good sir, may be the horsemen on the far bank?" Apparently, he was talking to the boy.

Marek shifted his gaze, saw mounted riders at the river's edge, letting their horses drink, watching them go.

"That is Sir Guy de Malegant, called `Guy Tete Noire.' He is retained in the service of my Lord Oliver. Sir Guy is a knight of renown - for his many acts of murder and villainy."

Listening, Kate said, "He can't come back to us here, because of the knights on horseback."

"You speak true," Chris said.