Timeline - Michael Crichton [105]
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 wild-flowers. 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, André.”
“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 Crécy, 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 warhorses, and he has to support his retinue of pages and aides. And these noble knights