The knights shifted aside for a retinue mounted on mules and dainty palfreys decked out in fine silver trappings and bright saddlecloths. Two guards in mail and red surcoats bearing the same falcon insignia as Sir Geoffrey and these other knights wore led the group. They were followed by a thin, elderly man in black cloak and tunic, a close-fitting cap of black tied over his skull and a cap worn upon that. His collar was made of fox fur, and he wore a heavy chain of office. His features were all bone and angle, the parchment-pale skin withered to nothing. His mouth was merely a slash set hard beneath a hooked nose. Jutting gray eyebrows concealed his eyes. He pretended to look only straight ahead, but Noel saw a glint of white as his eyes darted here and there.
Behind this official pranced a white Arabian mare that looked almost ghostly in the twilight. Her gliding stride made her seem to float above the ground. Pages dressed in particolored hose and red livery ran alongside the retinue with flaming torches borne aloft in their hands. The lady riding the white horse was too beautiful and too richly dressed to be anyone other than Sophia, destined bride of Lord Theodore.
She was very fair. Her skin glowed like milk and her eyes were as cobalt as the sky. A single curl of blond hair had escaped the headdress of pillbox hat and wimpled veil that concealed the rest of her hair, her ears, and her throat. She possessed a heart-shaped face with a hint of stubbornness at the chin. Sixteen, Lord Theodore had said, and she looked it. She wore a gown of dark green velvet. Her russet cloak flowed from her shoulders to spill across the horse’s rump. She rode with the graciousness of royalty, her posture erect and poised. Her gloved hands upon the reins were dainty, yet it was she who controlled her mare and not the varlet trotting beside her.
She was accompanied by five other women, all in rich dress. A servant walked at the rear, bearing a locked Bible box made of olive wood. A strip of purple wool embroidered with the lady’s coat of arms lay draped across it. Another servant carried a velvet pillow that presumably Lady Sophia had knelt upon during her devotionals. Two more guards brought up the end of this procession.
She was a prisoner too, thought Noel; despite all the pomp surrounding her, she remained a political pawn at the mercy of those who married her or controlled her dowry.
He stared at her because he could not help it. In turn, she gazed at him as the retinue slowed down to go past the knights. Her blue eyes took in his face and his bound hands; they widened. She seemed about to speak, then her rosy lips clamped firmly together, and she turned her face away.
They rode on in a jingling of bridle bells and the lingering aroma of incense pomanders.
Noel watched them until the shadows closed them from sight. Only then did he realize Sir Geoffrey was staring up at him closely, with the narrow gaze of a suspicious man.
“No greeting from your lady?” he said with his old mockery. “It would seem you have a cold night ahead of you, my lord.”
Noel had not the faintest notion whether Theodore and Sophia had ever laid eyes on each other before. Not all medieval couples were engaged by proxy. He said, “Men who have taken vows of chastity should not snoop in the romances of those who haven’t.”
The knights howled with laughter. Red-faced, Sir Geoffrey started to retort, but before he could do so a balding man in a beautifully cut tunic of crimson, a measuring tape dangling from his neck, ran up to seize Noel’s stirrup.
“My lord! Good news, my lord! I have finished your order and it is—”
Noticing Noel’s disheveled appearance and bound hands, he broke off, blinking rapidly. “I—I seem to be mistaken. I was certain you were—”
“Stand away!” commanded Sir John. “You, tailor! Stand away from our prisoner.”
The tailor bowed, his face pale with alarm. “Yes, indeed, gentle knights. Forgive me. I was mistaken. I—”
They rode on, leaving him standing in the street, wringing his hands and still bowing. Noel stared back at him, puzzled by the incident. The knights, however, immediately forgot him. They were still throwing jests at one another, distracting Sir Geoffrey’s attention as they made their way up the steep hillside. Noel kept his forearm pressed against his side for support, and tried not to shiver. Now that the sun was down, the temperature had dropped sharply. He felt faint with thirst and hunger. His head throbbed mercilessly. These puzzles hardly mattered in his general misery.
Elena grabbed his foot and squeezed hard. “Take care,” she whispered. “Theodore has visited Mistra and Lady Sophia at least twice before. It is rumored to be a love match with her.”
Noel’s spirits sank lower. That was all he needed. In a few minutes his dangerous game of pretense would be over. As soon as he entered the castle, Lady Sophia would give him away. Noel figured no one was going to be amused at the deception he’d practiced today. He didn’t want to lay odds on being drawn and quartered at dawn.
Halfway up the hill, the chaotic clusters of houses and shops perched on every available bit of building space stopped at the base of another wall. Guards admitted them through a set of gates, and they rode through another tunnel into the spacious palace complex. No cramped round donjon here; instead, a rectangular palace of three or four stories formed a great L with numerous small outbuildings and miniature wings spreading out from it in a clutter of barracks, kennels, stables, kitchens, storehouses, armory, and the like.
The thing that struck Noel first and most unpleasantly was the noise. The greatest racket of off-key singing voices, raucous laughter, women shrieking jests and catcalls, babies crying, children calling out with shrill voices, geese honking in offense, cart wheels clattering upon the cobblestones, the rhythmic clanging of hammer upon anvil, a fistfight going on in the stableyard with cheers of encouragement from the watching crowd, fighting cocks screaming challenges at each other, dogs barking in an eager chorus for their supper, the creaking groan of the well pulley, doors and gates opening and slamming, a shoat destined for the butcher’s knife squealing in its pen…in short, the normal bustle of castle life beat upon Noel’s hearing and intensified his headache.
Torchlight blazed everywhere, and upon the battlements sentries paced slow and steadily. At the corners they called out, “All’s well,” and paced back. In spite of all the activity, a crowd of onlookers, chiefly knights in surcoats and mail, gathered in the yard to watch a flogging.
When Noel was led up, the flogging had obviously been going on for some time. The man being punished was tied by the wrists and ankles to iron rings set in two massive square posts. He was bare to the waist, and his back was a bloody mess of raw welts. If he had not already lost consciousness, he was close to it. He sagged limply, held up only by his bonds. The whip whistled through the air and cracked across his back. He jerked and screamed aloud.
“Thirty-nine!” shouted the crowd in unison.
Many of them held huge tankards; their faces were shiny from sweat, excitement, and the effects of the ale. They slapped each other on the shoulder as though the gruesome spectacle they witnessed was a fine thing indeed, and called out encouragement to the man executing the punishment.
Elena squeezed Noel’s foot, although this time it was plainly unintentional. She stared at the man, her face rapt, her eyes sparkling with the full gamut of her emotions. Just looking at her in that unguarded moment, with all her youth and vitality ablaze in the first headlong rush of infatuation, made Noel feel a hundred years old. He remembered his own first love, how unequal it was, how blissful at first, how humiliating at the end. He wanted to take Elena by the shoulders and shake some sense into her, but he knew she’d never listen. She couldn’t.
The whip struck again. “Forty!” shouted the knights.
It had to be Sir Magnin who was wielding the whip. Noel studied him while he had the chance.
Sir Magnin Phrangopoulos loomed at least a head taller than every other man present. Stripped to the waist, with only his hose on, a servant standing nearby with his shirt and tunic, Sir Magnin was magnificently proportioned with a tapering wais
t ridged and corrugated with hard muscle, a deep chest, broad shoulders, and a set of biceps that bulged and rippled effortlessly beneath skin like bronzed satin. The veins stood up all over him like taut horseflesh. With every crack of the whip, he put his full strength behind the blow, yet displayed a grace of form that made the other men around him appear to be clumsy, lumbering oafs.
His face was wide and sensual, with a large nose, full lips, and a deep cleft in his chin. His eyebrows were black and straight, slashing across his face above eyes like gleaming obsidian. He wore his ebony hair long. It swung chin-length in a straight bob. Heavy bangs fell across his brow in a style more Renaissance than medieval.
“Forty-three!”
He grinned, revealing large white teeth, and swung twice more in swift succession, giving the prisoner insufficient time between the two blows to catch enough breath to scream again. Then it was done. Coiling the bloody whip, Sir Magnin tossed it at a nearby varlet and swept the perspiration from his face with both hands.
“Take him down,” he said. His voice was deep and rich. It flowed with confidence.
Why not? thought Noel. He’d just captured this castle and the province it represented for his own.
Sir Geoffrey stepped forward. “I have brought the prisoner, my liege.”
Sir Magnin whirled like a dancer, panther quick, and regarded Sir Geoffrey with his intense black eyes. Beside Noel, Elena trembled visibly, still enrapt. She was panting as though she had run down the mountain. Noel put his pity aside. She was as vital and as physical as Sir Magnin. It was inevitable she be attracted to him.
Sir Magnin’s gaze shifted to Noel, who promptly forgot all about Elena and her fantasies. He was taken down from the horse. The ground tilted beneath him enough to make him stagger. He dragged in a swift breath to keep himself quiet.
“What ails him?” demanded Sir Magnin, striding forward. He grasped Noel’s chin with powerful fingers still slick with sweat and blood, and forced Noel to look at him. A varlet scurried forward with a torch. Sir Magnin’s eyes flew wide. He stared at Noel as though looking upon an apparition.
“What trickery is this?” he whispered.
Noel’s blood ran cold. So this was the end of his game. He imagined himself trussed to those posts and the whip whistling against his back.
“You look exactly like—” Sir Magnin cut himself short and frowned, his eyes boring into Noel as though to pry the deepest secrets from him. “Hmm,” he said at last. “No, I think not. Not quite, yet this is most peculiar.”
“What is it?” said Sir Geoffrey in bewilderment. “Do you say this is not Lord Theodore? The Byzantines did their best to conceal him by putting him in this coarse garb. Another even pretended to be him for a time. But we figured out the ruse. He carries the seal of office—”
“Does he?” Sir Magnin smiled, his good humor restored as though he had drawn on gloves to mask his claws. “Harlan, regard him and tell me if you are not astonished at the likeness.”
The elderly man in clerical black, the one who had ridden ahead of Lady Sophia a short time ago, shuffled forward with his chain of office gleaming across his chest. He put his skull-like face in Noel’s and peered at him. He reeked of camphor and pennywort.
“Indeed, it is most uncommon.”
“Look,” said Noel rather desperately as their faces began to spin around him. “This is the second time I have been mistaken for someone else. I don’t—”
“Injured,” said Sir Magnin. His gaze stabbed to Sir Geoffrey. “How? In last night’s battle?”
“No,” said Sir Geoffrey and explained in a low voice.
Sir Magnin’s laugh rang out across the courtyard. “Jumped his mule into the ravine, by hell and divinity! Did you think God would let you fly, Lord Theodore? Ho, I have not heard such a jest in weeks! You must have more courage than good sense, my lord. Is it true, what he says?”
Noel managed to pull himself together. “Yes, it is true,” he said quietly.
Sir Magnin’s wide mouth spread in a grin that sent a chill coursing through Noel. There was a rapaciousness to his expression, a ruthlessness radiating from him, even in laughter, that betrayed what manner of man he was beneath the finery and the good looks. Noel did not want to be this man’s enemy.
“I like the sound of this,” said Sir Magnin. “So you are a brave and clever man, are you? I will hear this tale. But not here and now. Get him cleaned up, Sir Geoffrey. We are not uncivilized. We can afford to be gracious to those whom we have defeated. Bring him to my table tonight.”
Sir Geoffrey bowed. “As you command.”
“Harlan, make certain my little shadow hears of this,” said Sir Magnin with a smirk Noel did not trust. “I want him at my side in a small audience with Lord Theodore before we dine. Oh, and Lady Sophia may be present also.”
The official bowed reverently. “It shall be done, my lord.”
“Good.” Sir Magnin gazed into Noel’s eyes, his own brimming with amusement. He burst out laughing again and walked away, shaking his head at the servant who tried to offer him his tunic.
Noel stared after him, and Elena came to his side.
“I must speak to him,” she said in a low, frustrated voice. “You, Sir Geoffrey, you did not even give me introduction—”
“Why should I?” said Sir Geoffrey irritably. “Something is afoot. What trick have the two of you invented?” His eyes swept from Noel’s face to Elena’s. “I swear to God, if you have led me false—”
“If we have led you false,” broke in Noel, tired and more worried than he wanted to admit, “it’s him we’ll have to fear, not you.”
Sir Geoffrey ignored him and turned to the old man. “Lord Harlan, what amused him so? What is amiss?”
The official bared the few rotten teeth remaining in his mouth. “I am not at liberty to say, sir knight. Go and do as you have been commanded. When our guest is presentable, see that he is brought to the small antechamber behind the audience hall.”
Cutting Noel a sly look, the official placed his clawlike hands importantly upon his chain and shuffled away.
Chapter 7
Noel went to sleep in his bath and nearly drowned.
Attendants jerked him out by his hair and pummeled him until, gasping and sputtering, he coughed up the water he’d inhaled. The tub was made of wood and large enough for several people to bathe in together. The water looked reasonably clean, and a blushing little maid in a headdress and saffron gown had scented the water with an aromatic mixture of herbs that she crushed with a marble mortar and pestle. She also added the juice of lemons and heated, fragrant oils. The steam soothed Noel’s senses, and the warm water was heaven on his bruises.
When he’d been dried off, massaged, and had his ribs bound tightly, Noel put on hose of scarlet, shoes too short, and a scratchy tunic of blue that bore someone’s coat of arms. A brazier fire kept the small stone room warm. Torchlight blackened the walls from iron sconces bolted into the stone, and cast a ruddy, flickering light over everything. His attendants did not talk, and their grim faces made him as uneasy as did the royal treatment he was receiving.
He kept thinking of Sir Magnin’s laughter. It had been the wrong reaction. He knew he’d been found out, but he wasn’t sure how. Nor did be understand why Sir Magnin was toying with him in this way.
The gold seal of office, naturally, had been scooped away by a servant as soon as his clothes were stripped off. His money and dagger were long since gone. All he had left was his LOC, and when the maid tried to take the copper bracelet from his wrist, she had received a slight electrical shock that obviously puzzled her but convinced her to leave it alone.
“Food, my lord?” she said softly. She clapped her hands, and a page entered with a laden tray. The maid directed him to place it on the wooden clothes chest, and while she busied herself pouring wine into a metal goblet, the other attendants filed silently out.
Noel took the cup with caution, half expecting the sour bite of retsina, but it w
as a full-flavored bordeaux, as fine as anything he had ever tasted.
“French wine!” he said in surprise. “Excellent!”
She bowed, a smile curling her tender lips. “Of course, my lord. We are civilized here in Mistra. The cellars hold the finest in French and Italian wines.”
He drank deeply and let her refill his cup, then watched as she removed covers from dishes and set about seasoning them with herbs shaken out from small bottles sealed with cork stoppers. Oregano, basil, rosemary, cinnamon, a meager pinch of salt, and the juice of lemon were combined with dishes of steaming food. Noel’s mouth watered. It was all he could do not to snatch a platter for himself and dig in.
There was something about time travel that burned excessive amounts of calories. Noel always found himself ravenous when he reached his destination. Today there had been no chance to eat. Now, rested and feeling better, his headache nearly gone, he could barely keep himself in his chair.
She drew out a tiny box carved from streaked olive wood and shook it so that the contents rattled. “Peppercorns. Do you care for ground pepper, my lord?”
“Yes,” he said and bit off the urge to tell her to hurry.
She served him rice first, a pilaf flavored with tomato and cinnamon. Next came flaky, tender fish, grilled and delicious.
He wolfed his way through roasted goat, served with chunks of onion, pepper, and eggplant. At the finish were flat cakes coated with honey and filled with raisins, a precursor of sorts, he supposed, to baklava. When she brought forth a bowl of figs, dates, tiny yellow plums, and oranges, Noel had to stop. He was too full to continue.
She poured him more wine, although his head was beginning to spin.
“It was a delicious feast,” he said, growing sleepy again. “You are called…?”
“My name is unimportant,” she said, blushing. “And it is customary to serve a feast to a man who—” She broke off, and her dark eyes grew troubled.
Noel felt a coldness stab him deep beneath the well-being brought on by the bath, food, and wine. “—who is condemned?” he finished for her.
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