“I am heartfelt sorry for these soldiers,” the Abbot said, “but I fear intruders have entered the monastery grounds — some men of Oliver — and until we find them, we must be cautious. And my Lord Arnaut has graciously offered us his protection. You have eaten well?”
“By the grace of God and your own, very well, my Lord Abbot.”
The Abbot smiled pleasantly. “I dislike flattery,” he said. “And our order forbids it.”
“I shall be mindful,” Marek said.
The Abbot looked at the soldiers and sighed. “So many soldiers ruin the game.”
“What game is that?”
“The game, the game,” he said impatiently. “Yesterday morning we went hunting and returned haveless, with not so much as a roebuck to show. And the men of Cervole had not yet arrived. Now they are here — two thousand of them. What game they do not take, they frighten off. It will be months before the forests settle again. What news of Magister Edwardus? Tell me, for I am sore in need to have it.”
Marek frowned. The Abbot did indeed appear tense, chafing to hear. But he seemed to be expecting specific information.
“My Lord Abbot, he is in La Roque.”
“Oh? With Sir Oliver?”
“Yes, my Lord Abbot.”
“Most unfortunate. Did he give you a message for me?” He must have seen Marek’s puzzled look. “No?”
“My Lord Abbot, Edwardus gave me no message.”
“Perhaps in code? Some trivial or mistaken turn of phrase?”
“I am sorry,” Marek said.
“Not so sorry as I. And now he is in La Roque?”
“He is, my Lord Abbot.”
“Sooth, I would not have it so,” the Abbot said. “For I think La Roque cannot be taken.”
“Yet if there is a secret passage to the inside . . . ,” Marek said.
“Oh, the passage, the passage,” the Abbot said, giving a wave of his hand. “It will be my undoing. It is all that I hear spoken. Every man wishes to know the passage — and Arnaut more than any of them. The Magister was assisting me, searching the old documents of Marcellus. Are you certain he said nothing to you?”
“He said we were to seek Brother Marcel.”
The Abbot snorted. “Certes, this secret passage was the work of Laon’s assistant and scribe, who was Brother Marcel. But for the last years, old Marcel was not well in spirit. That is why we let him live in the mill. All through the day, he muttered and mumbled to himself, and then of a sudden he would cry out that he saw demons and spirits, and his eyes rolled in his head, and his limbs thrashed wildly, until the visions passed.” The Abbot shook his head. “The other monks venerated him, seeing his visions as proof of piety, and not of disorder, which in truth it was. But why did the Magister tell you to seek him out?”
“The Magister said Marcel had a key.”
“A key?” the Abbot said. “A key?” He sounded very annoyed. “Of course he had a key, he had many keys, and they are all to be found in the mill, but we cannot—” He stumbled forward, then stared with a shocked expression at Marek.
All around the courtyard, men were shouting, pointing upward.
Marek said, “My Lord Abbot—”
The Abbot spat blood and collapsed into Marek’s arms. Marek eased him to the ground. He felt the arrow in the Abbot’s back even before he saw it. More arrows whistled down and thunked, quivering, in the grass beside them.
Marek looked up and saw maroon figures in the bell tower of the church, firing rapidly. An arrow ripped Marek’s hat from his head; another tore through the sleeve of his tunic. Another arrow stuck deep in the Abbot’s shoulder.
The next arrow struck Marek in the thigh. He felt searing red-hot pain streak down his leg, and he lost his balance, falling back on the ground. He tried to get up, but he was dizzy and his balance had deserted him. He fell back again as arrows whistled down all around him.
:
On the opposite side of the courtyard, Chris and Kate ran for cover through the rain of arrows. Kate yelled and stumbled, fell to the ground, an arrow sticking in her back. Then she scrambled up, and Chris saw it had torn through her tunic beneath her armpit but had not struck her. An arrow skinned his leg, tearing his hose. And then they reached the covered passageway, where they collapsed behind one of the arches, catching their breath. Arrows clattered off the stone walls and struck the stone arches all around them. Chris said, “You okay?”
She nodded, panting. “Where’s Marek?”
Chris got to his feet, peered cautiously around the pillar. “Oh no,” he said. And he started to run down the corridor.
:
Marek staggered to his feet, saw that the Abbot was still alive. “Forgive me,” Marek said as he lifted the Abbot onto his shoulder and carried him away to the corner. The soldiers in the courtyard loosed answering volleys at the bell tower. Fewer arrows were coming down at them now.
Marek took the Abbot behind the arches of the covered passageway and placed him on his side on the ground. The Abbot pulled the arrow out of his own shoulder and threw it aside. The effort left him gasping. “My back . . . back . . .”
Marek turned him over gently. The shaft in his back pulsed with each heartbeat. “My Lord, do you wish me to pull it?”
“No.” The Abbot flung a desperate arm over Marek’s neck, pulling him close. “Not yet . . . A priest . . . priest . . .” His eyes rolled. A priest was running toward them.
“He comes now, my Lord Abbot.”
The Abbot appeared relieved by this, but he still held Marek in a strong grip. His voice was low, almost a whisper. “The key to La Roque . . .”
“Yes, my Lord?”
“. . . room . . .”
Marek waited. “What room, my Lord? What room?”
“Arnaut . . . ,” the Abbot said, shaking his head as if to clear it. “Arnaut will be angry . . . room . . .” And he released his grip. Marek pulled the arrow from his back and helped him to lie on the floor. “Every time, he would . . . make . . . told no one . . . so . . . Arnaut . . .” He closed his eyes.
The monk pushed between them, speaking quickly in Latin, removing the Abbot’s slippers, placing a bottle of oil on the ground. He began to administer the last rites.
:
Leaning against one of the cloister pillars, Marek pulled the arrow out of his thigh. It had struck him glancingly, and was not as deep as he had thought; there was only an inch of blood on the shaft. He dropped the arrow to the ground just as Chris and Kate came up.
They looked at his leg, and at the arrow. He was bleeding. Kate pulled up her doublet and tore a strip from the bottom of her linen undershirt with her dagger. She tied it around Marek’s thigh as an impromptu bandage.
Marek said, “It’s not that bad.”
“Then it won’t hurt you to have it,” she said. “Can you walk?”
“Of course I can walk,” Marek said.
“You’re pale.”
“I’m fine,” he said, and moved away from the pillar, looking into the courtyard.
Four soldiers lay on the ground, which was pincushioned with arrows. The other soldiers had departed; no one was shooting at the bell tower any longer: smoke billowed from the high windows. On the opposite side of the courtyard, they saw more smoke, thick and dark, coming from the area of the refectory. The whole monastery was starting to burn.
“We need to find that key,” Marek said.
“But it’s in his room.”
“I’m not sure about that.” Marek had remembered that one of the last things Elsie, the graphologist, had said to him back at the project site had to do with a key. And some word that she was puzzled by. He couldn’t remember the details — he had been worried about the Professor at the time — but he remembered clearly enough that Elsie had been looking at one of the parchment sheets from the pile that had been found in the monastery. The same pile that had contained the Professor’s note.
And Marek knew where to find those parchments.
:
They hurried down the corridor toward the church. Some of the stained-glass windows had been broken, and smoke issued out. From the interior, they heard men shouting, and a moment later a party of soldiers burst through the doors. Marek turned on his heel, leading them back the way they had come.
“What are we doing?” Chris said.
“Looking for the door.”