“Unhand me! I will not discuss it further.”
He released her, and she stumbled back. When she turned from him and headed down the gully, Theodore went after her. He caught her from behind and spun her around. “It is only for your own protection, Sophia,” he began. “You are—”
“No!” She swung at him, sobbing, but Theodore restrained her easily. With his arm around her, he glanced back at Noel and gestured for him to follow. Sophia wrenched away and walked on alone.
Aghast at the harsh one-sidedness of conjugal laws and rights, Noel joined the prince and shook his head glumly. “I thought you had more tact than that,” he muttered.
“The lady is mortal spoiled,” said Theodore coolly. “Sixteen and not married, that is what ails her. Worse, her father gave her too much independence. She expects to speak up and be listened to the same as a man.”
“Why shouldn’t she?”
Theodore scowled. “When I was a stripling and had not yet earned my spurs, I remember my sister being wed and bedded on her thirteenth birthday.”
“That’s too young where I come from.”
“Verily? Let them go longer, my father used to say, and they are hard to train into an agreeable wife.” Theodore sighed and plucked a leaf off a tree. “God’s wounds, but I have been patient beyond what any man should have to endure. Her father bade me wait a year when I first sought her hand, and the emperor bade me wait another while I attended his court. And now see what we have come to. Were she my wife, the law would protect her as my widow. But as an heiress, she is so vulnerable—”
“I think she loves you a lot,” said Noel carefully.
Theodore looked ahead at Sophia’s stiff back, and his gaze softened.
“I think she’s angry because she’s scared.”
Theodore did not reply. As they walked down the road to Sir Olin’s castle, Noel watched Sophia wipe her tears dry. Her face grew set and cold and about ten years older.
“Aren’t you going to talk to her?” asked Noel in concern. “You know, end this quarrel?”
“To what purpose?” asked Theodore haughtily, his eyebrows raised. “She is a spoiled child, who wants only the moonlight and none of the reality. I shall not change my stance on this matter.”
Noel whistled silently. “Hell hath no fury like a woman dumped,” he muttered.
“What say you?” asked Theodore.
“Nothing.”
“Why do you talk to yourself so much? I fear for your reason at times.”
“I said it’s nothing. Forget it.”
Theodore stared at him. “I know this look upon your face. You are troubled. Do you believe she will overset our plans? Fear not. She will recover her temper soon. Besides, what harm can she do?”
Noel frowned. He wasn’t sure, but Sophia was not the sort of girl to sit by tamely with her hands folded.
“You’d better win,” was all Noel said, however. “You’d better win.”
Theodore smiled, his blue eyes serene with confidence.
“Doubt me not. I shall not lose her to Magnin, for all my practical talk. He may be champion of the province, but I won three jousts at the emperor’s court last year. Now tell me, Noel. Will you wager on a provincial baron or on a prince?”
Reluctantly Noel returned his smile, not wanting to jinx the outcome by getting cocky too early. “My wager is already laid,” he said.
Theodore laughed. “So it is.”
Chapter 13
Mistra made merry with fairgoers and revelry the night before the tournament. Red and white pennons fluttered over the steep, narrow streets. Faces peered down from garden walls, pointing and calling out at the processionals winding past with Sir Magnin’s effigy atop a cart festooned with flowers and richly embroidered cloths. A varlet in livery beat upon a huge drum, and people streamed into the church where the competing knights had left their helmets on display. Ladies laughingly pointed out the helmets of those who had offended them in the past year, and those knights were struck from competition until they had righted the wrong. Comfits and sweetmeats were offered for sale at every corner. Peddlers sold strings of amber beads to blushing maidens hanging upon the arms of their stalwart swains.
Sir Magnin had opened his purse in lavish offerings of food and entertainment to win the townspeople to his side.
Great feasting tables groaning with generosity filled the town square, and upon a crudely built stage a company of mummers performed busily to the delight of the crowd.
From the looks of the wine-flushed, happy faces that Noel saw as he rode through the crowded streets, Sir Magnin’s plan was succeeding. Besides, thought Noel cynically, the man could always make back his expenditures later by raising taxes.
“Will you never lose your sour looks?” asked Frederick.
The boy rode beside him on a massive brown destrier that pranced and snorted with excitement. Beneath his cap with its jaunty feather, Frederick’s face was alight. His eyes darted, and his head swiveled back and forth constantly.
“Mistra is a wondrous place,” he said. “I have heard about it all my life, and now to see it…Noel! Look! Did you ever see so many people? Is that the palace over there? They say it took a thousand men to build it. Do you think that is true? How far is it to the ramparts at the top of the hill? Look! A pie seller. Let us buy our dinner. I am fair famished. Are you?”
“We should make our camp first and settle the horses,” said Noel, keeping a sharp watch around him. He had long since given up trying to answer Frederick’s constant barrage of questions. “Then we can explore the town.”
Frederick turned around in the saddle to look behind him.
“I vow I saw a fortune-teller back there.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Should I have my fortune told?” asked Frederick. “Father Thomas says it is wicked to seek to know God’s plan ahead of time, but I think we should be prepared for what may happen on the morrow. Since it is so important, I mean.”
Despite the fact that his nerves were stretched taut, Noel had to smile at the boy’s eager naiveté. “Save your pennies, Frederick. Tomorrow will be here soon enough. It’s Sir Magnin who should be consulting his horoscope tonight, not us.”
“Even so—”
“No, Frederick,” said Noel sharply. “We’ve enough trouble on our plate without getting in the clutches of gypsies and charlatans.”
Frederick glared at him, looking sulky and mutinous. “You need not speak to me as though I am your dog, monsieur.”
Noel closed his eyes a moment and counted to three. Blowing out a breath, he forced himself to adopt a conciliatory tone. “Sorry. I don’t mean to yell at you, but if I’m recognized here it’s—”
“You need not worry,” said Frederick. “I am keeping sharp watch for Sir Geoffrey although there is no sign of his self-righteous face yet. Perhaps he’s too pious to leave his prie-dieu at night and come down to the fair among the common folk.”
In the face of the boy’s ready optimism it seemed pointless to remind Frederick that Sir Geoffrey was not the only enemy.
Leon walked these streets as well. Noel couldn’t tell if he actually sensed his duplicate’s nearness or if it was just his imagination working overtime. But he dreaded meeting his twin again with an intensity that increased with every forward step of his horse.
Torches set on tall poles or in sconces bolted to the walls of houses kept the labyrinth of streets lit with a ruddy, surrealistic glow. Figures streamed from shadow into the irregular pools of light, only to vanish again. Faces, concealed by hoods and mail coifs, were only shadowed blurs. The pageant of heraldry, men and women in festive garments, jewels glittering from collar chains and fingers, silver trappings on horse bridles, the constant jingle of spurs, the mingled stench of horses, gutter dung, and pomanders filled Noel’s senses. In other circumstances he would have drunk it all in like wine.
At the moment, however, he felt detached and far away as though he floated throug
h their midst without substance. The old worry surged back, filling his throat, and he clamped his free hand over his bracelet to calm himself. He badly needed to consult his LOC for reassurance. With only twenty-four hours remaining until his time ran out, he still didn’t know whether he could set everything right. Even if he succeeded, he wasn’t certain the safety-chain feature would work. Only one traveler had ever experienced it.
Tolence O’Brien had been observing the Battle of Waterloo and making splendid recordings of the event when he was struck by a stray cannonball. Delirious in a field hospital, the screams of wounded men around him, filthy overworked doctors who had no awareness of germs or how infections were spread bleeding him regularly, Tolence had crawled from his filthy cot and searched the jumble of personal effects in the surgeon’s desk until he found his LOC. The safety chain had snapped him home as soon as he held his LOC in his hand.
He later described the experience as madness, as being jerked backward through a tunnel where everything else hurtled in the opposite direction. When he returned in one piece, intact, and finished his debriefing, Tolence O’Brien resigned.
“Wise man,” muttered Noel aloud. “But it couldn’t be worse than how I got here.”
“You said something?” asked Frederick.
Noel shook his head. He had to stop talking to himself, or the d’Angeliers were going to think he was nuts.
Although the tournament field had been set up across the river in the valley, the competitors pitched their tents within the secure walls of Mistra. To Noel, it felt more like a trap than a place of safety. He and Frederick followed another knight’s entourage along a short lane to a rocky space where tents stood precariously upon every available foothold.
Frederick nudged Noel in the ribs. “We shall sleep vertically tonight.”
Noel could not bring himself to smile at the joke. “Looks that way.”
He glanced ahead, where a guard in Sir Magnin’s livery was questioning the knight in line before them. The handful of d’Angelier knights behind Noel fidgeted and talked among themselves. They were along to spread word among the competitors that Lord Theodore was free. Tired mounts pawed restlessly, eager to be stabled for the night and fed.
The dread in Noel resurfaced. He glanced around, wondering if he dared slip off between the walls of the last house and the tent enclosure.
A squire walked by, water pails sloshing from each hand. He was puffing audibly. The guard did not even glance at him.
That’s it, thought Noel. Carry a bucket and you can go anywhere.
He shifted in his saddle, loosening his right foot in the stirrup so he could swing down. His muscles—unused after seven months’ layoff to spending long hours in the saddle—protested with enough soreness to make him wince.
“Ride on!” said the guard.
The entourage of destriers and baggage mules ahead moved on, and Noel’s chance to slip away went with them.
“Damn,” he breathed. His fingers tightened on the reins, and his horse tossed its head restively.
“Do not fear,” said Frederick as they approached the guard. “Father coached me in what to say.”
Noel felt no reassurance. He pulled his cloak hood forward to cast his face in shadow and halted his mount where the guard’s torchlight came no farther than his hands and forearms.
“I am Frederick d’Angelier. With me are knights under fealty oath to my father’s service, their horses, and servants. We come ahead of my father, Sir Olin, who will arrive tomorrow for the competition.”
The guard said something to a scrawny boy in a herald’s tabard. The herald consulted a list on parchment and made several rapid notations. Noel watched without blinking until his eyes felt on fire. He dared not breathe.
The guard laughed. “Your father is getting too old for jousting. Why don’t you take his place in the lists and give the crowd a better spectacle?”
“I—”
“Ride on!” said the guard and slapped the flank of Noel’s mount to jolt it forward. “Go to the left and set your camp there.” He pointed vaguely at the darkness.
The d’Angelier train trotted into the tent enclosure, where all was purposeful bustle as knights and their squires made ready for tomorrow’s contest.
“Impudent lackey,” said Frederick, fuming. “As soon as I receive my spurs, I shall represent my family, but Father is not too old. He could outride that—”
“Easy,” said Noel, aware of the silence falling ahead of them like a carpet unrolling. Squires looked up from polishing weapons. Grooms paused in brushing horses. Knights in long surcoats who stood in companionable clusters glanced up, and those at the chessboard stopped their play. Noel’s instincts went on alert.
“I don’t like this,” he said softly.
Frederick’s eyes were wide, but he kept his head high. His hand went to the hilt of his sword. “If they want trouble, I vow they will have it.”
“Keep your head,” said Noel harshly. He glanced back at the other knights and saw they were looking somber and watchful.
“D’Angelier,” called a man in a blue surcoat embellished with brown chevrons, “you travel light this year. Is that your sorcerer with you?”
A sense of cold dismay crawled straight to Noel’s bones. He shot a grim look in Frederick’s direction and saw anger and worry mingled in the boy’s expression. Noel swallowed. During the council of war in Sir Olin’s chambers, they had argued over whether Frederick could handle this situation. Sir Olin and Noel had said yes, and Lord Theodore had said no. At the moment it looked like Theodore might be proven right.
“I keep no sorcerer for a pet, Mathieu Phrangopoulos,” said Frederick. His voice rang out too loudly perhaps and held a hint of a quaver, but it was stronger than Noel expected. “I trust in God, rather than my horoscope.”
Some of the onlookers chuckled, and the tension loosened noticeably. Noel realized Frederick referred to an inside joke at this knight’s expense. It was gutsy of the kid. Noel smiled to himself.
“No,” said Sir Mathieu, swaggering forward. He was a thin whippet of a man, bearded, with intense dark eyes. “Talk says that your father has fallen under a spell. He does not travel with you tonight, boy. Is Sir Olin indisposed?”
“He is well,” retorted Frederick. “He arrives tomorrow with the rest of his train, and you may tell your brother so.”
The knights laughed loudly at this, and one said, “The banty has fire. Hell’s teeth, he ought to join the lists.”
Frederick puffed up with visible pride. “And I will,” he boasted, “once I am knighted. I’ll—”
“Does Sir Olin’s coming mean he will swear fealty to my brother?” asked Sir Mathieu.
Noel tensed again, furious at the man’s insistence.
“My father is coming,” said Frederick, cocky and insolent now. “He could have stayed home.”
“But if he—”
“Politics are for Sir Magnin to discuss with my father,” interrupted Frederick. “I have horses to feed and a camp to set up. Excuse me, sir.”
He spurred his mount to a trot and Noel jounced along beside him. They held silence, not looking at each other, until they were out of earshot. Frederick wheeled into their campsite and jumped down. Only then did he crow merrily and slap Noel on the leg while Noel was still dismounting. They looked at each other in the shadows and burst into laughter.
“I put him in his place, did I not?” said Frederick. “I would love to use him for a quintain. How he enjoys sneering at Father every chance he gets. Calls us country bumpkins and puts on his fine court airs. Oh, it felt good, Noel, to speak to him sharply and get away with it. Father will never stoop to reply to his barbs, but I say that—”
“He isn’t the relative that we’re trying to get on our side, is he?” asked Noel worriedly.
“Oh, no, not him. Sir Magnin has four sisters. Peter Phrantzes married the eldest,” said Frederick. “Did you see Sir Mathieu’s face when I—”
“Yes, yes
, Frederick,” said Noel with a smile. “You did great. I’ll leave you to this, all right? It’s time I looked around.”
“But you said we would explore the town together,” said Frederick, his maturity falling from him in an instant. “I want to go to the fair.”
Noel curbed his impatience with difficulty. “You’ll see the fair. I won’t be long.”
He turned away, but Frederick caught his arm. “I do not think you should go off by yourself. Sir Mathieu can cause you mischief if your paths cross. Father said we should all stick together for safety.”
Gently Noel took Frederick’s hand from his sleeve. “Your father is wise. But I won’t stray far. I’ll be fine. And if I don’t get back quick enough to suit you, start the fair without me.”
“But, Noel—”
“I’ll be all right.”
With a smile, Noel moved into the darkness and made his way hastily behind a row of tents, avoiding the torchlight as much as possible. He found a shallow gully and dropped into it, threading his way through brush and stumping his toes on rocks unseen in the starlight. He winced, hating cloth shoes, and limped on until he felt far enough away from people.
Crouching in the bottom of the gully, he listened a moment to the crickets and the sound of his own breathing. Above him on the hill, the dark shape of the palace walls loomed against the night sky. Below him, torchlight twinkled and the lively sound of lutes twanging out dance music floated on the air.
“LOC, activate,” he said.
His copper bracelet shimmered, and the real shape of the LOC appeared, its clear sides pulsing with the light circuitry operating inside.
“Acknowledged,” it replied.
“LOC,” he said, “scan internal diagnostics. Is return possible?”
“Specify.”
“Voluntary return, dammit!” he said. “Come on. You know what I’m talking about. Chicago. Time Institute. Monday, May 14, 2503 A.D. You still have that destination code, don’t you?”
“Negative.”
His head felt cold and light as though someone had lopped it off and sent it spinning through the air. For a moment he simply sat there, then he blinked and was able to think again.
Time Trap Page 18
