Noel closed his eyes a moment and counted to three. Blowing out a breath, he forced himself to adopt a conciliatory tone. “Sorry. I don’t mean to yell at you, but if I’m recognized here it’s-”
“You need not worry,” said Frederick. “I am keeping sharp watch for Sir Geoffrey although there is no sign of his self-righteous face yet. Perhaps he’s too pious to leave his prie-dieu at night and come down to the fair among the common folk.”
In the face of the boy’s ready optimism it seemed pointless to remind Frederick that Sir Geoffrey was not the only enemy.
Leon walked these streets as well. Noel couldn’t tell if he actually sensed his duplicate’s nearness or if it was just his imagination working overtime. But he dreaded meeting his twin again with an intensity that increased with every forward step of his horse.
Torches set on tall poles or in sconces bolted to the walls of houses kept the labyrinth of streets lit with a ruddy, surrealistic glow. Figures streamed from shadow into the irregular pools of light, only to vanish again. Faces, concealed by hoods and mail coifs, were only shadowed blurs. The pageant of heraldry, men and women in festive garments, jewels glittering from collar chains and fingers, silver trappings on horse bridles, the constant jingle of spurs, the mingled stench of horses, gutter dung, and pomanders filled Noel’s senses. In other circumstances he would have drunk it all in like wine.
At the moment, however, he felt detached and far away as though he floated through their midst without substance. The old worry surged back, filling his throat, and he clamped his free hand over his bracelet to calm himself. He badly needed to consult his LOC for reassurance. With only twenty-four hours remaining until his time ran out, he still didn’t know whether he could set everything right. Even if he succeeded, he wasn’t certain the safety-chain feature would work. Only one traveler had ever experienced it.
Tolence O’Brien had been observing the Battle of Waterloo and making splendid recordings of the event when he was struck by a stray cannonball. Delirious in a field hospital, the screams of wounded men around him, filthy overworked doctors who had no awareness of germs or how infections were spread bleeding him regularly, Tolence had crawled from his filthy cot and searched the jumble of personal effects in the surgeon’s desk until he found his LOC. The safety chain had snapped him home as soon as he held his LOC in his hand.
He later described the experience as madness, as being jerked backward through a tunnel where everything else hurtled in the opposite direction. When he returned in one piece, intact, and finished his debriefing, Tolence O’Brien resigned.
“Wise man,” muttered Noel aloud. “But it couldn’t be worse than how I got here.”
“You said something?‘ asked Frederick.
Noel shook his head. He had to stop talking to himself, or the d’Angeliers were going to think he was nuts.
Although the tournament field had been set up across the river in the valley, the competitors pitched their tents within the secure walls of Mistra. To Noel, it felt more like a trap than a place of safety. He and Frederick followed another knight’s entourage along a short lane to a rocky space where tents stood precariously upon every available foothold.
Frederick nudged Noel in the ribs. “We shall sleep vertically tonight.”
Noel could not bring himself to smile at the joke. “Looks that way.”
He glanced ahead, where a guard in Sir Magnin’s livery was questioning the knight in line before them. The handful of d’Angelier knights behind Noel fidgeted and talked among themselves. They were along to spread word among the competitors that Lord Theodore was free. Tired mounts pawed restlessly, eager to be stabled for the night and fed.
The dread in Noel resurfaced. He glanced around, wondering if he dared slip off between the walls of the last house and the tent enclosure.
A squire walked by, water pails sloshing from each hand. He was puffing audibly. The guard did not even glance at him.
That’s it, thought Noel. Carry a bucket and you can go anywhere.
He shifted in his saddle, loosening his right foot in the stirrup so he could swing down. His muscles-unused after seven months’ layoff to spending long hours in the saddle-protested with enough soreness to make him wince.
“Ride on!” said the guard.
The entourage of destriers and baggage mules ahead moved on, and Noel’s chance to slip away went with them.
“Damn,” he breathed. His fingers tightened on the reins, and his horse tossed its head restively.
“Do not fear,” said Frederick as they approached the guard. “Father coached me in what to say.”
Noel felt no reassurance. He pulled his cloak hood forward to cast his face in shadow and halted his mount where the guard’s torchlight came no farther than his hands and forearms.
“I am Frederick d’Angelier. With me are knights under fealty oath to my father’s service, their horses, and servants. We come ahead of my father, Sir Olin, who will arrive tomorrow for the competition.”
The guard said something to a scrawny boy in a herald’s tabard. The herald consulted a list on parchment and made several rapid notations. Noel watched without blinking until his eyes felt on fire. He dared not breathe.
The guard laughed. “Your father is getting too old for jousting. Why don’t you take his place in the lists and give the crowd a better spectacle?”
“Ride on!” said the guard and slapped the flank of Noel’s mount to jolt it forward. “Go to the left and set your camp there.” He pointed vaguely at the darkness.
The d’Angelier train trotted into the tent enclosure, where all was purposeful bustle as knights and their squires made ready for tomorrow’s contest.
“Impudent lackey,” said Frederick, fuming. “As soon as I receive my spurs, I shall represent my family, but Father is not too old. He could outride that-”
“Easy,” said Noel, aware of the silence falling ahead of them like a carpet unrolling. Squires looked up from polishing weapons. Grooms paused in brushing horses. Knights in long surcoats who stood in companionable clusters glanced up, and those at the chessboard stopped their play. Noel’s instincts went on alert.
“I don’t like this,” he said softly.
Frederick’s eyes were wide, but he kept his head high. His hand went to the hilt of his sword. “If they want trouble, I vow they will have it.”
“Keep your head,” said Noel harshly. He glanced back at the other knights and saw they were looking somber and watchful.
“D’Angelier,” called a man in a blue surcoat embellished with brown chevrons, “you travel light this year. Is that your sorcerer with you?”
A sense of cold dismay crawled straight to Noel’s bones. He shot a grim look in Frederick’s direction and saw anger and worry mingled in the boy’s expression. Noel swallowed. During the council of war in Sir Olin’s chambers, they had argued over whether Frederick could handle this situation. Sir Olin and Noel had said yes, and Lord Theodore had said no. At the moment it looked like Theodore might be proven right.
“I keep no sorcerer for a pet, Mathieu Phrangopoulos,” said Frederick. His voice rang out too loudly perhaps and held a hint of a quaver, but it was stronger than Noel expected. “I trust in God, rather than my horoscope.”
Some of the onlookers chuckled, and the tension loosened noticeably. Noel realized Frederick referred to an inside joke at this knight’s expense. It was gutsy of the kid. Noel smiled to himself.
“No,” said Sir Mathieu, swaggering forward. He was a thin whippet of a man, bearded, with intense dark eyes. ‘Talk says that your father has fallen under a spell. He does not travel with you tonight, boy. Is Sir Olin indisposed?“
“He is well,” retorted Frederick. “He arrives tomorrow with the rest of his train, and you may tell your brother so.”
The knights laughed loudly at this, and one said, “The banty has fire. Hell’s teeth, he ought to join the lists.”