If chain mail was this heavy, Noel wondered how men could endure wearing the suits of massive plate armor that would come into vogue within the next few decades. The clinging drape of the finely linked chains irritated him. He found the shirt too long and the leggings too short. The latter were held up by a pair of primitive garters that made him feel he might lose them at any moment. When Frederick pulled the mail mittens over his hands, Noel felt completely helpless, like a four-year-old bundled into a snowsuit.
“How can I hold a weapon without my fingers free?” he asked.
Frederick knelt to fasten the steel greaves to his shins and did not answer.
The argument was long since over, and although Noel had won it, Frederick still disapproved.
“It’s wrong,” he muttered, fastening the other greave. His words were muffled against Noel’s leg as he fitted on a pair of knee cops.
“What’s wrong?”
“You know.”
A sullen Frederick was less than desirable company. Noel was having enough trouble with his own flagging courage without having to boost Frederick’s morale.
“Stop sulking,” said Noel. “We’ve settled this already.”
“You should not compete. You are not a knight, and it is wrong to pretend. Deceit is the first step toward damnation. Even if you win, it will invalidate the-”
“I can’t worry about that now,” said Noel. He reached for the collar.
Frederick sprang up. “The breastplate first. Just wait for me to do it.”
He buckled on the front and back halves of the steel corselet. Noel felt pressure on his wounded shoulder and sucked in his breath sharply.
‘Too tight?“ asked Frederick.
“Yes.”
“I told you this would not work. The plate has to be snug or a lance can catch it and rip it from your body. Why will you not let me-”
“No,” said Noel. “You can’t participate-”
“I know more about fighting than you!” said Frederick hotly. “I shall probably be knighted by Michaelmas.”
“Fine. In the meantime, no glory for you. Don’t argue, Frederick. It’s not to be, and that’s final. I can’t explain.”
Frederick hesitated, then lifted the collar bearing Theodore’s coat of arms-hastily painted by the armorer at Sir Olin’s castle. Everything was borrowed piecemeal since Theodore’s own resplendent armor had been lost in the initial ambush. Noel didn’t like his colors of yellow and black. He felt like a bumblebee once he put on the long surcoat. The ends flapping about his ankles made him feel ridiculous. Frederick snapped the helmet to the chain on the breastplate and knelt to buckle spurs on Noel’s feet.
Next on went the mail coif. It covered Noel’s chin to the lips and the edges scratched his cheeks. He wondered how the others could stand to wear these things all the time. His head itched and while he was rubbing it through the links, Frederick buckled on his sword.
Noel practiced grabbing the hilt a few times in his mittens. They were clumsy all right. With these things on he might well drop his sword.
“How do I look?” he asked. “You have three choices for an answer: class A dork, class B dork, or the pride of Camelot.”
“I understand you not, but verily you look frightened.” Frederick’s gaze met his earnestly. “Are you certain you will not have a priest’s blessing? To go into combat unshriven is tempting fate.”
Exasperating though it might be, the boy’s concern was genuine and well intentioned. Noel smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “No, thank you.”
“Noel?”
“Yes?”
“Father says that when everything goes amiss it is time to pause and reevaluate the situation. He says if God is against you, then stop and either abandon your purpose or go at it differently.”
Noel wished he could follow that advice. Even if he got very lucky and didn’t drop his sword, his borrowed war-horse didn’t run away with him, and he found he had a natural aptitude for lances, he hadn’t much of a prayer against Sir Magnin’s skill and experience.
“Sir Olin is a wise man,” Noel said. “If I’m defeated by circumstances, that’s one thing. But if I quit now, before I’ve done all that I can, then I’ve defeated myself. I can’t.”
Frederick nodded. “No one can doubt your courage.”
“Just my sanity, right?” Noel grinned.
Frederick smiled back. “I do not wish to unman you by saying this, but you are truly mad.”
Noel pretended the hollowness inside him was nothing to worry about. “Time to go.”
“Noel?”
This time he let his impatience show as he glanced back. “Yes?”
“I sent word to Father. He should know about this.”
Noel shook his head. “You think he’ll come? There’s no point now. By the time they get here, it will be over one way or the other. Come on. I’m not going to miss this.”
Before he went outside, Noel put on the helmet and lowered his visor, ft cut off most of his vision and some of his hearing. It was incredibly hot and once he had a good dose of sunshine warming it, he would be a prime candidate for roasted skull.
Whatever drug Cleope had given him was working. Its taste was so foul, he almost couldn’t swallow it, but now he felt pleasantly numb. If the sky tended to become a weird shade of pink at the edges and if sometimes his arms and legs seemed to float away… well, so what? He would pay the consequences later. Right now, the trip was worth the ticket.
The ruse of passing himself off as Theodore simply by putting on armor that bore the man’s ensign seemed too simplistic to work. No one in Noel’s own time would swallow it, but while men and women here might scheme and connive, they still apparently took coats of arms and insignia at face value. Frederick was not yet entirely over his shock at this duplicity. Noel decided if Leon could show these folks how to break a few rules, he might as well do the same. Besides, Theodore had started it by having Noel take his place once already.
Swathed in a cloak to conceal himself from the watchful eyes of guards patrolling everywhere, a tense, silent Noel rode a nondescript palfrey along the streets to the tent enclosure. Noel opened his cloak to show the emblems on his surcoat, and the guard waved them through with scarcely a glance.
Indeed, there were armored knights and squires milling everywhere in such confusion no one had time to be suspicious. Most were comparing wounds or complaining that the tournament field and tents should have been closer together. It was an awkward arrangement, mostly for the squires who had to dash back and forth for mislaid gauntlets or forgotten weapons.
At the d’Angelier tents, Frederick and the other squires set to work transferring Noel from the gentle palfrey to a massive war destrier dappled gray with a black mane and tail. The animal’s head was nearly as long as Noel’s torso; his shaggy feet were the size of dinner plates. Noel stared up at the creature’s back with trepidation and barely stopped himself from asking for a stepladder.
“Percheron?” he asked, drymouthed.
“Yes, indeed.” Frederick patted the horse’s shoulder with visible pride. “Bloodlines all the way back to Normandy. He is a steady old campaigner. He knows every trick of the jousting field. Leave him his head once you start down the tiltyard. Do not attempt to rein him short.”
Noel watched the brute prance around like a yearling colt while his bardings were put on. He might be huge, but that didn’t prevent him from being frisky. Although horses were extinct in Noel’s century, the Time Institute had brought a few specimens back for training purposes. Noel knew that Percherons were considered the most spirited of the big draft breeds.
It took two men to lift the heavy chanfron and buckle it on the horse’s head. Constructed of wood and leather, it made the animal fret and snap. Smooth mail and plate covered his chest and shoulders, and his rump was draped with a massive leather crupper at least two inches thick. Feeling as though the horse was better protected than he, Noel wondered if it could even move, much less run with so much weight to carry.
Once up in the saddle, Noel had to close his eyes a moment against a wave of unexpected weakness. He wasn’t sure how long Cleope’s opium mixture was going to last, especially under exertion.
Handling the reins, Noel quickly discovered his mount had a mouth of iron and the temperament to match. It was like trying to ride a moving mountain.
Frederick climbed into his own saddle and another squire handed him a bound bundle of lances. Another moved ahead of Noel and unfurled a gonfalon of black and gold silk. The wind made the colors swirl. Noel cast off his cloak and wished himself luck.
As they rode through the town in their own miniature procession, people paused to look, then to point. Word flashed ahead, and by the time he rode past the round Byzantine church with its red tile roof and bell tower, and reached the stone bridge spanning the river, spectators had begun to gather beside the road. Many of them cheered, and Noel felt like a complete impostor as he lifted his hand in return.
“ Jesu mea,” muttered Frederick as the cheering grew louder, swelling ahead of them in a wave. “Do not open your visor for any reason. I vow this will goad Sir Magnin like tossing water on a hornet.”
“Good,” said Noel. ‘That’s what we want.“
He saw the field ahead on the flat plain. People thronged the stands. Gonfalons waved in a myriad of colors. Sweating horses stood tied to their saddles out of the way. Knights yet to compete roamed restlessly on horseback, their visors up, colorful pennons fluttering from their lances. Others stood about, flirting with ladies in the stands. A boy and girl in servant’s homespun were rolling in the hay beneath the stands, half-concealed by the cloths hanging over the support posts. Food sellers hawked their wares from wooden trays slung around their necks. The smell of seasoned goat meat in the hot afternoon air made Noel queasy. Broken lances had been thrown in careless piles. Five corpses wrapped in blankets lay stacked for burial later. Noel averted his eyes quickly and tried not to listen to the buzzing flies.
Two combatants were in the tiltyard now, careening toward each other at full gallop, their lances blunted for the contest. They came together with a crunching smack that made Noel flinch. The crowd screamed in frenzy. One man in pale blue went flying over the hindquarters of his horse. He landed on his feet, staggered a few steps to catch his balance, and bowed in rueful acknowledgment of defeat.
Other onlookers, already losing interest, craned to see Noel as he edged his horse onto the field. A few recognized his ensign. Some rose to their feet. The noise receded for a few shocked seconds, then swelled.
One of the four judges in crimson gestured at a herald, who came trotting over to Noel on horseback.
“Your name, sir knight.”
“I wish to make challenge,” said Noel.
“We do no challenges today. This is a joust of celebration and good spirit, intended to honor our new governor.”
“I am Theodore of Albania,” said Noel loudly. “Rightly appointed governor of Mistra by Andronicus, your liege and sovereign emperor. I have come to challenge Magnin Phrangopoulos and lay claim to what is mine.”
The herald’s face turned as pale as his linen. “My lord prince,” he gasped. “What-”
“I have brought challenge,” said Noel. He gestured and a grim-faced Frederick brought forward a gauntlet stitched and embroidered with Theodore’s coat of arms on one side, the two-headed eagle of Byzantium on the other. ‘Take my glove to Sir Magnin.“
The herald swallowed and although Frederick held out the glove, the man did not take it. “My lord, I dare not-”
“What is this?” demanded one of the judges, riding up. He scowled beneath his crimson cap. “You are delaying the tournament, sir. Take your place or stand aside for others.”
The herald turned in his distinctive tabard and murmured quickly to the judge. The man also turned pale. He glanced at Noel and coughed.
“My lord, we have no-”
“Stand aside,” said Noel.
The two men swung the horses from his path. Taking the gauntlet, Noel spurred his destrier hard. Startled, the old horse lumbered into a gallop and picked up speed as they crossed the field. Reining sharply before the canopied section of the stand where Sir Magnin’s court sat transfixed with amazement, Noel flung the gauntlet with more force than aim. By sheer luck, it hit Sir Magnin in the face.
He slapped it away and jerked to his feet. Decked out in cloth of gold and saffron-colored hose, a feathered cap cocked on his long black hair, Sir Magnin wore a heavy gold chain studded with thumb-sized emeralds across his chest. His handsome face blazed scarlet, and his eyes held murder. “What is the meaning of this outrage?” he shouted. “You pathetic whelp, how dare you challenge me-”
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 councillors 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 red-cloaked 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. “Watch 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 Bleinheim 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 end 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.”
Sir Magnin drew off his helmet and flung it upon the ground. His mail-coifed head whipped back as Noel made a feeble move.
“I wait for no one,” he said arrogantly. “I have won the right to dispatch this man. His life is forfeit to me.”
Leon stumbled and skidded on his knees the final short distance to Noel. He held up beseeching hands, while Noel could only lie there on his back, struck incredulous at this unexpected intercession.
A squire came up with Sir Magnin’s sword. He exchanged his dagger for it, wielding the broadsword awkwardly in his left hand. His eyes were dark with pain and battle lust. They held not one scrap of mercy.
As he swung up the sword, Leon snatched the helmet from Noel’s head.
“Look at him!” he cried. “This is not Theodore of Albania, but an impostor. The contest is invalid.”
Sir Magnin never swung. He stared openmouthed at Noel, and for once he had nothing to say. Others came up, circling them, and Sir Magnin’s foot came off Noel’s wrist. He backed away in sudden distaste, looking almost fearful.
“What magic is this, that a lowly varlet without name or training could fight me with such valor and skill?” he whispered hoarsely. “What ensorcellment has been cast here?”
Lord Harlan, the thin old councillor with the black hood tied beneath his bony chin, pointed an accusing finger. “It is said that twins are the sons of Satan. Burn them both before their evil falls over us all.”
Noel managed to reach up and grab Leon’s tunic in his fist. “The bracelet,” he gasped. “You-”
“Let it be done,” said Sir Magnin. “Burn them.”
His voice was harsh and final. Guards shouldered their way through the crowd to surround Noel and Leon, still crouched together. Without a glance back, Sir Magnin left the tournament field.