Timeline - Michael Crichton [98]
“I take his lance on the chest,” Chris said, looking very unhappy.
“When the lance strikes you, let yourself be unseated. It shouldn’t be difficult. Fall to the ground and do not move, so you appear to have been knocked unconscious. Which you may be. Under no circumstances get to your feet. Do you understand?”
“Don’t get to my feet.”
“That’s right. No matter what happens, you continue to lie there. If Sir Guy has unhorsed you, and you are unconscious, the match is over. But if you get up, he will call for another lance, or he will fight you on foot with broadswords, and kill you.”
“Don’t get up,” Chris repeated.
“That’s right,” Marek said. “No matter what. Don’t get up.” He clapped Chris on the shoulder. “With luck, you’ll survive just fine.”
“Jesus,” Chris said.
More horses charged past them, shaking the ground.
:
Leaving the field behind, they passed among the many tents arranged outside the tournament ground. The tents were small and round, boldly colored with stripes and zigzag designs. Pennants rippled in the air above each tent. Horses were tied up outside. Pages and squires scurried to and fro, carrying armor, saddles, hay, water. Several pages were rolling barrels over the ground. The barrels made a soft hissing sound.
“That’s sand,” Marek explained. “They roll the chain mail in sand to remove rust.”
“Uh-huh.” Chris tried to focus on details, to take his mind off what was to come. But he felt as if he were going to his own execution.
They entered a tent where three pages were waiting. A warming fire burned in one corner; the armor was laid out on a ground cloth. Marek inspected it briefly, then said, “It’s fine.” He turned to leave.
“Where are you going?”
“To another tent, to dress.”
“But I don’t know how—”
“The pages will dress you,” Marek said, and left.
Chris looked at the armor lying in pieces on the ground, especially at the helmet, which had one of those pointy snouts, like a large duck. There was only a little slit for the eyes. But beside it was another helmet, more ordinary-looking, and Chris thought that—
“Good my squire, if it please you.” The head page, slightly older and better dressed than the others, was talking to him. He was a boy of about fourteen. “I pray you stand here.” He pointed to the center of the tent.
Chris stood, and he felt many hands moving over his body. They quickly removed all his clothes down to his linen undershirt and shorts, and then there were murmurs of concern as they saw his body.
“Have you been sick, squire?” one asked.
“Uh, no. . ..”
“A fever or an illness, to so weaken your body, as we see it now?”
“No,” Chris said, frowning.
They began to dress him, saying nothing. First, thick felt leggings, and then a heavily padded long-sleeved undershirt that buttoned at the front. They told him to bend his arms. He could hardly do it, the cloth was so thick.
“It is stiff from washing, but it will soon be easier,” one said.
Chris didn’t think so. Jesus, he thought, I can hardly move, and they haven’t put on the armor yet. Now they were strapping plates of metal on his thighs, calves and knees. Then they continued with his arms. As each piece went on, they asked him to move his limbs, to be sure the straps were not too tight.
Next a coat of chain mail was lowered over his head. It felt heavy on his shoulders. While the breastplate was being tied in place, the head page asked a series of questions, none of which Chris could answer.
“Do you sit high, or in cantle?”
“Will you couch your lance, or rest it?”
“Do you tie-brace the high pommel, or sit free?”
“Set your stirrups low, or forward?”
Chris made noncommittal noises. Meanwhile, more pieces of armor were added, with more questions.
“Flex sabaton or firm?”
“Vambrace guard or side plate?”
“Broadsword left or right?