Time Trap

by Deborah Chester

  “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 a while 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 mercy killed, 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 p
oint 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—”

  “Be silent, 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 gladius.

  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.

  Chapter 12

  “Eeeraaagh!”

  From nowhere, a pike crashed between Noel and Sir Geoffrey with enough impetus to knock their crossed swords to the floor. Sparks flew from the scrape of steel against stone and set the rushes to smoldering.

  Sir Olin twisted the heavy pike and sent both swords skidding to the far corner, then stamped out the fire. “No one sheds blood in my hall!” he shouted, his face crimson beneath his white hair. “Hell’s teeth! Do I have to run you through to prove it?”

  “You disarmed me,” said Sir Geoffrey as though he could not believe what had happened. “I had engaged weapons and you disarmed me—”

  He reached for his dagger, but both Noel and Frederick held him back from Sir Olin.

  He struggled against them. “Let me go, you heathenish—”

  “Are you witless?” bellowed Sir Olin. “Have you taken complete leave of the few senses God gave you, monsieur? What do you mean by this conduct?”

  Still struggling, Sir Geoffrey ignored the old man. His eyes—dark with irrational fury—blazed into Noel’s. “Stay away from me, sorcerer. Play no games with my mind.”

  “I’m not a sorcerer, damn you. Stand still,” said Noel breathlessly.

  Sir Geoffrey strained for Noel’s throat, and only Frederick’s desperate grasp on his wrist held him. Little flecks of saliva flew from his lips. “Must kill you. Must make you pay for Elena—”

  “What?” said Noel. He gave Sir Geoffrey a shake. “What do you mean? Explain.”

  Sir Geoffrey growled something inarticulate and lunged at Noel, sending him staggering back despite Frederick’s efforts to hold him. Sir Olin waded in and seized Sir Geoffrey by the shoulder.

  “I’ll kill you,” said Sir Geoffrey, his eyes only for Noel. “I have sworn it. I’ll kill you.”

  The others pulled him off, and Noel frowned with growing concern. “Why?” he said. “Tell me! What’s happened to Elena?”

  Sir Geoffrey abruptly stopped struggling and became still. His face twisted into grief too raw to witness. “Do not mock me!”

  “I’m not mocking you,” said Noel. “If something has happened to Elena, I’d like to know what it is. She’s—”

  “You are surely damned for what you have done,” said Sir Geoffrey in an awful voice. “If God will not let me be the instrument that smites you from this world, I pray someone else will—”

  “Oh, be quiet,” said Noel, losing his temper. “For God’s sake, what am I supposed to have done to her? I give you my word, it’s a lie. I haven’t seen her since—”

  “The word of a consorter with demons is nothing but putrescence!”

  Noel punched him in the mouth, sending him reeling into the long table. Sir Geoffrey straightened slowly, his hand exploring his lip, which was already puffing up.

  “That’s enough from you, you damned coward,” said Noel furiously. “You stinking, dirty coward. Did you have to kill women and children? Did you have to slaughter all of them like dumb cattle? With their slingshots and bows, what match were they for trained knights in armor? Were you so afraid they might fight you with courage that you had to attack them under cover of darkness—”

  “What is this infamy?” said Sir Olin in astonishment. “Is this true?”

  “Were you afraid to let them see you?” said Noel, while Sir Geoffrey turned crimson. “Or were you ashamed—”

  “Enough!” cried Sir Geoffrey. “You goad me too far with these accusations—”

  “But they are true accusations,” said Noel. He longed to choke this self-righteous hypocrite by the throat, to dig his fingers into the resistance of flesh and cartilage, to will more strength into his fingers until they crushed air and life from the knight. Memories of the dead tribespeople flooded him, bringing back his sick disgust at such waste and brutality. “I helped bury those people. A whole camp attacked in their blankets and left to rot where they died.” He swung his glare to Sir Olin, who looked shocked. “These are the caliber of men Sir Magnin has collected about him. Do you want to be allied to baby killers?”

  “We killed no babes—” said Sir Geoffrey indignantly, then choked off the half admission. He dropped his gaze.

  “Mo
nsters,” whispered Sir Olin, and Frederick’s eyes were wide.

  “It is not so,” said Sir Geoffrey, but without conviction. “This creature twists the truth for his own—”

  “I counted the corpses,” said Noel hotly. “They are the truth. And with every rock I stacked over every mutilated body, I gave thanks that Elena was not among them. What happened to her? Didn’t you protect her while she was at Mistra? She asked you for the courtesy. Couldn’t you do even that? Or were you so busy murdering her brothers—”

  “No!” Sir Geoffrey slammed his fist upon the table. “I had no part in the attack on the Milengi. I spoke against it, but the orders were given. I could do no more.”

  “You spoke against it,” said Noel in a soft, mocking voice. “Do you think that absolves you from blame?” His question drove in like a sword thrust, and Sir Geoffrey flinched. “They told me to do it, so it’s not my fault? Oh, come! That excuse has never worked. Are you really that weak-­willed?”

  Sir Geoffrey went white to the lips. He lifted his fists. “You think you can bend words and make them serve you just as you bend people to your will. You accuse me of this villainy, but it is you who put the spell on Elena.”

  “I—”

  “Yes, you! Did you not escape the dungeons by supernatural means? Your cell door lifted off its hinges, your jailers mesmerized and unaware of your escape until it was too late? You spirited away Lady Sophia with the help of your demons and turned Elena into a mindless, speechless creature of pity, lacking any will of her own.”

  Noel frowned, bewildered. It sounded like shock trauma, and if Elena had seen the massacre of her family that might have put her into such a condition.

  Before he could speak, however, Sir Olin lowered his pike to a ready position. “We serve God in this house,” he said sharply. “All my household hears mass daily. There will be no witchcraft under my roof.”

  “Then drive him out swiftly,” said Sir Geoffrey, pointing his finger. “Let him not put his curse on you.”

  “Nonsense!” said Noel. “I don’t practice witchcraft, you idiot. The bolts and hinges were falling apart with rust. As for Lady Sophia, she showed me a secret passageway from Mistra—a passageway, I might add, that Sir Magnin would pay dearly to find since it also leads to a fabulous treasury.”