by Robert Thier
“Didn’t think so.” D’Altavilla snorted. “Well, it’s a little too obvious how this fight will turn out anyway.”
Beside him, Sergio chuckled. “Indeed, Milord.”
“Will he hold himself in the saddle during the first run, do you think?”
“I doubt it, Milord.”
“So do I.”
“Laissiez-les aller!” called the herald in the background. Hooves began to thunder. Neither d’Altavilla nor Sergio deigned to look up, though.
“It would be a pity, though,” the servant mused, “if he doesn’t make it through. It will deprive your Lordship of the pleasure of skewering him with your lance.”
“True.” D’Altavilla gave a short, sharp laugh. “I should have challenged him to a duel after all! What I fool I was, thinking I’d get the chance to fight him in the tournament! He’ll be on the ground in a second.”
D’Altavilla’s squire, who had been the only one watching the joust, cleared his throat. “I rather doubt that, Milord. Actually, I think—“
Crash!
The sound of metal on metal ripped through the air. Then came a whooshing sound. Sergio and d’Altavilla turned just in time to see the armored body of Sir Claude de Rémi slam into the ground with enough force to bend metal.
For a few moments, silence reigned. Then the crowd all around erupted in to cheers.
“Reu-ben! Reu-ben! Reu-ben!”
Lord d’Altavilla stared at the prone figure of Sir Claude. Then, slowly, his eyes lifted towards where Sir Reuben von Limburg was just executing a smooth turn before galloping back up the lists.
“I declare Sir Reuben the winner of the joust!” called the herald. “Next pair!”
“A lucky strike,” Lord d’Altavilla said. “It had to be.”
“Of course, Milord,” Sergio hurriedly assured. But he wouldn’t meet Lord d’Altavilla’s eyes. His lordship took another good look at Sir Reuben. He had reined in his horse at the end of the lists and slid out of the saddle with an easy grace that didn’t exactly fit the idea of a novice fighter. The heavy lance with which he’d struck down Sir Claude he held easily in one hand.
“A lucky strike,” murmured Lord d’Altavilla again. “It had to be!”
The next two fights passed in tense silence. When the herald finally called “Lord d’Altavilla against Sir Richard de Morville!”
“At last!” Gritting his teeth and giving his mount the spurs, d’Altavilla galloped into the lists and whirled his horse around, facing his enemy. “I thought they’d wait till judgement day to let me crack some bones!”
He needed to work off frustration and confusion. And, right now, it didn’t matter that the knight at the other end of his lance wouldn’t be Sir Reuben von Limburg. Any scarecrow in a metal costume would do. But best it be a living one you could make feel pain!
The herald raised one hand—and let it fall.
“Laissiez-les aller!”
Two horses shot forward. Two knights lowered their lances. Two pairs of eyes narrowed, and two fists tightened. But when metal met metal—
Crash!
—it was only one knight who took flight. With grim satisfaction, Lord d’Altavilla watched Richard de Morville fly high, high up into the air and hit the ground with a bone-crunching thud. And with “bone-crunching,” he wasn’t just thinking in metaphors.
Sir Richard screamed.
“Surgeon!” yelled the herald, his voice rising. “Someone call a surgeon! His leg is broken!”
D’Altavilla turned his horse away and, nodding to his squire, said, “When Sir Richard is in one piece again, go to him and tell him I will accept a purse of sixty Thalers for his horse and armor.”
The squire’s eyes went wide. “Sixty—!”
“No less!” His Lordship cut him off.
“Yes, Milord. Of course, Milord.”
“And don’t let him put you off with excuses about his broken, little finger. Get the money, or get the armor and the horse.”
“As you demand, Milord.”
Lord d’Altavilla returned to his post beyond the lists. He didn’t need the money, of course. His estate was one of the richest in all of Sicily. But he would be damned if he would let some fool take him on and then swindle him out of his winnings. If you risked to ride against the Lord of Altavilla, you had to live with the consequences. Sir Richard de Morville had to learn that, and so, eventually, would Sir Reuben von Limburg.
If he got through his next joust, that is.
“Sir Reuben against Sir Gilberto!”
The two knights cantered out into the lists and took up positions. This time, d’Altavilla didn’t chatter with his servant. This time, he watched closely as Sir Reuben spurred his mount forward, rushing towards his foe. And he didn’t like what he saw.
The young man’s hand—for he was a young man, not a boy, no doubt about it—was rock-steady and strong, his horsemanship was the best, and as for his aim—
Crash!
Well, Sir Gilberto could attest to its accuracy a moment later, as he slammed into the ground, shield flung from his hand by the force of the impact, lance broken into a thousand splinters.
Another first-run victory. Slowly but inexorably, a shiver began to run up Lord d’Altavilla’s spine, making his hair stand on end.
“Another lucky hit!” proclaimed Sergio beside him. But he didn’t sound nearly as sure as he had the first time.
Lord d’Altavilla didn’t watch the other fights. He kept his eyes trained on Sir Reuben, for the first time not just glaring at him with the hateful eyes of a rival wishing to see the very worst in everything, but with the objective eye of an expert fighter. He saw the bulging packs of muscle on arms and chest, the swift and sure grace of the movements, and the towering height of over six foot five. Most of all, when the young man took his helmet off to drink from a bottle at his saddle, he saw the look of unbreakable confidence and iron determination—a look he had never before seen on the face of a man so young.
It was this look more than anything else that convinced Lord d’Altavilla that he was in big trouble. Very big trouble.
When he was called up for his next joust, he was still so distracted by thoughts of Sir Reuben that the first time he rode against his opponent, the man’s lance ripped his shield clear out of his hand and nearly skewered him. Cursing furiously, he rode back to his squire and flung out his hand.
“Another shield! Now!”
The squire had never moved so fast in his life. In an instant, Lord d’Altavilla was fully armed again. Whirling his horse around, he raced down the lists towards his enemy, lowered his lance, and—
Wham!
It was a glorious flight. But even the sight of his opponent sailing through the air and crashing into the ground with a satisfyingly painful sound didn’t give d’Altavilla the release he had hoped for. No, for that, he would need to see another knight beaten and stretched out on the ground. One with a red lion emblazoned on his chest.
He returned to the sidelines and continued to watch. The next time Sir Reuben was up, his opponent was announced to be Sir Geralt von Grimmsbach, the younger son of an impoverished Hessian family who had wrought a reputation for himself as a fierce tournament fighter. He fought in order to be able to pay for his next meal. The mere fact that he was not simply still alive, but also healthy and strong as an ox, spoke volumes about his talents with the lance.
“Laissiez-les aller!”
The two shot forward. Lord d’Altavilla watched with rapt attention as the distance shrank.
“Come on,” he murmured. “Just one little nudge…you can do it, Geralt…just do it…God’s teeth!”
With a loud clatter, the two knights slammed into each other and continued on, both having deflected the other’s lance with his shield. At the end of the lists, they turned. Lord d’Altavilla’s eyes flicked to the white and red figure of Sir Reuben, then returned to the green and gold of Sir Geralt.
“Come on,” he murmured again. “Do it! Do it this time, damn y
ou!”
The two knights gave their mounts the spurs. Hooves thundered. The lances lowered until they were pointed straight forward. Lord d’Altavilla realized he was clenching the reigns of his horse so tightly it hurt, but he couldn’t stop himself.
“Do it, damn you! Just do i—“
Crash!
Sir Geralt von Grimmsbach was lifted off his horse, hurled through the air, and slammed into the ground with an ignominious clatter.
The curse that Lord d’Altavilla uttered made his squire shrink away in shock.
*~*~**~*~*
Sir Reuben was on a roll. Well, actually, he was on a horse, but he was constantly winning, so who cared? He certainly didn’t.
Crash!
Oh, how he loved that sound…
“And another win for Sir Reuben!” proclaimed the herald. “This concludes the joust for today!”
Protests rose from the crowd, but the herald remained steadfast. “So many brave knights have come to measure their skills against each other,” he called out, his hands raised, “and the day is already ending! Go home, good people. Get a good night’s rest, and tomorrow, you shall witness the best of the best fight for the crown of the champion!”
Reuben didn’t even pretend to pay attention to the herald or his fallen foe on the ground. In the light of the setting sun, he turned his mount and galloped back towards the Emperor’s box. Ripping off his helmet, he gazed up at the beautiful figure of Salvatrice, who was surveying the battlefield beneath her as regally as any queen.
“I vanquished this one for you!” he called up to her. “As I did with every single one that came before him today and I will do with every single one I face tomorrow!”
The people in the stands, some of whom had already started to rise, froze in place. All eyes instantly swiveled to the scene unfolding before them. Well, to be exact, all female eyes moved instantly. The male ones were a bit slower, but they got there, eventually.
Reuben lowered his lance reverently in front of the Lady Salvatrice, the same way he had done in front of the Emperor himself at the last tournament. Soft “oooh”s rose from the crowd. Up in the box, Salvatrice leaned forward, and a slight smile played around her beautiful lips.
“I am yours, Milady. Your obedient slave. I would conquer the world for you. Will you not give me a sign of your favor?”
There was a moment, suspended in time, hanging from a washing line somewhere in the land where all romantic moments live. One could almost hear the soft music playing in the background, the birds chirping, the hearts thumping in perfect synchronicity. Lady Salvatrice didn’t move. Everyone held their breath.
Then, slowly, very slowly, she leaned forward, withdrew the bright green cloth from the end of her hat, and let it fall. It sank through the air, graceful as a dove, fluttering this way and that, but going inexorably towards its destination. Everyone watched, spell-bound, and so everyone saw when Reuben’s hand surged up and snatched it out of the air, clutching it to his chest. Lifting it to his face, he took a deep breath of the intoxicating perfume that clung to it, and another sigh rose from the ladies in the stands.
Reuben held up the piece of silk.
“I shall treasure this like I treasure my own life—or, better yet, like I treasure yours, beautiful Salvatrice. Tomorrow, when I win the joust wearing this, you will know that I am yours and only yours!”
*~*~**~*~*
“She gave him a token!”
“Um…yes, Milord.”
“She gave him a goddamn token!”
“Indeed she did, Milord.”
It was nighttime. They were ensconced not in Lord d’Altavilla’s chambers this time, but in the stables, far away from the prying ears of the main palace. That alone should have given the servant a hint that the purpose for their meeting was less than savory. But he was too busy nervously studying His Lordship to realize or care.
“It’s all because she’s an orphan!”
“Pardon me, Milord?”
“An orphan! She’s an orphan and, technically, a ward of the Emperor. But he doesn’t care two pennies about what she does! He’ll let her have her own choice when it comes to picking a husband!”
“Scandalous!”
“And he shoved her into the path of that Reuben just to spite me!”
“Absolutely horrific, Milord.”
“If she were under the care of a sensible father or guardian, none of this would be happening! No sensible man would choose a penniless stripling like that Reuben over a wealthy and respected Lord such as myself.”
“Assuredly, Milord.” The servant cleared his throat. “But…”
Lord d’Altavilla’s head snapped up. “But what?”
“You asked me to inquire into the pedigree of this Sir Reuben.”
“Yes, I did. And?”
“He speaks the truth, Sir. I sent messengers north when he first began to interfere with Lady Salvatrice. They returned earlier this evening and gave me a description of the son of the Duke Heinrich. He is indeed tall, black-haired, with fierce gray eyes, and, ehem…”
D’Altavilla took a step forward. “Yes?”
“He seems to have a certain talent with the ladies.”
The Sicilian lord’s eyes blazed. “Is that so?”
“Err…yes, Milord.” The servant cleared his throat. “Besides, even if he were as ugly as the night, there would still be the fact that he is heir to one of the richest duchies within the Empire. Richer even than your estate, Milord.”
There were a few moments of heavy silence.
“So,” d’Altavilla surmised, his face cast in shadow. “He is rich, charming, and handsome. Now all that waits to be seen is whether he is strong. If he wins the tournament, she will pick him over me.”
“You cannot know that, Milord.”
“Oh yes, I can.” D’Altavilla gave a humorless laugh. “Because, unlike you, I know Salvatrice.”
“Oh.”
“Exactly.”
“But you cannot honestly think that he will prevail against you, Milord!” Sergio protested. “You’re the best jouster north of Salerno!”
“And Sir Tomasso di Zaragoza was supposed to be the best jouster south of it, and look what happened to him! I should have known! I should have realized sooner it could not just be luck that gained that fellow the victor’s crown!”
Breathing heavily, Lord d’Altavilla marched to the other end of the stable and slammed his fist into the wooden wall, making the whole building shudder. He remained standing like this for a few moments, frozen in rage. Then he turned, and, strangely, the expression on his face wasn’t all that angry anymore. If Sergio were to have put a finger on it, he would have said it looked rather…determined.
“You actually think he could beat you in a fair fight, Milord?” he asked cautiously.
“Yes, he probably could.” D’Altavilla stepped forward, and an evil smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “But who says our fight is going to be fair?”
Angel’s Fall
“…and then the robber knight said, ‘You miserable worm! I shall vanquish you and the Emperor!’, and then he spurred his horse, lowered his lance, and galloped towards me.”
“Oh, Sir Reuben!”
“And I called out at him, ‘Never shall you vanquish me! You are a wicked knight, and I shall smite you and destroy you utterly!’ Then I, too, lowered my lance, and we galloped towards each other over the grass. We met in the middle of the sunny meadow. And what an encounter it was!”
“Really?”
“The most terrible clash I have ever felt,” Reuben confirmed earnestly. “My shield was ripped from my hands, and my lance broke into a thousand splinters.”
“Good God! What did the other knight do?”
“Well, since he was not a knight of honor, but a wicked robber knight, he did not give me time to replace my lance. Instead, he turned and charged at me again, intending to pierce my heart!”
“No! How horrific!”
“F
ear not, Milady!” Flicking back the hair out of his face and throwing Salvatrice a meaningful smile, Reuben leaned forward. “Do you see me lying dead on the floor, or am I sitting alive and well here in front of you?”
“You…you are alive and well! But…” She gazed up at him with wide, adoring eyes. “But how is that possible?”
“I dropped my splintered lance and drew my sword. And when the terrible robber knight charged me, I lifted the sword and—whack!—like this cut off the lance in half!
“Mary, Mother of God!”
“Indeed, the Mother of Christ must have stood beside me in that moment and guided my sword-arm. How else would I have been able to perform such an astonishing feat?”
“Your piety becomes you, but I beg of you, do not belittle your own achievements, Sir Knight.” Shyly, she touched his arm. Reuben felt a tingle from the spot where her tender finger had brushed his muscles move up his spine. “It was your strength which achieved this, your sword that cut the lance in half.”
“I can do other things with my sword, too,” he murmured, leaning forward farther until their face nearly touched. “Much more interesting and pleasurable.”
“Oh, Sir Reuben…” her eyes grew even wider. Reuben felt his heart swell, and other parts of him further down, too. “You are so wonderful.”
His lips graced her ear. “Do you wish for me to demonstrate how wonderful I am right now?”
“But you haven’t finished your tale, yet,” she teased. “What did the robber knight do next?”
“He? Bah!” Reuben waved a hand. “After I had broken his lance, he tried to come at me with his sword, of course, even tried to throw a dagger at me, dastardly, traitorous cad that he is, but he was no match for me. My first blow threw him off his mount!”
“How wonderful!”
“I sprang down to the ground and shouted, ‘Surrender to me, wicked knight! Surrender to the mercy of the Emperor!’ And he…well, he said things that I cannot repeat in the presence of a lady.”
“You are the epitome of chivalry, Sir Reuben.”
“I dueled the robber knight on the ground. I would have had him disarmed in seconds if it had been a fair fight, but he used all kinds of dirty tricks on me!”
