The Robber Knight

by Robert Thier

  The audience exchanged looks, and the ladies stuck their heads together to whisper. What was this? The ravishingly handsome young stranger and that disagreeable old fellow—well, he was only thirty or so but you had to admit he looked old in comparison with the beautiful stranger—had had a disagreement? A fight, even? What had it been about? Had it been about the old one's daughter? Was the young knight in love with her? What a pity that would be...

  All around the ladies nodded energetically. Yes, what a pity.

  But if the young knight was in love, he would be wearing a token of his lady's favor. A hundred eager female eyes dissected Reuben for any piece of clothing or trinket that might have originated from a lady. A satisfied sigh went up as they found none.

  So, he was still available!

  While the ladies thus made careful observations, Sir Wilhelm, still on the ground, was apparently trying to grind his teeth into dust. The angry grinding noise seemed to irritate Reuben's horse, and it stamped a hoof down inches from Sir Wilhelm's head.

  “And now,” Reuben continued, “that we have fought out our disagreement, and I have won, you know what must come next.”

  The grinding noise intensified. Sir Wilhelm didn't look as if he were about to open his mouth. He started to sit up.

  Quick as a snake, Reuben slid out of the saddle. His sword appeared in his hand and stopped Sir Wilhelm in mid-movement.

  “I'm afraid,” Reuben said gently, “that I must insist.”

  The entire audience held their breath. One didn't get to see such a spectacle every day. Tournaments were one thing, but this... Would there be blood on the courtyard soon? The expressions in the audience ranged from eager, to frightened, to concerned, but no one dreamed of interfering. This was a matter of chivalry.

  “Perhaps,” Reuben suggested, “you can't find the right words. How about this: 'I most humbly apologize for the unjust insult done to you in regard to your noble parentage and swear on my honor as a knight that I shall refrain from a repetition of such unchivalrous behavior in the future.'”

  Sir Wilhelm clamped his lips together, his eyes blazing up at Reuben with the determination of hatred. Reuben slid his sword up the knight's neck, until it was clear of the protective chain mail and rested against bare skin. Reuben pressed down a little harder.

  Finally, Sir Wilhelm managed to unclench his teeth. “I... most humbly apologize... for the unjust insult done to you... in regard to your noble parentage...”

  “Very good. Very good indeed. Go on, you’re almost done.”

  “...and swear on my honor as a knight... that I shall refrain from a repetition of such unchivalrous behavior... in the future.”

  “There!” Smiling happily, Reuben withdrew the sword. “That wasn't so hard, now, was it? Now that the laws of chivalry are satisfied, the whole thing can be forgiven and forgotten.” He held out a hand to Sir Wilhelm to help him up. “I'm sure tomorrow we'll be the best of friends.”

  Ignoring the hand, Sir Wilhelm got to his feet, gave Reuben a last, hate-filled glare, and spat in front of him on the ground. Then he turned and marched away.

  “Well, maybe it'll take until the day after,” Reuben mused.

  “Sir Reuben? Sir Reuben, could you please make way for the next two contestants?” The herald had appeared beside him, sweating efficiency.

  “Of course.” Reuben gave a gracious little bow. “Thank you for allowing me to resolve my little disagreement with Sir Wilhelm.” He turned to the stands and performed another, deeper bow. “Thanks to you also, for patience. Palermo is the kindest, most beautiful city I have ever had the pleasure to visit. And its ladies are the most beautiful creatures in Christendom.”

  He let his gaze slide briefly over the spectators, giving them his most charming, brightly shining smile. Later, every lady in the audience would swear it was on her that his eyes had come to rest. Imagination was a wonderful thing.

  The next two contestants, two of the young wine lovers in armor, had a hard time attracting the attention of the audience. At least half of it—the female half—was staring off to the side, where Reuben sat among the other knights, busy polishing an imaginary stain on his helmet. The next two young knights who fought against each other suffered similar neglect. By the time one of the young knights had managed to knock the other off his horse, several of the ladies among the spectators, still looking off to the side, had started suffering from neck cramps.

  “Next,” the herald called out, “Sir Romano di Trucco against Sir Hermann von der Hagen, Knight Brother of the Ordo domus Sanctæ Mariæ Theutonicorum Hierosolymitanorum.”

  Reluctantly, a few female eyes left the splendid figure of Reuben and returned to the center of the courtyard, where the two knights had already taken up their positions. Reuben, who had all but ignored the last fight, knowing he would not have to fear either of the young knights, now watched again with interest. After the defeat of Sir Wilhelm, Sir Hermann was the only other German knight left in the running. Reuben was very curious to see his technique.

  Yet there wasn't much to see. The Teutonic Knight knocked his opponent out of the saddle in the first run, however, it was not easy to determine whether this was due to his prowess or his opponent's incompetence. It was no very impressive throw that catapulted the young knight into the dirt, so it might be the case that the Teutonic Knight was no very impressive fighter—yet it might equally be that he was, and he simply didn't want to show his hand yet.

  After all, that was what he, Reuben, had done.

  He would have to wait until the second round to see who was really worth his metal. It wouldn't be long now. Only one more fight, and then new pairs would be jousting—all of them real warriors this time, not those wine-sodden fools who dared to call themselves knights.

  The last fight signaled it: the fun was over. The scrawny Polish knight and his opponent had hardly taken up positions, when the little knight drove his horse forward violently. The other fighter, who had begun at a leisurely canter, quickly tried to spur his horse on to a faster pace, but it was already too late. The lance of the little Pole slit expertly between the other knight's armor plates. There was a scream and a spray of red color flew towards the sky, only to come down on the body of the young knight who lay on the ground, his limbs extended, motionless.

  There were gasps from the crowd, and one or two ladies even fainted, or at least pretended to do so in order to catch the attention of some man in their vicinity. Several people, including the pursuivant and the young knight's squire, who looked rather green in the face, hurried into the courtyard and bent over the fallen warrior.

  Sir Albin, meanwhile, sat on his horse and looked supremely unconcerned. He let his lance slide down in his grip until he held the iron tip, on which the blood of his opponent gleamed fresh. With a rag from one of his pockets he wiped off the blood, and then tugged hard at the tip to see whether it had at all suffered by piercing a fellow man's flesh and needed to be replaced. Only once he was satisfied that this was not the case, did he look over at his fallen opponent.

  “If he dies,” he said to the young knight's squire, who was glaring up at him hatefully, “you'll remember to send me his horse and armor, as is custom.”

  “Do not fear, Sir Knight,” the young man hissed. “You will get what you deserve.”

  Sir Albin either didn't hear the double-meaning, or didn't care.

  “Good,” he said and turned his horse around.

  “He's alive!” The shout out of the pursuivant's mouth caused a sigh of relief to go up from the audience. “His heart is still beating, but it is weak! Call a physician!”

  A few men rushed forward to help, and groaning and moaning, the young knight was carried off the courtyard. Not long after, they heard a scream from the distance. Reuben supposed that would be the physician at work. He wondered what the young knight's chances of survival were. Some of the physicians he had met had tried to cure colds by draining most of the blood out of you, and tried to stop internal bleeding
by tying a bag containing a dried toad around your neck. Reuben was no expert in healing, but he rather doubted the efficacy of dried toads.

  Another scream came, which was abruptly cut short.

  And then the herald stepped into the middle of the courtyard, bowing to the audience and the Emperor.

  “The winners of the first round are determined,” he proclaimed. “May the second round begin. Knights, come forward!”

  Glory

  Reuben drove his horse forward, careful to keep in the middle of the group of knights who rode out onto the courtyard, the hoofs of their mounts making dull thumps on the packed earth that was meant to prevent the knights from smashing their heads in on the stone beneath. This round was where things would be getting interesting, and he had no intention of drawing too much of the attention of his competitors at this stage. Let them underestimate him, for now.

  There was nothing Reuben could do about attracting the attention of the crowd, however, or, more particularly, its female half. Even through several protective layers of padding and steel, he could feel hundreds of long-lashed eyes on him, and he smiled to himself. Once he had conquered his opponents in the tournament, maybe there would be time for other kinds of conquests. After all, a perfect knight needed a lady to admire, and in spite of Reuben's diligent search, he had not found one who suited him yet.

  The herald waited until all the knights were assembled in a line in front of the castle. Then he took up a high position on the castle steps.

  “This time,” he announced, “the pairs that will be fighting shall be named beforehand.”

  Helmeted heads swiveled. The knights eyed each other suspiciously. Which one would they be fighting against?

  Reuben imitated the gesture of the others, but only to fit in. He had already seen all he wanted to see of the others. Looking at them now would give him no further advantage.

  “Sir Tomasso di Zaragoza against Sir Stefano di Abbascia,” the herald called out. A growl went up from some of the knights. Of all people, the champion was going to have it easy: Sir Stefano was one of the left-over knights from the group of jolly drinking companions. He would be lying in the dirt as soon as Tomasso's lance touched him.

  Out of the corner of his eyes, Reuben looked at Sir Tomasso. The man appeared calm and unconcerned—emphasis on “appeared.” If you looked very closely, you could see his eyes were turned to the side. It almost looked as if he was returning Reuben's surreptitious gaze.

  “Sir Adrian Rakowski against Amir ibn Sharif ibn Alhasan Abdul-Ahad al-Arabi.”

  Reuben didn't know whether it was possible to crack your knuckles while wearing an armor-covered gauntlet, but Sir Adrian managed to produce a noise with his huge, meaty fists that sounded very much like knuckle-cracking. He turned towards the Saracen envoy, and Reuben could imagine only too well the expression on his face at that moment. Reuben thought you had to give the infidel credit—he didn't even flinch.

  “Sir Reuben von Limburg...”

  Reuben sucked in a breath. He had been distracted, and hearing his own name caught him off guard.

  “...against Sir Goffredo Terzi.”

  Reuben relaxed. On one level he was relieved to be fighting against one of the young knights this time—it would give him more time to study the others' techniques. On another level, he was angry. His hands itched to do real fighting.

  “Sir Albin Rakowski against Sir Hermann von der Hagen.”

  Neither the scrawny little Pole nor the stark, black and white figure of the Teutonic Knight moved a muscle. This lack of visible reaction confirmed what Reuben had already suspected: they were professional fighters, there to win the prize of victory. They were not afraid.

  “Please, honored knights, retreat from the courtyard. Sir Tomasso, Sir Stefano, please take your positions.”

  The duel went as expected. Nobody showed great signs of surprise when Sir Stefano landed on his behind, not even Sir Stefano himself. He laughed and bowed to Sir Tomasso, who returned the salutation with aristocratic grace.

  The next fight was something altogether different. As the Saracen envoy rode by to take his place, the crowd hurled hisses, curses, and a single rotten tomato at him, the latter of which he expertly ducked. On the other side of the courtyard, Sir Adrian was cracking his huge knuckles again. He reached for his lance, and stabbed it towards the sky with a bestial roar.

  “Deus le vult! Deus le vult!”

  The crowd howled its approval, clapping and stamping their feet. Reuben didn't move. He knew the call—Deus le vult, God wills it. The call of the Crusaders. It was one thing to call it while storming the holy city of Jerusalem; it was quite another to do so while fighting for your own glory at a tournament in the not-so-holy city of Palermo. He almost wished the Saracen might win, to teach that piece of iron-clad beef a lesson.

  However, as he saw how the Saracen was handed his lance, and nearly dropped the unfamiliar weapon, he knew it was not going to happen.

  “Laissez-les aller!”

  The herald's call to ride was hardly audible. It was almost drowned out by the stamping of feet and the shouts of the crowd: “Deus le vult! Deus le vult!”

  The horses of the two contestants started forward. Faster and faster they went, the Saracen's nimble mount quicker on its feet, yet the Pole's more powerful.

  There was an almighty crash, and wooden splinters rained down onto the courtyard. Yet, among the wooden splinters, no sprawled body lay. The Pole whirled his horse around, and Reuben didn't need to see his face to feel his surprise and outrage. At the other end of the courtyard, the Saracen had somehow managed to stay on his horse. He was holding the remains of his broken lance in his right hand.

  He raised the stump, pointing it at the Pole, whose lance was also in splinters.

  Reuben felt the corner of his mouth twitch. If it weren’t for the fact that this man was an abominable infidel and deserved to burn in hell for the rest of eternity, he could grow to like the fellow.

  Sir Adrian uttered another roar. This time, it sounded more like a Polish dialect than Latin, and Reuben was reasonably sure that the words were a lot less seemly than “God wills it.” From the crowd, too, muttered words in Sicilian befouled the air.

  Taking another lance, offered to him by the pursuivant, the Saracen didn't wait for his enemy to attack but spurred his horse forward, flying down along the lists with astonishing speed. Reuben marveled at the grace of horse and rider. The Saracen's grip on the lance already seemed a little steadier than last time.

  But a little was not enough. Ripping a second lance from a rack by the stands, Sir Adrian charged. And this time, his lance did not break. There was an earsplitting collision, metal screamed on metal, and the Saracen was sent flying. He landed on his side in the dirt and there was a crack, as from breaking bone.

  The crowd exploded in applause and shouts of triumph.

  “Sir Adrian! Sir Adrian!” The Pole's name rose towards the sky out of hundreds of mouths. He spurred on his horse, riding around the courtyard, his lance held high, bathing in the acclaim of the crowd. He didn't slow his horse down when he neared the spot where the Saracen still lay. Reuben tensed. The churl wouldn't just ride over...

  He would.

  And the Saracen seemed to realize that at the last possible moment. Suddenly, he jerked to the side, just in time to avoid the thundering hoofs of Sir Adrian's giant charger, hitting the packed earth where just a moment ago, his head had lain. He sprang up and ducked behind the stands, pulled his helmet off, and leant against the wood, gasping for air. But apart from having the breath knocked out of him, there didn't seem to be anything wrong with him. Reuben found himself confirmed in his judgment. The lance might not be the heathen's weapon of choice, but he was tough fighter. Just before the dark-skinned man disappeared behind the castle, Reuben saw him throw one last glance at Sir Adrian.

  Reuben felt the smile tug at the corner of his mouth again. Later in the tournament, there would come a time when the knights would fig
ht with swords, not with lances. He didn't wish to be in Sir Adrian Rakowski's shoes when that time came.

  “And the winner is Sir Adrian!” the herald announced, as Sir Adrian started on a second round around the courtyard. “Thank you, Sir Adrian. If you would be so kind as to make way for the next pair of fighters...”

  Unwillingly, Sir Adrian withdrew. The crowd still kept shouting, “God wills it! God wills it!”

  “Sir Goffredo Terzi.” the herald called over the tumult, “against Sir Reuben von Limburg.”

  The female half of the crowd immediately ceased their shouts of “Deus le vult.” That God got what he wanted was fair enough, but here was something they wanted, which was much more interesting. Reuben felt their eyes on him as he rode out into the courtyard, and felt a surge of pleasure. These tournaments at Palermo were definitely more interesting than the provincial affairs back at home.

  The two knights took up their positions at opposite ends of the lists, and Reuben smiled brightly, waving at the crowd, not sparing a glimpse for his opponent. He calmly reached for his helmet, which he had removed so as not to have his brains boiled in a pot by the scorching Sicilian sun, and put it on.

  The moment the metal covered his face, his expression changed. The smile disappeared, and his eyes flicked to his enemy. The other man was just reaching for his lance. He didn't look quite as foolish as the other young Sicilian knights who had fought before. Reuben thought he might have to put on a little more of a show for this one.

  The herald's arm came down. The signal to start.

  “Laissez-les aller!”

  Spurring on his horse, he got an iron grip on his lance. He would need it, for the kind of trick he was planning. He only dared attempt it because he knew his own strength. It might break the arm of a weaker man.

  The other knight had also spurred his horse forward by now, and was approaching at a rapid pace. He was a good rider, Reuben had to give him that much. But the grip on his lance wasn't secure. Well, all the better. They raced towards each other. They lowered their lances, ready for the strike.