Timeline - Michael Crichton [116]
They were locked in a small chamber, high in the central tower of the castle keep, overlooking the castle walls and the town beyond. This was a woman’s room, with a spinning wheel and an altar off to one side, perfunctory signs of piety overwhelmed by the enormous bed with red plush coverings and fur trim in the center of the room. The door to the room was of solid oak, and fitted with a new lock. Sir Guy himself had locked the door, after placing one guard inside the room, sitting by the door, and two others outside.
They were taking no chances this time.
Marek sat on the bed, staring into space, lost in thought. Or perhaps he was listening; he had one hand cupped around his ear. Meanwhile, Kate paced restlessly, moving from one window to the next, inspecting the view from each. At the farthest window, she leaned way out, looking down, then walked to the window where Chris was standing and leaned out again.
“The view here is just the same,” Chris said. Her restlessness annoyed him.
Then he saw she was reaching out to run her hand along the wall at the side of the window, feeling the stones and the mortar.
He stared at her, questioning.
“Maybe,” she said, nodding. “Maybe.”
Chris reached out and touched the wall. The masonry was nearly smooth, the wall curving and sheer. It was a straight drop to the courtyard below.
“Are you joking?” he said.
“No,” she said. “I’m not.”
He looked out again. In the courtyard, there were many others besides the courtiers. A group of squires talked and laughed as they cleaned the armor and groomed the horses of the knights. To the right, soldiers patrolled the parapet wall. Any of them could turn and look up if her movement caught their eye.
“You’ll be seen.”
“From this window, yes. Not from the other. Our only problem is him.” She nodded toward the guard at the door. “Can you do anything to help?”
Sitting on the bed, Marek said, “I’ll take care of it.”
“What the hell is this?” Chris said, very annoyed. He spoke loudly. “You don’t think I can do this myself?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Damn it, I’m sick of the way you treat me,” Chris said. He was furious; looking around for something to fight with, he picked up the little stool by the spinning wheel and started toward Marek.
The guard saw it, said, “Non, non, non” quickly as he went toward Chris. He never saw Marek hit him from behind with a metal candlestick. The guard crumpled, and Marek caught him, eased him silently to the floor. Blood was pouring from the guard’s head onto an Oriental carpet.
“Is he dead?” Chris said, staring at Marek.
“Who cares?” Marek said. “Just continue to talk quietly, so the ones outside hear our voices.”
They looked over, but Kate had already gone out the window.
:
It’s just a free solo,she told herself, as she clung to the tower wall, sixty feet in the air.
The wind pulled at her, rippling her clothes. She gripped the slight protrusions of the mortar with her fingertips. Sometimes the mortar crumbled away, and she had to grab, then grip again. But here and there, she found indentations in the mortar, large enough for her fingertips to fit in.
She’d flashed more difficult climbs. Any number of buildings at Yale were more difficult—although there, she’d always had chalk for her hands, and proper climbing shoes, and a safety rope. No safety here.
It isn’t far.
She’d climbed out the west window because it was behind the guard, because it faced toward the town, and so she would be less likely to be seen from the courtyard below—and because it was the shortest distance to the next window, which stood at the end of the hallway that ran outside the chamber.
It isn’t far, she told herself. Ten feet at most. Don’t rush it. No hurry. Just one hand, then a foothold . . . another hand . . .
Almost there, she thought.
Almost there.
Then she touched the stone windowsill. She got her first firm