by Simon Hawke
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.
* * * *
Lucas stared at the stump of his lance and could not believe what had just happened. It felt as though someone had stuck his head inside a giant gong and then let loose with a pounding that threatened to burst his skull like a melon. His lance broke! It was not supposed to break! First the sonic device malfunctioned, now the entire lance! And one was all he had! Where in Christ's name would he get another?
He rode slowly back to his end of the lists, tasting blood, his vision blurred. His nose was bleeding from both nostrils. It felt as though he had been hit by a locomotive. He could see the crowd going totally insane, but he could not hear them. The only sound he heard was an ung-ung-ung inside his head, a never ceasing echo of the crash. His armor and his shield had saved him, but it was all that he could do to stay on his horse. And the animal didn't seem too happy about it, either.
Holy shit, he thought. He had been concerned about the Templar. Here he was, a 27th-century man, feeling superior as hell to these Neanderthals and along came de la Croix to throw cold water in his face.
He rode back to his position and saw Hooker looking at him with concern. He flashed him a helpless look, lifting his visor briefly and taking in a gasping gulp of air. Now what was he going to do? They didn't bring spare lances.
"The expression on your squire's face reveals your problem, nameless knight," said a voice at his side. Lucas barely heard it. He quickly slapped down his visor and turned to see a young man at arms standing by his side, holding a lance. "My lord and master, on seeing how you disposed of Front-de-Boeuf, charged me to seek out your pavilion and to bring you ale in celebration of your victory. I could not help but notice that you lacked for some spare arms, no doubt through some inconvenience which you could not control. I reported this to my lord and he bid me offer you the use of this, his lance, should you not be too proud. The noble Athelstane would be honored if you would grace his lance by testing it in combat on this day."
The young soldier held out the lance to Lucas. So, Lucas thought, chivalry is not dead. He realized how silly that thought was the moment it occurred to him and it was all that he could do to keep from laughing out loud. It was a trait he had that, whenever he was scared out of his wits, he had the disconcerting tendency to guffaw. A nervous reaction that, under present circumstances, could be misinterpreted. He held back, swallowing his hysteria.
"Tell your master that I am indebted to his hospitality of arms and that I regret that I cannot tell him who owes him a debt of gratitude. I am under vow never to show my face until certain conditions prevail. I will try to do honor to his lance."
He accepted the lance and nodded to the man at arms, who returned him a small bow. Then, belatedly, he realized just who his benefactor was. The Saxon noble on whose account Wilfred had been tossed out of his father's house upon his keester. As far as Lucas was concerned, Athelstane could have Rowena. He'd just earned her.
* * * *
The red knight returned to the other side of the field to pick up another lance. There was blood coming from de la Croix's mouth.
"Andre!" said the squire, Marcel, visibly frightened at the sight of the blood when de la Croix raised the visor. The knight's eyes were unfocused.
"Water, Marcel."
The squire understood the request and knew that it was not for a drink. He ran into the pavilion and returned with a bucket of water, which he dashed in de la Croix's face. The red knight coughed and took several deep breaths.
"I may have met my match, Marcel. I do not know why this oak chose to challenge with his naked lance, unless he despises Normans. If he is a Saxon, it is something I can understand."
"But we are not Normans," said Marcel.
"We serve the Normans and it amounts to the same thing. If Saxons can breed men such as this, then John of Anjou has good reason to fear them." Andre de la Croix paused, taking several deep and ragged breaths. "But John doesn't fear them. More fool he. Well, let's have that fresh lance, Marcel. We shall see if the Lord means for me to die this day. Thus far, He has seen fit to bestow His grace upon the nameless knight. Should I fail to return, Marcel, you know what to do. And I charge you to pay the oak my compliments."
The visor was slapped down and the knights faced each other once again. Again the trumpets sounded and again they charged. Again both lances splintered on their shields and the white knight's horse stumbled and came near to falling, but was saved by the interference of the list fence, which gave beneath the animal's weight but provided the necessary purchase that allowed it to regain its footing. Both knights reeled in their saddles like willows in the wind. The red knight dropped the fleury shield and Marcel ran out to retrieve it. Lucas lost the magnification power of his helmet. The lens, being considerably weaker than the nysteel armor, cracked and was dislodged by the shock of impact. It fell to rest in pieces against his chin, cutting into the skin. Both knights obtained fresh lances. This time Lucas got one courtesy of Cedric, who said he knew him as a Saxon knight. He was wrong, but Lucas was not up to correcting him.
"This oak tree begins to irritate me," de la Croix said with a gasp. "Already he has cost me two lances."
Bois-Guilbert approached him.
"Have done with it, de la Croix! Unhorse this Saxon pig, unless you are determined to toy with him till nightfall!"
"I marked how well you toyed with him," said de la Croix. The red knight coughed and spat out some blood.
"Twice he ran at you and failed to find your weak point," Bois-Guilbert said. "Kill him and have done with it!"
"He failed to find my weak point because I do not have one," de la Croix remarked in an amused tone. "The trouble is, neither does he."
"You pick a fine time to jest!" the Templar said.
"I can think of no better time. Do you not find it amusing, Brian, two knights ramming at each other like rampant stags fighting over ground? They lower their heads, charge and smash together, horn to horn, then back off and ram once more. Perhaps in future years, someone will find a less strenuous way of making war."
"I hope I shall not live to see that day," said Bois-Guilbert, disdainfully.
"Judging by the account you gave of yourself this day, I think you have no need of concern,'' said de la Croix.
The trumpets blared their fanfare.
"Fuck," said de la Croix, slapping down the visor and spurring.
They did not ride at each other with quite the same speed the third time, but the shock of their impact seemed as great. Both knights were lifted from their saddles and, for a moment, seemed to hang suspended in the air before they both clattered to the ground like so much hardware. For a long period of time, both lay still as corpses. The men at arms ran out, but then both knights began to stir. Slowly, with great difficulty, the white knight regained his feet, having waved off the men at arms, refusing their assistance. The red knight flopped about weakly, like a fish out of water, but did not have the strength to stand without assistance. Raising the visor, de la Croix displayed a bloody, pale face and eyes that seemed to cross and announced that the white knight was the victor, since he had stood up on his own. The crowd went hoarse with cheering, especially the Saxons, who had claimed the white knight as one of their own.
Just a few moments longer, Lucas told himself. Stay conscious just a few moments longer so you can play the graceful winner and then you can slink back to your pavilion and throw up.
Someone brought his horse around and several men came to lift him into the saddle. Lucas had enough presence of mind to become dead weight in their hands, to prevent them from finding his nysteel armor unusually light. In the excitement of the occasion, no one seemed to notice. Then Lucas realized that they were spectators who had run out upon the field. They were yelling things at him, but he could not make anything out of it. He was led to stand before John and he had to hold onto his saddle with both hands for several moments to keep from falling off. It was a while before he could make out what John was saying, then he realized that he was being asked to show his face. He couldn't do that just yet, not with Cedric and Rowena watching him with glowing eyes, the unknown Saxon who had brought havoc to the Norman lists. He mumbled something about having taken a vow, similar to what he had told Athelstane's man. John did not seem too pleased with that, but chivalry demanded that he accept it.
He was babbling something about a banquet and a Queen of Love and Beauty and Lucas finally understood that he was expected to choose some lucky lady to officiate at the celebration and at the festivities the next day. Miss Blood and Guts of 1194. He was told to hold out his lance and John slipped a crown of thin, hammered gold onto its end.
Lucas had enough presence of mind to know that picking a Saxon woman to fill the office would only serve to irritate John even further and he felt that he had already done more than his share. He decided to play it safe and pick the daughter of some Norman baron. Ivanhoe, no doubt, would have picked Rowena and rubbed their noses in it, but that was the last thing he wanted to do. Besides, she was a vapid-looking blonde who looked as though her mind had never been sullied by the presence of a thought. To top it off, she simpered.
He managed to stay in the saddle somehow as he rode past the stands, looking for a likely candidate, someone who looked rich. The one he found not only wore expensive jewelry, but in point of fact, deserved the office of the Queen of Love and Beauty if it was to be handed out on the basis of looks alone. And in these times, women weren't judged on much more than that. This raven-haired young woman was enough to take anyone's breath away. Good, thought Lucas, you've got it, ma'am. You win. He dropped the crown at her feet.
Instant deathly silence.
She looked very embarrassed. Then Lucas realized his error. Even had he not seen the way she stood a bit apart from everyone around her, he should have noticed the man standing with her. He should have noted his dress, the beard and pe-yot, the Magen David he wore around his neck. He had supposed she was a Norman girl and having made his choice, he could not now take the crown back and say he'd changed his mind. He had hoped to avoid causing a scene by not picking out a Saxon girl, so he had chosen a Jewess.
* * * *
Marcel was frightened.
According to the traditions of a passage at arms, Marcel was on his way to the white knight's pavilion with de la Croix's horse and armor, which were forfeit to the victor of the joust. Marcel was frightened of the strange knight and of what he had done to de la Croix. Marcel had never known Andre to lose.
Outside the white knight's pavilion, there was a small throng, including the squires of the other defeated knights who also waited with the gear of their respective masters. As was the custom, it was the decision of the victor to either keep the arms and horses or to ransom them back to their owners. Each squire had been charged by his master to offer a certain sum in exchange for horse and armor, but it was up to the white knight to accept or reject this sum. He would either keep the arms, or name a higher price, in which event he would keep the arms anyway, since each squire had been given a limit on the amount of ransom to be paid. The red knight had charged Marcel to allow the "nameless oak" to choose his own price for ransom. It had not escaped anyone's notice that the white knight had been forced to rely on Cedric's and Athelstane's generosity after he broke his lance, which meant that he was poor. Doubtless, if the ransom offers of the other knights were generous, as they were bound to be since none of them wished to appear unchivalrous, then he would accept the coin. If the other knights were as generous as de la Croix, it would allow the white knight to name a ransom which would exceed the value of the horse and armor. Marcel knew that Andre prized the armor highly.
The white knight's squire spoke to the others in the matter of the disposition of the arms. The offers were all generous and they were all accepted. When it came his turn, Marcel stood nervously before the fearsome and cruel-looking squire.
"My lord, the red knight, Andre de la Croix, charges me to tell your master, the white knight of the uprooted oak, to name his own price for the ransom," Marcel said nervously.
"Your master is a most generous and chivalrous knight," said the white knight's squire.
"My lord also charges me to pay his compliments to the white knight and to tender his respect, which, I add on my own, is not granted easily. My master says that he has never fought so fine a knight and that he hopes, despite the challenge to pass with naked lances, that your master is not greatly injured."
"I thank you for my master," said Hooker, "and charge you in my master's name to tell Andre de la Croix that he returns the compliment and, although fatigued, does not suffer any great injury. Further, my master charges me to say that the offers of the other knights were generous and have left him not so poor as he was before the joust. Therefore, out of respect for Andre de la Croix, he will accept neither horse nor armor, nor ransom for same, since the lessons he has learned at your master's hands today have enriched him in a manner that he prizes much more highly. Take this small sum for yourself, however, and if you are not too proud, use some small part of it to drink my master's health."
Hooker tossed a small purse to Marcel, then turned and entered the pavilion. Visibly relieved, Marcel returned to de la Croix and related what the white knight's squire had said.
The red knight sat on a wooden cot inside the pavilion, clad only in a loose-fitting doublet and boots. Andre de la Croix was tall and thin, with flaxen blond hair that fell shoulder-length. The red knight wore no beard or mustache and was strikingly good-looking in a youthful, boyish way.
"Thank you, Marcel," de la Croix said. "You've done well. I was afraid that I would lose my treasured armor, which I can ill afford to spare. These local artisans are not adept enough to craft so fine a suit as that which was given to me by our benefactor in return for secret services. In truth, I do not know what strange and wondrous craftsmen made this suit. I have never seen its like."
The red knight got up and ran a hand over the nysteel armor.
"I fear these secret services," Marcel said, "as I fear the stranger who demands them."
The red knight smiled. "We have shared many secrets since we left our mountain home, little brother. What is one secret more? Besides, no secret can weigh on us so heavily as that which we guard most closely."
The red knight turned and allowed Marcel to unfasten the doublet and remove it, revealing the cloth swathed around de la Croix's upper torso. Slowly, carefully, Marcel unwound the cloth and, when it was done, de la Croix sighed and breathed deeply. The men who had fallen to de la Croix's lance would have been surprised to see the red knight now. Tired, de la Croix sat down upon the cot and slowly massaged the skin to return circulation to her breasts.
Chapter 4
If the wooden cot inside the pavilion was uncomfortable, Lucas didn't notice. He was simply grateful for the opportunity to get off his feet. He lay stretched out on his back, his eyes closed, listening to the din outside.
Hooker was keeping a throng of well wishers at bay. It seemed that almost every Saxon at the tournament wished to pay respects to the white knight and Lucas simply wasn't up to it. He was, however, somewhat more concerned about the so-called physicians, whom he could hear arguing outside with Hooker. Cedric, Athelstane
, and several other of the more well-to-do Saxon lords had sent their physicians to see to his well-being. He had two reasons for not wanting to see them. The first was that they would know Ivanhoe and the second was that he had no desire to be bled.
As it began to grow dark, Lucas lay motionless inside his tent, feeling the growing evening chill and trying not to pay too much attention to the leeches, who had now turned to fighting amongst themselves for the privilege of bleeding him. Hooker stuck his head inside the tent.
"You all right?" he said.
"I will be if those bloodsuckers don't get their hands on me," said Lucas, wearily. "Can't you get rid of them?"
"I'm having a hard enough time just getting them to listen to me," Hooker said. "You've become very popular all of a sudden and a certain amount of professional pride seems to be at stake."
"Look, I don't care if you have to knock their damn heads together," Lucas said, "just get rid of them. I can't—"
There was a sudden commotion outside and Hooker quickly went to see what was developing. Moments later, a young woman entered the pavilion. She was dressed in a long, flowing gown of dark purple gabardine which clung to her shapely figure. She had long, wavy black hair and large dark eyes. Around her neck, she wore a diamond necklace hung with pendants and there were golden bracelets set with jewels upon her wrists. She was astonishingly lovely and she wore the thin gold crown which Lucas had earlier presented her with.
"This is Rebecca, daughter of Isaac of York, Milord," said Hooker. "She has come to pay her respects to the nameless knight and to see if you were injured." He cleared his throat. "She has, uh, sent away the leeches with some ... enthusiasm."
"They have the temerity to speak of healing!" Rebecca said hotly. "They would bleed a man to death if given the chance!"
