By now the boy had climbed out on the opposite bank and was sitting in the sun on a rocky outcrop. The boy said something that Chris could not hear, but his earpiece translated, "You do not remove your clothes to bathe?"
"Why? You did not."
At this, the boy shrugged. "But you may, if you wish it."
Chris swam to the far side, and climbed out. His clothes were still very muddy, and he felt chilled now that he was out in the open air. He stripped off his clothes down to his belt and linen shorts, rinsed the outergarments in the river, then set them on the rocks to dry. His body was covered with scratches, welts and bruises. But already his skin was drying, and the sun felt warm. He turned his face upward, closed his eyes. He heard the soft song of women in the fields. He heard birds. The gentle lap of the river at the banks. And for a moment, he felt a peace descend on him that was deeper, and more complete, than anything he had ever felt in his life.
He lay down on the rocks, and he must have fallen asleep for a few minutes, because when he awoke he heard:
"Howbite thou speakst foolsimple ohcopan, eek invich array thouart. Essay thousooth Earisher?"
The boy was speaking. An instant later, he heard the tinny voice in his ear, translating: "The way you speak plainly to your friend, and the way you dress. Tell the truth. You are Irish, is it so?"
Chris nodded slowly, thinking that over. Apparently, the boy had overheard him speaking to Marek on the path and had concluded they were Irish. There didn't seem to be any harm in letting him think that.
"Aye," he said.
"Aie?" the boy repeated. He formed the syllable slowly, pulling his lips back, showing his teeth. "Aie?" The word seemed strange to him.
Chris thought, He doesn't understand "aye"? He would try something else. He said, "Oui?"
"Oui . . . oui. . . ." The boy seemed confused by this word, as well. Then he brightened. "Ourie? Seyngthou ourie?" and the translation came, "Shabby? Are you saying shabby?"
Chris shook his head no. "I am saying 'yes.' " This was getting very confusing.
"Yezz?" the boy said, speaking it like a hiss.
"Yes," Chris said, nodding.
"Ah. Earisher." The translation came: "Ah. Irish."
"Yes."
"Wee sayen yeaso. Oriwis, thousay trew."
Chris said, "Thousay trew." His earpiece translated his own words: "You speak the truth."
The boy nodded, satisfied with the answer. They sat in silence a moment. He looked Chris up and down. "So you are gentle."
Gentle? Chris shrugged. Of course he was gentle. He certainly wasn't a fighter. "Thousay trew."
The boy nodded judiciously. "I thought as much. Your manner speaks it, even if your attire ill-suits your degree."
Chris said nothing in reply. He wasn't sure what was meant here.
"How are you called?" the boy asked him.
"Christopher Hughes."
"Ah. Christopher de Hewes," the boy said, speaking slowly. He seemed to be assessing the name in some way that Chris didn't understand. "Where is Hewes? In the Irish land?"
"Thousay trew."
Another short silence fell over them while they sat in the sun.
"Are you a knight?" the boy asked finally.
"No."
"Then you are a squire," the boy said, nodding to himself. "That will do." He turned to Chris. "And of what age? Twenty-one year?"
"Close enough. Twenty-four year."
This news caused the boy to blink in surprise. Chris thought, What's wrong with being twenty-four?
"Then, good squire, I am very glad of your assistance, for saving me from Sir Guy and his band." He pointed across the river, where six dark horsemen stood watching them at the water's edge. They were letting their horses drink from the river, but their eyes were fixed on Chris and the boy.
"But I didn't save you," Chris said. "You saved me."
"Didnt?" Another puzzled look.
Chris sighed. Apparently these people didn't use contractions. It was so difficult to express even the simplest thought; he found the effort exhausting. But he tried again: "Yet I did not save you, you saved me."
"Good squire, you are too humble," the boy replied. "I am in your debt for my very life, and it shall be my pleasure to see to your needs, once we are to the castle."
Chris said, "The castle?"
Cautiously, Kate and Marek moved out of the woods, heading toward the monastery. They saw no sign of the riders who had galloped down the trail. The scene was peaceful; directly ahead were the monastery's farm plots, demarcated by low stone walls. At the corner of one plot was a tall hexagonal monument, carved as ornately as the spire of a Gothic church.
"Is that a montjoie?" she said.
"Very good," Marek said. "Yes. It's a milestone, or a land marker. You see them all over."
They moved between the plots, heading toward the ten-foot-high wall that surrounded the entire monastery. The peasants in the field paid no attention to them. On the river, a barge drifted downstream, its cargo bundled in cloth. A boatman standing in the stern sang cheerfully.
Near the monastery wall were clustered the huts of the peasants who worked in the field. Beyond the huts he saw a small door in the wall. The monastery covered such a large area that it had doors on all four sides. This was not the main entrance, but Marek thought it would be better to try here first.
They were moving among the huts when he heard the snort of a horse and the soft reassuring voice of a groom. Marek held out his hand, stopping Kate.