Geoffrey and these other knights wore led the group. They were followed by a thin, elderly man in black cloak and tunic, a close-fitting cap of black tied over his skull and a cap worn upon that. His collar was made of fox fur, and he wore a heavy chain of office. His features were all bone and angle, the parchment-pale skin withered to nothing. His mouth was merely a slash set hard beneath a hooked nose. Jutting gray eyebrows concealed his eyes. He pretended to look only straight ahead, but Noel saw a glint of white as his eyes darted here and there.
Behind this official pranced a white Arabian mare that looked almost ghostly in the twilight. Her gliding stride made her seem to float above the ground. Pages dressed in particolored hose and red livery ran alongside the retinue with flaming torches borne aloft in their hands. The lady riding the white horse was too beautiful and too richly dressed to be anyone other than Sophia, destined bride of Lord Theodore.
She was very fair. Her skin glowed like milk and her eyes were as cobalt as the sky. A single curl of blond hair had escaped the headdress of pillbox hat and wimpled veil that concealed the rest of her hair, her ears, and her throat. She possessed a heart-shaped face with a hint of stubbornness at the chin. Sixteen, Lord Theodore had said, and she looked it. She wore a gown of dark green velvet. Her russet cloak flowed from her shoulders to spill across the horse’s rump. She rode with the graciousness of royalty, her posture erect and poised. Her gloved hands upon the reins were dainty, yet it was she who controlled her mare and not the varlet trotting beside her.
She was accompanied by five other women, all in rich dress. A servant walked at the rear, bearing a locked Bible box made of olive wood. A strip of purple wool embroidered with the lady’s coat of arms lay draped across it. Another servant carried a velvet pillow that presumably Lady Sophia had knelt upon during her devotionals. Two more guards brought up the end of this procession.
She was a prisoner too, thought Noel; despite all the pomp surrounding her, she remained a political pawn at the mercy of those who married her or controlled her dowry.
He stared at her because he could not help it. In turn, she gazed at him as the retinue slowed down to go past the knights. Her blue eyes took in his face and his bound hands; they widened. She seemed about to speak, then her rosy lips clamped firmly together, and she turned her face away.
They rode on in a jingling of bridle bells and the lingering aroma of incense pomanders.
Noel watched them until the shadows closed them from sight. Only then did he realize Sir Geoffrey was staring up at him closely, with the narrow gaze of a suspicious man.
“No greeting from your lady?” he said with his old mockery. “It would seem you have a cold night ahead of you, my lord.”
Noel had not the faintest notion whether Theodore and Sophia had ever laid eyes on each other before. Not all medieval couples were engaged by proxy. He said, “Men who have taken vows of chastity should not snoop in the romances of those who haven’t.”
The knights howled with laughter. Red-faced, Sir Geoffrey started to retort, but before he could do so a balding man in a beautifully cut tunic of crimson, a measuring tape dangling from his neck, ran up to seize Noel’s stirrup.
“My lord! Good news, my lord! I have finished your order and it is-”
Noticing Noel’s disheveled appearance and bound hands, he broke off, blinking rapidly. “I–I seem to be mistaken. I was certain you were-”
“Stand away!” commanded Sir John. “You, tailor! Stand away from our prisoner.”
The tailor bowed, his face pale with alarm. “Yes, indeed, gentle knights. Forgive me. I was mistaken. I-”
They rode on, leaving him standing in the street, wringing his hands and still bowing. Noel stared back at him, puzzled by the incident. The knights, however, immediately forgot him. They were still throwing jests at one another, distracting Sir Geoffrey’s attention as they made their way up the steep hillside. Noel kept his forearm pressed against his side for support, and tried not to shiver. Now that the sun was down, the temperature had dropped sharply. He felt faint with thirst and hunger. His head throbbed mercilessly. These puzzles hardly mattered in his general misery.
Elena grabbed his foot and squeezed hard. “Take care,” she whispered. “Theodore has visited Mistra and Lady Sophia at least twice before. It is rumored to be a love match with her.”
Noel’s spirits sank lower. That was all he needed. In a few minutes his dangerous game of pretense would be over. As soon as he entered the castle, Lady Sophia would give him away. Noel figured no one was going to be amused at the deception he’d practiced today. He didn’t want to lay odds on being drawn and quartered at dawn.
Halfway up the hill, the chaotic clusters of houses and shops perched on every available bit of building space stopped at the base of another wall. Guards admitted them through a set of gates, and they rode through another tunnel into the spacious palace complex. No cramped round donjon here; instead, a rectangular palace of three or four stories formed a great L with numerous small outbuildings and miniature wings spreading out from it in a clutter of barracks, kennels, stables, kitchens, storehouses, armory, and the like.
The thing that struck Noel first and most unpleasantly was the noise. The greatest racket of off-key singing voices, raucous laughter, women shrieking jests and catcalls, babies crying, children calling out with shrill voices, geese honking in offense, cart wheels clattering upon the cobblestones, the rhythmic clanging of hammer upon anvil, a fistfight going on in the stableyard with cheers of encouragement from the watching crowd, fighting cocks screaming challenges at each other, dogs barking in an eager chorus for their supper, the creaking groan of the well pulley, doors and gates opening and slamming, a shoat destined for the butcher’s knife squealing in its pen… in short, the normal bustle of castle life beat upon Noel’s hearing and intensified his headache.
Torchlight blazed everywhere, and upon the battlements sentries paced slow and steadily. At the corners they called out, “All’s well,” and paced back. In spite of all the activity, a crowd of onlookers, chiefly knights from their surcoats and mail, gathered in the yard to watch a flogging.
When Noel was led up, the flogging had obviously been going on for some time. The man being punished was tied by the wrists and ankles to iron rings set in two massive square posts. He was bare to the waist, and his back was a bloody mess of raw welts. If he had not already lost consciousness, he was close to it. He sagged limply, held up only by his bonds. The whip whistled through the air and cracked across his back. He jerked and screamed aloud.
‘Thirty-nine!“ shouted the crowd in unison.
Many of them held huge tankards; their faces were shiny from sweat, excitement, and the effects of the ale. They slapped each other on the shoulder as though the gruesome spectacle they witnessed was a fine thing indeed, and called out encouragement to the man executing the punishment.
Elena squeezed Noel’s foot, although this time it was plainly unintentional. She stared at the man, her face rapt, her eyes sparkling with the full gamut of her emotions. Just looking at her in that unguarded moment, with all her youth and vitality ablaze in the first headlong rush of infatuation, made Noel feel a hundred years old. He remembered his own first love, how unequal it was, how blissful at first, how humiliating at the end. He wanted to take Elena by the shoulders and shake some sense into her, but he knew she’d never listen. She couldn’t.
The whip struck again.
“Forty!” shouted the knights.
It had to be Sir Magnin who was wielding the whip. Noel studied him while he had the chance.
Sir Magnin Phrangopoulos loomed at least a head taller than every other man present. Stripped to the waist, with only his hose on, a servant standing nearby with his shirt and tunic, Sir Magnin was magnificently proportioned with a tapering waist ridged and corrugated with hard muscle, a deep chest, broad shoulders, and a set of biceps that bulged and rippled effortlessly beneath skin like bronzed satin. The veins stood up all over him like taut horseflesh. With every crack of the whip, he put his full strength behind the blow, yet displayed a grace of form that made the other men around him appear to be clumsy, lumbering oafs.
His face was wide and sensual, with a large nose, full lips, and a deep cleft in his chin. His eyebrows were black and straight, slashing across his face above eyes like gleaming obsidian. He wore his ebony hair long. It swung chin-length in a straight bob. Heavy bangs fell across his brow in a style more Renaissance than medieval.
“Forty-three!”
He grinned, revealing large white teeth, and swung twice more in swift succession, giving the prisoner insufficient time between the two blows to catch enough breath to scream again. Then it was done. Coiling the bloody whip, Sir Magnin tossed it at a nearby varlet and swept the perspiration from his face with both hands.
“Take him down,” he said. His voice was deep and rich. It flowed with confidence.
