Timeline - Michael Crichton [84]
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Chris staggered forward, knee-deep in boggy marsh at the edge of the river. Mud clung to his face, his hair, his clothes. He was covered in so much mud that he felt its weight. He saw the boy ahead of him, already splashing in the water, washing.
Pushing past the last of the tangles along the water’s edge, Chris slid into the river. The water was icy cold, but he didn’t care. He ducked his head under, ran his hand through his hair, rubbed his face, trying to get the mud off him.
By now the boy had climbed out on the opposite bank and was sitting in the sun on a rocky outcrop. The boy said something that Chris could not hear, but his earpiece translated, “You do not remove your clothes to bathe?”
“Why? You did not.”
At this, the boy shrugged. “But you may, if you wish it.”
Chris swam to the far side, and climbed out. His clothes were still very muddy, and he felt chilled now that he was out in the open air. He stripped off his clothes down to his belt and linen shorts, rinsed the outergarments in the river, then set them on the rocks to dry. His body was covered with scratches, welts and bruises. But already his skin was drying, and the sun felt warm. He turned his face upward, closed his eyes. He heard the soft song of women in the fields. He heard birds. The gentle lap of the river at the banks. And for a moment, he felt a peace descend on him that was deeper, and more complete, than anything he had ever felt in his life.
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