Timeline - Michael Crichton [162]
She shivered and spurred the horse on. She noticed that the grass ahead had recently been trampled down—by the footprints of another horse, moving in the same direction as she. As she looked, she saw the long blades of grass slowly rising upward, returning to their original position.
Someone had been here very recently. Perhaps only a few minutes before. Cautiously, she proceeded toward the far end of the clearing.
Darkness closed around her again as she slipped back into the forest. The trail ahead was becoming muddy, and she could see distinct hoofprints going forward.
From time to time, she paused and listened intently. But she heard nothing at all up ahead. Either the rider was far in front of her or he was very quiet. Once or twice, she thought she heard the sound of a horse, but she couldn’t be sure.
It was probably her imagination.
She pushed on, toward the green chapel. To what had been called, on her maps, la chapelle verte morte. The chapel of green death.
:
In the darkness of the forest, she came upon a figure leaning wearily against a fallen tree. He was a wizened old man, wearing a hood and carrying a woodsman’s ax. As she rode by, he said, “I beg you, good master, I beg you.” His voice was thin, rasping. “Give me some small thing to eat, for I am poor, and have no food.”
Kate did not think she had any food, but then she remembered the knight had given them a small bundle, tied behind her saddle. She reached back, found a crust of bread and a piece of dried beef. It didn’t look appetizing, particularly since it now smelled strongly of horse sweat. She held the food out to him.
Eagerly, the man came forward, reached a bony hand for the food—but instead he grabbed her outstretched arm at the wrist with a surprisingly strong grip and, with a swift yank, tried to pull her from the horse. He cackled with delight, a nasty sound; as he struggled with her, his hood fell back, and she saw that he was younger than she had thought. Now, three other men ran forward from the shadows on both sides of the path, and she realized that they were godins, the peasant bandits. Kate was still in the saddle, but clearly not for long. She kicked the horse, but it was tired and unresponsive. The older man continued tugging at her arm, all the while muttering, “Foolish boy! You silly boy!”
Not knowing what else to do, she screamed for help, screaming at the top of her lungs, and this seemed to startle the men, so that they paused for a moment before resuming their attack. But then they heard the sound of a galloping horse coming toward them, and the roar of a warrior’s battle cry, and the godins looked at one another and scattered. All except the wizened man, who refused to release Kate and now threatened her with his ax, which he raised in his other hand.
But in that moment an apparition, a bloodred knight on horseback, came crashing down the trail, his horse snorting, flinging clops of mud, the knight himself so fierce and bloody that the last man ran for his life, plunging into the darkness of the forest.
Chris reined up and circled around her. She felt a huge wave of relief flood through her; she had been badly frightened. Chris was smiling, clearly pleased with himself.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” he said.
“Are you?” Kate asked, amazed. Chris was literally drenched in blood; it had dried all over his face and body, and when he smiled, it cracked at the sides of his mouth, revealing the pink skin beneath. He looked