Timeline

by Michael Crichton

  Marek said, “Do you play here often?”

  “Exercise invigorates the body and sharpens the mind,” the monk replied immediately. “We play in two cloisters here.”

  As they passed through the cloister, Marek noticed that several of the gamblers wore robes of green, trimmed in black. They were rough, grizzled men with the manner of bandits.

  Then they left the cloister behind, and went up a flight of stairs. Marek said to the monk, “It appears the order makes welcome the men of Arnaut de Cervole.”

  “That is sooth,” the monk said, “for they shall do us a boon and return the mill to us.”

  “Was it taken?” Marek asked.

  “In a manner of speaking.” The monk walked to the window, which overlooked the Dordogne, and the mill bridge, a quarter mile upstream.

  “With their own hands, the monks of Sainte-Mère have built the mill, at the bidding of our revered architect, Brother Marcel. Marcel is much venerated in the monastery. As you know, he was architect for the former Abbot, Bishop Laon. So the mill that he designed, and we built, is the property of this monastery, as are its fees.

  “Yet Sir Oliver demands a mill tax to himself, though he has no just cause for it, except that his army controls this territory. Therefore my Lord Abbot is well pleased that Arnaut should vow to return the mill to the monastery, and end the tax. And thus are we friendly to the men of Arnaut.”

  Chris listened to all this, thinking, My thesis! It was all exactly as his research had shown. Although some people still thought of the Middle Ages as a backward time, Chris knew it had actually been a period of intense technological development, and in that sense, not so different from our own. In fact, the industrial mechanization that became a characteristic feature of the West first began in the Middle Ages. The greatest source of power available at the time—water power—was aggressively developed, and employed to do ever more kinds of work: not only grinding grain but fulling cloth, blacksmithing, beer mashing, woodworking, mixing mortar and cement, papermaking, rope making, oil pressing, preparing dyes for cloth, and powering bellows to heat blast furnaces for steel. All over Europe, rivers were dammed, and dammed again half a mile downstream; mill boats were tethered beneath every bridge. In some places, cascades of mills, one after another, successively used the energy of flowing water.

  Mills were generally operated as a monopoly, and they provided a major source of income—and of conflict. Lawsuits, murders and battles were the constant accompaniment of mill activity. And here was an example that showed—

  “And yet,” Marek was saying, “I see the mill is still in the hands of Lord Oliver, for his pennant flies from the towers and his archers man the battlements.”

  “Oliver holds the mill bridge,” the monk said, “because the bridge is close to the road to La Roque, and whoever controls the mill controls the road. But Arnaut will soon take the mill from them.”

  “And return it to you.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And what will the monastery do for Arnaut in return?”

  “We will bless him, of course,” the monk said. And after a moment, he added, “And we will pay him handsomely, too.”

  :

  They passed through a scriptorium, where monks sat in rows at their easels, silently copying manuscripts. But to Marek, it looked all wrong; instead of a meditative chant, their work was accompanied by the shouts and banging of the game in the cloister. And despite the old Cistercian proscription against illustration, many monks were painting illustrations in the corners and along the margins of manuscripts. The painters sat with an array of brushes and stone dishes of different colors. Some of the illustrations were brilliantly ornate.

  “This way,” the monk said, and led them down a staircase and into a small sunlit courtyard. To one side, Marek saw eight soldiers in the colors of Arnaut, standing in the sun. He noticed that they wore their swords.

  The monk led them toward a small house at the edge of the courtyard, and then through a door. They heard the trickle of running water and saw a fountain with a large basin. They heard chanted prayers, in Latin. In the center of the room, two robed monks washed a naked, pale body lying on a table.

  “Frater Marcellus,” the monk whispered, giving a slight bow.

  Marek stared. It took him a moment to realize what he was seeing.

  Brother Marcel was dead.

  14:52:07

  Their reaction gave them away. The monk could clearly see that they had not known Marcel was dead. Frowning, he took Marek by the arm, and said, “Why are you here?”

  “We had hoped to speak with Brother Marcel.”

  “He died last night.”

  “How did he die?” Marek said.

  “We do not know. But as you can see, he was old.”

  “Our request of him was urgent,” Marek said. “Perhaps if I could see his private effects—”

  “He had no private effects.”

  “But surely some personal articles—”

  “He lived very simply.”

  Marek said, “May I see his room?”

  “I am sorry, that is not possible.”

  “But I would greatly appreciate it if—”

  “Brother Marcel lived in the mill. His room has been there for many years.”

  “Ah.” The mill was now under control of Oliver’s troops. They could not go there, at least not at the moment.

  “But perhaps I can help you. Tell me, what was your urgent request?” the monk asked. He spoke casually, but Marek was immediately cautious.

  “It was a private matter,” Marek said. “I cannot speak of it.”

  “There is nothing private here,” the monk said. He was edging toward the door. Marek had the distinct feeling that he was going to raise an alarm.

  “It was a request from Magister Edwardus.”

  “Magister Edwardus!” The monk’s manner completely changed. “Why did you not say so? And what are you to Magister Edwardus?”

  “Faith, we are his assistants.”

  “Certes?”

  “In deed, it is so.”

  “Why did you not say it? Magister Edwardus is welcome here, for he was performing a service for the Abbot when he was taken by Oliver.”

  “Ah.”

  “Come with me now at once,” he said. “The Abbot will wish to see you.”

  “But we have—”

  “The Abbot will wish it. Come!”

  :

  Back in the sunlight, Marek noticed how many more soldiers in green and black were now in the monastery courtyards. And these soldiers were not lounging; they were watchful, battle-ready.

  The Abbot’s house was small, made of ornately carved wood, and located in a far corner of the monastery. They were led inside to a small wood-paneled anteroom, where an older monk, hunched and heavy as a toad, sat before a closed door.

  “Is my Lord Abbot within?”

  “Faith, he is advising a penitent now.”

  From the adjacent room, they heard a rhythmic creaking sound.

  “How long will he keep her at her prayers?” the monk asked.

  “It may be a goodly while,” the toad said. “She is recidive. And her sins are oft repeated.”

  “I would you make known these worthy men to our Lord Abbot,” the monk said, “for they bring news of Edwardus de Johnes.”

  “Be assured I shall tell him,” the toad said in a bored tone. But Marek caught the gleam of sudden interest in the old man’s eyes. Some meaning had registered.

  “It is nigh on terce,” the toad said, glancing up at the sun. “Will your guests dine on our simple fare?”

  “Many thanks, but no, we shall—” Chris coughed. Kate poked Marek in the back. Marek said, “We shall, if it is not a great trouble.”

  “By the grace of God, you are welcome.”

  They were starting to leave for the dining room when a young monk ran breathlessly into the room. “My Lord Arnaut is coming! He will see the Abbot at once!”

  Th
e toad jumped to his feet and said to them, “Be you gone now.” And he opened a side door.

  :

  Which was how they found themselves in a small, plain room adjacent to the Abbot’s quarters. The squeaking of the bed topped; they heard the low murmur of the toad, who was speaking urgently to the Abbot.

  A moment later, another door opened and a woman came in, bare-legged, hastily adjusting her clothes, her face flushed. She was extremely beautiful. When she turned, Chris saw with astonishment that it was the Lady Claire.

  She caught his look and said, “Why stare you thus?”

  “Uh, my Lady . . .”

  “Squire, your countenance is most unjust. How dare you judge me? I am a gentle woman, alone in a foreign part, with no one to champion me, to protect or guide me. Yet I must make my way to Bordeaux, eighty leagues distant, and thence to England if I am to claim my husband’s lands. That is my duty as a widow, and in this time of war and tumult, I shall without hesitation do all that may be required to accomplish it.”

  Chris was thinking that hesitation was not a part of this woman’s character. He was stunned by her boldness. On the other hand, Marek was looking at her with open admiration. He said smoothly, “Pray forgive him, Lady, for he is young and often thoughtless.”

  “Circumstances change. I had need of an introduction that only the Abbot could make for me. What persuasion is in my command, I use.” The Lady Claire was hopping on one foot now, trying to keep her balance while pulling on her hose. She drew the hose tight, smoothed her dress, and then set her wimple on her head, tying it expertly beneath her chin, so only her face was exposed.

  Within moments, she looked like a nun. Her manner became demure, her voice lower, softer.

  “Now, by happenstance, you know what I had intended no person to know. In this, I am at your mercy, and I beg your silence.”

  “You shall have it,” Marek said, “for your affairs are none of ours.”

  “You shall have my silence in return,” she said. “For it is evident the Abbot does not wish your presence known to de Cervole. We shall all keep our secrets. Have I your word?”

  “In sooth, yes, Lady,” Marek said.

  “Yes, Lady,” Chris said.

  “Yes, Lady,” Kate said.

  Hearing her voice, Claire frowned at Kate, then walked over to her. “Say you true?”

  “Yes, Lady,” Kate said, again.

  Claire ran her hand over Kate’s chest, feeling the breasts beneath the flattening cloth band. “You have cut your hair, damsel,” she said. “You know that to pass as a man is punishable by death?” She glanced at Chris as she said this.

  “We know it,” Marek said.

  “You must have great dedication to your Magister, to give up your sex.”

  “My Lady, I do.”

  “Then I pray most earnestly that you survive.”

  The door opened, and the toad gestured to them. “Worthies, come. My Lady, pray remain, the Abbot will do your bidding soon enough. But you worthies—come with me.”

  :

  Outside in the courtyard, Chris leaned close to Marek and whispered, “André. That woman is poison.”

  Marek was smiling. “I agree she has a certain spark. . ..”

  “André. I’m telling you. You can’t trust anything she says.”

  “Really? I thought she was remarkably straightforward,”Marek said. “She wants protection. And she is right.”

  Chris stared. “Protection?”

  “Yes. She wants a champion,” Marek said, thoughtfully.

  “A champion? What are you talking about? We have only—how many hours left?”

  Marek looked at his wristband. “Eleven hours ten minutes.”

  “So: what are you talking about, a champion?”

  “Oh. Just thinking,” Marek said. He threw his arm over Chris’s shoulder. “It’s not important.”

  11:01:59

  They were seated at a long table with many monks in a large hall, a steaming bowl of meat soup in front of them, and in the center of the table, platters piled high with vegetables, beef and roast capons. And no one moving a muscle, but all heads bowed in prayer, as the monks chanted.

  Pater noster qui es in coelis

  Sanctivicetur nomen tuum

  Adveniat regnum tuum

  Fiat voluntas tua

  Kate kept sneaking looks at the food. The capons were steaming! They looked fat, and yellow juice flowed onto the plates. Then she noticed that the monks nearest her seemed puzzled by her silence. She should know this chant, it seemed.

  Beside her, Marek was chanting loudly.

  Panem nostrum quotidianum

  Da nobie hodie

  Et dimmitte nobis debita nostra

  She didn’t understand Latin, and she couldn’t join in, so she stayed silent until the final “Amen.”

  The monks all looked up, nodded to her. She braced herself: she had been fearing this moment. Because they would speak to her, and she wouldn’t be able to answer back. What would she do?

  She looked at Marek, who seemed perfectly relaxed. Of course he would be; he spoke the language.

  A monk passed a platter of beef to her, saying nothing. In fact, the entire room was silent. The food was passed without a word; there was no sound at all except for the soft clink of plates and knives. They ate in silence!

  She took the platter, nodding, and gave herself one large helping, then another, until she caught Marek’s disapproving glance. She handed the platter to him.

  From the corner of the room, a monk began to read a text in Latin, the words a kind of cadence in her ears, while she ate hungrily. She was famished! She could not remember when she had enjoyed a meal more. She glanced at Marek, who was eating with a quiet smile on his face. She turned to her soup, which was delicious, and after a moment, she glanced back at Marek.

  He wasn’t smiling anymore.

  :

  Marek had been keeping an eye on the entrances. There were three to this long rectangular room: one to his right, one to his left, and one directly opposite them, in the center of the room.

  Moments before, he had seen a group of soldiers in green and black gathering near the doorway to the right. They peered in, as if interested in the meal, but remained outside.

  Now he saw a second group of soldiers, standing in the doorway directly ahead. Kate looked at him, and he leaned very close to her ear and whispered, “Left door.” The monks around them shot disapproving glances. Kate looked at Marek and gave a little nod, meaning she understood.

  Where did the left-hand doorway lead? There were no soldiers at that door, and the room beyond was dark. Wherever it went, they would have to risk it. He caught Chris’s eye and gave a small jerk with his thumb: time to get up.

  Chris nodded almost imperceptibly. Marek pushed away his soup and started to get up, when a white-robed monk came up to him, leaned close, and whispered, “The Abbot will see you now.”

  :

  The Abbot of Sainte-Mère was an energetic man in his early thirties, with the body of an athlete and the sharp eye of a merchant. His black robes were elegantly embroidered, his heavy necklace was gold, and the hand he extended to be kissed bore jewels on four fingers. He met them in a sunny courtyard and then walked side by side with Marek, while Chris and Kate trailed behind. There were green-and-black soldiers everywhere. The Abbot’s manner was cheerful, but he had the habit of abruptly changing the subject, as if to catch his listener off guard.

  “I am heartfelt sorry for these soldiers,” the Abbot said, “but I fear intruders have entered the monastery grounds—some men of Oliver—and until we find them, we must be cautious. And my Lord Arnaut has graciously offered us his protection. You have eaten well?”

  “By the grace of God and your own, very well, my Lord Abbot.”

  The Abbot smiled pleasantly. “I dislike flattery,” he said. “And our order forbids it.”

  “I shall be mindful,” Marek said.

  The Abbot looked at the so
ldiers and sighed. “So many soldiers ruin the game.”

  “What game is that?”

  “The game, the game,” he said impatiently. “Yesterday morning we went hunting and returned haveless, with not so much as a roebuck to show. And the men of Cervole had not yet arrived. Now they are here—two thousand of them. What game they do not take, they frighten off. It will be months before the forests settle again. What news of Magister Edwardus? Tell me, for I am sore in need to have it.”

  Marek frowned. The Abbot did indeed appear tense, chafing to hear. But he seemed to be expecting specific information.

  “My Lord Abbot, he is in La Roque.”

  “Oh? With Sir Oliver?”

  “Yes, my Lord Abbot.”

  “Most unfortunate. Did he give you a message for me?” He must have seen Marek’s puzzled look. “No?”

  “My Lord Abbot, Edwardus gave me no message.”

  “Perhaps in code? Some trivial or mistaken turn of phrase?”

  “I am sorry,” Marek said.

  “Not so sorry as I. And now he is in La Roque?”

  “He is, my Lord Abbot.”

  “Sooth, I would not have it so,” the Abbot said. “For I think La Roque cannot be taken.”

  “Yet if there is a secret passage to the inside . . .,” Marek said.

  “Oh, the passage, the passage,” the Abbot said, giving a wave of his hand. “It will be my undoing. It is all that I hear spoken. Every man wishes to know the passage—and Arnaut more than any of them. The Magister was assisting me, searching the old documents of Marcellus. Are you certain he said nothing to you?”

  “He said we were to seek Brother Marcel.”

  The Abbot snorted. “Certes, this secret passage was the work of Laon’s assistant and scribe, who was Brother Marcel. But for the last years, old Marcel was not well in spirit. That is why we let him live in the mill. All through the day, he muttered and mumbled to himself, and then of a sudden he would cry out that he saw demons and spirits, and his eyes rolled in his head, and his limbs thrashed wildly, until the visions passed.” The Abbot shook his head. “The other monks venerated him, seeing his visions as proof of piety, and not of disorder, which in truth it was. But why did the Magister tell you to seek him out?”