Sean Dalton - Time trap

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 awhile 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 put down, 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 point 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-”

“Hold tongue, 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.