The Robber Knight

  The other knights took their time. He had to wait for about an hour before the first of them emerged from their tents. With some of them, he suspected, the long time they took preparing for the fight might not be due to perfectionism, but to the fact that they were too drunk to get the armor on correctly. Once they were all gathered in the back yard, it was evident to Reuben that on several of the younger knights, their armor hung rather loosely and made rattling noises as they walked.

  The two Poles, the Teutonic Knight, the Saracen, and the Sicilian, however, looked very well armed. Reuben felt his analysis had been confirmed. These were the ones he would have to watch out for.

  Finally, they heard the music stop. From the front of the palace, they heard the crowd’s renewed roar as the palace doors swung open. No doubt the Emperor had just emerged to take his seat.

  Only a moment later, the pursuivant appeared among the gathered knights, bowing deeply. “Will the noble knights please mount up?” he asked. “The Emperor summons you. The time has arrived.”

  The Smashing of the World

  Reuben swung himself into the saddle and had to work hard to suppress a cry of excitement. This was the moment he had been waiting for! He was sure that the thrill was evident on his face, but he didn't care. Let his opponents think that it was the same boyish excitement as on the faces of the drunken youths who had ridden up here to the castle with him. He would show them their mistake soon enough.

  Carefully, he placed his great helmet on his head, but kept his visor open. He wanted to be able to see the glory he was riding towards. At a nudge, his horse started forward. Around him, the other knights had started riding in a slow trot, their lances held aloft and their surcoats fluttering in the fresh breeze coming up from the ocean. Reuben could feel the power of chivalry all around him, the honor and tradition of this noble contest of arms in which he was about to partake. He breathed in deeply, thinking that air had never smelled so sweetly before.

  They followed the pursuivant along the back wall of the castle. The excited murmur of the crowd slowly became louder. At the corner of the castle, where an impressive stone tower rose into the sky, the pursuivant stopped and turned.

  From around the corner, the herald Reuben had met a few days ago appeared, and he bowed to the assembled nobles.

  Reuben reined in his horse, as did the others.

  “Will the noble knights please remain here?” the herald asked. “I shall call out your name one by one, and then you will each ride into the lists, ride once around the courtyard, greeting the Emperor, so all the people may know you and your coat of arms.”

  In unison with the other knights, Reuben lowered his lance as a sign that he understood.

  “Excellent. Very well, then. The first... hmm... whom to choose first...” Mumbling, the herald hurried back to the other side of the castle, where he must have taken up his official position on the stands, for the crowd fell silent in anticipation.

  “Your Majesty, milords, ladies, citizens of Palermo... I now introduce to you the brave knights who shall be fighting before you today. Though the first man I shall present to you, I think, hardly needs introduction...”

  There were a few moments of semi-silence, with the faint whisper of hundreds of people in the background, then—

  “Please give a hearty cheer for... Sir Tomasso di Zaragoza!”

  Of course. Reuben nodded to himself as the Sicilian spurred on his slim, elegant horse. It was only natural for the champion to be given precedence over his competitors. The crowd welcomed Sir Tomasso with a tumultuous explosion of applause. It was clear he was their favorite, and none of them had a shred of doubt he was going to be victorious.

  A smile flickered across Reuben’s face. Well, they might be in for a surprise...

  When the cheers had finally subsided, the herald called out again: “Sir Adrian Rakowski, son of Count Rakowski.”

  The huge Pole urged his massive mount forward and cantered around the corner. Reuben's eyes stayed focused on him until he was gone. So. Another of his foes had a name now. He had been right—the man was indeed Polish.

  From around the castle, there was another round of applause, though not nearly as enthusiastic as for the native and considerably better-looking champion.

  “Sir Albin Rakowski!”

  This time, it was the little Pole who cantered past. Again, Reuben's eyes followed the rider. Hm. Same name, same crest. Brothers, maybe? They didn't look much alike in stature, but then, that happened sometimes.

  “Sir Hermann von der Hagen, Knight Brother of the Ordo domus Sanctæ Mariæ Theutonicorum Hierosolymitanorum.”

  The Teutonic Knight drove his horse past Reuben. He rode hard and mercilessly. This time, the cheer from the other side of the wall was louder. The Teutonic Knights were under the command of the Emperor, and from all Reuben had heard, he was worshiped in Sicily.

  Then, the herald’s voice came again: “Um...”

  Reuben's eyes narrowed. Never in his life had he heard a herald say “um.” And this was a herald in the service of the Emperor! He had even managed to pronounce the official title of the Knight Brother without tying a knot in his tongue.

  “Um... Amir ibn Sharif ibn Alhasan Abdul-Ahad al-Arabi, envoy of his Highness the Sultan of Egypt, who, um... will also be participating in this tournament.”

  This time, there was no cheering. As the Saracen rode around the corner, the thuds of his horse's hoofs on the packed earth covering the courtyard’s cobblestones echoed loudly in the silence.

  Next, a number of the young knights were called up. One was still holding a bottle of wine and only just remembered to exchange it for a lance before he rode around the corner. Reuben didn't give them a glance. Yet he did look when the next man was called.

  “Sir Wilhelm von Richtershalden!”

  The black-bearded knight threw Reuben a dark glare before he spurred on his horse and galloped around the corner. Reuben knew what that glare meant. The smile reappeared on his face, and the grip on his lance tightened.

  Again, a few young, Sicilian knights were called, until only Reuben was left. Of course. He was young, and a stranger to boot. Nobody would think he had any chance, so they had left him till last. His smile widened into a wolfish grin.

  Soon, they would learn their mistake. Soon, his name would be famous.

  “And now,” the herald finally called out, “welcome the last knight in this contest of chivalry... Sir Reuben von Limburg, son of Heinrich, Duke von Limburg, Count von Berg, and High Commander of the Imperial Crusade Forces.”

  Even before he came around the corner, Reuben heard it—a faint whisper going through the crowd. He only caught the words “crusade” and “naked butts”—then he slammed his visor down and raised his lance. He would show them! He would bring honor to his name today! Giving his horse the spurs, he galloped around the corner.

  Coming out from behind the shadow of the castle into the midday sun of Palermo was like stepping from night into the heart of the sun. A kaleidoscope of color exploded in front of him. There were hundreds of people sitting in the stands—merchants, artisans, farmers, and girls! Hundreds of girls, and most of them quite pretty.

  When they saw the huge, broad-shouldered knight on a black stallion galloping into the lists and raising his lance with an ease with which other people would raise a piece of straw, they stopped muttering about naked old ladies' butts and started getting big eyes. Reuben executed one perfect lap around the courtyard and stopped right in front of the Emperor's box, where he lowered his lance in reverence to the monarch.

  Friedrich's hawk eyes were fixed on him with sharp interest, his lips curved into a tiny smile.

  Of course! Reuben thought to himself. He must have recognized my father's name!

  “My father sends his greetings, your Majesty,” he said from under his helmet. It wasn't exactly true, but then, surely his father would have had him convey greetings to the Emperor—if he had known that Reuben was going.

  T
he Emperor nodded, graciously. Reuben gave his horse the spurs again, and knew that all eyes followed him—the knight who had dared to address his Majesty in person.

  Urging his horse to go still faster, Reuben galloped to the area where all the other knights waited to be called to the joust. Most of them didn't have their visors down yet, and Reuben could see their eyes watching him with suspicion. He could almost hear their thoughts.

  Who is this upstart?

  Hmm... He’s big. But the bigger they are, the harder they fall.

  Crusade? The Crusade where all the ladies showed the army their naked b—

  Only Sir Wilhelm von Richtershalden didn't look at him appraisingly. The black-bearded knight stared at Reuben in abject horror. Reuben knew why perfectly well. He had just heard Reuben's titles being proclaimed and confirmed in front of hundreds of people by the Emperor's own herald—the very titles which he, Sir Wilhelm, had called into question in a manner which in no way conformed to the code of chivalry. Worse, the Emperor himself had recognized Reuben's name and greeted him. Reuben could see the possible consequences slowly beginning to dawn on the bearded knight.

  Reuben gave him a polite smile, and took his place among his fellow fighters.

  Meanwhile, the herald had once more stepped into the center of the courtyard.

  “Your Majesty, milords, ladies, citizens. If I may, I will now set out the schedule of the festivities.”

  After waiting a moment for a nod from the Emperor, the herald carried on: “Today, as a preliminary to the main event, we will hold jousts between the brave knights who have come hither to pit themselves against each other. In each joust, the fighters will run against each other in the lists three times. The knight who first manages to unhorse his opponent wins the joust. If neither of the contestants should be successful in unhorsing his opponent, his Majesty the Emperor, who in his grace has agreed to preside over this tournament, will decide the winner, based on the knights' general display of the arts of warfare.”

  The herald took a deep breath and produced a wax tablet from under his tabard.

  “I shall now announce the first pair of fighters who are to ride against each other. Please take up your positions... Sir Tomasso di Zaragoza and Sir Ottavio di Mercuro.”

  A young knight to Reuben's left flinched and almost fell off his horse. This, Reuben gathered, was Sir Ottavio, and he had apparently not reckoned with having to ride against the champion in his first joust. Reuben just caught a glimpse of his ghost-white face before he slammed his visor down and fumbled for his lance. The pursuivant appeared, and with a bow gestured for him to proceed to the lists, where Sir Tomasso was already waiting.

  It ended as Reuben had suspected. Sir Tomasso catapulted the young fellow out of the saddle in the first charge. He was even a little gentle about it, giving the quivering youth just enough of a nudge for him to land on his behind and not break any bones.

  Ah... so the Sicilian had a soft spot, did he? Reuben filed the information away for later use. It might come in handy when he himself was fighting, for he definitely did not have a soft spot. He kept all the demands of chivalry, but he saw no sense in pampering people who had sworn the same oaths and taken up the same arms as he.

  Accompanied by a storm of applause from the crowd, the winner rode to the Emperor's box and was discharged with a graceful nod.

  “I declare Sir Tomasso the winner of the joust!” the herald called out while his pursuivant helped the battered young knight off the courtyard.

  Once again consulting his wax tablet, the herald continued: “And the next pair to fight are... Sir Adrian Rakowski and Sir Hugo di Savona.”

  The giant Pole, it soon became clear, did not share Sir Tomasso's sensibilities. The knight who took up position opposite him was just as young and inexperienced as Sir Ottavio had been. Yet the Pole’s lance hit his opponent's shield like a battering ram, and the young knight flew more than five yards before he crashed onto the ground. Reuben saw the collision only out of the corner of his eye. His attention was still on the huge Pole. As he had suspected, the man used brute force—no finesse whatsoever. That would be worth remembering.

  The next joust was between another one of the young, drunken knights and the Saracen. Reuben didn't know who looked more amusing in this picture: the young knight, who was so drunk he could hardly stay in the saddle, or the Saracen, who was having considerable trouble with the lance that had been handed to him by the pursuivant. He held it rather like an overlong club. It was obvious he had never used such a weapon in his life before.

  In the end, the Saracen managed to unhorse his opponent. Hisses and boos went up from the crowd as he rode past the stands. He didn't pay them any attention. Neither did Reuben.

  “The next contestants are... Sir Reuben von Limburg and Sir Wilhelm von Richtershalden.”

  A grin spread over Reuben's face. His friend the herald had managed it. He had the partner he wanted. His eyes found Sir Wilhelm and bored into him. The bearded knight looked grim—but still, not disturbed in any way. He was sure of his victory. After all, Reuben was only just past boyhood. This was no mere fistfight. This was the art of chivalric warfare. He, Sir Wilhelm, was sure to win.

  Reuben's grin widened as he read these thoughts on the face of the other man who had not yet closed his visor.

  As they took up their positions, the crowd fell silent, and most of their eyes fell upon Reuben. Distracted by the fights, they had almost forgotten about this strange young knight who seemed to have some kind of personal connection to the Emperor. But now their attention was back on him. He didn't seem quite like the other young knights who had come to fight their first tournament. The way he sat on his huge, black horse, so calm and relaxed, made one wonder...

  The herald raised his arm.

  “Ready?”

  When neither of the two knights gave a sign, he took this as affirmation. His arm came down in an arc.

  “Laissez-les aller!”[64]

  Reuben spurred on his horse. At the other end of the lists he saw Sir Wilhelm do the same, but his horse was obviously not in the same class as Reuben's Ajax. The black charger sprang forward with incomparable speed.

  Reuben’s eyes narrowed in concentration. Could he throw the man off his horse in the first run? Probably. Wilhelm looked like a slightly tougher nut to crack than the knights Reuben was used to dealing with, but only slightly. Reuben could see that he was holding his lance too far back for an easy maneuver. Yes, he probably could unhorse him. The question was—should he?

  The two contestants were only yards apart now, racing towards each other. Reuben lowered his lance, fitting the butt into his armpit. Then, he leisurely leaned back.

  A second later, it hit him—the blow of Sir Wilhelm's lance, thudding against his shield and rocking him backwards. But Reuben had received far worse in his time. His leaning back in the saddle had absorbed part of the blow, and his shield had done the rest. The lance hadn't been aimed straight enough to do any real damage and had slid off the shield to the side.

  So had his own lance, on Sir Wilhelm's shield. But Reuben was not worried about that. He had achieved his true aim. He had downplayed his own abilities in front of the other knights, who, he knew, were watching closely, sizing up their future opponents. He had performed his charade. Now for the kill.

  At the end of the lists, Reuben whirled Ajax around. Sir Wilhelm was attempting the same with his unruly mount at the other end, but having considerably less luck with it. Reuben waited. It would have been churlish to charge at an unprepared opponent.

  Finally, the black-bearded knight had turned his horse. Through the slits of his visor, Reuben could see confidence shining in the man's eyes. He was sure he was going to win.

  Not wasting another moment, Reuben spurred Ajax on. The huge black horse sprang forward, running even faster than before. Reuben held his lance upright and rock-steady. As he passed the Emperor, Reuben thought, just for a moment, he saw a knowing smile on the sovereign's face. He
rode on, ignoring it, ignoring the crowd, ignoring everything, his world narrowing down to a black tunnel, at the end of which was Sir Wilhelm von Richtershalden.

  Sir Wilhelm lowered his lance.

  Reuben did not move his.

  A worried whisper went up from the crowd. That foolish young knight would get himself speared if he didn't move! He had hardly managed to defend himself the first time, and now... It looked like he was too stunned to lower his lance. It looked like it was already too late for him.

  Suddenly, Reuben's lance swooped down in a deadly arc. From one moment to the next, the butt sat snugly under his armpit, the lance was straight, and aimed true.

  He leaned back, and braced himself.

  He heard the crash, the cry, the gasps from the crowd, and smiled. Sir Wilhelm sailed out of his saddle and crashed onto his back with the force of a sledgehammer. His shield flew off his arm and clattered against the stands.

  Taking a deep breath, Reuben took a look at his fallen enemy. Sir Wilhelm lay there, on the ground, dazed.

  Reuben unfastened the leather strips which held his helmet in place and pulled it off his head, shaking out his longish black hair. There was an audible “Awww” from the ladies among the spectators. Most of them looked at least as dazed as Sir Wilhelm. The strong jaw, the fiery gray eyes above high cheekbones... They hadn’t expected this! From the young knight's large proportions, most of them had been expecting some kind of ugly giant underneath that helmet. As soon as their error was revealed, the eyes of the ladies wandered over Reuben's impressive physique with an entirely new appreciation.

  Sir Wilhelm, however, did not seem to share that appreciation. He glowered up at Reuben with all the force he could muster. It wasn't very much. He was still a little cross-eyed.

  “You...” he mumbled.

  Reuben drove his horse forward until it came to a stop beside the fallen knight. Dust welled up from the hoofs and drifted over Sir Wilhelm, staining his surcoat brown.

  “Be careful what you say, Sir Knight,” Reuben said, casually. “We have had a disagreement, but we have fought it out as behooves true knights.”