Timeline - Michael Crichton [91]
And then he saw that their swords were not blunted, that they were swinging real battle swords, with razor-sharp edges. Yet they clearly intended each other no harm; this was just an amusing warm-up to the coming tournament. Their cheerful, casual approach to deadly hazard was almost as unnerving as the speed and intensity with which they fought.
The battle continued for another ten minutes, until one mighty swing unhorsed one knight. He fell to the ground but immediately jumped up laughing, as easily as if he were wearing no armor. Money changed hands. There were cries of “Again! Again!” A fistfight broke out among the liveried boys. The two knights walked off, arm in arm, toward the inn.
Marek heard Kate say, “André. . ..”
He turned slowly toward her.
“André, is everything all right?”
“Everything is fine,” he said. “But I have a lot to learn.”
:
They walked down the castle drawbridge, approaching the guards. He felt Kate tense alongside him. “What do we do? What do we say?”
“Don’t worry. I speak Occitan.”
But as they came closer, another fight broke out on the field beyond the moat, and the guards watched it. They were entirely preoccupied as Marek and Kate passed through the stone arch and entered the castle courtyard.
“We just walked in,” Kate said, surprised. She looked around the courtyard. “Now what?”
:
It was freezing, Chris thought. He sat naked, except for his undershorts, on a stool in Sir Daniel’s small apartment. Beside him was a basin of steaming water, and a hand cloth for washing. The boy had brought the basin of water up from the kitchen, carrying it as if it were gold; his manner indicated that it was a sign of favor to be treated to hot water.
Chris had dutifully scrubbed himself, refusing the boy’s offers of assistance. The bowl was small, and the water soon black. But eventually he’d managed to scrape the mud from beneath his fingernails, off his body and even off his face, with the aid of a tiny metal mirror the boy handed him.
Finally, he pronounced himself satisfied. But the boy, with a look of distress, said, “Master Christopher, you are not clean.” And he insisted on doing the rest.
So Chris sat shivering on his wooden stool while the boy scrubbed him for what seemed like an hour. Chris was perplexed; he’d always thought that medieval people were dirty and smelly, immersed in the filth of the age. Yet these people seemed to make a fetish of cleanliness. Everyone he saw in the castle was clean, and there were no odors.
Even the toilet, which the boy insisted he use before bathing, was not as awful as Chris had expected. Located behind a wooden door in the bedroom, it was a narrow closet, fitted with a stone seat above a basin that drained into a pipe. Apparently, waste flowed down to the ground floor of the castle, where it was removed daily. The boy explained that each morning a servant flushed the pipe with scented water, then placed a fresh bouquet of sweet-smelling herbs in a clip on the wall. So the odor was not objectionable. In fact, he thought ruefully, he’d smelled much worse in airplane toilets.
And to top it all, these people wiped themselves with strips of white linen! No, he thought, things were not as he had expected.
One advantage of being forced to sit there was that he was able to try speaking to the boy. The boy was tolerant, and replied slowly to Chris, as if to an idiot. But this enabled Chris to hear him before the earpiece translation, and he quickly discovered that imitation helped; if he overcame his embarrassment and employed the archaic phrases he had read in texts—many of which the young boy himself used—then the boy understood him much more easily. So Chris gradually fell to saying “Methinks” instead of “I think,” and “an” instead of “if,” and “for sooth” instead of “in truth.” And with each small change, the boy seemed to understand him better.
Chris was still sitting on the stool when Sir Daniel entered the room. He brought neatly folded clothes, rich and expensive-looking. He placed