The Robber Knight

by Robert Thier

  Then, at the last moment, Reuben moved his lance so it lay flat across the path of his opponent. He heard the gasp from the crowd and knew what it must look like: a clumsy young knight, losing the grip on his lance. He felt the familiar crushing force on his left arm as the other's lance hit his shield. Yet he knew, this time, the worst was still to come.

  It came only seconds later. The flat length of his outstretched lance smashed into his opponent. There was a moment of surging pressure, and suddenly pain shot up Reuben's arm, making him feel as if it were being pulled out of its socket. Gritting his teeth, Reuben held on to his lance for one moment longer. Then, he heard it: the blessed sound of splintering wood. Abruptly, the pressure on his arm ceased, and the broken stump of his lance fell to the ground, useless.

  Several ladies in the audience cried out in anxiety. A few actually got up to see if he was all right. They need not have worried. Reuben was already straight in the saddle again, and accepting a replacement lance from the pursuivant at the other end of the lists. He slowly turned his horse around, taking the time to stretch his arm and check if it moved correctly in every way. Yes. Nothing was damaged. His iron muscles had once again held.

  On the other side of the courtyard, his opponent was getting ready to charge again, his lance held even looser than before, obviously convinced that Reuben was not much of a threat.

  Ha! Time to teach the fool a lesson.

  “Hüa!” With a shout, Reuben drove his mount forward. “Hüa! Hüa!”

  He raced down the lists, gathering speed as he went. Faster and faster he came, much faster than the other rider, who only now seemed to realize that this time, the fight might go differently. That realization came far too late.

  The sun flashed on the tip of Reuben's lance as it went past the other knight's shield, towards his torso. The force of the blow was greater than Reuben had intended. In his eagerness to teach the fellow a lesson, he had used his full strength. It sent the young knight flying not five yards, not six, or seven, but eight full yards before he crashed onto the ground right in front of the herald's feet, who, having believed himself well out of danger, sprang back with a startled yelp.

  A sigh went up from the female audience, and the men weren’t far behind. There was an explosion of applause even louder than the one for Sir Adrian. None of the spectators had seen such a throw in their lives. And to see it come from such a young and splendid knight, the stuff of a fairy tale, roused the spirits of the people to even greater heights.

  “Sir Reuben!” the shout went up. “Sir Reuben von Limburg! Sir Reuben von Limburg!”

  Reuben didn't make a round around the lists. He simply halted once more before the box of the Emperor and gave another bow. And when the Emperor again returned this with a nod of his head, the crowd cheered only louder. Their new favorite was the Emperor's favorite!

  Reuben almost started whistling a merry tune, he was so pleased with himself.

  On the way back to his place among the waiting knights, he passed the graceful figure of Sir Tomasso. The champion had removed his helmet and gave Reuben a smile. “Quite a feat that,” he said with a lilting Sicilian accent. “I congratulate you, Sir.”

  “The throw?” Reuben waved his hand, deprecatingly. “That was nothing special.”

  “Oh, I was not referring to the throw.” The knight’s smile was distant and discerning. “Though that was quite remarkable. Rather, I was referring to the fact that you did not cry out when your lance was ripped out of your hand and broken. It is almost as though you had been prepared for the event. As if you were... expecting it. Hmm?”

  Reuben was very glad that he still wore his helmet to cover his face, so that Sir Tomasso could not see his expression. He gave a hasty bow to other man and rode away, silently vowing to himself to definitely not underestimate this particular knight.

  The herald, recovered from nearly being hit by a flying knight, had taken up his former position.

  “And now,” he announced, “for the last joust of this round: Sir Albin Rakowski against Sir Hermann von der Hagen.”

  Now here was something of interest. All thought of Sir Tomasso was shoved aside for the moment, and Reuben watched intently as the contestants of the first real and significant joust of the day took up their positions. Both were experienced knights. Both had proven their abilities with the lance. Reuben was very interested to see how things would go. He had his suspicions as to who was the more ruthless fighter, but he would keep those to himself.

  Others were not so reserved. People in the crowd were chattering energetically about who would be the winner, and Reuben saw the sun glint on gold as coins were exchanged. There seemed to be a good deal of betting going on here. Maybe he should go and...

  But no. The church frowned on gambling. It was not befitting of a true knight. He sighed. A pity. He could have made a packet betting on himself.

  Sir Albin and Sir Hermann were in position now. The little Pole's horse was prancing nervously, and its master pulled swiftly at the reins, quieting the animal at once. He had good control. Reuben nodded to himself, confirmed in his suspicions.

  “Ready?” the herald asked.

  The two contestants, who could not nod with their helmets on, swiftly dipped their lances.

  “Very well. Laissez-les aller!”

  The two knights urged their horses forward. Their control over their mounts was very near perfection, their lances upright, their eyes hard. The crowd started shouting the names of their favorites.

  “Sir Hermann! Sir Hermann!”

  “Go! Sir Albin, go!”

  Neither of the knights paid the slightest attention to the distraction of the crowd. They raced towards each other, ever faster. The movement of the lances coming down at the very last moment was like the fall of an executioner's ax.

  “Sir Hermann!”

  “Sir Alb— Oooh...”

  A sigh of disappointment went up from the spectators as the knights clashed and passed each other, both still in the saddle. The Teutonic Knight had managed to break Sir Albin's lance, but that was all. The little Pole discarded the stump of his lance and grabbed a new one, almost knocking over the pursuivant who handed it to him in the process.

  There is somebody who's angry, Reuben thought. The only question was: would the anger lead him to make an error, or would it lend strength to his arm? Reuben thought he knew the answer.

  Again, the two knights raced at each other. Again, they collided with a crash and were only knocked back, not off their mounts. The shouting of the crowd was getting louder now. They were excited by the fierce combat of the professional fighters.

  A third time the knights faced each other. A third time they flew forwards. And this time, there was no draw. Instead, there was a crash of metal and Sir Hermann thundered to the ground, rolling over once, twice, three times, and finally lying still, dust welling up around him.

  Reuben nodded to himself, while the scrawny little Sir Albin ripped his helmet off and galloped back to the other victors, his eyes flashing with dark triumph. It had come as Reuben had suspected. Now, only four knights remained: Sir Tomasso, the two Polish brothers, and Reuben himself. The other three were all excellent fighters. And they would learn soon enough what sort of a fighter he was. The time for downplay had passed. His arm would fly freely now.

  The crowd was buzzing like a beehive in springtime by now—only, bees didn't have that much money. Reuben saw bets being paid, and the coins staid ready in hand for renewed betting as soon as the next pairs of contestants were announced. Reuben was just as eager as the crowd to learn that information, in fact, ten times as eager. They were only thinking of money and entertainment. He was thinking of honor, blood, and glory.

  “Only four of our noble knights remain,” exclaimed the herald. “And it has now been decided who shall be the first pair to fight. Please come forward and take up your positions... Sir Reuben von Limburg and Sir Adrian Rakowski!”

  There were a good many gasps from those
ladies in the crowd who had already fallen desperately in love with Reuben and now saw their hopes brutally smashed as the beefy mountain of a Pole urged his charger forward to take up his position. Before he slid down the visor of his helmet, he gave Reuben a smile that revealed more than one rotten tooth and seemed to say: “You'll be dead before you know it, lad.”

  Reuben returned the smile and slammed down his own visor. The other man only saw his youth. He had overlooked that while Reuben was not nearly as beefy, he was just as tall as him. He also didn't seem to have noticed the thick bands of muscles around Reuben's arms, or the dexterity of his movements.

  Perhaps he needed a little demonstration?

  Yes. Reuben urged his horse forward. Let us show him—show everybody!

  The herald had raised his arm. He waited until Reuben was at his place and had taken up a lance.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  No reply. Just a brief nod of lances.

  “Laissez-les aller!”

  The two horses started forward almost simultaneously. Only a very good observer would have noticed the slightly faster reactions of Reuben's mount. The people in the audience were not good observers. They were too busy placing bets on the Pole. It was really very sad that this nice young fellow Reuben should die at such a young age, but business was business, after all...

  Reuben flexed the muscles in his calves in preparation for his move. The Pole sat on his saddle like a huge boulder, unmoving, and, it seemed, unmovable. His huge hammer of a lance, so massive that it could probably ram right through your ribcage, stayed upright and rock-steady. Yes, thought Reuben, this enemy is powerful—powerful, but not quick. The young knight nodded to himself. He knew exactly what to do. Carefully, he let his lance waver slightly from side to side, amateurishly. He saw the triumphant glint in the other knight's eyes.

  I have you! he thought, triumphantly. I have you in the palm of my hand! You think you’re better than me. Well, just wait and see.

  The distance between them had shrunk to fifteen yards. The Pole leaned forward in the saddle. Reuben took a deep breath.

  Ten yards.

  The Pole's lance came down, in preparation for the strike.

  Seven yards.

  Reuben's lance came down. The Pole roared a war cry, and spurred his horse on to even greater speed, aiming his lance directly at Reuben's torso.

  Five yards. Four. Any moment now, the lance would strike. Three yards only!

  Reuben threw himself sideways.

  The Pole's blow would have been devastating. It would have ripped Reuben off his horse, maybe even killed him—if it had hit. Yet Reuben was not where the blow had been aimed at anymore. He was half off his horse, holding on to the anxious, raging animal with all his might. His muscles screamed in protest at the weight of his armor, dragging him down towards the ground, but he gritted his teeth and held on to his steed. Gracing his metal-clad shoulder, the Pole's lance slid past him. A shower of sparks rained down on Reuben as he swung himself upright in the saddle again, his lance ready.

  He saw a flash of the Pole's meaty face behind his visor: a mask of shock at the fact that Reuben was somehow, impossibly, still in the saddle, that the lance had passed him by. Then shock was replaced by pain, as Reuben's lance struck and hammered home a devastating blow of its own.

  The crowd gaped upwards as a huge, black shape took flight and seemed to block out the sunlight for a moment. To Reuben, it seemed as if there was no noise as his lance connected with the other man's breastplate. His ears, his fingers, all his senses ceased to act except for his eyes, which watched the giant float off his horse and sail through the air in one silent moment of perfection. Then noise, feeling, force—all returned in one single, shocking second and Reuben was slammed back into the saddle by the power of his own blow. He cantered past the figure of the fallen mountain of steel. The dull thuds of his horse’s hoofs echoed loudly from the castle walls in the stunned silence that lay over the crowd.

  Turning his horse, he rode back towards the stands. A sea of open mouths greeted him. Only the Emperor, high up in his box, wore a different expression: amusement, mingled with interest. Reuben waited for somebody to speak. And waited. And waited.

  Finally, the silence was broken by the voice of the herald. “And... the victor is... Sir Reuben von Limburg.”

  It took them a few more seconds to realize: the handsome young knight was still alive. Not only alive, he had triumphed in a way none of them had expected. He was a master with the lance, and he was still available. As soon as they realized this, the ladies in the crowd erupted into a tumult of cheers. Their hero was triumphant!

  The ladies' fathers, brothers, and husbands were less enthusiastic. Most of them had bet a goodly sum against Reuben, and he saw them scowl as their tari, grani, and denari[65] vanished into the pockets of the bookkeepers.

  Suddenly, he caught a glimpse of something red flying past his face. He tensed, thinking that one of these churls was treating him the same way as the Saracen and had dared to aim a rotten tomato at him. But no—the ladies were throwing flowers! Smiling brightly, he removed his helmet and waved it at the crowd. The ladies cheered louder. The men, meanwhile, were busy trying to find a bookmaker who hadn't had time to change his rates on Reuben yet.

  A red rose flew by Reuben's left ear. His hand shot out, and he grabbed the flower by the stem. A sigh went up from the audience. Every lady who had been throwing roses smiled in triumph. He had caught her flower!

  Bowing to the crowd, Reuben turned his horse and rode back to the two remaining knights, who were waiting beside the stands. They were regarding him with very different expressions now. Sir Tomasso with mild interest, and Sir Albin with undisguised hatred.

  “When I've finished with that Sicilian beanpole over there,” he hissed, jabbing his thumb at Sir Tomasso, “I'll run you through for what you just did to my brother!”

  Reuben met his vicious gaze without blinking. “I shall look forward to meeting you in arms, Sir.”

  “Sir Albin? Sir Albin, to your position, please!”

  At the shout of the herald, the scrawny Pole looked over to where Sir Tomasso had, silently and quickly, already taken up his position. He grunted, and then spurred his horse forward. The herald raised his arm and waited until both knights were in their positions.

  Slowly, a rumble began to rise from the crowd, growing in strength with every repetition. “To-ma-sso! To-ma-sso! To-ma-sso!”

  He was their champion. Their countryman. What the crowd had seen so far of Sir Albin hadn't endeared them to the scrawny Pole. Reuben would have thought that of little significance—tournaments were won by the lances of the knights, not the cheers of the crowd—if he hadn't noticed that most of the money that changed hands as the two knights took up their lances was being placed on Sir Tomasso. Cheers were easy to give, money was not.

  Reuben let his gaze drift from the stands to the lists. He was looking forward to seeing what the Sicilian beanpole had in mind for the Polish gnome.

  “Ready?” the herald asked.

  Two lances moved in affirmation.

  “Very well, then... Laissez-les aller!”

  The two knights shot forward like arrows loosed from the string. Around Reuben, the “To-ma-sso, To-ma-sso” of the crowd swelled, until it was like a thunderstorm, and even the hoofs of the horses, a thunder of their own, could hardly be heard anymore. Sir Albin lowered his lance in a sharp, abrupt movement. Sir Tomasso's lance came down in a slow arc, as if he had all the time in the world. They were closing in now, almost upon each other, only three feet left, two, one...

  Suddenly, the little Pole ducked down over the neck of his horse. Sir Tomasso's lance slid past, over his head, and the Pole came up again, his own lance ready for the strike. Yet he hadn't reckoned with the Sicilian's shield-arm. The long limb that looked so slim and breakable slammed its defensive weapon sideways against Sir Albin's lance and forced it away from its intended target. The knights cantered past each other, wi
thout either having been able to bring in a hit.

  At the end of the lists, the Pole whirled his horse around with a sharp tug at the reins, and the animal gave a pained sound. Reuben gritted his teeth. If there was one thing he couldn't abide, it was a knight maltreating his mount. The horse was the knight's best and most loyal friend, and should be treated accordingly. Sir Tomasso, he was glad to see, turned his horse around with a gentle nudge.

  Again, the two knights charged, gathering speed. The Pole was angry; Reuben could sense it. He was determined to unhorse his opponent. Too determined. Reuben could feel he was itching to hit his enemy in the head instead of the chest. If not for the fact that one could get disqualified for such a move, he might have tried it.

  Instead, he struck out suddenly, viciously, for the shield of his opponent, trying by sheer force to knock him out of the saddle. But there he had underestimated the tall Sicilian's weight and strength. Sir Tomasso only rocked back slightly. His lance didn't waver. And a moment later, it hit its target.

  What a beautiful strike! Reuben smiled as Sir Albin shot from the saddle and sailed through the air, crashing into the ground a few feet away from the stands. The crowd sprang to its feet, and its cheers drowned out even the curses of the Polish knight: “To-ma-sso! To-ma-sso!”

  Watching the Sicilian be cheered by the crowd, Reuben nodded to himself again. He had known all along it would come down to this.

  Calmly, he reached for his lance and began examining it from one end to the other. There were a few scratches here and there, but it still was in perfect working order. Next, he began checking his armor. A piece might have been torn off or dented during the fight without his noticing, and even a small disadvantage could be fatal in a battle between masters.

  “To-ma-sso! To-ma-sso!”

  Having completed the inspection of his armor to his satisfaction, Reuben fastened all the straps on his helmet more tightly and stretched his arms to relax the muscles. His right arm still ached from heaving that mountain off his horse. Gradually, through small, fluid movements, the ache receded, and his arm was restored to its usual level of strength and dexterity.