Time Trap

by Deborah Chester

  Noel bowed in the saddle. “I challenge you to a fight to see who will run this province in the name of the emperor.”

  Leon, who had been sitting quietly to one side, looking gray-faced and ill, jumped at the sound of Noel’s voice. He tugged at Sir Magnin’s sleeve, only to be brushed off like a fly.

  “The name of the emperor no longer matters here,” said Sir Magnin.

  “It matters to many,” said Noel.

  A flicker in Sir Magnin’s black eyes told Noel he was right. Sir Magnin’s position here was still shaky. Noel pressed the point.

  “Is this grand tournament an attempt to create allies for yourself? Do you think you can feed men and throw them some entertainment and expect them to commit treason for you? Do you expect them to break their oaths of fealty to the emperor?”

  “Enough!” shouted Sir Magnin.

  “You are a dastardly coward without honor, a man who stabs in the back, a man who must wait until darkness to attack his enemy. Can’t you face me man to man, in the open, for all to see?”

  “By God, I shall,” said Sir Magnin forcefully. “I vow you’ll regret those charges when I ram them down your throat.”

  Noel barely listened. His attention was on Leon, searching for the LOC. But other than a huge silver cross slung around his neck, Leon wore no other visible jewelry. Disappointment surged through Noel. Where had Leon hidden it? It was all Noel could do to keep himself from jumping off his horse and shaking the answer from his double.

  “I’ll teach you what honor is,” Sir Magnin went on. “I’ll show you who is—”

  “On the field, sir,” said Noel.

  “This instant.” Sir Magnin pushed his councilors aside. “Stand back. Stop gibbering among yourselves, and send for my squires and my horse! Move!”

  “Wait, excellency,” said Leon. “He is not—”

  Sir Magnin’s hand shoved him hard, and Leon went sprawling into the laps of several onlookers. “Out of my way, you mewling wretch! I’ve heard enough drivel about witchcraft and portents. Where are my arms?”

  Ignored by Sir Magnin, who strode off the stands, still shouting orders, Leon picked himself up and shot Noel a look of pure malice before merging with the excited crowd. Noel forgot all his good intentions and swung himself from the saddle, intending to go after him.

  Frederick, however, appeared as though from nowhere and caught Noel before his foot touched the ground.

  “Nom de Dieu, what are you doing?” he demanded. “Running away, now that you’ve baited him like a gadfly on the nose of a bull? He will kill you sure.”

  Noel kicked, trying to free his ankle from Frederick’s grasp. The destrier sidled, snorting, and Noel had to climb back into the saddle. “He’s getting away,” said Noel in pure frustration. “While I’m stuck with this damned joust, he has plenty of time to leave town.”

  “Soft,” said Frederick, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one overhead them. “You have begun this. You cannot stop it now. I shall go after this thieving twin of yours—”

  Gratitude surged through Noel, making him feel light­headed. He bent over, although it made him dizzy, and gripped Frederick’s shoulder. “Then do it! After him now, before he gets away. You’ve got to get my bracelet back.”

  “Yes, yes. I do not understand its importance, but I shall do my best.”

  Noel’s gaze bored into his through the visor. He had to make Frederick see how vital it was. But how? The inability to explain frustrated him. He gestured. “Go then. Just go!”

  Frederick gripped his stirrup and gazed up at him with open worry. “God strengthen you in this contest. Do not fail us now. We have risked all on this gamble.”

  “I know,” said Noel impatiently.

  Frederick stepped away and gestured to the other squire, blond-headed and middle-aged, his weathered face set with stoic resignation. “See to his needs, Tobin.”

  “Aye, Master Frederick.” Tobin spat on the ground and led Noel’s mount to the far end of the field. “Ain’t right to send the boy off alone into that crowd,” he commented when they were apart from anyone who could overhear. “Magnin’s brutes know whose side the d’Angeliers are on. They be spoiling for a chance to catch us in the wrong.”

  “Frederick can take care of himself,” said Noel. He flipped up his visor and wiped his face, ignoring Tobin’s alarmed protest. Snapping down the visor, Noel said, “Some water, please.”

  “The hell you’ll drink any,” said Tobin in outrage. “Lady Cleope said you were to eat and drink nothing. It will dilute the—”

  “And what do you know about that?”

  “Master Frederick gave me full instructions.”

  Noel glared at him, but the man looked stubborn. “The potion is holding fine—”

  “Hush, sir, I pray you!” Tobin glanced about fearfully. “Let us have less talk of potions if you please. Do you want the lady burned at the stake?”

  “No,” said Noel, chastened.

  “I should think not. Lady of mercy, do watch what you say. And nothing to drink.”

  “I’m thirsty,” said Noel.

  “Suck on your own spit, then.”

  A fanfare of trumpets kept Noel from retorting. He saw Sir Magnin coming onto the field on a jet-black charger, a white saddlecloth embellished with scarlet falcon heads flowing to the horse’s knees. The cloth was whipped aside to reveal heavily embossed bardings, including a fanciful chanfron fitted with a mock unicorn spike. Sir Magnin himself also wore white and red, the same falcon heads represented upon his surcoat and shield. A red pennon fluttered from his lance. Long plumage flowed from his helmet, and sunlight glittered upon his steel breastplate and knee cobs.

  The herald rode into the center of the field, and the red­cloaked judges took their places at each corner.

  “Challenge has been made and accepted for the right to rule this province,” bellowed the herald. His voice carried plainly through the sudden silence. “This will be a full passage of arms, with the lance, the ax, and the dagger.” He hesitated a moment, and Noel saw Sir Magnin speak to him. “This contest is to the death. God’s hand be upon you both.”

  A murmur went through the crowd. Noel swallowed hard and blinked fresh perspiration from his eyes. Adrenaline coursed through him like racing oil. He had to admit he was scared. He didn’t want to die with a pole run through his guts. Trojan had shown him how to hold a lance one day when they were horsing around on the training grounds. In return Noel had taught him how to drive a chariot. He wished he were driving a chariot now, in a circus, with the crowds cheering for blood. That, at least, was familiar.

  The herald went on with a fresh speech, outlining rules of combat and chivalry. Perhaps chivalry also demanded that Noel and Sir Magnin meet halfway and shake hands, but they didn’t. Even across the field he could feel Sir Magnin’s rage blazing at him.

  He knew he had to keep Sir Magnin’s fury hot to the point of recklessness, to the point of mistakes. That was his only chance against the man’s superior skill.

  Tobin handed him a lance. The yellow and black pennon flapped across Noel’s helmet, momentarily blinding him until Noel jerked it free. He fumbled to get a grip behind the vamplate, cursing the mail mittens, and managed to jab his horse’s side with the butt end. The destrier shied, nearly stepping on Tobin, and Noel almost dropped the lance altogether in an effort to maintain control.

  Some onlookers laughed; others jeered loudly. Tobin calmed the destrier; Noel’s face flamed inside his helmet. He felt like an idiot. He was certain he looked like one.

  On the field Sir Magnin rubbed it in. With his lance held straight up, he cantered across the field, then put his horse through several stylish dressage maneuvers. The crowd cheered.

  “Show-off,” muttered Noel. But having Sir Magnin over­confident was almost as good as having him angry.

  Noel deliberately fumbled more with his lance and nearly impaled Tobin in the process.

  The man angrily slapped it away. “W
atch your point!”

  More people laughed. “Drunkard’s courage. Look at him!” called one.

  Noel started the destrier forward, but Tobin caught the reins.

  “Settle deeper in the saddle, but keep your feet loose in the stirrups. Else, you’ll be dragged when you go off.”

  “Who said I’m going off?” retorted Noel.

  Tobin’s cynical eyes never wavered. “See his breastplate? It’s got a lance rest to fit the grapper to. It makes the whole breastplate take the shock, and not just his arm. You brace the end against your side; that’ll give you firmer balance, see?”

  Noel nodded, and Tobin sprang away. The destrier lunged forward with his armored nose outstretched eagerly. He swung around the end of the tiltyard so sharply Noel nearly tumbled from the saddle. He was having trouble compensating for the weight and length of the thirteen-foot lance. It was constructed of ash; the wood was not heavy, but balancing it was difficult. The crowd jeered him again, hooting insults freely.

  “Keep your temper,” muttered Noel to himself.

  The destrier pranced in place, snorting and pushing at the bit. Noel tucked the reins beneath his thigh and at the herald’s shout of “Ready,” he lowered his lance diagonally across the saddlebow.

  He was maneuvering the lance with his right arm since his left shoulder was stiff and bound too tightly to permit much range of motion. The weight of the shield, however, dragged heavily upon his left arm. Although he felt no pain, sticky wetness at his shoulder told him the wound had reopened. He disregarded the squire’s advice to jam the blunt end of the grip against his body.

  “Do that against a stronger man on a faster horse and you’ll be flipped head over heels quicker than you can blink,” Trojan had said. “Hold it loose. Let the saddle support it if necessary. Keep your elbow flexed. Before the fifteenth century it was all skill, not brute force.”

  The herald dropped his arm and Noel’s horse sprang forward. There was no more time to think. He knew only the fear and excitement coursing in his veins. He heard only the thunder of the horses’ hooves. He saw only the blur of color and motion as they hurtled at each other. He wanted to do something Trojan called the Blenheim twist. It involved slipping the lance point through any slight opening between shield and saddle, staying low to catch your opponent’s thigh. If you hit the precise spot correctly, the impetus and a slight twist of the lance would flip your opponent from the saddle every time.

  Using the computerized quintain dummy on the training grounds, Trojan had a ninety percent score. Noel had managed it only once. After he cracked his collarbone by getting hit with a blunted practice lance, he’d quit jousting with Trojan.

  These lances, however, weren’t blunted. They were deadly sharp and if he didn’t hold his shield higher, Sir Magnin’s red-and-white-striped lance was going to spit him like a shish kebab.

  They came together faster than he anticipated. The crashing impact of Sir Magnin’s lance upon his shield was like being struck by a battering ram. Pain flared in Noel’s shoulder with a fierceness that wrung a cry from him.

  His own lance, held low and on his horse’s withers rather than atop the saddle pommel, hit the inner edge of Sir Magnin’s shield and skidded in toward the man’s groin. The point imbedded itself in the saddle and bowed with a twang of stressed wood. It should have snapped, but it didn’t, and when the point ripped free of the leather it snapped Sir Magnin into the air.

  A roar went up from the crowd, and Noel’s heart leapt, but Sir Magnin caught his saddle pommel and clung dangerously over the right side of his galloping horse until he could drag himself back into the saddle. He had dropped his lance, and his plumed helmet was askew, but he reined in his horse and wheeled around.

  “Hold!” shouted the herald.

  Noel’s horse had already swept to the end of the tiltyard. It turned around smartly, ready without instruction for another pass. Noel sat there, noise and yells around him, and panted heavily within his helmet. Sweat ran off him in a river. His shoulder throbbed with agony as though a hot iron had been pressed to it. He gripped his lance in a daze, disappointed that he’d failed to unseat the knight and uncertain what came next.

  To his dismay the judges allowed Sir Magnin another lance. Boos came from the crowd. Men stood on their seats, shouting with anger. Tobin handed Noel a fresh lance.

  “This one is fine,” said Noel.

  “It could be cracked. You stressed it mortal hard.”

  Noel’s lips tugged into a bitter smile. “Not hard enough.”

  “No, sir. Not hard enough. But it was a shrewd aim you took. I thought you had him split for sure.” Tobin’s eyes met Noel’s. “You can’t hold back when it’s to the death. Go at him for the finish.”

  He sounded like a football coach on the sidelines. Noel nodded, and pulled himself together.

  Tobin took away the old lance, and while Sir Magnin reentered the lists Noel’s destrier pawed the ground. Noel felt the world blurring around him and struggled to keep his concentration. What he needed was a decisive unseating, but Tobin was right: he didn’t want to actually kill Sir Magnin. He knew that put him at a disadvantage, but he couldn’t help it.

  He failed to notice the herald’s signal and only the destrier’s lurch into a gallop brought Noel’s attention back to the matter at hand. Something had gone wrong with his depth-of-field vision. His lance looked twenty feet long. It wavered dangerously. He knew his shield was too low, but he could not raise it without arousing sickening agony in his shoulder. Sir Magnin crouched forward, coming at him like a hornet.

  The crashing impact stunned him. His point hit Sir Magnin’s shield square in the center and snapped. Sir Magnin’s lance rammed him backward, out and over the saddle with a wrenching twist of his spine. Noel hit the ground with a thud.

  He lay in the churned dust, wheezing for breath. His shield covered him like a broken wing. His steel helmet felt like a lead weight holding him down. Only the sound of approaching hoofbeats roused him. He struggled to lift himself too late to avoid Sir Magnin’s lance.

  It caught the edge of his shield and flipped it. The leather straps snapped, jerking Noel’s arm mercilessly. The world went gray with a sickening wave of agony. Gasping, he could do little more than roll away from those deadly, dancing hooves. He groped for his sword, although the dim part of his brain still functioning told him he hadn’t a prayer against a man on horseback, especially without his shield.

  “Secondary weapons!” shouted the herald.

  Sir Magnin wheeled away and handed over his lance in exchange for a ball and chain. He swung it a few times, making the heavy, spiked ball whistle wickedly through the air.

  Noel pushed himself to his knees, but by then Sir Magnin was cantering toward him. Noel dragged out his sword and tried to lift it. The point sank to the dust. He planted it in the ground and started to use it to climb to his feet, but Sir Magnin was too close, bearing down on him like thunder.

  Noel seized the long hilt of his sword with both hands and swung it up like a bat, pivoting on his knees as he did so. The spiked ball struck the flat of his blade with such a clang Noel feared the impact had snapped his weapon. But the steel held although sparks flew from its length.

  Unbalanced, Sir Magnin turned his black horse so sharply the animal stumbled. The ball whistled mere inches over Noel’s head as he ducked. Sir Magnin flipped it to wrap the chain around Noel’s sword. He yanked hard, but Noel had been expecting such a trick. He did not resist; instead, he went with Sir Magnin’s tug, using the impetus to gain his feet.

  A cheer rose from the crowd, and it heartened Noel. He could see Sir Magnin’s black eyes glaring at him through the visor.

  “Fool!” said the knight. “You cannot beat me now. Why not surrender and end this farce?”

  Noel bit back a groan. “Now? When I’ve got you right where I want you—”

  Sir Magnin yanked his sword from his hands and sent it flying. The sun flashed on the blade as it spun end over en
d through the air. Noel heard the groan of the crowd.

  Sir Magnin laughed.

  It was a smug, malicious sound—the sound of a bully who can afford to play with his victim. Noel’s temper flared. He rushed at Sir Magnin’s horse and kicked it hard between its hind legs. With a scream, the animal reared. Noel seized Sir Magnin’s foot and twisted it within the stirrup.

  Cursing, Sir Magnin kicked at Noel but he was hampered by the stirrup and his horse’s rearing. His spur rowel raked his horse’s side, and the mount threw itself sideways in a twisting, bucking leap that sent Sir Magnin flying to the ground.

  He landed badly, half on top of his shield, with his weapon arm twisted painfully beneath him. Noel dragged himself forward, knowing his time of advantage was short. Weaponless, save for his dagger, he drew it and struck.

  Sir Magnin must have sensed the attack, for at the last second he rolled, bringing his shield up and over him. The dagger raked its hard surface harmlessly. Sir Magnin gathered his feet under him and launched himself at Noel, striking him with the shield in a short, savage punch that sent Noel reeling back.

  Sir Magnin followed, his right arm dangling uselessly. Noel could hear the agonized wheeze of his breathing from inside his helmet. The fancy plumes were dirt-caked now and torn; his surcoat looked the same. He struck Noel again with the shield, this time knocking him down.

  Tossing away the shield, Sir Magnin stamped upon Noel’s wrist to hold his dagger useless and drew his own knife.

  “Now,” he said, panting heavily. “By means of force and lawful passage of arms, by night and by day, in secret and in open, I have shown my worth over you. I am ruler of this province, and I shall remain so as long as there is strength in my arms. Send your last prayer to God’s mercy, Lord Theodore, for I have none for you.”

  He drew back his arm to strike the mortal blow. Noel braced himself.

  “Wait!”

  The hoarse cry was so raw with desperation it actually made Sir Magnin hesitate. Leon came running across the field, stumbling and staggering, his face drained of all color, his eyes wild.

  “Wait, my good lord. I pray you, wait.”