Timeline - Crichton Michael. Страница 50

Lord Oliver laughed, wiped the dog's blood off the tip of his blade, and continued to eat.

The men seated at his table shared the joke. From the look of them, they were all soldiers, Oliver's contemporaries, and all were elegantly dressed - though none matched the finery of their leader. And three or four women, young, pretty and bawdy, in tight-fitting dresses and with loose, wanton hair, giggling as their hands groped beneath the table, completed the scene.

Kate stared, and a word came unbidden to her mind: warlord. This was a medieval warlord, sitting with his soldiers and their prostitutes in the castle he had captured.

A wooden staff banged on the floor, and a herald cried, "My Lord! Magister Edward de Johnes!" Turning, she saw Johnston shoved through the crowd, toward the table at the front.

Lord Oliver looked up, wiping gravy from his jowls with the back of his hand. "I bid you welcome, Magister Edwardus. Though I do not know if you are Magister or magicien."

"Lord Oliver," the Professor said, speaking in Occitan. He gave a slight nod of the head.

"Magister, why so cool," Oliver said, pretending to pout. "You wound me, you do. What have I done to deserve this reserve? Are you displeased I brought you from the monastery? You shall eat as well here, I assure you. Better. Anywise, the Abbot has no need of you - and I do."

Johnston stood erect, and did not speak.

"You have nothing to say?" Oliver said, glaring at Johnston. His face darkened. "That will change," he growled.

Johnston remained unmoving, silent.

The moment passed. Lord Oliver seemed to collect himself. He smiled blandly. "But come, come, let us not quarrel. With all courtesy and respect, I seek your counsel," Oliver said. "You are wise, and I have much need of wisdom - so these worthies tell me." Guffaws at the table. "And I am told you can see the future."

"No man sees that," Johnston said.

"Oh so? I think you do, Magister. And I pray you, see your own. I would not see a man of your distinction suffer much. Know you how your namesake, our late king, Edward the Foolish, met his end? I see by your face that you do. Yet you were not among those present in the castle. And I was." He smiled grimly and sat back in his chair. "There was never a mark upon his body."

Johnston nodded slowly. "His screams could be heard for miles."

Kate looked questioningly to Marek, who whispered, "They're talking about Edward II of England. He was imprisoned and killed. His captors didn't want any sign of foul play, so they stuck a tube up his rectum and inserted a red-hot poker into his bowels until he died."

Kate shivered.

"He was also gay," Marek whispered, "so it was thought the manner of his execution demonstrated great wit."

"Indeed, his screams were heard for miles," Oliver was saying. "So think on it. You know many things, and I would know them, too. You are my counselor, or you are not long for this world."

Lord Oliver was interrupted by a knight who slipped down the table and whispered in his ear. This knight was richly dressed in maroon and gray, but he had the tough, weathered face of a campaigner. A deep scar, almost a welt, ran down his face from forehead to chin and disappeared into his high collar. Oliver listened, and then said to him, "Oh? You think so, Robert?"

At this, the scarred knight whispered again, never taking his eyes off the Professor. Lord Oliver was also staring at the Professor while he listened. "Well, we shall see," Lord Oliver said.

The stocky knight continued to whisper, and Oliver nodded.

Standing in the crowd, Marek turned to the courtier beside him and, speaking in Occitan, said, "Pray, what worthy now has Sir Oliver's ear?"

"Faith, friend, that is Sir Robert de Kere."

"De Kere?" Marek said. "I do not know of him."

"He is new to the retinue, not yet in service a year, but he has found much favor in Sir Oliver's eyes."

"Oh so? Why is that?"

The man shrugged wearily, as if to say, Who knows why things happen at the high table? But he answered, "Sir Robert has a martial disposition, and he has been a trusted adviser to Lord Oliver on matters of warfare." The man lowered his voice. "But certes, I think he cannot be pleased to see another adviser, and one so eminent, before him now."

"Ah," Marek said, nodding. "I understand."

Sir Robert did indeed seem to be pressing his case, whispering urgently, until finally Oliver made a quick flicking sign with one hand, as if brushing away a mosquito. Instantly, the knight bowed and stepped back, standing behind Sir Oliver.

Oliver said, "Magister."

"My Lord."

"I am informed that you know the method of Greek Fire."

Standing in the crowd, Marek snorted. He whispered to Kate, "No one knows that." And no one did. Greek Fire was a famous historical conundrum, a devastating incendiary weapon from the sixth century, the precise nature of which was debated by historians even now. No one knew what Greek Fire really was, or how it was made.

"Yes," Johnston said. "I know this method."

Marek stared. What was this? Clearly the Professor had recognized a rival, but this was a dangerous game to be playing. He would undoubtedly be asked to prove it.

"You can yourself make Greek Fire?" Oliver said.

"My Lord, I can."

"Ah." Oliver turned and shot a glance back at Sir Robert. It seemed the trusted adviser had given wrong advice. Oliver turned back to the Professor.

"It will not be difficult," the Professor said, "if I have my assistants."

So that's it, Marek thought. The Professor was making promises, in an attempt to get them all together.

"Eh? Assistants? You have assistants?"

"I do, my Lord, and-"

"Well of course they can assist you, Magister. And if they do not, we shall provide you whatever help you need. Have no concern there. But what of Dew Fire - the fire of Nathos? You know it, as well?"

"I do, my Lord."

"And by demonstration you will show it to me?"

"Whenever you wish, my Lord."

"Very good, Magister. Very good." Lord Oliver paused, looking intently at the Professor. "And you also know the one secret that I wish to know above all others?"

"Sir Oliver, that secret I do not know."

"You do! And you will answer me!" he shouted, banging down a goblet. His face was bright red, the veins standing out on his forehead; his voice echoed in the hall, which had gone suddenly silent. "I will have your answer this day!" One of the small dogs on the table cringed; with the back of his hand, he smacked it, sending it yelping to the floor. When the girl beside him started to protest, he swore and slapped her hard across the face, the blow knocking her, chair and all, on her back. The girl did not make a sound, or move. She remained motionless, her feet up in the air.

"Oh, I am wrothed! I am sore wrothed!" Lord Oliver snarled, standing up. He looked around him angrily, his hand on his sword, his eyes sweeping the great hall, as if seeking some culprit.

Everyone inside the hall was silent, unmoving, staring down at their feet. It was as if the room had suddenly become a still life, in which only Lord Oliver moved. He puffed in fury, finally took out his sword, and crashed the blade down on the table. Plates and goblets jumped and clattered, the sword buried in the wood.

Oliver glared at the Professor, but he was gaining control, his fury passing. "Magister, you will do my bidding!" he cried. Then he nodded to the guards. "Take him away, and give him cause to meditate."

Roughly, guards grabbed the Professor and hauled him back through the silent crowds. Kate and Marek stepped aside as he passed, but the Professor did not see them.

Lord Oliver glared at the silent room. "Be seated and be merry," he snarled, "before I am in temper!"

Immediately, the musicians began to play, and the noise of the crowd filled the hall.