31:15:58

The little stream wound through mossy grass and wildflowers. Chris was on his knees, plunging his face into the water. He came back sputtering, coughing. He looked at Marek, who was squatting beside him, staring off into space.

"I've had it," Chris said. "I've had it."

"I imagine you have."

"I could have been killed," Chris said. "That's supposed to be a sport? You know what that is? It's a game of chicken on horses. Those people are insane." He dunked his head in the water again.

"Chris."

"I hate to throw up. I hate it."

"Chris.”

"What? What is it now? You going to tell me I'll rust my armor? Because I don't give a shit, André."

"No," Marek said, "I'm going to tell you your felt undershirt will swell, and it'll be difficult to take the armor off."

"Is that right? Well, I don't care. Those pages will come and get it off me." Chris sat back in the moss and coughed. "Jesus, I can't get rid of that smell. I need to take a bath or something."

Marek sat beside him, said nothing. He just let him unwind. Chris's hands were shaking as he talked. It was better for him to get it out, he thought.

In the field below them, archers in maroon and gray were practicing. Ignoring the excitement of the nearby tournament, they patiently fired at targets, moved backward, fired again. It was just as the old texts said: the English archers were highly disciplined, and they practiced every day.

"Those men are the new military power," Marek said. "They decide battles now. Look at them."

Chris propped himself on his elbow. "You're kidding kidding," he said. The archers were now more than two hundred yards from their circular targets - the length of two football fields. So far away, they were small figures, and yet they were confidently drawing their bows toward the sky. "Are they serious?"

The sky was black with whistling arrows. They struck the targets, or landed close by, sticking up in the grass.

"No kidding," Chris said.

Almost immediately, another thick volley filled the air. And another, and another. Marek was counting to himself. Three seconds between volleys. So it was true, he thought: English archers really could fire twenty rounds a minute. By now, the targets bristled with arrows.

"Charging knights can't stand up under that kind of attack," Marek said. "It kills the riders, and it kills the horses. That's why the English knights dismount to fight. The French still charge in the traditional way - and they're just slaughtered, before they ever get close to the English. Four thousand knights dead at Crécy, even more in Poitiers. Large numbers for this time."

"Why don't the French change tactics? Can't they see what's happening?"

"They do, but it means the end of a whole way of life - a whole culture, really," Marek said. "Knights are all nobility; their way of life is too expensive for commoners. A knight has to buy his armor and at least three war-horses, and he has to support his retinue of pages and aides. And these noble knights have been the determining factor in warfare, until now. Now it's over." He pointed to the archers in the field. "Those men are commoners. They win by coordination and discipline. There's no personal valor. They're paid a wage; they do a job. But they're the future of warfare - paid, disciplined, faceless troops. The knights are finished."

"Except for tournaments," Chris said sourly.

"Pretty much. And even there - all that plate armor, over the chain mail - that's all because of arrows. Arrows will go clean through an unprotected man, and they'll penetrate chain mail. So knights need plate armor. Horses need armor. But with a volley like that…" Marek pointed to the whistling rainfall of arrows and shrugged. "It's over."

Chris looked back at the tournament grounds. And then he said, "Well, it's about time!"

Marek turned and saw five liveried pages walking toward them, along with two guards in red-and-black surcoats. "Finally I'm going to get out of this damned metal."

Chris and Marek stood as the men came up. One of the guards said, "You have broken the rules of tourney, disgraced the chivalrous knight Guy Malegant, and the good offices of Lord Oliver. You are made arrest, and will come with us."

"Wait a minute," Chris said. "We disgraced him?"

"You will come with us."

"Wait a minute," Chris said.

The soldier cuffed him hard on the side of the head, and pushed him forward. Marek fell into step beside him. Surrounded by guards, they headed toward the castle.

Kate was still at the tournament, looking for Chris and André. At first, she thought to look in the tents ranged beyond the field, but there were only men - knights and squires and pages - in that area, and she decided against it. This was a different world, violence was in the air, and she felt a constant sense of risk. Nearly everyone in this world was young; the knights who swaggered about the field were in their twenties or early thirties, and the squires mere teenagers. She was dressed in ordinary fashion, and clearly not a member of the nobility. She had the feeling that if she were dragged off and raped, no one would take much notice.

Even though it was midday, she found herself behaving the way she did in New Haven at night. She tried never to be alone, but to move with a group; she skirted around the clusters of males, giving them wide berth.

She made her way behind the bleachers, hearing the cheers of the crowd as the next pair of knights began to fight. She looked into the area of tents to her left. She did not see Marek or Chris anywhere. Yet they had left the field only minutes before. Were they inside one of the tents? She had heard nothing in her earpiece for the last hour; she assumed it was because Marek and Chris had worn helmets, which blocked transmission. But surely their helmets were off now.

Then she saw them, a short distance down the hill, sitting by a meandering stream.

She headed down the hill. Her wig was hot and itchy in the sun. Perhaps she could get rid of the wig and just put her hair up under a cap. Or if she cut her hair a little shorter, she could pass for a young man, even without a cap.

It might be interesting, she thought, to be a man for a while.

She was thinking about where to get scissors when she saw the soldiers approaching Marek. She slowed her pace. She still heard nothing in her earpiece, but she was so close, she knew she should.

Was it turned off? She tapped her ear.

Immediately, she heard Chris say, "We disgraced him?" and then something garbled. She saw the soldiers push Chris toward the castle. Marek walked alongside him.

Kate waited a moment, then followed.

Castelgard was deserted, shops and storefronts locked, its streets echoing and empty. Everyone had gone to the tournament, which made it more difficult for her to follow Marek and Chris and the soldiers. She had to drop farther back, waiting until they had gone out of a street before she could follow them, hurrying ahead at a near run until she caught sight of them again, then duck back around a corner.

She knew her behavior looked suspicious. But there was no one to see it. High in one window, she saw an old woman sitting in the sun, eyes closed. But she never looked down. Perhaps she was asleep.

She came to the open field in front of the castle. It, too, was now deserted. The knights on prancing horses, the mock combats, the flying banners were all gone. The soldiers crossed the drawbridge. As she followed after them, she heard the crowd roar from the field beyond the walls. The guards turned and shouted to soldiers on the ramparts, asking what was happening. The soldiers above could see down to the field; they shouted answers. All this was accompanied by much swearing; apparently, bets had been made.