Noel awakened by degrees, gradually becoming aware of intense, uncomfortable heat and overwhelming thirst. When he finally managed to drag open his eyes, he found himself lying on the ground. Sunlight beat harshly down. Heat radiated off the dusty ground and the cliff face towering above him.
Dim noises of other voices and the sounds of activity filtered in, none of it intrusive enough to bother him. Thoughts, drifting like puff clouds in his brain, slowly came together and began to make sense.
He remembered running. He remembered being shot in the back of the head. With effort he raised his hand and groped along the base of his throbbing skull. He touched a spot soggy with clotted blood, and his head exploded with agony.
“Easy, my friend,” said a voice.
A gentle hand gripped his shoulder while the clammy perspiration was wiped from his face with a cloth. Squinting, Noel fought back waves of stabbing pain, and stared up into a face silhouetted against the sun.
“Don’t speak,” said the man. “Are you thirsty?”
Noel’s tongue had stuck to the roof of his mouth. He peeled it loose and managed to croak out, “Yes.”
His friend moved away, and Noel lay limp and uncaring of what happened to him. Somewhere behind the throbbing, a corner of his mind remembered that he had an emergency injection in his LOC device. Using it would give him a painkiller, and would also send an emergency assistance call to the main time computer. All he had to do was push it.
He rested a while longer, until the terrible pain ebbed to a bearable level.
“Here is water,” said his friend, returning.
Noel dragged open his eyes. Cautiously he lifted his head.
“Wait. I want to move you to the shade. Will it hurt you too much?”
“No,” he gasped. “Try.”
“Very well. Have courage. I shall probably hurt you.”
Strong hands scooped Noel up under the armpits and half lifted him. The pain came back with a vengeance, splitting jaggedly through his head until he had to close his eyes and grit his teeth to hold back a cry. He was dragged a short distance and propped against the rocks. The coolness of the shade, however, was a relief that made it worthwhile.
Grasping his left wrist, Noel ran his fingers over the copper bracelet until he found the proper control hidden inside its circumference. Until now, although he’d been hurt once before on a mission, he’d always prided himself on his toughness in coping with anything that came his way. But this was different. He wanted out, and he wanted out now. It didn’t matter if these people around him saw him vanish into thin air.
He pressed the emergency call, and the LOC grew slightly warm upon his wrist. Relief coursed through him because until now he wasn’t sure if his device was even functioning. A few seconds later he felt a tiny prick; numbness went through his veins.
The man helping him gave him a cup of water. Noel found it icy cold and clean, and drank thirstily. Deadened by the drug, the pain faded in his skull. He let out his breath in relief and focused for the first time upon his new friend’s face. He had a few minutes before emergency assistance yanked him home. He did not want to think about the possibility that he might find himself trapped again between the time streams. The fear of once more facing that nightmare could not outweigh the fact that he was in serious trouble here, his mission out of control, and himself injured. Whatever the cost, he had to get out.
“Better now?” asked his benefactor.
Noel looked at the handsome, well-molded features beneath a rough-cut shock of thick chestnut hair. The man’s eyes were as blue as the Peloponnesian sky. He was young, perhaps twenty to twenty-five-although with these people’s short life spans that would be considered middle-aged. His face was tanned from hours in the sun, with tiny squint lines already cut into his skin at his eyes and mouth. A thick, puckered scar ran along his neck and disappeared beneath the embroidered collar of his tunic. His garb proclaimed him a rich man, for his heavy silk tunic was royal blue in color with purple lining the wide sleeves. His coat of arms was emblazoned at his collar and upon the hem of his tunic. His strong legs were encased in purple hose, and his shoes had been made from a heavy cloth that resembled tapestry. Thin, supple leather soles had been stitched to the bottoms for protection, and the points were fashionably long.
The man smiled and extended a well-shaped hand in friendship. Jewels made dull by the shade adorned his fingers.
“I am Theodore of Albania,” he said. His smile grew wry. “I would introduce myself as Theodore, governor of Mistra, but that, alas, seems unlikely to come true.”
Noel’s eyes widened. “You’re the prince who was ambushed last night.”
“Yes,” said Theodore. “Or at least I was. It seems you have caused them some confusion on the matter.”
“I–I don’t understand.”
“Although you handle the Frankish tongue fluently, your accent is that of a foreigner. I heard you taunt the boy in Latin, and it is of a very old-fashioned derivation that would interest my old tutor greatly. He was an antiquary and fancied himself rather an expert in Roman Latin.”
Noel wondered if he was hallucinating. Theodore’s answer made absolutely no sense. Raising his hand to his eyes, Noel rubbed them a moment. How much longer until the recall happened? He was sweating lightly, from concussion or from nervousness he couldn’t tell.
“I still don’t-”
“No, of course not. I tend to ramble from my point. It is a fault of mine,” said Theodore smoothly. ‘These bandits are a suspicious people. From something you said, I gather they are convinced that you are me.“
Noel frowned, feeling his headache threaten to return. “I- what?” he asked stupidly.
“It seems that despite my finery and my good manners, they do not think I am Theodore. I suppose they wish to convince themselves that I am a servant masquerading in your place. While you, good sir, in your simple clothes and awkward tongue, are the governor. They seem to admire you for nearly escaping their clutches. I wish I had thought of the ruse.” He made a comical face that had serious frustration behind it. “I might well be to the gates of Mistra by now.”
Noel’s hand fell to his lap. He frowned. “This is crazy.”
“Have some more water,” said Theodore. He put the cup to Noel’s lips, his gaze watching the bandit guard who wandered close to survey them for a moment before walking on. “Now, listen, my friend,” said Theodore in a low, urgent voice as soon as the guard was beyond earshot. “It is not such a crazy idea if we can make it work.”
Noel nearly choked on his last swallow of water. He sat upright too fast, and had to shut his eyes against a wave of dizziness. “No-”
“Hear me, please,” said Theodore, placing a hand upon his chest. “No harm can come to you this way, for I am too valuable as a ransom prisoner for killing. Convince them that you are Theodore the Bold, and I shall make you a rich man when this is over.”
“Why?”
“Oh, come, man!” said Theodore impatiently. “Consider the situation. This province has gotten out of hand. Even the local Franks have sought audience with the emperor in Constantinople to request a stronger governor placed in charge over them. The tribes-these wretched bandits-are running wild, looting and preying upon weak villagers. The Greek families are feeling restive and think they can throw off the yoke of Byzantium, which is complete foolishness. The Turks are on the move again. A new wave of invaders is expected to strike the coast soon.”
How long until recall? thought Noel wearily. He found it hard to concentrate although Theodore’s blue eyes burned into him with penetrating force.
“I have been entrusted by Emperor Andronicus to put this province back into order. It will take a strong army and a strong sense of purpose to accomplish it. But I can’t do anything as long as I am kept a prisoner. I must gain my freedom.”
He gripped Noel’s arm. “You can help me. You will help me. It’s very little that I ask.”
“You ask a lot,” said Noel uneasily. “I have no political interest in Mistra. I am a traveler on my way to-”
“Hear me! They were about to kill you, were they not?”
Noel gingerly touched the back of his head. “I’d say they nearly did. What was it?”
“A pebble from a slingshot. A mere shepherd’s weapon,” said Theodore impatiently. “I tell you that you are expendable. Only the suspicion that you might be me in disguise has changed their minds about letting you live. All I ask you to do is bolster their suspicion into complete belief. Act like a prince for a few hours. Put on arrogance, a noble air, make demands… these actions will convince them. See how I act like your servant when they watch us?”
Noel looked past him across the camp, where the bandits were grouped idly. Some were cleaning their weapons. Others drank from a wineskin or argued. The boy Yani, who had felled him with a pebble almost as effective as a nine-millimeter round, paced back and forth as though waiting for something that had not yet happened.
Like my recall, thought Noel. It had been long enough. Was the signal jammed? Wasn’t it reaching back to the time computer? Didn’t they know by now that he was in trouble?
“Look,” Noel said curtly. “There’s one aspect of your plan that maybe you haven’t considered. Like, if they start thinking I’m Theodore of Albania and you’re my servant, what’s to stop them from making you expendable and killing you?”
“I have considered that, of course,” said Theodore. No trace of fear or self-concern showed in his eyes. “It is a risk, but I am not afraid to gamble. If you can focus their attention upon you, then less will be upon me. I shall find an opportunity to escape.”
“I sympathize,” said Noel, “but I can’t help you.”
“You must!”
“No. It’s not my cause. It’s not my involvement.”
Theodore drew back. A frown darkened his face, and Noel wondered if Theodore was going to demonstrate princely temper. “Who are you?” he asked imperiously. “Where are you from?”
“I am Noel of Kedran.”
Theodore’s frown intensified. “I have not heard of this place. What country? Are you English?”
“No,” said Noel hastily.
‘The English have no interest in our affairs, and we pay our Venetian allies a great deal of money to make sure the English continue to stay away,“ said Theodore with visible displeasure. ”To whom is your allegiance?“
“I owe no man my allegiance,” said Noel. He didn’t like where this interrogation was heading. He didn’t like not having a thorough cover story at hand. Theodore could tell he was lying. “I am not a vassal.”
“Odd,” said Theodore, still subjecting him to that penetrating gaze. “Are you dishonored, then? Disinherited? Are you nothing but a vagrant, wandering the face of Europe? ‘Tis dangerous indeed.”
“I was on my way to Constantinople,” said Noel, growing weary of having to repeat himself. “Apparently I am lost.”
“Lost? Indeed, you are. One hundred fifty leagues if you go by sea as well as by land. You are too far north of your course.”
Noel grunted. He made himself accept the fact that his recall wasn’t going to work. That meant there was a ninety-five percent chance that his 1.67-day limit wouldn’t work either. If so, he was trapped here for the rest of his life, with no way to get home at all.
He shivered. He wasn’t ready to give up.
“If you help me,” Theodore was saying, “I shall give you safe escort to Constantinople. I shall give you money and ample rewards. You may even gain an audience with the emperor.”
It was tempting. Noel knew Theodore was being more than generous. But he could not interfere. Every dictate, every principle he lived by forbade violating the time paradox.
He met Theodore’s anxious, persuasive gaze. He could almost feel the force of this man’s will being thrown at him, urging him to agree.
“No,” he said. “You make a good offer, but to my regret, I cannot accept it. My reasons are valid. I have an oath I must obey.”
“What oath supersedes this?” cried Theodore. “Even God must look down from His heaven and know these times are fraught with upheaval and dangerous change.”
“Change can be a good thing,” said Noel.
Theodore drew breath with a hiss. “You believe in this cause of independence?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“What, then, say you? Have I spilled my confidences to a traitorous varlet? A knave without conscience or loyalty?”
“I won’t betray you,” said Noel, trying hard to hang on to his temper.
“Oh, yes, an easy assurance. No doubt you think you will now go and bargain with them at my expense. I shall strangle you here in the dirt before I let that happen.”
Theodore’s eyes blazed. His fingers curled into fists. Noel tensed, although he knew he was in no shape to defend himself from attack.
“Let’s just keep things as they are, without complications, without intrigue, all right?” Noel said soothingly. “You’re the prince. And I’m the simple traveler-”
“Indeed you are simple,” muttered Theodore, shoving a hand through his hair. “And most damnably stubborn as well.”
Noel glared at him and said nothing. Silence stretched out for several minutes, a silence in which Theodore sat on a rock with his blue eyes dark with anger and his jaw clenched hard. Noel studied the layout of the camp, although it was hard to concentrate when his own disappointment was choking him.
Wasn’t there anyone listening in Chicago? Wasn’t there anyone monitoring his mission? The LOC was recording the events happening here, and it was supposed to transmit back. If nothing else, they should be able to trace him to the wrong time. Weren’t they trying to get him back?
All kinds of chilling explanations occurred to him: the anarchists had overrun the Time Institute and destroyed the equipment; a traitor had infiltrated the labs, sabotaging not only Noel’s LOC but others as well; the time computer had malfunctioned…
He could theorize all day, but what good did that do him? As long as he remained a prisoner with these other men, he couldn’t access his LOC for much needed data. Aside from Theodore, four others had been taken prisoner. From the looks of their torn, drooping finery, they must be part of Theodore’s personal entourage. Not one wore mail or showed signs of having borne arms. Scribes and toadies, thought Noel unfairly and tried to banish the grim memory of all those soldiers lying dead upon the mountainside. What had they died for? To protect this pathetic knot of courtiers now huddled in a dejected cluster?
Their prison was a goat pen, and the haphazard, rickety pole fence wouldn’t hold an arthritic nanny goat, much less active, able-bodied men. But a boy in a ragged, homespun tunic and bare feet stood guard over them with a crossbow. He had the intense, eager look of someone anxious to practice his aim on a moving target.
Noel shifted his gaze back to Theodore and frowned. The worst part of it was that he wanted to help this man. There was something noble-for lack of a better word-about the prince, some aspect of character that shone from within him even when he was worried and abstracted, as now. That kind of charm was hard to resist.
The words of his mentor Tchielskov came back to Noel, haunting him: “ You must not involve yourself with the lives and concerns of the people you encounter. Change no course of events. That is our primary directive. Interfere, and you alter history forever. Meddle, and you might eliminate your own existence. Remember that when your heart urges you to practice compassion.”
“Something is wrong about this,” said Noel aloud, still frowning.
Theodore’s gaze swung to meet his. “Obviously.”
“I’m not talking about morality,” snapped Noel. “The ambush. Your men scattered upon the mountainside. How many? Fifty?”
“Seventy-two.” Theodore’s eyes held anguish. “All dead? Or any wounded?”
Noel thought of the scavenging dwarfs and their little daggers. He looked away first. “All dead.”
Theodore remained silent.
Noel said, “But that’s what I mean. Seventy men at arms, enough to man a garrison, and these hill bandits take them out? It doesn’t add up.”
“The Milengi did not carry the main brunt of the fighting,” said Theodore, giving him an odd look. “It was that fiend, Magnin Phrangopoulos, and his army who came upon us like the hounds of hell. To engage in combat without announcement, to engage in combat from ambush, and at night… he may call himself a knight, but God pity his black soul, if he still has one.”
“Look,” said Noel, unable to resist his own curiosity, “your pride is hurt right now. It was a nice post, being governor, but your emperor will ransom you. At least your hide is still intact. You’ll get assigned another post. You don’t have to take this to heart-”
“Hell’s teeth, how dare you tell me to fold my bones and be grateful I can sit far away from the action while that damned gasmoule bastard has Sophia in his clutches!”
His voice carried loudly enough to cause the guard and some of the other bandits to glance their way. Noel reached out and caught Theodore’s wrist.
“Calm down,” he said. “I just asked. Who’s Sophia?”
Theodore shook off his hand. His eyes burned like fire. ‘The Lady Sophia is my betrothed.“
“Uh-oh. He grabbed her during the ambush and made off with her? No wonder you’re so upset.”
“Upset? I-how can you be so ignorant of the world around you? Lady Sophia lives at Mistra. Her father was its most recent governor, and his death opened the post for my appointment. She is alone at the castle, defenseless save for the garrison there that has probably surrendered by now to Sir Magnin’s forces. Who is to protect her?”
“Someone will,” said Noel.
His quick assurance received the stony glare it deserved.
Uncomfortable, Noel shrugged but a warning twinge from his skull told him not to move. “All right,” he said with a sigh. “You’re saying she has no one to watch out for her? No trusty servants?”
“I am saying that Lady Sophia is sixteen, fair, and innocent, no match for a man who knows not God, who mocks all laws save that which his sword arm makes for him, who pillages and thieves and stirs people into revolt against their masters. She… she is on yon hill, a half day’s ride from me. I am this close, and I can do nothing!”
Theodore’s eyes were so raw with anxiety it felt like an intrusion to watch him. “She is waiting for me to rescue her. I am her only hope. How long can she hold out?”
“I do offer you my sympathy,” said Noel, “but-”
“I am her protector!” cried Theodore. “If I fail her, if I fail her…” His voice quivered away and he put his hands to his face.
Noel frowned, disturbed by the man’s weeping. A wave of compassion swept him and before he could stop himself, he set his hand upon Theodore’s shoulder in silent comfort. Inside he raged at the imperative that kept him from getting directly involved in the lives of history. He hated inaction. He hated appearing cold and heartless before this man, who wept before him without shame.
Briefly he knew the temptation to strike back at fate. If he were indeed trapped here, then why not live as he chose? Why not interfere? After all, those who had sabotaged him would have to suffer the consequences, not him.
But once you adopted a principle you didn’t throw it off just because the going got rough. Besides, he didn’t want to think about having to spend the rest of his life here. It brought back that numb, crawling sense of hopelessness to the pit of his stomach.
Who was to say, however, that Sir Magnin’s usurpation of power was the way history was supposed to go?
You are going to get in awful trouble for this, accused a voice in his head.
Noel hesitated a moment longer, but he hurt, and he was mad, and he was scared. Maybe the only way to get the Institute’s attention was to kick the time paradox principle to hell. Maybe then they’d think about rescuing him.
“All right,” he said. He tapped Theodore on the shoulder. “Come on. You’ve squeezed enough tears.”
Theodore’s chestnut head whipped up. “You think I am unmanly?”
“Where I come from we don’t cry over trouble. We do something about it.”
“Oh, brave words indeed,” said Theodore, mocking him. “Having refused my request, you now choose to criticize-”
“I’ll help,” said Noel.
“What?”
Noel wriggled a little, feeling uneasy, but determined to go through with his decision. “I said I’ll help. Briefly. If you think these Greeks are going to really believe I’m the prince, then I’ll go along for a while. But only a short while, understand?”
Theodore gripped his hand, a smile shining from his blue eyes. “Only until I make good my escape. You have my thanks, Noel of Kedran.” He glanced around swiftly to be certain they were unobserved, then shifted so that his back blocked the guard’s view of Noel. Drawing something from a pocket in his sleeve, he passed it to Noel. “Here. My seal of office. Guard it with your life.”
Uneasily Noel wondered what his impulsiveness had gotten him into. But he allowed Theodore to put the object in his hand. The seal was made of gold, and although small, it was quite heavy. He looked at the relief of a two-headed eagle and recognized it as the symbol of Imperial Byzantium. Tracing it with his finger, he shivered as a sense of history flowed from it into his flesh.
“I’ll keep it safe,” he said. “You have my word.”
Theodore smiled, his whole face lighting up with a charisma that made Noel wonder how he had managed to resist the man this long. “I have a plan,” said the prince in a low, eager voice. “It is a desperate one, full of risk, but with God’s help we shall make it work. Listen closely.”
Noel leaned toward him, but his attention was distracted by a horse and rider galloping into the camp and plunging to a halt in a dramatic swirl of dust.
Theodore turned to look also, and his face went pale.
“What is it?” asked Noel in alarm. “Who-”
“See the badge of the falcon on his left shoulder?” whispered Theodore in a hollow voice. “It is one of Sir Magnin’s men.”
A cheer rose from the gathering bandits, and Theodore’s shoulders dropped. “God help us all,” he said in despair. “He must have taken the castle.”
The other courtiers came running from the far end of the pen. “My lord!”
Quick as lightning, Theodore whirled to his feet. “Nicholas, all of you, heed me,” he said. ‘This is Noel of Kedran, a stranger who has agreed to join our cause-“
“But, my lord-”
“Silence! Listen well. We have little time,” said Theodore rapidly. “All of you must pretend that he is Prince Theodore of Albania.”
“But prithee, why?”
“He will explain it to you. The masquerade will free me from their attention and improve my chances of escape. As long as they consider me a servant, I hold little importance.”
“But his clothes-”
“A disguise. The Greeks have invented this intrigue themselves. We need only capitalize upon it. No argument! Play your parts well.”
Not giving them further chances to protest, Theodore swiftly tapped each man upon the shoulder as he made introductions. “Nicholas, my adviser of state. Stephen, my confessor. Thomas, my secretary. Guy, my gentleman in waiting.”
The introductions were too fast and too brief for Noel to assimilate well. They bowed in their turn to him, their faces closed with suspicion and reluctance. Adoring suppliants they were not.
It wasn’t going to work, thought Noel. Not in a million years.
“Theodore the Bold!” called an arrogant voice in French. “Stand forth from your men!”
Theodore milled with the others as they turned about. Of them all, only he sent one last beseeching look at Noel, who still sat upon the ground. The plumpish one called Thomas-already Noel had forgotten his job description-tugged unhappily upon Theodore’s sleeve and shook his head. His eyes looked at his master with open despair.
“What is this cowardice?” demanded that arrogant voice. “Stand forth and face us.”
Noel gulped in a deep breath and said, “Don’t just stand there gawking. Stephen, Noel, help me to my feet.”
The courtiers glanced down at him uncertainly, and their very bewilderment was perhaps the most convincing thing they could have done.
Theodore bent and helped Noel to his feet with a great display of solicitude. For an instant Noel was dizzy. He gripped Theodore’s forearm hard to hang on. Then the tilted world straightened for him and he looked ahead to the knight who stood with legs braced and arms akimbo. The sunshine gleamed off his mail coif, glittered upon the signs of cadetship on his collar, and reflected from the burnished steel breastplate of armor that he wore over his surcoat and mail. His helmet, fastened to the breastplate by a length of chain, dangled at his side. He wore long gauntlets upon his hands and plated greaves to protect his shins.
Noel realized he was seeing armor in a transitional phase between mail and the heavy steel plate that would mark the epoch of the medieval era. Trojan could tell him what every single bit and piece of it was called. But Trojan was not here.
Slowly, Noel walked forward, trying to keep himself steady on his feet. When he stepped into the sunshine, its brightness made him wince.
Whoever he was, the knight was no fool. Dark, close-set eyes shifted from Theodore to Noel and back to Theodore again. The man frowned, and Noel halted just short of the pole fence. Weeds and some kind of flowering vine had grown over it. Bees swarmed busily.
Noel met the knight’s suspicious gaze with all the arrogance he could muster. Without looking at Theodore, he waved him back. Theodore hesitated, then returned to the other courtiers.
“I am Theodore of Albania,” Noel said in a voice of cold indifference.
The knight burst out laughing. “You?” he gasped finally, wiping his eyes. “Demetrius, I protest this joke has gone too far. Who thought to set this ragamuffin before me and call him a prince?”
Noel’s face grew hot and he could hear a distant roaring in his ears, but he maintained his stony look. On a previous mission he had been privileged to actually stand in the same room as the Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius. At a party in his honor, the emperor had arrived already displeased over some matter of state. No entertainment pleased him. No conversation amused him. No flattery won a single smile from him. He had been chilly and distant, and by the time he left he had frightened his hosts half to death.
Now, Noel copied that behavior as closely as he could. He prayed he had enough acting ability to carry it off, or this was going to be his last role.
“No,” said the knight. “I do not believe it.”
Demetrius towered over the knight, his muscular arms bulging as he gestured. “Yani!” he shouted. “Over here. It is Yani’s idea. Don’t like it myself. Don’t believe it. Yani is always too clever.”
The redheaded youth who had brained Noel with his slingshot strode over. He was smiling with confidence. “Look at him,” he said. “No, really look.”
The knight glanced at Noel briefly and shrugged. “I see a scribe badly dressed, missing a shoe, without hose, his cloak stained with blood. You tell me this is a prince? What about those bejeweled peacocks behind him? What about the big one wearing the insignia of-”
“Anyone can don clothing,” said Yani. “Is it not said that Lord Theodore is a clever man? Why should he ride through hostile territory without resorting to disguise?”
“A cowardly trick.”
‘To a knight, perhaps.“ Yani shrugged. ”But to me, it says here is a clever man. He was the only survivor on the battlefield this morning. With luck he would have escaped entirely.“
Put that on my epitaph, thought Noel bleakly.
“And his speech,” said Yani. “It is peculiar. We can barely understand him, even when he speaks Frankish.”
“The others?”
“Polished, with fine airs. You know how professional courtiers are.”
“Yes, I do know,” said the knight with scorn. “What do you know of a court and its graces, bandit?”
Demetrius put his hand on his dagger with a growl.
Yani’s smile disappeared. “I know enough,” he said. “Explain to me a scribe found on a battlefield, without vellum or pens, a scribe who claims he has never heard of Theodore the Bold, a scribe who says he is journeying to Constantinople and is simply lost.”
“A fool’s tale!”
“That is what he told us.”
“He’s lying.”
“Exactly,” said Yani and shot Noel a glance of satisfaction. “He is too odd. Nothing about him makes any sense, except the explanation I have found. Talk to him yourself.”
“I shall.” The knight stepped closer to the fence, close enough for Noel to smell the unwashed sweat on him, close enough for Noel to see that he was hardly grown from boyhood. But his eyes were as old as these mountains. They bored into Noel. “Theodore of Albania?” he said sharply.
“Yes,” said Noel.
“You claim yourself as such?”
“Yes.”
“What proof have you?”
Noel did his best to stare right through the man. “My men.”
“Your men would lie like jackals. What else?”
“My word.”
“I spit on your word.”
Noel felt the heat rise in his face again. Behind him, the courtiers muttered angrily.
“Oh, come, sirrah!” said the knight with scorn. “Can you not think of another lie for me? I vow, you are a witty one, playing your master’s fool this way. But we’ll shave your tongue for the trouble, I promise you.”
He gripped his sword, which hung low in its scabbard.
Cursing himself for getting into this, Noel reached for the only thing he had left. All the men tensed, but he drew only the seal from his pocket. Demetrius and Yani relaxed, but the knight leaned forward like a hound who has suddenly sprung a scent.
“Hold!” he said sharply. “What is that?”
Noel held it aloft to make the sun flash from its sides. “My seal of office as duly appointed and rightful governor of this province. You are advised to surrender your arms and your lives to me, and reswear your allegiance to Byzantium. Otherwise, you are criminals, guilty of treason against the empire, and your lives are forfeit.”
The words rolled from him, making a heavy threat indeed in the ponderous phrases. The men stood frozen, and for a moment Noel thought he might actually pull it off.
Then the knight pushed back his coif, revealing a sweaty tangle of short-cropped hair, and laughed. “Well said, my lord! You almost made me fall on bended knee to you. But I serve a master who spits defiance at Byzantium, as do I.”
He extended his hand. “The seal, please.”
Noel did not have to turn his head to feel the tension emanating from the men at his back. He tucked the seal away swiftly and met the flare of anger in the knight’s eyes with more courage than he actually felt.
“I am sworn to die before I surrender that seal to unlawful hands,” he said. His gaze could not help but go to the knight’s sword. He wished he hadn’t mentioned death.
“Oh, you’ll surrender it, my lord,” said the knight. He awarded Noel a mocking bow. “I am convinced. But your trickery is over now. Yani, Demetrius, I have orders to bring Lord Theodore to Mistra. Sir Magnin wants to deal with him face-to-face.”
Both bandits set up an immediate protest. “Sir Magnin promised us part of the ransom-”
“And you’ll get it,” said the knight impatiently. “But he must be secured within the castle dungeons. Here, despite your certain diligence, it is too easy for him to escape. We cannot have him causing mischief in the countryside and undoing the alliances we wish to forge. Bring him forth.”
“No!” said Noel.
The knight’s mocking gaze slid to him. “No, Lord Theodore? Did I hear you say no?”
“My, er, men-”
The knight laughed and turned away with a gesture. “Bring him. Make sure he is bound securely and get him mounted.”
The bandits complied with a roughness that brought back Noel’s headache. He managed to glance back once where Theodore and the courtiers stood helplessly. Theodore’s face was filled with raw despair and frustration. Noel felt exactly the same way. So much for the plan, he thought with exasperation. If Theodore wanted to get inside the castle to rescue his lady love, he should have stayed away from trickery and scheming.
The dungeons… Noel knew about them. Trojan had recorded an entire torture session on the rack from the Spanish Inquisition. A cold shudder passed through Noel as he was lifted bodily and set upon a mule. All he had to do for this farce to end was to come face-to-face with Lady Sophia, who wouldn’t know him from Adam.
She was bound to give him away.
Sick, Noel didn’t want to think about what would happen next. It could get a lot worse.