signs of cadetship on his collar, and reflected from the burnished steel breastplate of armor that he wore over his surcoat and mail. His helmet, fastened to the breastplate by a length of chain, dangled at his side. He wore long gauntlets upon his hands and plated greaves to protect his shins.
Noel realized he was seeing armor in a transitional phase between mail and the heavy steel plate that would mark the epoch of the medieval era. Trojan could tell him what every single bit and piece of it was called. But Trojan was not here.
Slowly, Noel walked forward, trying to keep himself steady on his feet. When he stepped into the sunshine, its brightness made him wince.
Whoever he was, the knight was no fool. Dark, close-set eyes shifted from Theodore to Noel and back to Theodore again. The man frowned, and Noel halted just short of the pole fence. Weeds and some kind of flowering vine had grown over it. Bees swarmed busily.
Noel met the knight’s suspicious gaze with all the arrogance he could muster. Without looking at Theodore, he waved him back. Theodore hesitated, then returned to the other courtiers.
“I am Theodore of Albania,” Noel said in a voice of cold indifference.
The knight burst out laughing. “You?” he gasped finally, wiping his eyes. “Demetrius, I protest this joke has gone too far. Who thought to set this ragamuffin before me and call him a prince?”
Noel’s face grew hot and he could hear a distant roaring in his ears, but he maintained his stony look. On a previous mission he had been privileged to actually stand in the same room as the Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius. At a party in his honor, the emperor had arrived already displeased over some matter of state. No entertainment pleased him. No conversation amused him. No flattery won a single smile from him. He had been chilly and distant, and by the time he left he had frightened his hosts half to death.
Now, Noel copied that behavior as closely as he could. He prayed he had enough acting ability to carry it off, or this was going to be his last role.
“No,” said the knight. “I do not believe it.”
Demetrius towered over the knight, his muscular arms bulging as he gestured. “Yani!” he shouted. “Over here. It is Yani’s idea. Don’t like it myself. Don’t believe it. Yani is always too clever.”
The redheaded youth who had brained Noel with his slingshot strode over. He was smiling with confidence. “Look at him,” he said. “No, really look.”
The knight glanced at Noel briefly and shrugged. “I see a scribe badly dressed, missing a shoe, without hose, his cloak stained with blood. You tell me this is a prince? What about those bejeweled peacocks behind him? What about the big one wearing the insignia of-”
“Anyone can don clothing,” said Yani. “Is it not said that Lord Theodore is a clever man? Why should he ride through hostile territory without resorting to disguise?”
“A cowardly trick.”
‘To a knight, perhaps.“ Yani shrugged. ”But to me, it says here is a clever man. He was the only survivor on the battlefield this morning. With luck he would have escaped entirely.“
Put that on my epitaph, thought Noel bleakly.
“And his speech,” said Yani. “It is peculiar. We can barely understand him, even when he speaks Frankish.”
“The others?”
“Polished, with fine airs. You know how professional courtiers are.”
“Yes, I do know,” said the knight with scorn. “What do you know of a court and its graces, bandit?”
Demetrius put his hand on his dagger with a growl.
Yani’s smile disappeared. “I know enough,” he said. “Explain to me a scribe found on a battlefield, without vellum or pens, a scribe who claims he has never heard of Theodore the Bold, a scribe who says he is journeying to Constantinople and is simply lost.”
“A fool’s tale!”
“That is what he told us.”
“He’s lying.”
“Exactly,” said Yani and shot Noel a glance of satisfaction. “He is too odd. Nothing about him makes any sense, except the explanation I have found. Talk to him yourself.”
“I shall.” The knight stepped closer to the fence, close enough for Noel to smell the unwashed sweat on him, close enough for Noel to see that he was hardly grown from boyhood. But his eyes were as old as these mountains. They bored into Noel. “Theodore of Albania?” he said sharply.
“Yes,” said Noel.
“You claim yourself as such?”
“Yes.”
“What proof have you?”
Noel did his best to stare right through the man. “My men.”
“Your men would lie like jackals. What else?”
“My word.”
“I spit on your word.”
Noel felt the heat rise in his face again. Behind him, the courtiers muttered angrily.
“Oh, come, sirrah!” said the knight with scorn. “Can you not think of another lie for me? I vow, you are a witty one, playing your master’s fool this way. But we’ll shave your tongue for the trouble, I promise you.”
He gripped his sword, which hung low in its scabbard.
Cursing himself for getting into this, Noel reached for the only thing he had left. All the men tensed, but he drew only the seal from his pocket. Demetrius and Yani relaxed, but the knight leaned forward like a hound who has suddenly sprung a scent.
“Hold!” he said sharply. “What is that?”
Noel held it aloft to make the sun flash from its sides. “My seal of office as duly appointed and rightful governor of this province. You are advised to surrender your arms and your lives to me, and reswear your allegiance to Byzantium. Otherwise, you are criminals, guilty of treason against the empire, and your lives are forfeit.”
The words rolled from him, making a heavy threat indeed in the ponderous phrases. The men stood frozen, and for a moment Noel thought he might actually pull it off.
Then the knight pushed back his coif, revealing a sweaty tangle of short-cropped hair, and laughed. “Well said, my lord! You almost made me fall on bended knee to you. But I serve a master who spits defiance at Byzantium, as do I.”
He extended his hand. “The seal, please.”
Noel did not have to turn his head to feel the tension emanating from the men at his back. He tucked the seal away swiftly and met the flare of anger in the knight’s eyes with more courage than he actually felt.
“I am sworn to die before I surrender that seal to unlawful hands,” he said. His gaze could not help but go to the knight’s sword. He wished he hadn’t mentioned death.
“Oh, you’ll surrender it, my lord,” said the knight. He awarded Noel a mocking bow. “I am convinced. But your trickery is over now. Yani, Demetrius, I have orders to bring Lord Theodore to Mistra. Sir Magnin wants to deal with him face-to-face.”
Both bandits set up an immediate protest. “Sir Magnin promised us part of the ransom-”
“And you’ll get it,” said the knight impatiently. “But he must be secured within the castle dungeons. Here, despite your certain diligence, it is too easy for him to escape. We cannot have him causing mischief in the countryside and undoing the alliances we wish to forge. Bring him forth.”
“No!” said Noel.
The knight’s mocking gaze slid to him. “No, Lord Theodore? Did I hear you say no?”
“My, er, men-”
The knight laughed and turned away with a gesture. “Bring him. Make sure he is bound securely and get him mounted.”
The bandits complied with a roughness that brought back Noel’s headache. He managed to glance back once where Theodore and the courtiers stood helplessly. Theodore’s face was filled with raw despair and frustration. Noel felt exactly the same way. So much for the plan, he thought with exasperation. If Theodore wanted to get inside the castle to rescue his lady love, he should have stayed away from trickery and scheming.
