“It were the dark,” said Thaddeus, rolling his eyes soulfully and putting a whine into his voice. “What if their souls had still been lurking about? It be poor luck to rob dead men in the dark, Elena. What if they’d took our spirits with them to hell?”
“Hell is where you belong, all right,” said Elena without softening her tone. “I might have known you would sit about and scare yourselves without someone to watch you. And what about this one? Did I not tell you to make sure they were dead before you searched—”
“We poked him!” said Thaddeus indignantly.
George wasn’t making excuses. His gaze remained on Noel, who was keeping a wary distance and wondering how he could edge away without being noticed.
“He be slippin’ off,” said George.
Elena’s head came up alertly. She stepped toward Noel with the grace of a gazelle and jumped atop a small boulder to give herself an advantage over him. Pointing an arrow at Noel, she said, “Hold your place, you shivering Byzantine dog, until we give you leave otherwise.”
At least his translator implant was working perfectly. It deciphered every word of her medieval French, despite the Greek accent with which she spoke.
He rubbed his finger across a small depression on his bracelet. Yes, the LOC was recording everything, exactly like it should be.
His strongest impression of her was…legs. Slender, firm, curvaceous legs encased in dark green hose went up and up. She stood with them braced apart, boylike, her hands upon her hips. Her shoes were made of cloth, also green, and the tops flared from her slim ankles in a decidedly sexy style. A wide-sleeved shirt of linen belted at the waist and coming down to midthigh covered the rest of her. The drape of it over her breasts, which were as round and firm as apples, left him in no doubt that she wore nothing beneath it. Her low-slung belt supported a knife and a quiver full of arrows. She had hair that was a rich, lustrous auburn, curly and wild, flowing down her back in an uncombed, unbound mane to her waist. Her face looked like something from an old Byzantine portrait, oval with flat cheekbones and a narrow nose. Her lips were full, voluptuous, ripe with promise. Her eyes had a faint slant, like a cat’s. At this distance he could not tell their color, but her skin had the delicate ivory tint of an old cameo.
Gazing at her, Noel almost forgot to breathe. She was gorgeous, feline, untamed. Confused, he cast his mind through dim, preconceived ideas of medieval women: cloistered, draped in narrow gowns to their ankles, locked away in towers.
Elena, however, made him think of Diana, goddess of the hunt. In his mind he re-clothed her according to the style of the ancient Greeks: a softly draped chiton in purest white, bow arm and right breast bare, standing in a chariot drawn by prancing stallions…
Only right now, she was hunting him. He’d better keep his mind on saving himself.
“Look,” he said, spreading out his hands to indicate peaceful intent. With practiced skill he fed his thoughts through his translator implant and spoke the words as they were supplied back to him. “I’m a—a pilgrim, a traveler. I’m on my way to Constantinople, and I—”
She spat at him. “Liar! I know your Byzantine tricks. You will say anything, do anything to save your pathetic skin. Last night we showed you that we want none of you here!”
“I had no part in the battle—”
“Why not? Did you scuttle for cover at the first charge?” she asked with scorn that was like the rake of fingernails. “Are you a pilgrim, or perhaps a scribe following at Lord Theodore’s heels like a trained dog to write his letters for him?”
Thaddeus barked and howled, throwing himself upon the ground and rolling about.
Hot-cheeked, Noel made no answer. She was dangerous in this mood. The wrong word from him could send an arrow flying to his chest. If he was going to get out of this situation, he’d better make them understand that he was no part of what happened last night.
“This…Theodore you mention,” he said carefully, “is a stranger to me. I am a traveler alone. I—”
“No one is stupid enough to come through our mountains alone,” she said with a harsh laugh. “Have you not heard of the Milengi? Do you not fear us?”
He didn’t answer. He’d never heard of the Milengi. Right now his fingers were itching to access the memory store of his LOC and get some answers, but he had to wait.
“The whole Peloponnese fears our tribe!” she boasted. “And Taygetus is ours. You cannot travel here without our permission.”
“Then I beg your pardon,” said Noel, although it was hard to force the apology from his mouth. Own the whole mountain range indeed. “How do I get permission? It’s important that I reach—”
“Silence! We are not stupid. We cannot be fooled by such an obvious lie.”
“I’m not lying!” he shouted back. “George tells me I’m a good month’s journey off my destination. So I’m lost. That’s all. I got caught in last night’s mess by accident. I am alone.”
She studied him a moment, and the contempt deepened in her gaze. “You are not only a liar, but a coward as well. And this is the kind of man that is sent to rule over us. Hah! You are as pathetic as your master. If you think you can mew about being lost and have us believe that, you must think again, Byzantine. You will be taken to our camp, where you will join your wretched companions. What will they think about your attempt to desert them, eh?”
Snapping her fingers, she said, “George, Thaddeus, quickly!”
Alarmed, Noel spun around to face the dwarves who came at his back. Thaddeus swung at him with his dagger. Noel feinted, engaging with a swiftness that struck sparks between the two blades, and sent the dwarf’s weapon spinning through the air. It was a trick Noel had learned from a seasoned Roman centurion on one of his past travels. He swung to deal with George, but from behind him Elena snatched a cloak off the nearest corpse and flung it over Noel’s head. Blinded by the garment, Noel struggled to yank it off, but before he could succeed, she pinned his arms in a bear hug. She was stronger than she looked. Cursing himself for letting her get behind him, Noel thrust his foot behind Elena’s and nearly succeeded in tripping the girl, who was shouting for the dwarves to help her.
Noel whipped around, throwing Elena off balance. He broke her grip and freed one arm. Twisting sharply, he shoved her away from him and was pulling the cloak off his head when she kicked him hard in the groin.
The resultant pain was like an explosion. Choking, he doubled over and they swarmed him. While he wheezed, struggling to regain his strength, his three opponents succeeded in binding a cord about his arms and chest, leaving him semi-helpless and completely blind in the suffocating folds of his cloak.
“Now,” said Elena breathlessly, her voice hard with determination. “We take him to camp and put him with the rest of the Byzantine dogs.”
“No,” said Noel furiously, his voice muffled within the cloak. The smell of old sweat and blood nearly choked him. “Please, you must listen to me. My uncle is a cloth merchant, a dyer. He sent me here in search of alum.”
“Get him moving,” said Elena, not listening. “We have a long walk ahead of us.”
“Look, you don’t understand,” said Noel in rising desperation. “I don’t belong—”
Something narrow and hard walloped him across the ribs, and he yelped. Once the agony stopped pulsing through him, and he could catch his breath again, he suspected she had hit him with her bow. His temper burned, but even as he spun clumsily around, blinded and disoriented beneath the cloak, he had no way to express it, no way to reach her. And a cautious corner of his brain warned him that she might kick him again if he tried anything. The lady played dirty.
Jeering, the dwarves spun him around and around until he staggered with dizziness.
“You will be quiet,” said Elena, “and you will give us no trouble. One quick push and you break your neck falling down the mountain. Understand?”
He was an observer, not a participant. He had no part in the events happening here. He could not affo
rd to tamper with history, not in the slightest way. But he vowed that as soon as his hands were free he was going to put them around this little amazon’s pretty neck.
“Do you understand?” she repeated.
“Go to hell.”
“He understands,” said George.
The dwarves laughed merrily, and Elena laughed with them.
“Move him along,” she said. “When Sir Magnin comes, we can tell him that not one whoreson got away.”
She sounded far too pleased with herself. Caught by a woman and two dwarves as easily as a greenhorn, thought Noel. Not only was his pride and body bruised, but he’d already flunked his training in how to avoid capture, arrest, and seizure.
Training class, he thought in exasperation, didn’t cover female Greek bandits.
Chapter 3
By the time they reached the camp hidden somewhere upon the craggy sides of Mt. Taygetus, Noel was winded, hot, and furious. His muscles ached from tension, for walking blind over rough terrain made him irrationally certain that each step was going to send him plunging over a precipice to his death.
The dwarves flanked him on either side. George tapped him or tugged at the hem of his tunic to give him guidance signals. Thaddeus’s signals were all painful pinches on his thigh. Noel vowed that as soon as he got free of his bonds he was going to kick Thaddeus off the mountain.
The rocks and bracken left him bruised and scratched. Soon he was limping on his bare foot. How, he wondered desperately, had he managed to lose one sandal in the time stream?
And what the hell did it matter, considering the trouble he now found himself in? He had to get away from these people and consult his LOC’s data banks. His observations so far told him he was somewhere between the eleventh and fourteenth centuries. But three hundred years of latitude wasn’t precise enough. He must know exactly when he was so he could reprogram the LOC for an emergency return.
A sour bubble of fear rose to his mouth. He thought of going back through the anomaly that had cast him here, of experiencing that agony, that terrible void, and he broke out into a cold sweat.
There had been too many tests for him to believe the equipment at fault. That made Tchielskov’s absence suddenly suspicious, although Noel hated to believe the old man capable of treachery.
But if it was sabotage and his destination had been deliberately altered, would his return capability have been tampered with also?
The thoughts raced through his mind until they half maddened him. He forced himself to calm down, to not panic yet. He had to remain stable and listen to his trained instincts. He had to wait, putting up with being a prisoner, until the moment for escape was right.
In the meantime, not being able to see through the tight weave of his cloak left him disoriented and edgy. Sounds were muffled too. He tried to walk normally, but he found that he tended to lift his feet higher, in shorter steps, groping his way although George kept a running commentary on what obstacles were ahead of him. With his arms bound to his sides, he fell off balance and clumsy.
Thaddeus pinched him hard. “Rock ahead,” he said.
Noel flinched from the pain, and his temper got away from him. He whirled on the dwarf, yelling, “You damned little twerp! Leave my backside alone!” and kicked out blindly.
His foot connected with Thaddeus. Noel heard a grunt and a yell of fright accompanied by a crackling of crushed weeds as the dwarf went tumbling. George’s laughter rang out through the crisp air.
“Quiet! All of you!” commanded Elena from ahead of them.
Her footsteps came rustling back through the weeds and loose shale.
Noel sensed her presence as much as heard the whistling swing of her bow. He dodged blindly, and managed to escape the worst force of the blow. Still, it hurt enough to make him swear.
“Stand still, you!” said Elena. “George, stop that noise and go after your brother.”
Thaddeus moaned from somewhere to Noel’s left. “Kicked me, just like a mule. Broke me leg.”
“Be what ye deserved,” said George without a trace of sympathy. “Get up. Ye ain’t hurt.”
“I could have been. It’s sore bruised. Could be broke.”
There came the sound of a thud, and Thaddeus’s quick yelp.
“I’ll give ye broke. Get on with ye!” said George.
They came scrambling and panting through the scrub. Noel considered making a break for it, but Elena’s hand closed upon his shoulder. “Don’t do that again,” she said in a low voice.
“I’ll do it every time I’m provoked,” said Noel hotly. “Tell him to keep his damned hands to himself.”
Elena drew in a quick breath as though exasperated. “What do you expect? The rules of chivalry? We have our own laws and our own ways. We do not need the iron heel of Byzantium on our necks.”
“Forget the political rhetoric,” said Noel. “I’m talking about treating your prisoners decently—”
“Just havin’ a bit of fun, was all,” said Thaddeus. “And ye bein’ our prisoner means we can do as we like with ye.”
“Bring him on,” said Elena. “And you, alum trader, if you try anything else we’ll slit your throat and leave you here to feed the vultures. We have enough prisoners taken already.”
Noel swallowed his anger and kept silent after that. To discover that the people of this age were just as selfish, backward, petty, and vicious as any other era, including his own, was hardly surprising, but disappointing just the same. He remembered that Trojan had said once that chivalry was more often sung about in troubadour ballads than practiced by knights.
Thinking about Trojan brought a rush of homesickness that he’d never encountered before in all his years of traveling. Then he caught himself up sharply, angry at his wallow in self-pity. He hoped with all his heart that Trojan’s journey to the muddy battlefield of Agincourt had been a safe one. He hoped that none of his fellow historians had fallen into a trap like his.
Noise ahead drew him from his reflections. He lifted his head, straining to decipher the sounds of goats and horses, people talking, bursts of low laughter, moans of pain, the clank and rattle of activity.
“Hold him here,” said Elena and went on.
Noel stood in place, pretending a docility he was far from feeling. To his left at a distance ran a rushing burble of water.
Noel swallowed with difficulty, longing to slake his thirst in the stream. Mingled with the scents of fresh goat and horse droppings, he could smell woodsmoke and the aroma of cake and roasted meat. His stomach growled loudly. He felt hollow enough to eat a five-pound steak with all the trimmings.
“Yani! Demetrius!” Elena’s voice was bugle clear. “Look what I have brought you.”
Noel strained to listen to the murmur of two voices, purposely kept low although Elena’s excited words ran like a mountain stream over the other’s. Then the second voice lifted, revealing a man’s deep tones: “Cut him free, and let us see him.”
A knife cut the cord binding Noel’s arms. He swept off the suffocating cloak in a fury, ruffling his hair, and felt the cool kiss of fresh air with relief. At first the bright sunlight dazzled his eyes. He squinted, putting a hand across them in protection.
By the time his vision adjusted, Elena had walked back within a few feet of him. Beside her stood a man with a bullish neck and shoulders, muscles bulging even in his wide jaws. He towered over Elena. The red cast to his hair and a certain similarity around the eyes spoke of their family resemblance.
Too young to be her father, Noel thought. Uncle perhaps? Or older brother?
Although Demetrius wore hose over legs like tree trunks and short, ankle-high boots, his long, sleeveless jerkin was fashioned from a wolf pelt with the fur still attached to the hide. Its leather lacings strained across his broad chest with every breath he drew.
He was chewing on a haunch of what smelled like roasted goat. Every time he bit off a hunk, hot juices sizzled through the meat. Noel found his gaze locked on the man’s greasy mou
th, watching the powerful jaws grind methodically. He swallowed, longing for food, imagining its taste in his own mouth.
“Well?” said Elena impatiently. The breeze blew her hair across her face, and she tossed it back. “Have you nothing to say, brother?”
Demetrius drew the back of his hand across his mouth and tossed the bone to a mongrel dog cringing nearby with its tail tucked low. It snarled and snapped at the prize. Immediately two other dogs appeared. They fought viciously over the food until Demetrius uncoiled a whip from his belt and cracked it at them.
“Get out!” he shouted.
One hound snatched the bone and dashed away. The others slunk after it.
Demetrius’s gaze came back to Noel. His eyes narrowed. “He’s no soldier, no courtier.”
“But he is Byzantine,” she said in frustration. “We caught him and brought him in. Otherwise he’d have gone to Maina or even to Monemvasia and sounded the alarm. That is worth something, is it not?”
Belching, Demetrius ignored her; his gaze remained fastened on Noel although his mind seemed elsewhere. “Long run over to the coast. Not much to worry about from a skinny stranger like this. Should have slit his throat rather than bring him here.”
Fresh alarm touched Noel. These people were all too casual about slitting throats. He took a step forward. “Just a—”
George whipped a dagger point to Noel’s stomach. Without a word, he shook his head once. His eyes, weary, a touch cynical, and very serious, stared up into Noel’s from his craggy, ill-proportioned face.
“Don’t need another mouth,” said Demetrius. “Too many to feed now. Dogs hungry.”
“But—”
“Enough, Elena,” he said sharply. “Bring anything for the treasury?”
She glared at him. “I dislike robbing corpses!”
“No different than robbing the wounded.”
“Oh, you are hopeless,” she said, walking back and forth with her hands on her hips. She kicked at a pebble. “Where is Sir Magnin? Has any word come yet about how he fared with the castle?”
Demetrius gave her a slow, sly grin. “Sir Magnin, eh? You talked us into this all because of your precious Sir Magnin?” He gripped her arm. “What if he doesn’t take the castle, eh? What if he dies with an arrow in his throat?”
Time Trap Page 4
