The Robber Knight

  “Master Accorso, what is going on here?” the stranger demanded of the innkeeper, and Reuben was delighted to see, as the man turned, that he wore a knight's crest on his surcoat. Here was someone who would understand!

  “Sir Wilhelm!” The innkeeper swallowed, then pointed to Reuben. “This man wants a room, but will not pay for it. When I told him to leave, he refused.”

  “Vagabonds in the hallway?” Sir Wilhelm knit his brow as he turned and approached Reuben. “We can't have that. We—”

  He stopped in his tracks when he caught sight of the “vagabond.” Reuben smiled. The coat of arms on his long, elegant surcoat was just as visible as the one on Sir Wilhelm’s.

  “This is the vagabond?” he asked the innkeeper.

  “I am no vagabond, good sir. That man is lying,” Reuben said with a dismissive gesture at the innkeeper. “I was perfectly willing to pay for the room, with the money I told him I would win in the tournament.”

  “You?” Sir Wilhelm barked a laugh, his eyes fastening on Reuben's youthful features. “A sapling like you, win a joust in the tournament? Are you even a knight yet?”

  “I,” Reuben proclaimed, raising his chin, “am Sir Reuben von Limburg, son of Heinrich, Duke von Limburg, Count von Berg, and High Commander of the Imperial Crusade Forces. You will address me with the respect due my station or pay the price, Sir.”

  “Imperial Crusade Forces?” Sir Wilhelm lifted an eyebrow. “Do you mean the Crusade the Emperor undertook to Jerusalem?”

  “Yes.” Reuben almost felt himself grow a few inches. His father’s name was obviously known.

  “The one he undertook while he was excommunicated from the church, and all the old ladies in Jerusalem were said to have shown his army their naked rear ends, to demonstrate how highly they thought of him and his commander?”

  Color flushed to Reuben's cheeks, and he stopped growing. His father had never told him that particular part of the story...

  “So, Sir Reuben,” Sir Wilhelm inquired. “Why do you not pay this good man here the price he demands, if you want to stay in his inn?”

  “Because I do not have the money yet. But I will give him my word of honor as the duke's son that I shall have it as soon as the jousts are over.”

  “A duke's son, eh?” Sir Wilhelm snorted. “Why not a king's or the Emperor’s? A duke’s son would have money in his pocket, boy! I think you've had a little too much to drink and played dress-up in your master’s clothes. Come now. Leave, and I won't have to knock your head against the wall.”

  Reuben's spine stiffened. “Are you doubting my word of honor, Sir? I tell you, I am Sir Reuben von Limburg, son of Heinrich, Duke von Limburg, Count von...”

  “By the Apostles! You've really had a few more pints of beer than is good for you, lad.” The humor went out of the black-bearded knight's voice. “Do you know that impersonating a nobleman is a crime? Out with you, now, before I have you whipped for your impertinence!”

  Reuben's hand slowly went to his belt, where his sword hung. “Are you issuing a challenge, Sir?”

  The innkeeper had been watching the scene with increasing apprehension. Now, as Reuben's hand landed on the pommel of his sword, he gave a little squeak and hurried to hide behind his desk. Of all the possible outcomes of this little episode, he had apparently not reckoned with a sword fight in his parlor.

  “Get your hands off that sword, boy, or a whipping will be the least of your troubles!” Now, there was no trace of humor in Sir Wilhelm's voice. On the contrary, it was hard and cold.

  “I will leave my hand wherever it pleases me, Sir Knight,” Reuben told him. “I do not wish for an unnecessary confrontation. But if you continue to doubt my word, you put my honor into question. As a knight, I cannot let that stand. Please, Sir, retract your words.”

  But Sir Wilhelm apparently thought there had been enough words of any kind. Marching forward, he extended his hands to grab Reuben by the collar.

  Reuben whirled and evaded him easily, ducking under the other man's arm and coming up at his back.

  “God's death!” Sir Wilhelm growled. “Stay still!”

  “You dare to profane the name of God, Sir?” Reuben exclaimed. “Someone ought to teach you a lesson of how a true knight behaves!”

  “A true knight...? I will wring you by the neck until you choke, you puny little peasant brat! Come here!”

  Reuben, however, had other plans. This lout needed to be taught a lesson in chivalry. And it probably wouldn't do the innkeeper any harm, either, to see that a knight's word was worth more than gold and his fists were harder than iron.

  Sir Wilhelm struck out, but Reuben was prepared. He had been taught by the best masters his father could afford, and with his father's wealth, that meant the best in the Empire. Sir Wilhelm's fist whistled harmlessly past his ear, trying to hit a target that had suddenly vanished. The knight stumbled forward, and Reuben grabbed the opportunity. His fist swung around, hitting his opponent in the side and sending him flying.

  “Porco Dio!” cried the innkeeper, as the knight slammed into a shelf full of crockery, and plates and cups started to rain down on him. “I beg you, signori, stop! My house will be demolished, I shall be utterly ruined. Please...”

  But Sir Wilhelm was past playing the protector of the little man now. His dark eyes were burning with rage, and a precious painted cup was dangling from his ear. He brushed it aside with another oath, and it hit the opposite wall, smashing into a thousand tiny pieces.

  “No! Signori, I beg you...”

  Neither of the two paid any attention to the innkeeper. They were circling each other, staring into each other’s eyes the way only warriors can stare into each other’s eyes—men who know that there are more important things on earth than crockery. For example, giving your adversary a bloody nose.

  This time, it was Reuben who was the first to move. He went for Sir Wilhelm's surcoat, trying to grab it, but the older knight sprang back in time. His fist shot out, trying to punch Reuben while he was off balance. Reuben grabbed the arm and pulled. They both went down onto the floor in a tangle of arms and legs.

  “Signori! No! No brawl in my parlor, please!”

  Sir Wilhelm came up on top. He raised both hands to deliver a stunning blow to Reuben's head—a mistake. He should have kept one arm free for defense. A wolfish grin on his face, Reuben hit upwards with that blinding speed that had allowed him to beat many of his instructors green and blue. His fist hit Sir Wilhelm right under the chin, snapping the knight's head back and punching the breath out of him.

  With a groan, he collapsed onto Reuben, who rolled sideways, forcing the other man underneath him. A fitting place for such a low-minded toad! Pressing his knees into the man's sides to prevent him from freeing himself, he delivered another blow, this time to the stomach. A groan erupted from Sir Wilhelm.

  “Do you wish to apologize for your lack of courtly manners now?” Reuben inquired, politely.

  “Never, I umpf—”

  The next blow hit Sir Wilhelm in the chest, driving him back onto the floor, just as he had been about to rise.

  “Are you sure?” Reuben checked. “Maybe you'd like to reconsider...”

  “God's tee—” But the knight didn't get any further. Reuben's hand had clamped down on his mouth.

  “What did I tell you about taking the Lord's name in vain?” Reuben said, admonishingly. “Come now, Sir Knight. I know that, deep down, you are a good Christian. Will you end this pointless fight and apologize for your behavior?”

  “Mfrggrrrr!”

  “I'm sorry? I didn't exactly catch that.”

  “Rrrmm!”

  Judging that it would give the man a better chance to show his repentance, Reuben took his hand away from Sir Wilhelm's mouth. The knight promptly lunged and tried to sink his teeth into his opponent's hand.

  “I'm sorry to say that I don't count that as a fitting apology,” Reuben told him, and raised his fist.

  When, about a minute or so later, he
rose to his feet, Sir Wilhelm wasn't biting anymore. He didn't seem to be capable of doing much more than lying on the floor and groaning.

  With a brilliant smile, Reuben turned to the innkeeper. “That's settled. Well, would you be so kind as to have my things brought up to my room now?”

  Signore Accorso opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. It was all too clear what he wished to say. Whether or not he dared to was another matter entirely.

  However, he was spared the peril of an answer by the intervention of his two servants, who had sneaked back into the room and were now helping Sir Wilhelm back to his feet. The knight looked a bit cross-eyed, but most of all, red with wrath.

  “You,” he rasped, pointing a shaking finger at Reuben. “You are really a knight?”

  “I swear by my the honor of my house, Sir,” Reuben said with a courteous bow, “that I am Sir Reuben von Limburg, son of Heinrich, Duke von Limburg, Count von Berg, and High Commander of the...”

  “Yes, yes! You are of age, and you are knighted?”

  “Indeed I am, Sir.”

  “And you intend to compete in the tournament?”

  “That is my intention. Have you regretted your words? Do you wish to apologize?”

  “On the contrary.” With a dangerous glint in his eyes, Sir Wilhelm shook off the two servants who were trying to clean his stained surcoat, and pulled the glove from his left hand. With two strides, he was in front of Reuben, who, knowing what Sir Wilhelm was going to do, did nothing to stop him.

  The glove slapped across his face with a little bit too much force. He winced inwardly, but did not let the pain show. The glove slipped away and landed in front of him on the floor.

  “I,” said the knight, “Sir Wilhelm von Richtershalden, challenge you, Sir Reuben von Limburg, to a contest of arms at the great tournament of Palermo. God shall decide which one of us is in the right. Shall you meet me in the field and let the strength of our arms speak for us?”

  “I shall,” Reuben replied with a broad smile, bending to pick up the gauntlet. Wonderful! He had been in Palermo for only one day, and already he had his first duel scheduled. This was truly the land of adventure he had been looking for.

  Sir Wilhelm turned his hot gaze to the innkeeper. Reaching into his purse, he flipped the man a coin, which the Sicilian caught expertly. “For the damage,” Sir Wilhelm said. “Let him stay. Give him a room, food, wine, everything he wants.”

  He turned his eyes back to Reuben, and the heat in them intensified.

  “When I've run him through with my lance, I'll come and pay his bill.”

  The Marvel of the World

  Reuben took care of one more thing before turning in for the night: he rode up to the Royal Palace and had a guard direct him to the herald who was in charge of organizing the tournament and to whom all who wished to compete had to apply. The herald hadn't taken quarters in the palace itself, but for practical reasons, had erected a small tent for himself next to the stands which already surrounded the square in front of the palace. The tent was small and made of plain material, and so was the man who stepped out of it as Reuben approached—his clothes, however, were of a nobler origin.

  Like all heralds, he wore a special surcoat called a tabard, which, in magnificent colors, displayed the coat of arms of his master. And this herald displayed on his tabard two different crests: one showing three black lions on golden ground, and another showing a black eagle on golden ground. The crest of the Imperial House of Hohenstaufen, and the official crest of the Holy Roman Empire. Reuben knew immediately: this man stood in direct service to the Emperor, answerable to him alone.

  As he left his tent, the herald spotted the young knight on the other side of the yard right away, which didn't come as a surprise to Reuben. When you were nearly seven feet tall and riding a massive black horse, people tended to notice you.

  Reuben took his time crossing the square. There were many people about, working with hammer and nail to complete the stands, putting up banners, cleaning, and building. Reuben let his eyes wander, surveying the battle ground that was being prepared. He always found it useful to take an impression of the ground before starting a fight. Thus, he knew exactly where to knock his enemies down.

  When he finally reached the herald, he dismounted and nodded a greeting. The herald, perceiving the coat of arms on Reuben's surcoat, bowed deeply in return.

  “Greetings, Sir,” he said, his voice sounding a bit tired. It was clear he had had a day of knights coming to him to apply to have their noses broken and heads bashed in. “How may I serve you?”

  “I would like to compete in the tournament that will be held in honor of the Emperor’s arrival,” Reuben said, with a smile. Patience and kindness were among the most important values a knight was meant to pursue.

  “I see, Sir.” From atop a stack of books beside the entrance to the tent, the herald took a slate and pencil, starting to look for a free place for the new contestant.

  “What is your name, if I may ask, Sir?”

  The man’s gaze was still bored. He obviously hadn't looked at Reuben's ducal crest closely enough to realize whom he was dealing with, and thought this was just another young knight from the Sicilian provinces come to try his luck.

  Reuben smiled again. He would show this fellow whom he had the honor of addressing.

  “I,” he proclaimed proudly, “am Sir Reuben von Limburg, son of Heinrich, Duke von Limburg, Count von Berg, and High Commander of the Imperial Crusade Forces.”

  The herald’s eyes widened, and he abruptly looked up from the slate. “Really?”

  “Yes,” Reuben confirmed, his smile widening.

  “Commander of the Crusade Forces?”

  Reuben's smile froze. “Yes...”

  “Do you mean the Crusade where all the old ladies in Jerusalem lifted their skirts and showed the soldiers their bott—”

  “Yes,” Reuben cut him off. He wasn't smiling anymore. “That Crusade.”

  “Oh, my. Where you there? Did you see...?”

  Slowly, Reuben took a deep breath and tried to remember that a knight always had to remain courteous and kind to others. At the moment, it was rather difficult to remember. “Could we return to the matter of my entering the tournament?”

  “Oh... of course, Sir. Forgive me.” Quickly, the herald lowered his gaze to his slate again. “For the son of a high house which is in such favor with his August Majesty the Emperor, we shall of course find a place among the contestants.”

  Now that was more like it. Reuben smiled again and pushed all thoughts of naked bottoms from his mind.

  “There is only one matter...” The herald cleared his throat. “I am extremely reluctant to mention it, Sir, but with a nobleman from so far away, and so little known in Sicily, I shall require a proof of nobility.”

  Reuben's eyebrows went up. “Proof? Whatever for?”

  The herald’s face took on a pained expression. “In recent years, Sir, increasingly, rich commoners have availed themselves of false crests and suits of armor, and started competing in those noble contests, in which to partake should be purely the privilege of the true knight.”

  “How abominable!”

  “You take the words out of my mouth, Sir. Abominable.”

  “Dreadful!”

  “Indeed. You understand, therefore, Sir, that...”

  Reuben nodded. “Yes, yes, of course. I shall give you all the proof you desire.”

  “Have you a document, Sir? A sealed proof from your father that you are who you proclaim to be?”

  “Well...” Thoughtfully, Reuben scratched his chin. He hadn't thought to bring any documents with him to the south. Suddenly, he had an idea. “A sealed proof, you said?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “I have that. Wait.”

  Reaching into the saddlebag of his horse, Reuben withdrew the half-empty wine bottle from his father's cellars and handed it to the herald. On the top you could see the seal of the Duke of Limburg, pressed into
finest wax.

  “The seal is already broken, but I was thirsty on the way,” Reuben apologized.

  “Um... well...” The herald hurriedly turned to the stack of books beside him and started leafing through parchment. “Err... this is unprecedented... I cannot quite, I mean...”

  He looked from the books, to Reuben's muscular, tall figure, and back to the books.

  “You can keep the bottle as evidence, if you want,” Reuben suggested.

  “I'm not sure that will help, Sir, you see...”

  “Try it first, before you decide.”

  Suspiciously, the herald uncorked the bottle and took a sip of the contents. His face lit up. “By the Apostles! I can keep it, you say, Sir?”

  “Of course.”

  “You, Sir, are a true knight. No doubt about it. I will enter you onto the list of competitors for the tournament immediately.”

  Reuben clapped his hands. “Splendid.”

  *~*~**~*~*

  Reuben spent the next few days exploring the city and soaking up the exotic atmosphere, smelling the air that smelled of adventure. He could not believe how satisfied he was with this wonderful city of Palermo. The days passed in a blur, and Reuben was filled with the difference to his homeland: a tournament to be held so soon after his arrival, all loathsome money matters out of the way, and now... now the Emperor was arriving.

  Reuben watched from the window of his room as people began to gather in the streets. Emperor Friedrich never arrived without a spectacle worth seeing. Not for nothing was he called “stupor mundi”—the marvel of the world.

  Reuben turned and heard a squeak from the innkeeper, who, having just pushed Reuben's meal through the half-open door, hoping the knight wouldn't notice him, was scurrying away down the corridor. He certainly didn't think of Reuben as a “stupor mundi,” rather as a “terror mundi.” The confrontation down in the parlor had given him, if not respect, at least a healthy fear for Reuben, and he hadn't mentioned a bill once since the young knight had beaten Sir Wilhelm to the ground.