by Simon Hawke
The first challenger rode out, heading toward the Norman side. The boy identified him for Lucas, engrossed in his role of play-by-play announcer and hamming it up to the hilt. Lucas wasn't paying very close attention. He wasn't interested in the challengers. They were not the ones he would have to fight. It was the home team he was watching.
The knight had crossed over to the Norman side and was slowly walking his horse past the pavillions, outside which the shields hung on upright poles. He hesitated at Front-de-Boeuf's shield, then smacked it with the butt end of his lance. He then returned to his side and waited until Front-de-Boeuf took his position. The fanfare sounded and both knights set spurs to their horses and thundered toward each other from opposite sides of the field. They entered the lists and dropped their lances into position.
Lucas noticed that Front-de-Boeuf dropped his lance fairly early, telegraphing his aim. They came together with a clash and clatter and Front-de-Boeuf nailed his challenger so hard upon his shield, directly in its center, that the knight was unhorsed immediately. Front-de-Boeuf took a hit himself, but he was built like the figure on his shield and although he swayed in his saddle slightly, he kept his seat. Home team 1, Visitors 0.
Two men at arms ran out carrying a wooden litter, but the challenger waved them off. He made an attempt to get up on his own, couldn't manage the weight of his armor and had to be assisted to his feet. He stumbled about like a drunk for a moment or two, then allowed the men at arms to lead him off the field, supporting him. He was given some appreciative applause.
The next challenger out touched the shield belonging to De Bracy. Lucas decided that this one, the mercenary, would bear close scrutiny. Men did not hire themselves out as mercenaries unless they damn well knew what they were doing. De Bracy rode out briskly to meet his challenger. There was a tension in his bearing, not a nervousness, but a tension of anticipation. A man who liked to brawl.
He stared across at his challenger, nodded to him, the other man returned the gesture and then they both dropped their visors and took a running start. Lucas saw that De Bracy waited until the last possible moment to position his lance properly and he held his shield just a bit high, for which he soon saw the reason. As the two knights came together, De Bracy gave his upper body a slight twist in toward his opponent, using his shield to mask the movement. He really needn't have bothered with the subtle ploy. His challenger had decided to try for a head shot, the most difficult target. He missed completely and De Bracy tumbled him to the ground easily. The crowd gave him a cheer and Lucas noticed that once again Cedric's section refrained from applauding.
Next came the Templar, Bois-Guilbert. The fighting priest. It always fascinated Lucas how many men of religion were able to preach Christ's doctrine and then go out and bathe in blood on His account, such as the warrior pope, Julian. Believe in peace and love or else I'll kill you, Lucas thought. It was an old refrain. To get a closer look at Bois-Guilbert, Lucas pretended to put on his helmet in order to check the fittings. He lowered the visor over his eyes and dialed in some magnification.
The Templar was good looking in a dark and swarthy sort of way and he had the meanest eyes Lucas had ever seen. He would have given Attila a run for his money in the "if looks could kill" department. Then Priest noticed something funny about his lance.
The wood that covered the tip had a faint, hairline crack in it. And a tiny portion of the lance's tip showed through. The moment that contact was made the wood would neatly splinter and the point of the lance would be driven home. It would all look like an accident.
The trumpets sounded, both knights spurred and galloped at each other. Bois-Guilbert's horse was a heavy, muscular charger that had a definite advantage of height over most of the other mounts. He would be forcing his opponents to strike up, thereby placing them at a bit of a disadvantage. Also, his shield with the skull-toting raven on it was oversized and heavy. Nothing wrong with that, but it showed that this was a man who gave himself every possible advantage. Not that Lucas could fault him for that, with Bobby's trick arrows and his own nysteel armor.
Bois-Guilbert came in like a juggernaut, holding his shield low and his head down. Lucas couldn't find any fault in his technique. It seemed letter perfect. He caught his challenger behind the shield, squarely in the chest. The knight was lifted straight out of his saddle. Predictably, the wood broke and when the men at arms rushed out to give aid to the fallen knight, they found him to be quite dead.
And that seemed to be that. There were still other challengers, but having seen the strength of the home team, none of them were particularly anxious to try their luck. The remaining Norman knight, de la Croix, sat unhelmeted astride a chestnut stallion. The red knight looked vaguely bored. Lucas waited until they called for challengers two more times and then decided that it was time. No one else was going to take a crack at it. He told Hooker to pay the kid and send him on his way, then he went behind his tent and mounted up. He didn't need any help getting on his horse. The nysteel armor was considerably more sophisticated than that worn by the other knights. He took his lance and shield from Hooker, had him give his horn a martial toot and then he was off.
There was some muttering in the stands as he appeared, which was predictable. No one had the faintest idea who he was. Lucas was all in white, upon a white stallion, which amused him since he was supposed to be one of the good guys. On his shield, there was a somewhat druidic looking device, a leafy green oak with its roots exposed, as though it had been torn up out of the ground. He guided his Arabian through the lists by pressure of his knees and rode past all the Norman pavilions, pretending to give each shield a brief, cursory glance. He had already made up his mind, however. It wasn't what he would have liked to do, but it was the strategically advantageous move. Any one of the Norman knights he had seen could give him trouble on this assignment and he wasn't looking for trouble. Besides, Bobby had set him a good example and a hard act to follow. He raised his lance, set spurs to his stallion and galloped down the line, knocking each shield off its pole with the tip of his lance.
3
The crowd cheered wildly and many yelled encouragement to the white knight as he rode back to his side of the field. Up until that time, with the sole exception of the exhibition put on by the tinker, it had been a pretty dull show. No blood, except for the hapless knight unhorsed by Bois-Guilbert. Now the tournament would get truly interesting. It was a shame that this white knight would be killed, but they would applaud and cheer his bravery.
"This white knight is unfamiliar to me," John said to Fitzurse. "Do you know him, Waldemar?"
John's dignified looking minister, senior to the prince by twenty years, leaned forward so that he could speak into the prince's ear.
"The device upon his shield is one unknown to me, Sire. Possibly he may not be from these parts."
"An oak, uprooted," John mused. "What would that mean?"
"Perhaps it is meant to suggest that the knight has, himself, been uprooted from his homeland," said Fitzurse. "That appears to be a stout English oak. Perhaps he is a Saxon, one of those who went off to war on Saladin with your noble brother."
"If he is one of Richard's brood, then it is just as well that he has chosen untipped lances. It seems he has no great desire to live. If that be so, then we'll accommodate him. Front-de-Boeuf will uproot him from his saddle soon enough."
Both knights took their places and Front-de-Boeuf lifted his visor to the other knight. The white knight sat immobile at the far end of the field, his snowy stallion pawing at the ground. He refused to show his face. With a curse, Front-de-Boeuf slapped down his visor.
"Rude fellow, this new knight," said de la Croix to Bois-Guilbert.
"Some ill bred Saxon pig, no doubt, more fit to be a swineherd than a knight. Front-de-Boeuf will teach him courtly manners."
The trumpets sounded and both knights charged the lists. Front-de-Boeuf's lance splintered on the white knight's shield and both knight and horse went down, Front-de-Boe
uf struck keenly on the head. The horse got up, Front-de-Boeuf did not. The men at arms carried the dead Norman off the field.
Cedric's section cheered themselves hoarse.
"Somewhat aggressive, these Saxon swineherds," said de la Croix, laconically.
The Templar spat upon the ground. "God smiles on fools and idiots," he said. "It was pure chance and ill luck for Front-de-Boeuf. Well, let the Saxons cheer their champion for a time. Maurice will lay him low."
The white knight returned to his side of the field and waited for De Bracy to take his position. De Bracy rode forward on his gray, helmetless. He sat and waited to see if the white knight would show him the courtesy of revealing his features, but the man made no move to lift his visor. De Bracy sat still, waiting. Finally, his patience broke and he called for his helmet.
"I'll knock the bastard's head off for him," he mumbled as his squire stood upon a wooden platform, putting on his helmet.
The trumpets blew and De Bracy was off like a shot, once again waiting until the last possible moment to couch his lance. Once again, the white knight took the blow on his shield, splintering De Bracy's lance while his own struck the gold knight in the shoulder, tumbling him from his horse and ending the tournament for him. The crowd went wild. De Bracy was on his feet in a moment, but there was blood on his armor where the lance had penetrated.
"It seems the leeches will be busy this day," said de la Croix in the same disinterested tone.
"Then I'll see to it that the gravediggers have more work, as well," said Bois-Guilbert, as he allowed his squire to put on his helmet. He rode out to take his place and did not do the white knight the courtesy of showing his face, matching rudeness for rudeness. The white knight touched his gauntleted hand to his visor in a casual salute, which only served to infuriate the Templar even more.
"Salute away, you Saxon pig," he mumbled. "You'll be saluting angels in a moment."
The trumpets blared and they were off, hurtling at each other at full tilt.
Lucas felt annoyed, to say the least. There was a tricky little gadget hidden in the tip of his lance that allowed it to fire a sonic burst, quick and very lethal. The only problem was that, when he dispatched Front-de-Boeuf with it, it did the job quite admirably and then ceased to function on the spot. Lousy army gear, thought Lucas. Trust it to break when you need it most. He thanked God he still had his armor and his shield. The nysteel was impregnable. Still, he had lost a good deal of his edge.
De Bracy was good, but he had spotted his weakness thanks to the magnification power of his helmet. When he gave his upper body that deceptive little twist just before impact, he left his right shoulder exposed for just a fraction of a second. That fraction of a second was all that Lucas needed. He took De Bracy right where he was vulnerable and tumbled him. De Bracy wasn't seriously hurt, but it would be a while before he could hold a lance or sword again. It would hardly endear him to De Bracy, but that was tough. If Lucas had his way, he would have killed him. He presented a threat and, as things had gone, he had gotten off easy. Lucas cursed his lance. Ordnance would hear about this. Now he had to square off against Bois-Guilbert and, priest or no priest, the Templar was no slouch with a lance.
He saw the Templar take position and he noticed that he didn't raise his visor as all the others had. His reason for not raising his own was simple. His "father" and his "sweetheart" were in the stands and it was best for them to think that
Ivanhoe was still off fighting the Saracens. He had work to do and he didn't want to complicate matters by inviting family problems. But the fact that the Templar didn't raise his visor showed that he had a temper. A temperamental Templar. Lucas grinned inside his helmet. That suited him just fine. When a man became angry, he was prone to making mistakes. And he hadn't seen Bois-Guilbert make any mistakes before.
The trumpets signaled the advance and Lucas kicked his horse, knowing that he would need every ounce of speed against the Templar. He chinned the switch inside his helmet that controlled the degree of magnification in the lens iust inside his visor. This was something of a calculated risk. Using magnification power in action and at speed could affect perspective if he couldn't adjust from the magnified image back to the standard one quickly enough. If he was unhorsed and killed in the fall, the nysteel armor would not go to waste and someone would discover that it could do all sorts of interesting things. From a historical viewpoint, it could cause problems, but then if he failed in his mission, that meant far greater problems than just leaving a futuristic suit of armor lying around would cause.
Bois-Guilbert had very good form, indeed. But Bois-Guilbert was angry and that gave Lucas an advantage. The Templar's shield was large and he hid behind it well, offering precious little target. His horse was larger than the Arabian, and he would be striking slightly downward. He had seen Lucas going for a head shot with Front-de-Boeuf and succeeding admirably, so he was holding his shield slightly high, in order to enable him to deflect the lance in the event Lucas tried the same thing once again. There Lucas had him, dead to rights. Thanks to the magnification power of his helmet, he had caught it just as the Templar was entering the lists. There was an exposed thigh that would serve quite well. If he hit it just right, his upward strike would unhorse Bois-Guilbert. Not a killing shot, unless he was lucky enough to strike him solid and pierce the armor, hitting the femoral artery, but he would settle for whatever he could get. Given the Templar's excellent technique, it was no time to be picky.
Lucas chinned his helmet back to normal scan and let his breath out. Bois-Guilbert was going for a head shot and he didn't have the slightest clue that Lucas had already figured out his game plan. Lucas slipped his lance just below his shield at the last moment, leaning out to his right slightly as they came together, which was dangerous for balance, but it resulted in Bois-Guilbert's lance passing over his head by just a fraction of an inch. The impact of hitting him almost made Lucas lose his stirrups, but he managed to hold on. When he reached the opposite end of the lists and wheeled his horse, not having seen the results of his strike, he was satisfied to see the Templar draped over the fence, trying to wriggle himself to fall to either side. He had dropped both his shield and lance and his horse had continued on without him. As Lucas passed him on the return trip, he was disappointed to see that he had caused no visible damage. It was what he had been afraid of. He had felt his lance skip slightly upon impact and guessed that he had scraped Bois-Guilbert's tuille and caught him a glancing blow along his skirt of tasses, but it had been sufficient to unhorse him. He could not complain. With his sonic device out of commission, he hadn't done too badly. As he passed the hung up Templar, he gave him a shot with the butt end of his lance, an ignoble assist to his efforts to dislodge himself. The Templar clattered to the ground like so much scrap metal.
Prince John was furious.
"In the name of Heaven, this is too much to bear! First a Saxon tinker shames my archers and now this nameless knight deprives me of Front-de-Boeuf, pricks De Bracy and leaves the Templar draped over the lists like a dressed and hung up stag! Is there no one who can put an end to this effrontery?"
"There still remains the sanguine de la Croix," Fitzurse said.
John scowled. "It irks me to have to depend upon that smirking Basque with his invented name. He costs me more dearly than half De Bracy's Free Companions. Were he not well worth the cost, I'd pay just as dearly to be rid of his soft speech and laughing eyes."
"The impertinence of de la Croix is characteristic of his people," said Fitzurse. "And if his soft and mannered ways seem to be a mockery of ours, they are more than offset by his prowess on the field of battle, a quality that, with all due respect, Sire, you can ill afford to overlook."
"True, too true," grumbled John. "Let us hope he proves worthy of the fees he charges. This white knight has embarrassed my best men."
The object of their conversation sat quietly astride a chestnut stallion, staring thoughtfully out at the field as the white knight returned t
o the far end of the lists. The red knight's squire fastened de la Croix's headgear, then handed up the lance and shield.
"Do you think you can best him, Andre?" said the squire.
"I don't know, little brother," de la Croix replied. "There is something very strange about him. He comes in fast and low, and did you mark how easily he moves inside his armor? His shield has borne the brunt of strong assaults without a mark of damage. He found De Bracy's weakness in his shoulder in an instant, perceived a flaw in Bois-Guilbert's defense where the Templar rarely leaves one and I will not soon forget the blow he dealt to Front-de-Boeuf. There is more to this uprooted oak than meets the eye, Marcel. Still, we shall make a gallant effort, eh?"
The red knight clapped the squire lightly on the shoulder with a gauntleted hand before accepting the shield with its fleury cross in white on red. The fanfare called the start and de la Croix set spurs to the chestnut war horse.
The red knight's horse was fresher than the white knight's stallion, but still they sped toward one another like shafts shot from a crossbow. Each knight aligned his lance, each took perfect position. They came together in the center of the lists with a resounding crash that reverberated throughout the valley like the ringing of a hammer on an anvil. Both knights were nearly thrown from their horses by the force of the impact, each shield taking a lance strike. The meeting brought them to a grinding, shuddering halt as both horses sank to their knees. Both lances shattered. Neither was unhorsed.
