by Robert Thier
“Sir Hermann von der Hagen.”
They could have him. Reuben didn’t particularly regret the loss.
Red…
“Lord d’Altavilla!”
Well, he didn’t particularly rejoice over this gain, either. Neither did the narrow-eyed Sicilian lord, to judge by the look on his face. Well, he’d just have to deal with it!
And the final blue…
“Sir Lorenzo d’Ortigia!”
Fish bait. Nothing more than fish bait. If there were any fishes in the courtyard, that is.
“The order of the fight has been announced,” the herald proclaimed. “The teams have been determined! Knights of the Empire, take your places!”
He gestured to two small, roped-off areas. Reuben gave his Ajax the spurs, cantering into the one over which fluttered a red flag. Sir Tomasso, the Saracen, and Lord d’Altaville followed, while the others took their places in the demarcated area at the other end of the courtyard, under the blue flag. Pursuivants awaited the knights, ready to take their lances. Unlike yesterday, today, these had just been for show. The melee was not a game aimed at throwing the opponent out of the saddle. The melee was a battle, fought with bludgeons, swords, and axes.
“We have to come up with a strategy,” Reuben said as soon as their horses had settled down behind the rope. “And fast!”
He threw a look at the herald. The man was busy holding a speech about upholding the values of chivalry. But there weren’t that many values of chivalry, and the speech would probably not last long.
“Agreed.” Sir Tomasso nodded, picked up his helmet from where it hung on the saddle, and set it on his head. “Will you have my back, Sir Reuben?”
“It would be my honor.” Reuben looked at d’Altaville. “You had best—“
The Lord cut him off, ice in his voice. “I’ll die before I take orders from a beardless boy like you!”
Reuben held his gaze for a moment—then shrugged. “Fine. Then die. Or fight and survive, but go do it alone.”
His gaze traveled to the Saracen.
“I, too, best fight alone,” said the dark-skinned man in a smoky voice that seemed to come from far-away. “No insult to you intended. It simply is the way I fight. I am quick. I am nimble. But only when I am alone.”
“I see.” Reuben nodded. “Quick, you say?”
“Yes. My horse, too. Bread for quick runs and turns, it is.”
“Then you had better take on the little rat.”
“Pardon?”
“Rakowski. The little fellow with the rat face.”
The Saracen’s sharp eyes swept over the opposing team until they found Albin Rakowski. “A wise choice. I shall attend to him.”
“And I think his brother wishes to have a little discussion with me,” Reuben growled. “I’ll be only too happy to give him the pleasure.”
“I shall most certainly not content myself with that one,” Lord d’Altavilla growled, gesturing to the young Lorenzo d’Ortigia, who seemed rather nervous at having ended up in the melee—and on the side opposing two tournament champions, no less. “I shall cross blades with the knight brother. The rest of you had better stay out of my way.”
Reuben exchanged a glance with Tomasso. The tall Sicillian shrugged. “Then I shall take care of my countryman. It seems fitting.” Through the slits of his visor, Reuben saw pearl white teeth flash in a grin. “Who knows, maybe I’ll be able to teach the young man a few valuable lessons?”
“No doubt,” Reuben said and thought, Poor Lorenzo d’Ortigia. But he had volunteered for this, as had they all, and besides, Tomasso would not go so far as to crack his head open. Probably.
“Knights of the Empire! The hour has come!”
The shout from in front of the stands made all eyes, Reuben’s included, turn towards the herald. “Prepare yourselves!”
Reuben was prepared. More than prepared, in fact. Meeting the gaze of Adrian Rakowski over the soon-to-be battlefield, he grinned. His hand grasped hold of the hilt of his sword in eager anticipation.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Reuben saw the herald raise a horn to his lips. The pursuivant standing close to the rope that cut Reuben off from the center of the courtyard raised a knife to the thin barrier. At the opposite end of the courtyard, beside the other team, another pursuivant did the same.
“May the battle begin!”
The long, clear tone of a horn rang out over the courtyard. To tumultuous cheers from the crowd, the ropes dropped, freeing the knights and their chargers. Reuben pressed his heels into Ajax’s sides.
“Hüa!”
Reuben felt Sir Tomasso beside him as he charged forward. He didn’t give another thought to the other two fighters on his team as they surged towards the enemy. He only had eyes for the giant Pole galloping towards him and the huge battle-ax clutched in his hands.
“For Limburg! For the Emperor!” he shouted.
Behind him, the crowd exploded into another cheer.
“Będę zgrać jaja!!” the Pole roared.
Reuben understood Polish quite well, and he thought that rather unlikely. Pressing his steed to go even faster, Reuben tensed his muscles in preparation. He would have to be fast. That was his only chance. If the Pole got one blow in, he was most likely dead. He would have to be very, very fast.
Racing closer, the Sir Adrian raised his ax.
Reuben raised his sword in response.
“Raaah!” the Pole shouted, and his battle-ax came down. Some words needed no translation.
Reuben swung his sword forward—then abruptly ducked, letting the blow swipe over his head. With his full force behind the blow, the Pole overbalanced and nearly plummeted out of the saddle. Grinning, Reuben gave his mount a good whack on the ass with the flat of his blade, making it rear.
“Yaah!”
Desperately, Sir Adrian clutched the reins, trying to calm his horse, to stay in the saddle, to do anything but fall to the ground. But Reuben had other plans.
Wham!
His first blow hit the giant knight from the left, nearly hurling him down.
Wham!
The second hit him from the right, robbing him of what little balance he had left. With another furious roar of rage, the Pole tried to turn his mount around to face his foe, but both horse and rider were huge and lumbering—not the right material for quick maneuvers. Reuben, on the other hand…
Wham!
Catching him right against the side of the helmet, the third and final blow catapulted Sir Adrian out of the saddle. He slammed to the ground, eliciting another round of thunderous cheers from the crowd. Reuben grinned. This was almost too easy! If only he could whack that boorish pig over the head, right there where he lay in the dirt…!
Patience, he reprimanded himself. A knight may never strike an enemy while he is on the ground. And he should always fight on equal terms.
Swinging down out of the saddle, Reuben strode towards Sir Adrian. “Up on your feet, Sir Knight! We have a fight to finish!”
Snarling, the Pole braced himself against the ground and pushed. He came up like a cork out of a bottle. Suppressing a curse, Reuben jumped back, barely managing to evade the blade of his enemy’s ax. That big oaf was faster than he had any right to be.
“All right!” Reuben growled. “Let’s do this!”
Angling his body to present a smaller target, he edged closer to the Pole. The big knight wasn’t so careful. He lunged, and this time, expecting it, Reuben had no problems evading the attack. Darting forward, he stabbed and would have impaled the Pole’s exposed armpit if the man hadn’t twisted out of the way.
But now he was standing sideways—not a good position for someone armed with a battle-ax. Reuben’s sword, on the other hand…
Grinning, he stabbed again!
“Aaarh!”
Blood spurted! Reuben breathed in the invigorating smell of impending victory, ducked under the Sir Adrian’s flailing arm, and delivered another blow, this time to the man’s right arm. He screamed again and nearly
dropped the ax.
Whirling around, he struck a blow that would have knocked Reuben’s head off had he still been there. But Reuben was long gone. Confused, the Pole looked around, searching for his enemy.
“Hello there.”
Darting out from behind Sir Adrian’s huge horse, Reuben sprang forward, slamming his blade against the handle of the ax. It was severed clean in the middle, and with a dull clank, the blade of the ax dropped to the ground. Dumbfounded, Sir Adrian stared down at his decapitated weapon.
“Do you surrender, Sir Knight?”
“Yaaar!”
With a bestial roar, the mountainous warrior threw himself at Reuben, stabbing at him with the chopped-off ax handle. It slammed into Reuben’s chest. Although it slid off his breastplate, the impact nearly knocked him off his feet.
“I suppose that means no,” he grunted. “Very well, then! Let’s have at it!”
His sword came up in an arc, surging towards what was left of Sir Adrian’s weapon.
Thwack!
Another piece of wood fell to the ground.
Thwack!
And another. All the Pole now held in hand was…well, it was certainly no pole. A stump, or little stick at best. Cursing, he threw it at Reuben. It bounced harmlessly off his helmet with a clang.
“You know,” Reuben informed him, stepping forward, “you really should learn how to behave more chivalrously.”
And, with that, he slammed the pommel of the sword straight into the knight’s face guard. The metal crumpled under the force of his blow, and the Pole was hurled backwards, crashing into the ground for the second time today. But, a moment later, he shook himself and started to rise again.
“Damn the man!” Reuben growled. “Is his head made of metal?” He raised his sword above Sir Adrian’s head and was just about to test this theory when a blow caught him right in the back. He stumbled forward, past Sir Adrian, and when he whirled around to face his attacker, there stood Sir Albin, a feral look on his face.
“You little…!” Reuben started forward. But before he could even raise his sword to strike a blow, the Saracen was there, slamming his curved sword into Albin’s helmet so hard the metal dented.
“My apologies, my friend,” he grunted, inclining his head towards Reuben as Albin stumbled sideways. “I did not expect this one to abandon our exchange to interfere in your affairs. But—”
He raised his sword again.
Wham!
“—some people simply do not know that it is not polite to interrupt.”
Wham!
The third and final blow sent Sir Albin crumpling to the ground. Unlike his brother, he did not get up again.
“Raaaah!”
Something massive shot past Reuben in a blur. A moment later, the gigantic form of Adrian Rakowski slammed into the Saracen and threw him clean off his feet. All Reuben could still see of him were the ends of his flailing limbs as Rakowski covered him, pummeling him with his massive, metal-covered fists.
“I’ve had enough of that one!” Growling, Reuben strode forward. Bending down, he slipped the tip of his sword under the leather straps that held the big Pole’s helmet in place and pulled. They ripped, and the helmet tumbled off the man’s head. Grabbing his thick mane of mangy hair, Reuben pulled back his head and placed the blade of his sword at the man’s throat.
“Surrender!”
Sir Adrian gave a roar, twisted, tried to free himself, and when he couldn’t, simply continued pummeling the Saracen, who did his best trying to shield himself from the blows.
Pulling at the hair more forcefully, Reuben dug the blade of his sword harder into Sir Adrian’s throat.
“Surrender, or I—oh, to hell with it!” He let go of the man’s head. Sir Adrian was so surprised that his head slammed forward onto the Saracen’s chest and lay there for a moment, still and unmoving—the perfect target! When Reuben’s fist came down on the back of it, it made an unhealthy but intensely satisfying crunching sound.
The Pole slumped. This time, he didn’t get up again.
Propping his fists on his hips, Reuben surveyed his work contentedly. “Finally!”
Someone cleared his throat. Looking down, he saw the Saracen trying to roll the body of the man nearly twice his size off himself. “If you would be so kind…”
“Oh. Of course.”
A knight had to help his fellow warriors if in need, right? Reuben grinned and delivered a hearty kick to Sir Adrian’s side that threw the massive man clean off the Saracen and would probably leave a nice, purplish bruise.
Sometimes it really was fun to uphold the virtues of chivalry.
Extending his hand, Reuben helped the Saracen to his feet, and together, they surveyed the battlefield. D’Altavilla was just finishing off the Teutonic knight brother in a corner and would not, Reuben knew, appreciate any help, while Sir Tomasso had driven his countryman against the stands and was giving him advice on his swordplay and showing him new moves while the youth desperately tried to land a blow.
Reuben and the Saracen strolled over to observe.
“Need any help?”
“Most kind of you to offer, Sir Reuben. But I can manage, I think.” Swiping the boy’s latest ineffectual blow aside, Sir Tomasso shook his head disapprovingly. “No, no, Lorenzo! Not like that. This is how you do it!”
“Argh!”
“See? That worked much better. Now try it again.”
Reuben cleared his throat, and Sir Tomasso glanced at him. Reuben gestured to the crowd and the Emperor.
“I don’t want to seem impatient, but we do have royalty waiting for us to finish.” Looking up at the Royal Box, he flashed a smile at the veiled woman and bowed. “And a lady, of course. Maybe it might be a good idea to—“
“Ah, yes! How inconsiderate of me.” Sir Tomasso turned, bowing to Emperor Friedrich. “My apologies, My Lady, Your Majesty. I shall finish up quickly.”
Behind him, the desperate Sir Lorenzo, seeing his chance, dove forward, striking at Sir Tomasso’s back. Without looking, the former champion delivered a backhanded blow that slammed the youth’s sword aside and knocked him flat against the stands. His head against the wood, hard, and he crumpled to the ground, motionless.
“Apology accepted, Sir Tomasso,” said the Emperor wryly.
“Most gracious of you, Your Imperial Majesty.”
“Not at all. How could I not forgive the victors of the day?”
Reuben looked around and saw that it was true. The Teutonic Knight had surrendered his sword and was kneeling on the ground, d’Altavilla’s blade at his throat. Around them, the people of Palermo were on their feet, cheering, and the herald gestured wildly at his pursuivants to bring the trophies.
*~*~**~*~*
Thus it was that when, later that day, Reuben knelt in front of the Emperor, receiving golden laurels and a glittering bejeweled sword, Lord d’Altavilla hadn’t gotten a chance to fulfill his dearest wish and smash the young knight’s head in. As a member of the winning team, Lord d’Altavilla received his own laurels and his own sword and tried to think as little as possible about the fact that they were the same as Reuben’s. Instead, he only had eyes for the dark, veiled beauty sitting beside the Emperor, whose name he knew all too well. As soon as he could, he left the celebration and the castle, accompanied by the emperor’s lady guest, firmly resolved that he would never again waste another thought on the young, upstart jousting champion, Sir Reuben von Limburg.
But fate had other ideas.
The Robber Knight
“Oh, Sir Reuben! You are so wonderful!”
Reuben gazed down at the Sicilian beauty draped onto the divan very, very close to him. “Yes,” he admitted with a charming smile. “I am.”
Then he remembered that, maybe, this was one of those occasions when a knight was supposed to be humble.
“Although,” he added, “I’m sure there are at least a few of God’s angels who are more wonderful than I.”
The lady giggled. Appare
ntly, she considered that possibility just as remote as Reuben did.
“Why don’t you show me how wonderful you are?” she whispered, leaning closer and gazing up at him out of big, brown doe eyes.
Reuben’s smile widened. “With pleasure. Come here, and—“
“Ehem. Sir Reuben?”
Reuben’s hand stopped on his way into the lady’s clothes, and he turned. A servant stood there, demonstratively admiring the ceiling.
“Yes?”
“The Emperor desires your presence, Sir Reuben. A problem has arisen he wishes to entrust you with.”
Reuben’s hand jerked out of the lady’s clothes, and she yelped in indigantion. Reuben didn’t pay her any attention, though. He had more important matters on his mind.
“A quest? The Emperor has a quest for me?”
“I believe so, Sir Reuben, yes.”
Reuben jumped to his feet. “Lead me to His Majesty instantly!” Glancing over his shoulder, he added, “Forgive me, my fair Lady, but I must depart! Duty calls. We can continue our conversation after my glorious return from danger!”
He strode away. What he heard from behind his back didn’t sound like loving good-byes and well-wishes, though, if the bits of Sicilian he had picked up since his arrival didn’t mislead him.
Minutes later, the doors to the throne room opened, and Reuben stepped in front of the Emperor, bending his knee.
“Your Imperial Majesty. I’m at your command.”
“How convenient.” The Emperor smiled. “Since I am in need of a knight to command. Rise, Sir Reuben.”
Reuben got to his feet.
“Tell me, Sir Reuben, are you ready to depart at a moment’s notice?”
“Simply give the word, Your Majesty, and I shall ride out and destroy an entire army of your enemies with my bare hands!”
“Well, you need not go as far as that. It’s only one enemy that needs destroying. And you are perfectly at liberty to use your sword, dagger, or battle-ax, if you are so inclined.”
“Who is it that has displeased you, Your Imperial Majesty?”
“A certain individual who keeps robbing and killing my subjects. I find such behavior intensely displeasing.”
“Give me his name, and I shall give you his head!”
