It wavered dangerously. He knew his shield was too low, but he could not raise it without arousing sickening agony in his shoulder. Sir Magnin crouched forward, coming at him like a hornet.
The crashing impact stunned him. His point hit Sir Magnin’s shield square in the center and snapped. Sir Magnin’s lance rammed him backward, out and over the saddle with a wrenching twist of his spine. Noel hit the ground with a thud.
He lay in the churned dust, wheezing for breath. His shield covered him like a broken wing. His steel helmet felt like a lead weight holding him down. Only the sound of approaching hoofbeats roused him. He struggled to lift himself too late to avoid Sir Magnin’s lance.
It caught the edge of his shield and flipped it. The leather straps snapped, jerking Noel’s arm mercilessly. The world went gray with a sickening wave of agony. Gasping, he could do little more than roll away from those deadly, dancing hooves. He groped for his sword, although the dim part of his brain still functioning told him he hadn’t a prayer against a man on horseback, especially without his shield.
“Secondary weapons!” shouted the herald.
Sir Magnin wheeled away and handed over his lance in exchange for a ball and chain. He swung it a few times, making the heavy, spiked ball whistle wickedly through the air.
Noel pushed himself to his knees, but by then Sir Magnin was cantering toward him. Noel dragged out his sword and tried to lift it. The point sank to the dust. He planted it in the ground and started to use it to climb to his feet, but Sir Magnin was too close, bearing down on him like thunder.
Noel seized the long hilt of his sword with both hands and swung it up like a bat, pivoting on his knees as he did so. The spiked ball struck the flat of his blade with such a clang Noel feared the impact had snapped his weapon. But the steel held although sparks flew from its length.
Unbalanced, Sir Magnin turned his black horse so sharply the animal stumbled. The ball whistled mere inches over Noel’s head as he ducked. Sir Magnin flipped it to wrap the chain around Noel’s sword. He yanked hard, but Noel had been expecting such a trick. He did not resist; instead, he went with Sir Magnin’s tug, using the impetus to gain his feet.
A cheer rose from the crowd, and it heartened Noel. He could see Sir Magnin’s black eyes glaring at him through the visor.
“Fool!” said the knight. “You cannot beat me now. Why not surrender and end this farce?”
Noel bit back a groan. “Now? When I’ve got you right where I want you-”
Sir Magnin yanked his sword from his hands and sent it flying. The sun flashed on the blade as it spun end over end through the air. Noel heard the groan of the crowd.
Sir Magnin laughed.
It was a smug, malicious sound-the sound of a bully who can afford to play with his victim. Noel’s temper flared. He rushed at Sir Magnin’s horse and kicked it hard between its hind legs. With a scream, the animal reared. Noel seized Sir Magnin’s foot and twisted it within the stirrup.
Cursing, Sir Magnin kicked at Noel but he was hampered by the stirrup and his horse’s rearing. His spur rowel raked his horse’s side, and the mount threw itself sideways in a twisting, bucking leap that sent Sir Magnin flying to the ground.
He landed badly, half on top of his shield, with his weapon arm twisted painfully beneath him. Noel dragged himself forward, knowing his time of advantage was short. Weaponless, save for his dagger, he drew it and struck.
Sir Magnin must have sensed the attack, for at the last second he rolled, bringing his shield up and over him. The dagger raked its hard surface harmlessly. Sir Magnin gathered his feet under him and launched himself at Noel, striking him with the shield in a short, savage punch that sent Noel reeling back.
Sir Magnin followed, his right arm dangling uselessly. Noel could hear the agonized wheeze of his breathing from inside his helmet. The fancy plumes were dirt-caked now and torn; his surcoat looked the same. He struck Noel again with the shield, this time knocking him down.
Tossing away the shield, Sir Magnin stamped upon Noel’s wrist to hold his dagger useless and drew his own knife.
“Now,” he said, panting heavily. “By means of force and lawful passage of arms, by night and by day, in secret and in open, I have shown my worth over you. I am ruler of this province, and I shall remain so as long as there is strength in my arms. Send your last prayer to God’s mercy, Lord Theodore, for I have none for you.”
He drew back his arm to strike the mortal blow. Noel braced himself.
“Wait!”
The hoarse cry was so raw with desperation it actually made Sir Magnin hesitate. Leon came running across the field, stumbling and staggering, his face drained of all color, his eyes wild.
“Wait, my good lord. I pray you, wait.”
Sir Magnin drew off his helmet and flung it upon the ground. His mail-coifed head whipped back as Noel made a feeble move.
“I wait for no one,” he said arrogantly. “I have won the right to dispatch this man. His life is forfeit to me.”
Leon stumbled and skidded on his knees the final short distance to Noel. He held up beseeching hands, while Noel could only lie there on his back, struck incredulous at this unexpected intercession.
A squire came up with Sir Magnin’s sword. He exchanged his dagger for it, wielding the broadsword awkwardly in his left hand. His eyes were dark with pain and battle lust. They held not one scrap of mercy.
As he swung up the sword, Leon snatched the helmet from Noel’s head.
“Look at him!” he cried. “This is not Theodore of Albania, but an impostor. The contest is invalid.”
Sir Magnin never swung. He stared openmouthed at Noel, and for once he had nothing to say. Others came up, circling them, and Sir Magnin’s foot came off Noel’s wrist. He backed away in sudden distaste, looking almost fearful.
“What magic is this, that a lowly varlet without name or training could fight me with such valor and skill?” he whispered hoarsely. “What ensorcellment has been cast here?”
Lord Harlan, the thin old councillor with the black hood tied beneath his bony chin, pointed an accusing finger. “It is said that twins are the sons of Satan. Burn them both before their evil falls over us all.”
Noel managed to reach up and grab Leon’s tunic in his fist. “The bracelet,” he gasped. “You-”
“Let it be done,” said Sir Magnin. “Burn them.”
His voice was harsh and final. Guards shouldered their way through the crowd to surround Noel and Leon, still crouched together. Without a glance back, Sir Magnin left the tournament field.
CHAPTER 16
Sir Geoffrey, his thin face set grimly, took charge of the guards who conducted Noel and Leon back to the dungeons. Although he was weak with exhaustion and had to be supported by Leon to even walk, Noel looked around in search of Frederick. He could not find the boy’s face among the crowd, which hissed and made signs warding off the evil eye.
Others ran ahead, gathering firewood, sticks, and dung-anything that would burn. By the time Noel and Leon made their slow, painful way to the town square, the bonfire was ready for them.
“Let us light it!” implored the crowd. “Sir Geoffrey, rid us of these evil ones now.”
An old woman crept up and spat upon Leon. He flinched and wiped off the spittle. Noel stared at him, wondering what had made him change.
“The bracelet,” he said beneath the noise of the crowd. “What have you done with it? Where is the LOC?”
Leon glared at him, still wild-eyed and frantic. “It doesn’t work, any more than mine works. It’s no good to us.”
“It’s isomorphic,” said Noel grimly. “It works for me.”
“Mine doesn’t work.” Leon was almost sobbing. “They’re going to kill us. We have to-”
“Where is it? Damn you-”
