Sean Dalton - Time trap

Halfway up the hill, the chaotic clusters of houses and shops perched on every available bit of building space stopped at the base of another wall. Guards admitted them through a set of gates, and they rode through another tunnel into the spacious palace complex. No cramped round donjon here; instead, a rectangular palace of three or four stories formed a great L with numerous small outbuildings and miniature wings spreading out from it in a clutter of barracks, kennels, stables, kitchens, storehouses, armory, and the like.

The thing that struck Noel first and most unpleasantly was the noise. The greatest racket of off-key singing voices, raucous laughter, women shrieking jests and catcalls, babies crying, children calling out with shrill voices, geese honking in offense, cart wheels clattering upon the cobblestones, the rhythmic clanging of hammer upon anvil, a fistfight going on in the stableyard with cheers of encouragement from the watching crowd, fighting cocks screaming challenges at each other, dogs barking in an eager chorus for their supper, the creaking groan of the well pulley, doors and gates opening and slamming, a shoat destined for the butcher’s knife squealing in its pen… in short, the normal bustle of castle life beat upon Noel’s hearing and intensified his headache.

Torchlight blazed everywhere, and upon the battlements sentries paced slow and steadily. At the corners they called out, “All’s well,” and paced back. In spite of all the activity, a crowd of onlookers, chiefly knights from their surcoats and mail, gathered in the yard to watch a flogging.

When Noel was led up, the flogging had obviously been going on for some time. The man being punished was tied by the wrists and ankles to iron rings set in two massive square posts. He was bare to the waist, and his back was a bloody mess of raw welts. If he had not already lost consciousness, he was close to it. He sagged limply, held up only by his bonds. The whip whistled through the air and cracked across his back. He jerked and screamed aloud.

‘Thirty-nine!“ shouted the crowd in unison.

Many of them held huge tankards; their faces were shiny from sweat, excitement, and the effects of the ale. They slapped each other on the shoulder as though the gruesome spectacle they witnessed was a fine thing indeed, and called out encouragement to the man executing the punishment.

Elena squeezed Noel’s foot, although this time it was plainly unintentional. She stared at the man, her face rapt, her eyes sparkling with the full gamut of her emotions. Just looking at her in that unguarded moment, with all her youth and vitality ablaze in the first headlong rush of infatuation, made Noel feel a hundred years old. He remembered his own first love, how unequal it was, how blissful at first, how humiliating at the end. He wanted to take Elena by the shoulders and shake some sense into her, but he knew she’d never listen. She couldn’t.

The whip struck again.

“Forty!” shouted the knights.

It had to be Sir Magnin who was wielding the whip. Noel studied him while he had the chance.

Sir Magnin Phrangopoulos loomed at least a head taller than every other man present. Stripped to the waist, with only his hose on, a servant standing nearby with his shirt and tunic, Sir Magnin was magnificently proportioned with a tapering waist ridged and corrugated with hard muscle, a deep chest, broad shoulders, and a set of biceps that bulged and rippled effortlessly beneath skin like bronzed satin. The veins stood up all over him like taut horseflesh. With every crack of the whip, he put his full strength behind the blow, yet displayed a grace of form that made the other men around him appear to be clumsy, lumbering oafs.

His face was wide and sensual, with a large nose, full lips, and a deep cleft in his chin. His eyebrows were black and straight, slashing across his face above eyes like gleaming obsidian. He wore his ebony hair long. It swung chin-length in a straight bob. Heavy bangs fell across his brow in a style more Renaissance than medieval.

“Forty-three!”

He grinned, revealing large white teeth, and swung twice more in swift succession, giving the prisoner insufficient time between the two blows to catch enough breath to scream again. Then it was done. Coiling the bloody whip, Sir Magnin tossed it at a nearby varlet and swept the perspiration from his face with both hands.

“Take him down,” he said. His voice was deep and rich. It flowed with confidence.

Why not? thought Noel. He’d just captured this castle and the province it represented for his own.

Sir Geoffrey stepped forward. “I have brought the prisoner, my liege.”

Sir Magnin whirled like a dancer, panther quick, and regarded Sir Geoffrey with his intense black eyes. Beside Noel, Elena trembled visibly, still enrapt. She was panting as though she had run down the mountain. Noel put his pity aside. She was as vital and as physical as Sir Magnin. It was inevitable she be attracted to him.

Sir Magnin’s gaze shifted to Noel, who promptly forgot all about Elena and her fantasies. He was taken down from the horse. The ground tilted beneath him enough to make him stagger. He dragged in a swift breath to keep himself quiet.

“What ails him?” demanded Sir Magnin, striding forward. He grasped Noel’s chin with powerful fingers still slick with sweat and blood, and forced Noel to look at him. A varlet scurried forward with a torch. Sir Magnin’s eyes flew wide. He stared at Noel as though looking upon an apparition.

“What trickery is this?” he whispered.

Noel’s blood ran cold. So this was the end of his game. He imagined himself trussed to those posts and the whip whistling against his back.

“You look exactly like-” Sir Magnin cut himself short and frowned, his eyes boring into Noel as though to pry the deepest secrets from him. “Hmm,” he said at last. “No, I think not. Not quite, yet this is most peculiar.”

“What is it?” said Sir Geoffrey in bewilderment. “Do you say this is not Lord Theodore? The Byzantines did their best to conceal him by putting him in this coarse garb. Another even pretended to be him for a time. But we figured out the ruse. He carries the seal of office-”

“Does he?” Sir Magnin smiled, his good humor restored as though he had drawn on gloves to mask his claws. “Harlan, regard him and tell me if you are not astonished at the likeness.”

The elderly man in clerical black, the one who had ridden ahead of Lady Sophia a short time ago, shuffled forward with his chain of office gleaming across his chest. He put his skull-like face in Noel’s and peered at him. He reeked of camphor and pennywort.

“Indeed, it is most uncommon.”

“Look,” said Noel rather desperately as their faces began to spin around him. “This is the second time I have been mistaken for someone else. I don’t-”

“Injured,” said Sir Magnin. His gaze stabbed to Sir Geoffrey. “How? In last night’s battle?”

“No,” said Sir Geoffrey and explained in a low voice.

Sir Magnin’s laugh rang out across the courtyard. “Jumped his mule into the ravine, by hell and divinity! Did you think God would let you fly, Lord Theodore? Ho, I have not heard such a jest in weeks! You must have more courage than good sense, my lord. Is it true, what he says?”

Noel managed to pull himself together. “Yes, it is true,” he said quietly.

Sir Magnin’s wide mouth spread in a grin that sent a chill coursing through Noel. There was a rapaciousness to his expression, a ruthlessness radiating from him, even in laughter, that betrayed what manner of man he was beneath the finery and the good looks. Noel did not want to be this man’s enemy.

“I like the sound of this,” said Sir Magnin. “So you are a brave and clever man, are you? I will hear this tale. But not here and now. Get him cleaned up, Sir Geoffrey. We are not uncivilized. We can afford to be gracious to those whom we have defeated. Bring him to my table tonight.”