The Captive Maiden

by Melanie Dickerson

  Many people, dressed in their vibrant finery, made their way toward the choice seats surrounding the duke and his family. Similarly, on the opposite side of the field, the more well-dressed people hurried to find seats in the south gallery.

  A few dirty, raggedly dressed children tried to sit on the benches meant for the upper classes but were shooed away by the guards patrolling the perimeter. In the center of the gallery was a seat of honor, a throne-like chair placed there for the lady who would be crowned the Queen of Beauty and Love. Every tournament had to have its queen, and this one would be no different. Duke Wilhelm, as the sponsor of the tournament, would be expected to choose a queen, but rumor said that he would confer that right on the tournament champion. The queen would have the honor of bestowing on the winner his prize, and, in turn, receiving from him … a kiss. Then she would be led by the champion knight to the banquet, which was by invitation only, at Hagenheim Castle.

  Gisela was sure the day’s winner would be Valten, but who would he pick to be his lady? The prospects made her feel slightly ill.

  Her most pertinent question for the moment was where she was to sit. A man stared at her as she made her way toward the gallery. More than one man was staring, actually. One well-dressed burgher stepped toward her. “Beautiful maiden, I would be honored if you would sit with me.”

  “The pretty girl doesn’t want to sit with you, Hugh. She wants to sit with me.” This from a man equally well-dressed but with a belly as huge as a sow.

  “Excuse me, good sirs, but I am sitting elsewhere.” She pretended to see her place farther down at the other end of the gallery, but a guard approached her.

  “Fraulein, I am charged with seating the fairest young maidens in the center section of the gallery, from whom the champion will choose a queen.” He held out his arm to assist her up the steps.

  The other men moved away, grumbling under their breath, for which Gisela was thankful. She looked the guard in the eyes. He had a kind face and was old enough to be her father.

  “Are you sure you want me to sit here?” she asked. Perhaps he had only meant to scare away those men.

  “Of course. And”—he lowered his voice—”you are too beautiful to be wandering around without an escort.”

  She placed her hand on his gauntleted wrist and let him lead her up the wooden steps. As they climbed higher, her eye caught sight of Rainhilda sitting near the top of the gallery to the left, on the other side of the empty throne. Her nose was stuck high in the air, but Gisela had to admit she looked gorgeous. Her dress was made of panels of pale pink and pale violet silk that brought out the flawlessness of her skin. Instead of the big horned turban on the heads of many of the ladies, she wore a simple veil attached to a jeweled circlet, which better displayed her honey-gold hair, styled as always in ringlets that cascaded over her shoulders.

  Gisela tried not to stare, hoping Rainhilda wouldn’t notice her. Were Irma and Contzel nearby?

  She sat in the empty space the guard led her to. “Thank you.” The guard nodded and made his way back down the steps. Gisela was left to wait, alone, for the tournament to start.

  Chapter

  6

  The gallery around her, as well as the one opposite, began quickly filling up with people. Gisela looked around for her stepmother and stepsisters. They weren’t sitting with Rainhilda. Perhaps Irma and Contzel had not been chosen to sit around the throne along with the most beautiful young maidens; she couldn’t say she was surprised, but she imagined how it must have irked Evfemia.

  Gisela became bolder and craned her neck, trying to see on the other side of the throne, beyond the section that was roped off for the fairest of the maidens. In a moment, she spied Evfemia, Irma, and Contzel sitting not far from Rainhilda, but outside the center area.

  Good. They were far enough away that they might not see her.

  The marshals of the tournament came out onto the lists on horseback to the flourish of trumpets. One of the marshals unrolled a scroll, and the crowd hushed to silence as he began to read the proclamation and rules of the tournament, according to the grand marshal of the field, Duke Wilhelm. He declared that all the usual rules of chivalry were to be observed, courtesy given to injured knights, and no unfair advantages were to be taken, such as by intentionally injuring the opposing knight’s horse. The tournament was to last two days, with the third day being dedicated to foot soldiering contests such as archery, feats of strength, and long-distance throwing.

  But first, the noble knights would take part in the joust. Gisela noticed that each knight had two shields, each with his coat of arms, displayed around the inner perimeter of the lists. The field marshal read, “Any knight may challenge any other by striking a shield of war or a shield of peace, which will indicate whether the weapon would be a lance with a blunt end, or a sharp, metal-tipped lance.”

  The two knights—the challenger and his opponent—would fight three courses with either a blunt or sharp lance. In today’s jousts, if a knight was unhorsed, he was considered defeated. They could not dismount to continue the fight. If neither knight was unhorsed, the marshals would proclaim the victor.

  At the end of the day, after all challenges had been fought, Duke Wilhelm would decide which knight would be proclaimed the champion of the day and have the honor of crowning the Queen of Beauty and Love, who would be sovereign for the duration of the tournament.

  The winner of the second day’s battles would be declared the winner over the entire tournament. A ball would be given in his honor on the night of the third day, over which both he and the Queen of Beauty and Love would preside.

  Gisela listened raptly as the rules of the tournament were read. Her gaze had been drawn immediately to Valten’s shield around the perimeter of the field, and now flitted to the pavilion that was decorated in his colors. She yearned to see him riding out onto the lists on Sieger.

  On Gisela’s left sat a girl who laughed and giggled with her companion and completely ignored Gisela. The girl on her right, however, turned toward Gisela with a friendly smile. “I am Cristyne.”

  “I am Gisela.”

  “Isn’t this exciting? It is my first tournament.”

  “It is my first tournament too.” Gisela liked the girl immediately. “Do you know any of the knights?”

  “I know one, Sir Ulrich von Rechberg, as he grew up near me.” She leaned close to Gisela and whispered, “Even though he is a childhood friend, and I must cheer for him, he is a dim-witted sort of fellow, and I never liked him much. But his mother is kind and used to give me gingerbread. And you? Do you have a favorite?”

  It was probably best not to tell her new friend about her childhood dreams about marrying Valen, or that she had talked with him several days before. Gisela cast about for something appropriate to say. “I am surely not the only girl here who will be cheering for Valten, the duke’s son.”

  “True, he is quite the favorite, and the most accomplished. I wonder who he’ll pick to be the Queen of Beauty and Love if he wins. Do you think he is in love with anyone? Maybe he has a childhood sweetheart.”

  Reluctantly, Gisela admitted, “It is said that he will marry Sir Edgar’s daughter, Rainhilda.”

  Cristyne wrinkled her small nose, which was sprinkled with tiny freckles. “I certainly hope not. I met her earlier, and she seems an arrogant, spiteful girl.”

  Gisela glanced over at Rainhilda, who was at that moment smirking at something the girl to her left was saying. Did Valten love Rainhilda? She couldn’t imagine that he did, although Ava had once told her that men rarely saw past a woman’s outward appearance — until they were married, and then it was too late. Would that happen to Valten? Would he marry Rainhilda and be stuck with a conceited, spiteful wife?

  She frowned. “I don’t know her, but she certainly looks arrogant.” Gisela glanced again in Rainhilda’s direction and caught her staring. Gisela ducked behind Cristyne, hoping Rainhilda hadn’t recognized her. If she had, she would tell Irma, and then Evfe
mia would learn that Gisela had managed to come to the tournament.

  Then instead of cowering, she sat up straight. If Evfemia tried to force her to go home, she’d pretend she didn’t know the woman, or she would find that kindly guard. Perhaps he would help her. Though if she hoped to attend the second day of the tournament, she probably shouldn’t go home at all tonight. Perhaps she would sneak into Ava’s stable and sleep in the hay.

  The knights began to enter the lists, mounted on their war horses, which were draped in the most spectacular colors. The knights themselves shone brightly, their highly polished armor glinting in the sun. Many helmets were decorated with bright scarves, streamers, or feathers. They carried their lances pointed to the sky as they paraded onto the grassy field and lined up, facing Gisela’s side.

  Each knight was introduced, his parentage and ancestry were declared, and the crowd applauded and called out approval for the local knights. But for the foreign knights, only a smattering of clapping could be heard, and even a few cries of derision arose for some.

  Valten wore only his stripes of green, gold, and black. He wore no scarves or any other adornment on either his helmet or his arm. Gisela looked down at the scarf Ava had made her wear around her neck and imagined it tied to Valten’s arm as he competed in the joust today. But it was a silly thought.

  When it was Valten’s turn to be announced, he nudged Sieger, and his horse made a graceful bow, bending one knee and lowering his head as Valten in turn bowed his head and dipped his lance toward the crowd. A roaring cheer arose.

  When Friedric Ruexner was introduced, a few hisses spread through the crowd, as his reputation as Valten’s chief nemesis had preceded him. The visor of his helmet was open, and he seemed to be staring at her as he raised his fist defiantly.

  After they’d all been introduced, many of the knights walked their horses over and banged on another knight’s shield. Gisela watched as Friedric Ruexner made his way to Valten’s shield and banged it forcefully with the end of his lance. At least he had struck Valten’s shield of peace and not the shield of war. A few more tapped their lances on Valten’s shield of peace. As far as Gisela and Cristyne could tell, and according to the spectators around them, none of the knights had touched a shield of war, all choosing to fight with wooden-tipped lances rather than the sharp metal tips of war. They were probably saving those for the second day of the tournament.

  After the challenges were made, the knights dispersed to their pavilions to await their turn at tilting with their opponents.

  Ulrich von Rechberg, a local knight and Cristyne’s childhood acquaintance, readied himself to meet his challenger, Count Adolf Burgkmair of Thuringia. Cristyne exchanged a look of excitement with Gisela and said, “For his mother’s sake, I hope Ulrich doesn’t break his head.”

  The two waited for the signal from the marshal at the middle of the south end. At last, the man held aloft a white flag. As he let the flag fall, the two knights spurred their horses forward, lances aimed at the shield of their opponent. They struck their marks, and both lances splintered, with pieces of the wooden spears flying in every direction. But the knights kept their saddles.

  They returned to their places at the east and west ends of the list, where their squires brought them each a new lance. When the marshal’s flag dipped, they charged each other once again at terrible speed. This time both lances held firm, and once again both men kept their seats. For their third and final tilt, they once again came toward each other at full speed. Count Burgkmair’s lance glanced off Ulrich’s shield, while Ulrich aimed for the count’s helmet instead of his shield. The count ended up on the ground, unhelmed, with a bloody gash on his forehead.

  Several ladies gasped, while Ulrich, the victor, pumped his hand in the air. The crowd cheered for the Hagenheim youth. Cristyne shouted over the noisy crowd, “He trains with Lord Hamlin.”

  The count was helped up by his squire and attendants and was able to walk off the field. The crowd clapped for him. As the loser of the encounter, he would have to forfeit his horse and armor to the conqueror. However, it was customary for the victor to allow the loser to ransom either or both for an agreed-upon sum. That must have been how Valten had been able to hold onto Sieger while competing in so many jousts.

  Cristyne leaned closer to Gisela. “Do you think anyone will get killed today?”

  “I hope not. My friend Ava says men crave danger, or at least adventure. They like to think they are strong and powerful.” Gisela supposed Ava must know what she was talking about, since she had seven brothers.

  “My mother says the same.” Cristyne nodded. “I have three brothers. Sometimes I think they care naught for life or limb.”

  Valten entered the lists mounted on Sieger, and Gisela’s heart jumped into her throat. He sat so straight in the saddle, the picture of manly grace and strength. His armor was bright silver with intricate carvings and decoration, and his helmet was a pleasing shape, high and rounded at the top.

  Ruexner’s helmet was like an enormous beak, the way the visor jutted forward. On the top was a spike, to which was attached a profusion of gray and white feathers. His armor was black. A skull marked his shield and his surcoat.

  Valten and Ruexner took their places, and Gisela placed her hand over her heart in a vain effort to keep it from beating so hard. Sieger stood perfectly still as Valten lifted his lance parallel to the ground. Ruexner’s beast stamped his hooves impatiently, and the marshal seemed to be waiting for the challenger to get his horse under control. When the destrier stilled, the marshal dropped the flag.

  Valten and his mount leaped forward, and the two opponents charged each other.

  Gisela’s heart seemed to stop beating altogether as each knight’s lance crashed into the other’s shield. Ruexner’s weapon shattered and he was thrown backward. He teetered sideways. The crowd seemed to hold their breath until he righted himself.

  Valten’s lance held firm, and he sat facing his adversary.

  Ruexner roared some unintelligible words from inside his closed helmet. Throughout the tirade, Valten remained still.

  Gisela watched Ruexner as he rode back to his place. His squire handed him a new lance, but he shook his head and barked something Gisela didn’t understand. Then he spurred his horse toward the side of the lists where Valten’s shields were hanging and struck Valten’s shield of war so hard it fell to the ground.

  When Friedric Ruexner returned to his starting position, Gisela could more clearly see the new lance he was holding. The point was sharp, with a metal tip from which multiple wicked points splayed.

  Valten received a similarly tipped lance from his own squire.

  The crowd voiced their awe in hushed tones, then waited for the marshal to drop his flag. Gisela leaned forward, her hands clasped together as she held her breath. O God, please help Valten emerge victorious. Don’t let him die.

  The flag fell and the two horses sprang forward. Ruexner seemed to be aiming for Valten’s neck, while Valten shifted his lance’s aim at the last second from Ruexner’s shield to his helmet.

  Each lance struck the other rider. Ruexner’s glanced off Valten’s helmet, and the duke’s son kept his seat, but Valten’s lance had apparently struck Ruexner’s visor and wedged itself between the air slits. Valten kept hold of the lance, the other end stuck in Ruexner’s visor, and Valten’s surefooted horse moved to follow the foe.

  Loud curses could be heard from Friedric Ruexner as he threw down his lance and, with both hands, tried to pull Valten’s lance out of his helmet, but to no avail. His squire and two attendants ran to help him, but they still could not release him. Instead, they ended up taking off his helmet.

  Friedric Ruexner’s face was red, his hair and beard wet with perspiration. He cursed Valten in French — at least, she thought he did, as he was using words Gisela had never heard before.

  Valten sat mute, holding his lance with Ruexner’s helmet still attached.

  They each went back to their end of the f
ield. Ruexner’s attendants placed a new helmet on his head, then gave him a new lance, again with a metal tip. Valten replaced his lance as well.

  The two once again faced each other, waiting for the marshal to drop the flag. For their third and final encounter, Gisela could feel the rage emanating from Ruexner. When the flag fell, Ruexner shouted as he spurred his horse toward Valten.

  There was a great crash as Valten’s lance struck Ruexner’s helmet and splintered, and Ruexner was knocked off his saddle onto his back. At the same time, Valten’s helmet was knocked off with such force, it hit the ground thirty feet behind him.

  Gisela was desperate to see Valten’s face, to see if he’d been injured. But his back was to her as he gazed down at his challenger.

  Ruexner jumped to his feet, snarling like a wild animal, and drew his sword. The marshals urged their horses forward but weren’t able to reach the two before Ruexner swung his sword at Valten and missed. Sieger let out a wild scream and reared, his hoofs flailing in Ruexner’s face.

  One marshal on horseback placed himself between Valten and Ruexner, while another dismounted and wrenched Ruexner’s sword out of his hand from behind.

  Ruexner spun around and yelled something indistinct, then stalked off the field toward his pavilion, leaving his squire and attendants to bring his horse.

  The field marshal declared Valten the victor, taking his right hand and lifting it in the air.

  As Valten’s squire brought him his helmet, Gisela finally got a glimpse of his face. A bright red line ran across his forehead just over his left eye, from which a trickle of blood dribbled over his eyebrow and down his cheek.

  The marshals conversed with Valten for a moment, and then Valten took his place at the end of the lists while his squire helped him put his helmet back on. Another opponent emerged.