Time Trap

by Deborah Chester

  “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’m 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 1.667-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 perhaps overrun the Time Institute and destroyed the equipment; maybe a traitor had infiltrated the labs, sabotaging not only Noel’s LOC but others as well; the time computer could have 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 dwarves 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 knave 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?”