Michael Crichton - Timeline

Marek whispered, "Do not respond…"

Malegant poked Chris hard on the chest. "So, cowardly squire, I call you spy and scoundrel, and not man enough to admit your true cause. I would have contempt for you, were you not beneath it."

The knight finished removing his glove, and with a disgusted shake of his head, he dropped it on the floor. The chain-mail glove landed with a clunk on Chris's toes. Sir Guy turned insolently away and started back to the table.

Everyone in the room was staring at Chris.

Beside him, Claire whispered, "The glove…"

He glanced at her sideways.

"The glove!"

What about the glove? he wondered, as he bent over and picked it up. It was heavy in his hand. He held the glove out to Claire, but she had already turned away, saying, "Knight, the squire has accepted your challenge."

Chris thought, What challenge?

Sir Guy said immediately, "Three lances untipped, à outrance."

Marek said, "You poor bastard. Do you know what you just did?"

Sir Guy turned to Lord Oliver at the high table. "My Lord, I pray you let the day's tourney begin with our challenge combat."

"So it shall be," Oliver said.

Sir Daniel slipped forward through the crowd and bowed. "My Lord Oliver, my niece carries this jest too far, with unworthy result. It may amuse her to see Sir Guy, a knight of renown, provoked into combat with a mere squire, and so dishonored by the doing. But it ill-serves Sir Guy to be taken in by her ruse."

"Is this so?" Lord Oliver said, looking at the dark knight.

Sir Guy Malegant spat on the floor. "A squire? Mark me, this is no squire. Here is a knight in hiding, a knave and a spy. His deceit shall have its reward. I will contest him this day."

Sir Daniel said, "If it please my Lord, I think it is not meet. Sooth he is a squire only, of little training at arms, and no match for your worthy knight."

Chris was still trying to understand what was going on, when Marek stepped forward, speaking fluently in a foreign language that sounded something like French, but not exactly. He guessed it was Occitan. Chris heard the translation in his earpiece.

"My Lord," Marek said, bowing smoothly, "this worthy gentleman speaks truth. Squire Christopher is my companion, but he is no warrior. In fairness, I ask you to allow Christopher to name a champion in his stead, to meet this challenge."

"Eh? Champion? What champion? I do not know you."

Chris saw that Lady Claire was staring at Marek with unconcealed interest. He returned a brief glance before speaking to Oliver.

"Please my Lord, I am Sir André de Marek, late of Hainaut. I offer myself as his champion, and God willing, I shall give good account with this noble knight."

Lord Oliver rubbed his chin, thinking.

Seeing his indecision, Sir Daniel pressed forward. "My Lord, to begin your tourney with unequal combat does not enhance the day, nor make it memorable in the minds of men. I think de Marek will give better sport."

Lord Oliver turned back to Marek to see what he would say to that.

"My Lord," Marek said, "if my friend Christopher is a spy, then so am I. In defaming him, Sir Guy has defamed me as well, and I beg leave to defend my good name."

Lord Oliver seemed entertained by this new complication. "How say you, Guy?"

"Faith," the dark knight said, "I grant you this de Marek may be a worthy second, if his arm has the skill of his tongue. But as a second, it is meet he fight my second, Sir Charles de Gaune."

A tall man stood at the end of the table. He had a pale face, a flat nose and pink eyes; he resembled a pit bull. His tone was contemptuous as he said, "I shall be second, with pleasure."

Marek made one final attempt. "So," he said, "it appears Sir Guy is afraid to fight me first."

At this, the Lady Claire openly smiled at Marek. She was clearly interested in him. And it seemed to annoy Sir Guy.

"I fear no man," Guy said, "least of all a Hainauter. If you survive my second - which I much doubt - then I will gladly fight you after, and bring your insolence to an end."

"So be it," Lord Oliver said, and turned away. His tone indicated that the discussion was ended.

The horses wheeled and charged, racing past each other on the grassy field. The ground shook as the big animals thundered past Marek and Chris, who were standing at the low fence, watching the practice runs. To Chris, the tournament field was huge - the size of a football field - and on two sides, the stands had been completed, and ladies were beginning to be seated. Spectators from the countryside, roughly dressed and noisy, lined the rail.

Another pair of riders charged, their horses snorting as they galloped. Marek said, "How well do you ride?"

He shrugged. "I rode with Sophie."

"Then I think I can keep you alive, Chris," Marek said. "But you must do exactly as I tell you."

"All right."

"So far, you haven't been doing what I tell you," Marek reminded him. "This time, you must."

"Okay, okay."

"All you have to do," Marek said, "is stay mounted on the horse long enough to take the hit. Sir Guy will have no choice but to aim for the chest when he sees how badly you ride, because the chest is the largest and steadiest target on a galloping rider. I want you to take his lance square on the chest, on the breastplate. You understand?"

"I take his lance on the chest," Chris said, looking very unhappy.

"When the lance strikes you, let yourself to 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.