The Robber Knight

by Robert Thier

  Finished with all his preparations, Reuben sat and waited—waited for the crowd to grasp what he already knew. The herald had also figured out the inevitable next step. He was trying to calm down the crowd, still chanting Sir Tomasso's name.

  Finally, the cheers subsided, and the herald raised his arms, attracting everyone's attention. “Your Imperial Majesty, milords, ladies, citizens—the time for the last joust has come, the last match of the day, which shall determine who will ride off this courtyard as the new Champion of Sicily.”

  This silenced the last murmurs in the crowd. Their eyes snapped to Sir Tomasso, and from Sir Tomasso to the only other knight remaining on the courtyard, who was just now riding into the lists on his black steed, his broad shoulders tensed in anticipation of the fight to come, his lance erect.

  The ladies in the crowd gave an audible gasp.

  Reuben, for once, did not pay attention to them. His mind was on steel, for now. Silk and roses could wait till later.

  “Sir Reuben.” The herald gave a little bow. “Take up your position, please.”

  Urging on Ajax, Reuben maneuvered him to one end of the lists. Sir Tomasso was already waiting at the other. The champion briefly lowered his lance, a sign of respect. Reuben lowered his lance too, for he had respect for this man. Enough respect to not be sure of the outcome of this fight.

  “Ready?” the herald demanded.

  The Chivalry of Knights and Black Eyes of Squires

  Both Reuben's and Sir Tomasso's lances went down in an almost imperceptible nod to answer the herald’s question. They were ready. Reuben did not look to see whether the spectators were betting this time. His eyes were only for the Sicilian across the courtyard.

  “Then... Laissez-les aller!”

  The words had hardly left the herald's mouth, and already the horses were in movement. A confused medley of shouts rose from the crowd, some cheering Sir Tomasso, some Reuben—the latter mostly girls. Reuben didn't care at that moment. He was focusing totally and absolutely on his opponent. The Sicilian sat in the saddle like a master, the fluid movements of his horse hardly jostling the tip of his lance, which remained rock-steady, centered on Reuben. Reuben's lance was just as steady, pointing at Sir Tomasso. He knew that he would have no chance of winning this fight by a trick or quick movement. The Sicilian was just as fast as he. Maybe faster.

  No, this would be a contest of strength. Taking a deep breath, Reuben tensed his muscles and braced himself for the impact of the lance. At the last moment, he leaned back, in the desperate hope to cushion the blow.

  When it came, it was still ten times as bad as he had feared. Pain lanced up his left side, and he let out a strangled moan that was lost in the thunder of hoofs and the roar of the excited crowd. For a moment, red and blue lights flickered across his vision. When they had disappeared, he found himself at the end of the lists, about to run into the castle wall, and immediately made his horse turn, searching the courtyard with his eyes, hoping to see a sprawled figure on the ground.

  Sir Tomasso still sat atop his steed, waiting at the other end of the courtyard.

  Well, Reuben had never expected this to be over after only one run. Quite the contrary, in fact.

  “Hüa, Ajax! Hüa!”

  The black stallion charged again, and at the opposite end of the lists, Sir Tomasso's graceful mount did the same. They raced towards each other. Once more, Reuben braced himself. Once more, he leaned back, in anticipation of the strike to come.

  The crash of the collision was deafening. Suddenly, Reuben felt a sharp tear on his left arm and cried out in pain, suppressing a curse. No! Sir Tomasso's lance had caught on the edge of his shield and ripped it right off his arm! The leather straps had not been strong enough to withstand the strain. Gritting his teeth in pain, Reuben swore to himself that when he returned to Limburg, he would make the tanner who had made the accursed things tan his own hide!

  The opponents cantered past each other, both still on their horses.

  Fortunately, Sir Tomasso's lance had been swept aside as it ripped the shield from Reuben's arm and hadn't struck him this time, thank the Lord. But what about the next time? Reuben's opponent still had his shield, while he himself was defenseless. Reuben gritted his teeth in anger. He was going to lose this. He knew it!

  He was about to turn charge again, in a last, desperate attempt, when on the other side of the courtyard, he saw Sir Tomasso hesitate.

  “Cannot your squire bring you another shield, Sir?” the Sicilian called out, causing the crowd to go quiet.

  “I have no other shield, nor a squire to bring me one,” Reuben called back. “I came here alone, to test myself against the greatest knights of the Empire.”

  “Very well then. We shall fight on equal terms.” And with a fluid movement, Sir Tomasso discarded his shield. It landed, clattering on the ground. An “Ooooh” went up from the crowd, and Reuben sucked in a breath.

  “I came to joust against the greatest of knights,” he repeated, “and my wish has been fulfilled. I am honored to pit myself against you, Sir Tomasso. Shall we?”

  “We shall, Sir Reuben.”

  Sir Tomasso spurred on his horse. Among the tumultuous cheers of the crowd, the two knights galloped towards the center of the courtyard, the point where all would be decided. As they raced closer, and closer, the crowd cheered louder and louder. All bets were forgotten now. Such chivalry the people of Palermo had not seen in a hundred years!

  Reuben savored every inch of the way. The rush of hot blood in his veins, the wind pressing through his visor, the roar of the crowd—this was what he had been seeking. Adventure! Excitement! A way to prove himself! And now, he would prove himself beyond all measure.

  Or you will fail, a tiny voice whispered in his ear.

  But against the greatest of the great, would failing really be such a shame? A knight had to be humble.

  Yes, but not if it involves landing in the dirt in front of that many lovely ladies, the voice whispered, and Reuben couldn't help but agree.

  He gritted his teeth in resolution. Today was not a day to lose. The sun was shining, the air fresh, he was young, and his arm was strong. Just now it felt stronger than it had ever been. And as Sir Tomasso raced towards him, it grew in strength with every single inch.

  Determination. That was another virtue which a knight had to have.

  “Hüa!” he roared, spurring his horse on to even greater efforts. “Hüa, Ajax!”

  The horse accelerated. He took the last few yards in series of gigantic leaps. Instead of leaning back, this time Reuben struck forward, putting all his weight, will, and power behind the single blow aimed at Sir Tomasso. He did not see if it hit the target. The answering blow was so strong it nearly knocked him off his saddle, and all went black before him for a moment. Strange shades danced around him in the darkness. He could hardly feel his arm, or the rest of his body. Where was he again? A tournament? Why a tournament? Shouldn't he be at Limburg? That was his home, was it not?

  Then, sight, knowledge, sound all came rushing back to him in a tidal wave. And he heard the crowd around him, all the crowd now, not just half, cheering his name. “Reu-ben! Reu-ben! Reu-ben!”

  Grasping the reins of his horse again, which in his stupor had slipped out of his hands, he turned Ajax around, and saw him lying on the ground: Sir Tomasso, all his limbs stretched outward, completely motionless.

  He had won!

  And at that moment, he didn't care.

  Paying no heed to the cheering crowd or the gesticulating herald, Reuben drove Ajax forward into the side of the lists where Sir Tomasso had fallen. Coming to a stop with a jerk of the reins, he jumped off his horse and landed on his feet with a clatter of armor.

  “Sir Tomasso! Sir Tomasso, are you all right?”

  For a moment, there was no reply, and Reuben's throat tightened. Then, a groan emanated from the fallen knight.

  “You, Sir,” he croaked, his lilting accent a little off, as if he were drunk, “have a r
ight arm like a battering ram. I should be glad to shake the hand which is fastened to its end.”

  “That you shall!” Reuben laughed, and he extended his right hand to the knight, who grasped it, and let Reuben help him to his feet. The Sicilian waved off his squire, who just at that moment came hurrying into the lists, a terrified expression on his face, both hands extended.

  “Oh, calm yourself, boy, calm yourself.” To Reuben, he added, “he's never seen me fall off a horse before. He probably thought the world would end before that ever happened.”

  “To be honest, so did I,” Reuben admitted.

  “Come now. Don't underestimate your own abilities.” Turning to the spectators, Sir Tomasso raised Reuben's hand over their heads and shouted: “I relinquish my laurels, milords, ladies, citizens. Greet the new Champion of Sicily—Sir Reuben von Limburg!”

  There was a roar of applause and cheering from the crowd. This was why they loved to watch knights! Normal people would be angry about losing to other men, but these people could shine in victory or defeat, simply through their virtue. Or at least some of them could. Faint expletives in Polish from behind the stands suggested that not every knight was as knightly as he ought to be. But not one among the spectators paid attention to Sir Albin at that moment. They were too busy cheering their heroes.

  Escorted by the herald, the pursuivant, Sir Tomasso, and his squire, who still seemed to be in a state of shock, Reuben was led up to the royal box and there kneeled before Emperor Friedrich to receive the prize of the tournament: two priceless daggers with golden hilts and jewels for pommels.

  As the Emperor handed Reuben the second dagger, he leaned forward from his high seat and said in a low voice, so only Reuben could hear: “There will be a celebration held at the castle later on—officially in our honor, though the ladies will prefer to think it is in yours.” His mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. “We shall look forward to speaking to you there, if you have time.”

  Reuben nodded, understanding this for what it was: an order. If you didn't have time to speak to the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, you had better find some quickly.

  “Certainly, your Imperial Majesty.”

  “And now, join me, Sir Reuben.” The Emperor pointed to a comfortable-looking seat next to and only slightly lower than his own. “There will be more music, I think. A ballad of the brave Erec, Knight of the Round Table of the ancient King Arthur of Britain. All people say that his knights were the best, but perhaps you could compete, eh?”

  Reuben settled down and, for the next hour or so, thoroughly enjoyed himself. He had always loved the tales of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. They were the epitome of knightly virtue—brave, courteous, and loyal, everything Reuben strove to be. They were also quite popular with the ladies. Something which he already was, but nevertheless strove also to be.

  As the bard started singing, platters of light, delicious food were brought by servants who treated Reuben with the deference due to a king, and wine in golden goblets followed. Looking out over the cheering spectators, who were still calling out his name in the intervals between the parts of the bard's story, Reuben smiled. This was life as he had always dreamed of it.

  *~*~**~*~*

  Of course, there was the slight problem that such a life had to be financed. As much as Reuben hated to think about such lowly money matters, it was not every day he would be feasting on the hospitality of the Emperor. He needed to be able to pay his... what did the merchants and tradesmen call those nasty things? Oh yes, “bills.” He needed to pay his bills.

  Well, now he would be able to. Now that he had won the tournament, he would be a rich man. Not only had he received the priceless daggers for gaining the title of champion, but every single knight he had beaten in the joust would be obliged to give up his horse and armor to him. With the number of victories he had carried off, Reuben knew he would be a wealthy man by the end of the day, once he had sold the animals and armor to an interested merchant.

  Thus it was that, later in the day, as the sun was just approaching the horizon, Reuben was marching around the castle towards the tents in the back yard, where the defeated knights had remained to await the victors. Reuben saw a figure pass, leading two horses behind him. The figure wore a blue squire's uniform and a black eye. Reuben could guess why.

  It was common knowledge that the defeated knight in a joust owed his horse and armor to the victor. What was not so common knowledge, was that often, the defeated knight wasn't all that pleased about having been defeated, and equally not ready to part with his horse and armor, which were incredibly valuable possessions. The solution to this was for the victorious knights to send their squire to deliver the polite request for the surrender of the horse, and to arm him with a big wooden club, in case a not-so-polite request should be made necessary by the loser’s refusal.

  Reuben didn't have a squire, or a wooden club. But for some reason, when they saw his tall, muscular figure approach, none of the knights he had beaten seemed inclined to refuse him his prize of victory.

  Last of all, he went to Sir Tomasso. The knight awaited him, standing upright in front of his tent, a sad smile on his face.

  “I know what you are here for, my friend,” he sighed, “and it makes me, for the first time, sad that you have won.” Gently, he stroked the nose of the slender, graceful animal picketed beside him—a being of true beauty, though Reuben could hardly imagine how it was able to bear the weight of a knight in full armor. “Well, mio ragazzo,” Sir Tomasso murmured, “it is time to say goodbye. You have served me faithfully during all these years, and been the best friend a man could have hoped for. Go and greet your new master. Unless...”

  He turned, and looked at Reuben with a half doubting, half hopeful expression. “Unless you would be willing to accept a purse of silver for him? I would gladly pay eighty or even a hundred coins of silver, in any currency of the Empire.”

  Reuben was impressed. The horse had to really be a dear friend to the knight. Nobody would pay more than fifty silver pieces for a warhorse on any market in Limburg. It made him all the gladder of the news he had come to deliver.

  “Keep your coins, Sir,” he said with feeling, “and keep your horse, too. In the lists, you relinquished your shield, though you had a right to it. Now it is I who relinquish that to which I have a right. I did not come here to demand the prize of my victory. I came here to tell you to keep it, with my good wishes. It is enough to have fought against a knight such as you.”

  Sir Tomasso took a step forward, slow and measured. His narrow face was grave, and yet a joyful light shone in his eyes. “Thank you, Sir.” With warmth, he grasped Reuben by the hand, and shook it. “It is I who feel honored to have met you. I know you have a future ahead of you as bright as the morning star.”

  Reuben laughed. “The morning star? That is what Lucifer was called before he fell, you know.”

  Sir Tomasso laughed, too. “Well, as God is my witness, you will not fall. I am sure that, one day, you shall become one of the noblest and most chivalrous knights that ever lived. Nothing and no one can keep you from that.”

  *~*~**~*~*

  Outside the city walls, where the sun slowly sank behind the horizon, a dark group of riders approached the city in measured pace. When the riders reached the city gates, one of their number rode forward and pounded the heavy wood.

  For a few minutes, nothing happened. Then, a guard stuck his head over the wall.

  “You're too late,” he shouted. “It's past curfew, the gates are closed! Find an inn somewhere along the road!”

  The rider at the head of the procession, a slim figure in a long, dark green, satin cloak, didn't say anything. Instead, two slender hands reached up and removed the hood from the rider's head, revealing a cascade of dark, black locks.

  The guard atop the wall paled, as if he had just been subjected to a severe blood-letting by an over-eager barber.[66] “I... I am so sorry, Milady. I shall let you in immediately. And plea
se tell the duke I meant no disrespect, I was only doing my duty, I...”

  The slim hand made an impatient gesture.

  “Of course, Milady. I'm coming, I'm coming.”

  Hurried footsteps could be heard from inside the city, and not long after, the small side gate, set inside the main gate of the city, opened to let the travelers in. As the dark green rider passed, the guard bowed so deep that his nose almost brushed the cobblestones.

  “Welcome to Palermo, Milady.”

  THE END

  of

  THE FALL OF SIR REUBEN, PART ONE

  Part two will be available in the special edition of the second volume of the Robber Knight Saga, The Robber Knight’s Love.

  ###

  About the Author

  Robert Thier is a German historian and writer of historical fiction. His particular mix of history, romance, and adventure, always with a good deal of humor thrown in, has gained him a diverse readership ranging from teenagers to retired grandmothers. For the way he manages to make history come alive, as if he himself lived as a medieval knight, his fans all over the world have given him the nickname “Sir Rob.”

  For Robert, becoming a writer followed naturally from his interest in history. “In Germany,” he says, “we use the same word for story and history. And I've always loved the one as much as the other. Becoming a storyteller, a writer, is what I've always wanted.”

  Besides writing and researching in dusty old archives, on the lookout for a mystery to put into his next story, Robert enjoys classical music and long walks in the country. The helmet you see in the picture he does not wear because he is a cycling enthusiast, but to protect his literary skull in which a bone has been missing from birth. Robert lives in the south of Germany in a small village between the three Emperor Mountains.