Sean Dalton - Time trap

“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.”