“Enough!” shouted Sir Magnin.
“You are a dastardly coward without honor, a man who stabs in the back, a man who must wait until darkness to attack his enemy. Can’t you face me man to man, in the open, for all to see?”
“By God, I shall,” said Sir Magnin forcefully. “I vow you’ll regret those charges when I ram them down your throat.”
Noel barely listened. His attention was on Leon, searching for the LOC. But other than a huge silver cross slung around his neck, Leon wore no other visible jewelry. Disappointment surged through Noel. Where had Leon hidden it? It was all Noel could do to keep himself from jumping off his horse and shaking the answer from his double.
“I’ll teach you what honor is,” Sir Magnin went on. “I’ll show you who is-”
“On the field, sir,” said Noel.
‘This instant.“ Sir Magnin pushed his councillors aside. ”Stand back. Stop gibbering among yourselves, and send for my squires and my horse! Move!“
“Wait, excellency,” said Leon. “He is not-”
Sir Magnin’s hand shoved him hard, and Leon went sprawling into the laps of several onlookers. “Out of my way, you mewling wretch! I’ve heard enough drivel about witchcraft and portents. Where are my arms?”
Ignored by Sir Magnin, who strode off the stands, still shouting orders, Leon picked himself up and shot Noel a look of pure malice before merging with the excited crowd. Noel forgot all his good intentions and swung himself from the saddle, intending to go after him.
Frederick, however, appeared as though from nowhere and caught Noel before his foot touched the ground.
“ Nom de Dieu, what are you doing?” he demanded. “Running away, now that you’ve baited him like a gadfly on the nose of a bull? He will kill you sure.”
Noel kicked, trying to free his ankle from Frederick’s grasp. The destrier sidled, snorting, and Noel had to climb back into the saddle. “He’s getting away,” said Noel in pure frustration. “While I’m stuck with this damned joust, he has plenty of time to leave town.”
“Soft,” said Frederick, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one overhead them. “You have begun this. You cannot stop it now. I shall go after this thieving twin of yours-”
Gratitude surged through Noel, making him feel lightheaded. He bent over, although it made him dizzy, and gripped Frederick’s shoulder. “Then do it! After him now, before he gets away. You’ve got to get my bracelet back.”
“Yes, yes. I do not understand its importance, but I shall do my best.”
Noel’s gaze bored into his through the visor. He had to make Frederick see how vital it was. But how? The inability to explain frustrated him. He gestured. “Go then. Just go!”
Frederick gripped his stirrup and gazed up at him with open worry. “God strengthen you in this contest. Do not fail us now. We have risked all on this gamble.”
“I know,” said Noel impatiently.
Frederick stepped away and gestured to the other squire, blond-headed and middle-aged, his weathered face set with stoic resignation. “See to his needs, Tobin.”
“Aye, Master Frederick.” Tobin spat on the ground and led Noel’s mount to the far end of the field. “Ain’t right to send the boy off alone into that crowd,” he commented when they were apart from anyone who could overhear. “Magnin’s brutes know whose side the d’Angeliers are on. They be spoiling for a chance to catch us in the wrong.”
“Frederick can take care of himself,” said Noel. He flipped up his visor and wiped his face, ignoring Tobin’s alarmed protest. Snapping down the visor, Noel said, “Some water, please.”
‘The hell you’ll drink any,“ said Tobin in outrage. ”Lady Cleope said you were to eat and drink nothing. It will dilute the-“
“And what do you know about that?”
“Master Frederick gave me full instructions.”
Noel glared at him, but the man looked stubborn. “The potion is holding fine-”
“Hush, sir, I pray you!” Tobin glanced about fearfully. “Let us have less talk of potions if you please. Do you want the lady burned at the stake?”
“No,” said Noel, chastened.
“I should think not. Lady of mercy, do watch what you say. And nothing to drink.”
“I’m thirsty,” said Noel.
“Suck on your own spit, then.”
A fanfare of trumpets kept Noel from retorting. He saw Sir Magnin coming onto the field on a jet-black charger, a white saddlecloth embellished with scarlet falcon heads flowing to the horse’s knees. The cloth was whipped aside to reveal heavily embossed bardings, including a fanciful chanfron fitted with a mock unicorn spike. Sir Magnin himself also wore white and red, the same falcon heads represented upon his surcoat and shield. A red pennon fluttered from his lance. Long plumage flowed from his helmet, and sunlight glittered upon his steel breastplate and knee cobs.
The herald rode into the center of the field, and the red-cloaked judges took their places at each corner.
“Challenge has been made and accepted for the right to rule this province,” bellowed the herald. His voice carried plainly through the sudden silence. “This will be a full passage of arms, with the lance, the ax, and the dagger.” He hesitated a moment, and Noel saw Sir Magnin speak to him. “This contest is to the death. God’s hand be upon you both.”
A murmur went through the crowd. Noel swallowed hard and blinked fresh perspiration from his eyes. Adrenaline coursed through him like racing oil. He had to admit he was scared. He didn’t want to die with a pole run through his guts. Trojan had shown him how to hold a lance one day when they were horsing around on the training grounds. In return Noel had taught him how to drive a chariot. He wished he were driving a chariot now, in a circus, with the crowds cheering for blood. That, at least, was familiar.
The herald went on with a fresh speech, outlining rules of combat and chivalry. Perhaps chivalry also demanded that Noel and Sir Magnin meet halfway and shake hands, but they didn’t. Even across the field he could feel Sir Magnin’s rage blazing at him.
He knew he had to keep Sir Magnin’s fury hot to the point of recklessness, to the point of mistakes. That was his only chance against the man’s superior skill.
Tobin handed him a lance. The yellow and black pennon flapped across Noel’s helmet, momentarily blinding him until Noel jerked it free. He fumbled to get a grip behind the vamplate, cursing the mail mittens, and managed to jab his horse’s side with the butt end. The destrier shied, nearly stepping on Tobin, and Noel almost dropped the lance altogether in an effort to maintain control.
Some onlookers laughed; others jeered loudly. Tobin calmed the destrier; Noel’s face flamed inside his helmet. He felt like an idiot. He was certain he looked like one.
On the field Sir Magnin rubbed it in. With his lance held straight up, he cantered across the field, then put his horse through several stylish dressage maneuvers. The crowd cheered.
“Show-off,” muttered Noel. But having Sir Magnin overconfident was almost as good as having him angry.
Noel deliberately fumbled more with his lance and nearly impaled Tobin in the process.
The man angrily slapped it away. “Watch your point!”
More people laughed. “Drunkard’s courage. Look at him!” called one.
Noel started the destrier forward, but Tobin caught the reins.
“Settle deeper in the saddle, but keep your feet loose in the stirrups. Else, you’ll be dragged when you go off.”
“Who said I’m going off?” retorted Noel.
Tobin’s cynical eyes never wavered. “See his breastplate? It’s got a lance rest to fit the grapper to. It makes the whole breastplate take the shock, and not just his arm. You brace the end against your side; that’ll give you firmer balance, see?”
Noel nodded, and Tobin sprang away. The destrier lunged forward with his armored nose outstretched eagerly. He swung around the end of the tiltyard so sharply Noel nearly tumbled from the saddle. He was having trouble compensating for the weight and length of the, thirteen-foot lance. It was constructed of ash; the wood was not heavy, but balancing it was difficult. The crowd jeered him again, hooting insults freely.