Sean Dalton - Time trap

“He will sleep soon,” she said. “You do what you must. He is safe here.”

“Yes, I suppose.” Frederick rose to his feet with a faint scuffing of his cloth shoes upon the flagstones. “You,” he said to one of the servants, “have my horse saddled. Nom de Dieu, but this is a bad business. Everything has gone wrong-”

“Master!” shouted a voice. “Master!”

Noel heard footsteps pattering across the stone paving and dragged open his eyes.

A man in d’Angelier livery ran to Frederick and bowed hastily. He was coated with road dust and breathing heavily-

“How the devil did you find me here?” demanded Frederick, plainly aghast. “Were you followed through the streets? Did you take care? God’s wounds, if you have given us away-”

“Sir.” Kneeling, the man gripped the hem of Frederick’s tunic. “Tobin brought me from your tent to this abode. He twisted and turned us about through so many streets, I know not where I be now, but I beg you will listen to the message I bring.”

“From my father? Speak it quickly.”

The man rose to his feet and pressed close to Frederick’s ear, murmuring too low for anyone else to hear. Frederick’s face grew long with dismay and worry. Watching, Noel felt weariness seep through his bones. Something must have befallen Sir Olin and Theodore. So much for his plan to save the world. Now what was he to do?

Noel reached out and tugged a fold of Cleope’s long saffron gown to get her attention. She turned at once, although her gaze lingered on Frederick.

“You must sleep,” she said automatically. “All will be well.”

“All isn’t well, and it’s getting worse.” Noel propped himself up on his good elbow with a wince. “Frederick?”

But Frederick walked from the garden without looking back.

“Frederick, wait! What’s-oh, hell.” Noel gestured at Cleope. “Find out what’s happened.”

She gathered up her long skirts and scurried after Frederick. By the time she returned, Noel had managed to sit up and swing his legs over the edge of the cot. He rested, clutching his blanket to his waist, and cursed his weakness.

“What?” he demanded.

She was crying and twisting her sleeve into a pleat. “My lady is-” A sob burst from her and she buried her face in her hands.

Noel curbed his impatience and gently pulled her hands down. “Go on. Is she dead?”

“No.” Cleope sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Injured. She was arguing with Lord Theodore and tried to gallop away from him. Her horse fell with her on the trail. She needs me now. I must go and tend her, but Frederick will not take me.”

“You’re needed here.”

“She has bones broken. She could die!”

“Cleope,” said Noel savagely, “there’s more at stake here than a broken arm or leg. Is Theodore coming?”

“No. Frederick’s messenger says they have turned back. Lord Theodore refuses to leave my lady’s side. He is a good man, a true-”

“He’s a romantic idiot,” said Noel, then saw the shock on Cleope’s face and relented. “All right. He’s very noble, I’m sure. But he’s needed here. He must challenge Sir Magnin and win today or-”

“Well, if a stupid joust is all you can think about at a time like this-”

“For God’s sake, woman! I am trying to…” Noel found himself suddenly short of breath. He blinked and passed his hand across his face.

‘Too much excitement,“ she said. ”Now will you listen to reason and rest?“

“No,” said Noel. “Where does Frederick think he is going? I need him here until we have finished this. Stop him, Cleope. Tell him to come back.”

She looked doubtful. “Will you lie down until I return?”

He sent her a wan smile. “I promise.”

“Then I shall go.”

“One other thing.”

“Yes?”

“You must make a potion for me. Something powerful that will give me energy and mask the pain.”

She started to protest, but he gripped her hand.

“Please,” he said. “It’s important.”

“It’s foolish! My remedies are not for misuse.”

“In times of emergency the rules change.”

She frowned, horrified. “That is blasphemy. We must live according to the order we are taught by church and state.”

“It’s expediency. Look, we’ll settle this in a few minutes. Just go after Frederick before he leaves. I can’t do this without his help.”

“What is it that you have in mind?” she asked suspiciously. “What is it that you plan to do?”

“I’ll tell you when Frederick gets here.”

She continued to frown at him while he adjusted the blanket and laid down. He was thirsty again. The sun hurt his eyes. He wanted to sleep for a hundred years. When she still stood rooted in place, however, he lifted his head.

“Cleope, go! Don’t let him leave. Tell him anything. Tell him I am worse and calling for him. Do anything, say anything, but bring him back with you.”

She took one step away and glanced back. Her brow was knotted with worry. “Whatever you are planning, it will get you killed.”

She was right, but he wasn’t going to let himself think about how crazy and desperate his plan was.

“That’s my problem,” he said impatiently. “Go!”

Shaking her head, Cleope hurried from the garden and vanished from sight into the house.

If chain mail was this heavy, Noel wondered how men could endure wearing the suits of massive plate armor that would come into vogue within the next few decades. The clinging drape of the finely linked chains irritated him. He found the shirt too long and the leggings too short. The latter were held up by a pair of primitive garters that made him feel he might lose them at any moment. When Frederick pulled the mail mittens over his hands, Noel felt completely helpless, like a four-year-old bundled into a snowsuit.

“How can I hold a weapon without my fingers free?” he asked.

Frederick knelt to fasten the steel greaves to his shins and did not answer.

The argument was long since over, and although Noel had won it, Frederick still disapproved.

“It’s wrong,” he muttered, fastening the other greave. His words were muffled against Noel’s leg as he fitted on a pair of knee cops.

“What’s wrong?”

“You know.”

A sullen Frederick was less than desirable company. Noel was having enough trouble with his own flagging courage without having to boost Frederick’s morale.

“Stop sulking,” said Noel. “We’ve settled this already.”

“You should not compete. You are not a knight, and it is wrong to pretend. Deceit is the first step toward damnation. Even if you win, it will invalidate the-”

“I can’t worry about that now,” said Noel. He reached for the collar.

Frederick sprang up. “The breastplate first. Just wait for me to do it.”

He buckled on the front and back halves of the steel corselet. Noel felt pressure on his wounded shoulder and sucked in his breath sharply.

‘Too tight?“ asked Frederick.

“Yes.”

“I told you this would not work. The plate has to be snug or a lance can catch it and rip it from your body. Why will you not let me-”

“No,” said Noel. “You can’t participate-”

“I know more about fighting than you!” said Frederick hotly. “I shall probably be knighted by Michaelmas.”

“Fine. In the meantime, no glory for you. Don’t argue, Frederick. It’s not to be, and that’s final. I can’t explain.”

Frederick hesitated, then lifted the collar bearing Theodore’s coat of arms-hastily painted by the armorer at Sir Olin’s castle. Everything was borrowed piecemeal since Theodore’s own resplendent armor had been lost in the initial ambush. Noel didn’t like his colors of yellow and black. He felt like a bumblebee once he put on the long surcoat. The ends flapping about his ankles made him feel ridiculous. Frederick snapped the helmet to the chain on the breastplate and knelt to buckle spurs on Noel’s feet.