The next day they found the Milengi camp by virtue of the vultures circling overhead. Weary and footsore, they stood in the small protected canyon and stared at the scene of carnage. Men and women alike lay sprawled where they had fallen. Most had been hacked up by swords. A few were brought down by crossbow shafts.
Stunned, Noel could not avert his gaze from the mutilated corpses, the sightless eyes staring into eternity. The tent shelters had been torn down, their belongings strewn. The horses, goats, and chickens were all gone.
In the soft, early morning light when the rising sun cast a rosy hue upon the ground, and the clouds concealing the peak of the mountain gleamed pearl-white, something seemed unreal about so much death. Other than the circling buzzards, there was not a sound of life. No insects, no birdsong. Even the breeze lay still. Only the stream splashing over its bed of stones kept touch with reality. He heard himself swallow. Beside him Sophia whimpered.
He glanced at her, and saw that she was staring with her hands pressed against her mouth.
“Theodore,” she whispered.
With a meager amount of sleep and a long night of hiking through rough country, maintaining a constant alert to avoid the search parties riding over the trails, her beauty had worn badly. She might be eager to find her fiance, but she hadn’t stamina. It had taken all her strength to keep going; by willpower alone she had managed the last leg of their climb. Now she stood aghast, all hope drained from her dirt-stained face.
Noel’s heart filled with pity. “Stay by the stream,” he said. “I’ll search.”
Wordlessly she nodded and seated herself upon a rock. She worked to arrange her torn skirts in proper folds over her feet. Noel knew the activity was a mindless one, a subconscious reaching for what was conventional and safe in a world that had turned upside down.
He did not want to walk through the camp, but he forced himself to do it. The sun overhead was growing hot. The still air within the canyon was too heavy, too oppressive. Then the smell hit his nostrils: a thick, wet, salty-copper odor that made him think irrationally of the ocean.
It was the smell of blood. He found himself standing next to a headless man in hose and jerkin. The pool of blood beneath him was too great to soak entirely into the ground. The edges had started to coagulate, but the rest was still wet.
The green figs Noel had eaten for breakfast came up in a choking rush. He stumbled away, coughing and shuddering, and wiped his face with unsteady hands. It was tempting to run from this canyon of death and never look back. He saw Sophia’s figure still sitting upon the rock, posture perfect, hands folded in her lap. Her eyes were closed and her lips were moving as though she prayed.
Noel ran his sleeve across his clammy forehead and forced himself to continue the search.
Thaddeus, the dwarf he disliked so much, was the first person he recognized. The tiny man had been shot in the back with an arrow. His dagger lay in the dust beside him. Noel squinted ahead and walked on. It was worse to see faces he knew. He was afraid Elena would be here, and that fear grew with every step.
He found Yani next, the young, slim, red-haired brother who had been so clever in mind, so practiced with the slingshot. He had died with a sword in his hands. Blood smeared his face and chest. A dead horse lay half on top of him, its entrails spilling from the great wound Yani had cut in its belly. The rider was gone. Not a single casualty from the attackers remained behind.
Noel hurried on, not wanting to linger, determined to get this over with quickly. There were no survivors here. He went on peering at faces, sick outrage building beneath his horror.
Demetrius lay facedown like a fallen tree, his muscles bulging in the rigor of death. An axe had cleaved the side of his skull. His arms and torso held numerous wounds that bore mute witness of how long it had taken them to kill him.
One of the Byzantine courtiers lay draped over the broken poles of the goat pen, an arrow in his throat. Of the others there was no sign. Noel sighed and trudged back to Sophia. He started shaking his head before he reached her.
She rose to her feet. Her face was as white as marble. “He-he is not dead?” she said with trembling lips.
“He is not here,” said Noel. “I’d say Sir Magnin’s boys did this, came in and took the Byzantine prisoners by force.” He frowned and glanced at the cliff face. “I thought it was against the rules of chivalrous battle to attack a sleeping camp by night.”
“No honest knight fights at night unless provoked,” she said. “What do you mean?”
“I mean it’s early, just an hour or two since dawn. They’re long gone. We didn’t even hear this happen. That tells me they struck at night, like guerrilla fighters.”
Her expression turned cold and hard with hatred. “It is a new trick invented by Sir Magnin, this night attack. The men boasted of it after they took the castle. That is why Theodore was ambushed on the road in the darkness. Sir Magnin is no honorable knight. He is a treacherous, conniving brute, a coward afraid to face true men of valor in the light of day.”
Noel’s frown deepened. “Has he always fought like this?”
“No,” she said. “I have never heard so. But when my father died, his ambition to rule this province must have clouded his judgment. He has become utterly ruthless, and that horrible creature who follows him…” Her voice trailed off, and she avoided Noel’s eyes.
Ambition was only part of it, thought Noel. The suggestion must have come from Leon. His duplicate was turning out to be a sociopath, without morals, scruples, or conscience. Am I like him? Did he grow from some dark part of me?
“Leon,” he said heavily.
Her gaze came up. “Is he your brother?”
The answer stuck in Noel’s throat. He turned away from her, scratching the itchy beard stubble upon his face. “There’s no way to know if Theodore got away before this raid, or if they took him.”
“At least he is not dead,” she added, accepting his change of subject. “What do we do now? What can we do for these poor, unshriven souls? The wolves…”
“The ground is too hard for grave digging, even if I had a shovel.” Noel sighed, dreading the task ahead. “I guess I can pile rocks over them. Some of them.”
“I shall help you.”
“Nay. ’Tis no task for a lady.”
The voice came from the left. Noel spun around, reaching for his sword, and faced the figure walking toward them. The sun was at his back, putting his face in shadow, but Sophia gave a glad cry.
“Theodore!”
She ran toward him a few steps, her arms outstretched, then she stumbled and fell to the ground in a swoon. Noel and Theodore reached her at the same time.
“Let me,” said Theodore, shouldering Noel aside. He carried her to the shade of the olive tree guarding the spring. Laying her gently upon the bank, he cradled her against him and poured a palmful of water between her parted lips.
She coughed and sputtered, coming around. Her eyes fluttered open and gazed up into Theodore’s. Such a look of tenderness passed between them that Noel felt compelled to turn away and give them their privacy.
He grabbed the foot of the nearest corpse and dragged it next to another, on and on, trying not to look at their faces or their wounds if he could help it. After a few minutes Theodore joined him in the task. The bodies were stiff and unwieldy.
“We dare not take too long at this,” said Theodore. “They may double back in search of me again.”
“I know,” said Noel. “There are too many bodies. It will take a full day of hard work to cover them all, but she’s worried about the wolves.”
Theodore met his eyes, his own blue ones a little suspicious, probing, doubtful. “Tell me all that has happened. Why is she out here wandering in the wilderness without protection?”
“What am I, chopped liver?” muttered Noel.
“What did you say?”
Noel straightened and glared at him. “I’m protection.”
“You are not her father, brother, or husband,” said Theodore shortly. “I do not think you qualify as protection.”
“Oh, hell, are you worried about her virtue? I haven’t touched her, you jealous idiot.”
“So she assures me, or you’d be dead by now.”
The rock in Noel’s hand nearly went flying at Theodore’s ungrateful head. Instead he slammed it on the ground. “Look, my friend, I got her away from the castle. Yes, she knew the way out, but if not for me she’d still be sitting there waiting for you to come along.”
“I was coming,” said Theodore stiffly.
“Really? Well, in the meantime I rescued her from Sir Magnin’s less than savory attentions. Did you want me to leave her there so she could throw herself from a tower rather than be forced to marry him?”
“It had come to that?” said Theodore in outrage.
“Close enough. Why don’t you quit thinking with your glands for five minutes and consider the situation rationally? Magnin’s got your castle. He damn near had your woman. The Turks are coming, and he’ll surrender to them or at best strike an alliance that will give them the foothold they’ve been seeking in Greece.”
“Your wits are woodly,” said Theodore with a frown. “The Turks have raided the coasts for years, but they never come this deep into the Peloponnese.”
Noel thought of what the LOC had told him. “Care to wager on that?”
“I do not understand you. By what authority do you know how Magnin will act? You said yourself that you are a stranger to these parts, caught up in this by accident. Now you-”
“Let’s just say my perspective has changed since I took your place and got incarcerated in the dungeons for a while.”
“ Jesu mea! I am sorry for that, my friend. But how did you escape?”
“It’s a long story.”
Noel bent over to place more stones upon the mound, but Theodore gripped his shoulder. When Noel glanced up he saw Theodore smiling down at him. The sun glinted off his chestnut hair and made his blue eyes sparkle with life.
“Thank you, friend Noel,” he said. “If nothing else, you have given me Sophia’s safety. We shall wait until nightfall and make our way southeast. There are fortresses whose lords are still faithful to the emperor. We shall find refuge and assistance in abundance.”
“And what about Magnin?” said Noel.
Theodore set his jaw. “This is a rich, powerful province. Mistra and Athens are the two most important cities in all of Greece. I do not intend to let a minor half-caste baron unseat me from my rightful place.”
“Good enough,” said Noel. He glanced at the tree, where Sophia sat. “She cannot travel fast.”
“No,” said Theodore worriedly. “And there is another, who will slow us more.”
Elena, thought Noel. He straightened with his hand on the small of his aching back. “Who?”
“I will show you,” said Theodore. “Come.”
He led them up beyond the canyon to a narrow incline and pointed at a series of cave mouths. “They are shallow, most of them. Animals have used them for dens. I have him hidden there.”
“Who?”
Theodore shook his head. “He has not said his name.”
It was George, lying in a bloodstained blanket like a child, his craggy face gray and cold with death.
“Oh, the poor child,” said Sophia, but Theodore held her back while Noel knelt at the dwarf’s side.
“He’s not a child,” said Noel. He unwrapped the blanket slowly. “His name is-was-George. He belonged to Elena.”
“That girl,” said Theodore in a tone that made Sophia glance at him sharply. “A vixen, a mountain nymph as wild as the wind itself.”
Noel had to stop a moment and draw a deep breath. His hands were shaking with relief. “I thought she might be here,” he said finally. “I didn’t see her in the camp.”
“No,” said Theodore. “She never returned. She is blessed to have escaped this.”
Noel shook his head and carried George outside to be placed with the others.
Theodore followed. “He was alive when you came. I meant to cauterize his wound. It might have saved him.”
Noel squinted into the distance, feeling grim. “No surviving witnesses of this massacre. No one to testify.”
“Except me,” said Theodore harshly. “I hid in the rocks like a base-born coward.”
“But you’re alive,” said Noel.
Theodore crossed himself. “Yes.”
In silence, they finished their burial work, then rested by the stream and ate what food they could scavenge. When the heat of the afternoon lessened, they set out, keeping off the trails and as much to cover as possible.
By nightfall, Sophia was weeping quietly with fatigue. The courage she had shown earlier seemed to have faded now that she had Theodore to take care of her. They found shelter of sorts in the ruins of old Sparta, a city Theodore said had been abandoned after the Franks first came and built Mistra a hundred years or so before. Gradually the Greeks had left Sparta to live in the hill town where the air was better.
The evening temperature was slightly warmer here in the valley, but not much. They dared not build a fire, and although Theodore and Sophia could wrap up together beneath their cloaks, keeping each other warm, Noel found the ground hard and increasingly cold. The remnants of a marble wall at his back offered no comfort.
By the time dawn shone golden over the horizon, Noel was stiff and cramped. His admiration for the ancient Spartans had dropped considerably. If these were the kind of camping conditions they thrived on, he’d take modern life any day.
Everyone’s face looked old and grainy in the dim gray light. In silence they set out again.
That day was spent mostly hiding, for dispatch riders galloped the road almost every hour. Two search parties nearly caught them. A peasant and his half-grown sons watched them go by as though they were ghosts, then turned again to their weeding.
Beyond the valley, the hills rose again, not as steep as the Taygetus range, but difficult enough. They scavenged olives and figs, although none of the figs were ripe and usually gave them the bellyache. Sian the hawk brought in a rabbit, but by the time they got the mangled carcass away from her and saw her fed, what remained was scarcely enough to go around. They fished streams and had good luck, but that took time. Noel found honey dripping from a hive in a cave and got desperate enough to rob some of it. They encountered a band of Jewish merchants in peaked, broad-brimmed hats traveling together for protection and were given provisions of cheese and bread.
By the time they crested a green hill overlooking a beautiful narrow valley with well-tended fields and a small round fortress with tall stone walls, Noel’s hose were nearly falling off his hips, and his shoes were worn through. Four days of steady walking had brought them to the castle of Sir Olin d’Angelier.
“But,” said Theodore, lying flat on his belly to survey the castle below, “has he maintained his fealty to Emperor Andronicus or has he joined Sir Magnin’s revolt?”
“Sir Olin is very set in his ways,” said Sophia shrewdly. With her finery in tatters, her hair hanging in matted clumps, and her face streaked and gaunt, she resembled a mummer in rags trying to portray a great lady. “He dislikes change. I doubt Sir Magnin will find him very supportive.”
“But his garrison is small,” said Theodore, “and he is not a rich man. He may find it easier to give in than to resist being crushed by Sir Magnin’s forces.”
“Someone,” said Noel, “has to go down there and ask.”
“You can hardly expect Lord Theodore to take the risk,” said Sophia. “He would be immediately recognized, and if Sir Olin is hostile, he would find himself a prisoner again.”
Theodore started to climb to his feet. “It is my cause and my appointment. I shall go.”
Noel gripped his forearm to hold him in place. “She’s right. You would be recognized.”
Theodore fingered his ruddy beard and laughed. “Like this? Hardly.”
“You’re not expendable,” said Noel. “You must regain the governorship. You have to rule this province; otherwise-”
“Otherwise the Turks will take over,” said Theodore indulgently. He shook his head. “So you keep saying, but I do not see where you get your conviction.”
Noel stared intently into his eyes, willing this man to believe him. “You must trust me,” he said. “Please. I swear to you that I know this.”
“ Credo semper,” said Theodore flippantly. He cocked his head to one side. “Go then. But take care.” He rested his hand briefly upon Noel’s shoulder. “You have shown yourself a good friend. As soon as you are certain of a welcome reception from Sir Olin, signal to us.”
Noel grinned. “Count on it.”
Sir Olin’s castle bordered a narrow mountain stream that looked swift and deep. A short arched bridge of stone wide enough for two horsemen to ride abreast spanned the water. The wooden drawbridge connecting the stone bridge to the castle’s single entrance was down, but alert guards in brown surcoats and old-fashioned conical helmets with steel noseguards instead of visors stood with tall pikes crossed.
“Halt!” said one the moment Noel set foot on the bridge. “Name yourself and your business.”
The hostility in that command made Noel wary. He rested his hand on his sword hilt and said in calm, even tones: “I am Sir Noel of Kedran. I have an important message for Sir Olin, if he will receive me.”
“And to what reference is this message?”
Without moving his head, Noel glanced up at the battlements and saw more sentries standing between the crenellations with crossbows. He swallowed, preparing himself to dive off the bridge if necessary.
“I carry a message from Lord Theodore, rightful governor of Mistra, to Sir Olin d’Angelier, who was once counted his friend.”
The guards conferred. Noel’s senses strained to pick up the least hint of trickery. Someone was dispatched to the keep.
“Will you wait, Sir Noel?” asked one of the guards politely. “These are anxious times. We have orders to be careful.”
“I’ll wait,” said Noel.
Five minutes later a boy in a long brown tunic overlaid with a tabard bearing two crimson griffins hurried out to meet him. He had short curly brown hair, cropped up nearly to the crown in the old Norman style, and warm brown eyes.
“Welcome, Sir Noel,” he said in a voice that had just begun to change. “I am Frederick, Sir Olin’s eldest son. Come inside. If you bring good news of our friend Theodore the Bold, you are more than welcome.”
The boy’s voice rang with sincerity. Noel’s instincts said trust him. He swung his hand away from his sword hilt and walked forward.
Frederick clasped both his hands in greeting. Close up, he had an open, guileless face with a snub of a nose and a chin to match. He smiled, his eyes studying Noel frankly.
“You look as though you have had a hard journey. Come inside. Let us ply you with meat and drink. My father is engaged with another visitor at this moment, but he will be with you as soon as he can.”
Noel started forward, but the boy hesitated with a frown. “Have you no mount, Sir Noel?”
“No horse, no baggage, no companions,” said Noel, deciding to remain cautious awhile longer. He forced a smile, but it was not a very good one. “As you say, a hard journey.”
“And fraught with much misfortune from the little we have heard. News comes seldom to our corner of Greece.”
Their footsteps echoed hollowly over the drawbridge. Then they were within the walls surrounding a small, almost claustrophobic yard paved with cobbles. The keep itself looked squat and massive, with thick impenetrable walls and nothing better than arrow slits for windows. The doors stood wide open, probably to let in light.
Noel let himself glance around as they walked toward the keep. The barracks were in good repair. The stables were tucked beyond them. A cluster of women stood gossiping at the well. Geese puttered in piles of straw that had fallen off a cart. Barrels of provisions were stacked in plain view, but otherwise the place had an oddly empty feel. It was too quiet, too watchful. The faces he saw were grim and wary.
They expect a siege, he realized. Or some kind of attack.
Frederick led him into the gloomy hall of the keep. It was perhaps a third the size of the one at Mistra, a cramped rectangular room with a low, heavy-beamed ceiling from which the family banners hung. A coat of arms decorated one wall. Weapons filled another. The spreading antlers of a stag hung at one end over the tallest chair. Rushes cushioned the floor, rustling softly beneath Noel’s feet. Near the unlit hearth, a gaunt deerhound with a white muzzle and blurry eyes lifted his head.
“Easy, Torquil,” said Frederick. “It is but us.”
The dog went back to sleep, and Frederick smiled. “Poor old fellow. He is blind and can barely walk, but Father won’t have him put down, and all of us would raise an outcry if he did. Have a seat. Peter! Maria!”
Leaving Noel, he went off through an arched doorway into an even gloomier section of the keep. Noel stood by the scarred trestle table and stared around. Although outside the day was warm, this hall held a perpetual chill. He would hate to spend a winter in this place. It was crude, primitive, and out-of-date. Compared to Mistra, it was something from an entirely different, darker era, but it would be easy to defend.
He longed to finish his business and get out of the place.
“Here you are!” said Frederick merrily, returning with a serving boy in tow. The servant was small but quick. He put a tray before Noel laden with generous slabs of roasted pork, apples, and something that looked like boiled fennel. Frederick himself poured mead into plain goblets, and drank while Noel devoured the food.
“Aye, I thought you looked hungry. Did you walk all the way from Mistra?”
Noel nodded, his mouth too full for an answer.
“And Lord Theodore is well? God’s wounds, but is this not an astonishing business? We thought him dead at first, I can tell you. Father went about as grim as a hornet, shouting for his shield and weapons. But by then it was pointless to ride out with the men. Magnin Phrangopoulos has always been a troublemaker. Too ambitious, Father says. I wouldn’t dare what he’s tried, though, thumbing his nose at Byzantium. A fine time to offend the emperor, Father says, what with Turks coming in. We got word that a force of pirates has started up the Eurotas. They nearly flattened Monemvasia. At a time like this the whole province should be banding together, and here is Sir Magnin wanting to hold a jousting tournament. Witless.”
“He’s mad and power-hungry,” said Noel between mouthfuls. “He had the Milengi on his side-”
“They’re a fierce lot.”
“Not anymore. He turned on them. Wiped out their camp.”
“They have many camps,” said Frederick, although he was frowning. “They live scattered all through the Taygetus range. Their leaders, Demetrius and Yani-”
“Dead.”
“God’s wounds! Is it so?”
Noel emptied his cup and nodded.
“There will be an uprising. They will cause trouble all across this side of the Peloponnese. They may even stir up some of the other tribes. But Lord Theodore, is he-”
The sound of approaching voices made him break off. Frederick rose to his feet, and Noel reached for the last piece of meat when two men entered the hall. One of them was short and stout with a barrel chest and an ample stomach. His white hair was cut much like Frederick’s, and his beard was trimmed to a sharp point at his chin. He could be no other than Sir Olin.
His companion, however, was lithe, young, and austere, wearing mail with his coif shoved back on his neck.
Noel choked on his food in dismay. He and Sir Geoffrey stared at each other like two hounds defending their territory.
“Is this how you maintain neutrality, Sir Olin?” said Sir Geoffrey, his dark eyes never leaving Noel’s face. He reached for his sword, and Noel stood up so fast he toppled the bench over behind him.
He drew his own sword with a ring of steel through the scabbard.
“Hold!” shouted Sir Olin in a voice that shook the rafters. “What manners have either of you, drawing swords in my house? Sir Geoffrey, mind your place! As for you, monsieur, what business do you bring here?”
“Father!” said Frederick in dancing impatience. “Have care. He is-”
“He is our enemy!” said Sir Geoffrey. His gaze narrowed on Noel. “We have searched long and hard for you. Now to find you turning up here, in the protection of a man who professes himself to be our friend-”
“Father!” said Frederick in outrage. “We will not ally ourselves with that dog Magnin-”
“Hold tongue, boy!” said Sir Geoffrey like a whipcrack. “You insult my liege-”
“You are on my ground, Sir Geoffrey,” said Sir Olin sharply. “Before you challenge my son, remember that.”
Sir Geoffrey’s anger flickered and faded back under control. His face was as white as flame, however, and his gaze held no quarter for Noel. “Well, sorcerer,” he said with mockery a lash in his voice. “Have you put them under your spell already?”
“Sorcerer?” echoed Sir Olin. His gaze sought Noel, who shook his head.
“I am not. I am a friend to Theodore the Bold, who lives despite Magnin’s treachery. I seek to help him recover Mistra. And I have come to ask your support in that cause,” said Noel.
“Watch him!” said Sir Geoffrey, holding his sword so that the grip and the curved quillons formed a cross of protection at his face. “He can entrance men. His very tongue is black with guile.”
“Frederick,” said Sir Olin in alarm. “What have you brought through our gates?”
Frederick himself looked uneasy, but he said, “A man who professes himself loyal to Theodore of Albania. Do we trust him. Father, or this man who serves a proven villain?”
Sir Geoffrey growled something and swung his sword at Frederick, who scrambled back just in time. Sir Olin caught at Sir Geoffrey’s arm, distracting him long enough for Noel to move forward. Noel’s sword caught Sir Geoffrey’s with a clang that rang through the room. Sir Geoffrey swung again, and again Noel parried, though clumsily. The broadsword was heavier than he was used to, and although he knew swordplay, it was primarily with the short Roman glaudius.
He fell back, and Sir Geoffrey came at him hard, driving him to the wall with blow after blow. Cornered, Noel had no choice but to go on parrying desperately. He knew he could not escape unless he somehow seized the offensive from Sir Geoffrey, but it was all he could do to keep from getting himself hacked into pieces.
Sir Geoffrey got too eager. His sword tip crashed into the wall, striking off sharp splinters of stone. Noel ducked and scurried around, seeking to reach Sir Geoffrey’s back, but the knight recovered and whirled with him. He lifted his sword again just as Noel stumbled over the fallen bench and lost his balance.
In that moment time slowed to a crawl. Noel went sprawling, caught himself desperately on one knee, and struggled to bring up his sword.
“No!” cried Frederick over the frenzied barking of the dog.
Sir Olin was shouting too, but for Noel there was only the break in his wrists as his weapon was knocked aside, and Sir Geoffrey’s sword came slashing down like an executioner’s blade.