“Dear God! What dirty tricks?”
“Well, for example, he threw a dirty dish cloth at me.”
“My Goodness! But…” A little frown marred the brow of Lady Salvatrice. “Where did he get a dish cloth out on an open meadow?”
“Um…” Reuben cleared his throat. “Well, he probably had one with him. Maybe he stole it from a dish washer he robbed earlier that day.”
“I see. This is fascinating! Do go on, Sir Reuben.”
“Well, in spite of his dastardly tricks, I finally managed to drive him back against a tree.”
“And then?”
“Well, I slammed him with the flat of my blade so hard he stumbled back against the tree! And then, I grabbed it and pulled—and it was ripped clear out of the ground, and I threw it on top of the dastardly villain who had dared to disturb the peace of the Empire!”
“Merciful Lord! What strength! What valor! Oh, Sir Reuben…”
“And that,” he ended, performing the small version of a courtly bow, “was how I overcame the fearsome robber knight Sir Franco d’Onofrio.”
Lady Salvatrice small hands clapped together in delight. She gazed adoringly up at him from under thick, black eyelashes. “Oh, Sir Reuben! You are so brave!”
Smiling, Reuben rose to his feet and, taking one of the lady’s hands in his, pressed a light kiss on its back. “If you wish to see how brave I am, you need only come watch me joust in an hour, outside in the courtyard.”
“Oh, I shall! I will watch and pray that you return to me safely.”
Reuben strode away, bursting with confidence. Behind the next corner, Lord d’Altavilla, who had listened to the entire conversation, only just managing not to be sick, squeezed his hands into tight fists.
“Oh yes, pray,” he whispered. “Pray all you can! He’s going to need it!”
*~*~**~*~*
The sun did not beat down on them bright and hot as it had yesterday. There were not so many jousts left to fight today as there had been yesterday, and so the herald had scheduled the final duels of the jousting for early evening. The sun was already beginning to sink, and the fiery light of the red eye in the sky threw a hellish mantle over the world.
Ha! I’m writing too much bad poetry! Shaking his head, Reuben smiled to himself. There’s nothing hellish about today. This light is God’s light, and in its shine, I shall triumph.
“Sir Reuben against Sir Hildebrandt!”
The call of the herald pulled Reuben from his thoughts. This wasn’t the time to daydream! It was time to fight!
He threw a glance at the knight at the other end of the lists, whose gray charger, even bigger than Ajax, was pawing the ground impatiently. Sir Hildebrandt, eh?
I wonder if he’s as good a fighter as the great Hildebrandt from legend and song.
Quite probable, if the thick muscles under the metal of his armor were anything to judge by. This really wasn’t the time to daydream. The easy opponents were long out of the running. Now, the fight would be with no holds barred. If he wanted to win, he’d have to think fast and hit hard.
The herald raised his arm—and let it fall.
“Laissiez-les aller!”
Reuben spurred Ajax on, holding his lance steady. On the other end of the field, with almost no hesitation, Sir Hildebrandt did the same. Damn! He was a dangerous opponent—both strong and fast. Reuben knew he wouldn’t simply be able to duck out of the way with this one. No fancy tricks, no sure way to a win. He would just have to ride and ram hard!
His gaze instinctively flicked up to Salvatrice up in the Emperor’s box.
Not that kind of riding, you asshead! Get your head back where it needs to be!
Twenty feet before collision.
Hm…his shield is shifted a bit too far to the right…
Ten feet.
Damn! He’s noticed!
Five feet.
Now!
Reuben’s lance came down in an arc, and his enemy’s did the same. There was a crash, a hit that rocked Reuben’s world, and then he was past, still on his horse, and Sir Hildebranndt was, too, his lance shattered. Glancing down, Reuben saw that his own lance hadn’t escaped unscathed either. It had a long crack along the side.
“Get me another one!” Pulling his mount around, he tossed the lance to his squire, who waited besides a stack of weapons and shields. This time, he had not come without replacements and someone to handle them. It hadn’t been difficult to find someone. Half the boys in the city had wanted to be the squires of the famous Sir Reuben.
“Here you go, Sir.” Quickly, the squire handed him a lance. “Good luck, Sir.”
“Thanks, but I prefer a good weapon in my hands!”
Pressing his heels into Ajax’s sides, Reuben surged forward, back into the fray. Sir Hildebrandt was already rushing towards him, lance slowly lowering. Was he getting tired? No, Reuben realized as he saw the knight’s arm quiver. He must have done something to his arm when he hit me! Strained a muscle, maybe?
Whatever it was, that was the weak point Reuben needed to go for.
Getting a good grip on his shield, he prepared for the impact. He didn’t pay very much attention to where his own lance was going—not on this run. Instead, when the two of them collided, he rammed his shield against his enemy’s lance point as hard as he could. Predictably, the impact jarred his teeth—but it also ripped the lance clean out of Sir Hildebrandt’s grip, making him cry out in pain.
There we go! That’s what I’m talking about!
Reuben’s lance had sustained no damage whatsoever this time. Whirling around at the end of the lists, he didn’t hesitate an instant before charging back up towards Sir Hildebrandt. The injured knight had been busy grabbing a new lance and had just managed to turn his horse around. When Reuben and he collided, Reuben had twice as much momentum, and the force of his lance hurled Sir Hildebrandt right out of the saddle.
Crash!
“And the winner is…Sir Reuben!”
Grinning from ear to ear behind his visor, Reuben rode back to his waiting post, the cheers of the crowd enveloping him. As he rode past the Emperor’s box, he lifted his lance, and thin strip of silk tied to it fluttered in the evening breeze, for all to see. Up in the box, Lady Salvatrice smiled.
*~*~**~*~*
Lord d’Altavilla watched as duel after duel passed and Sir Reuben von Limburg beat one knight after another into the dust. His lance set perfect at each thrust, his shield never once quivered.
“It, um, really looks as if he’s going to make it through, doesn’t it?”
D’Altavilla didn’t turn towards the sound of Sergio’s nervous voice. “Who’s next?” he hissed. “Who’s going to be next to be hurled off his horse?”
“Sir Roger of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon.”
Slowly, d’Altavilla turned around. “Did I hear you correctly? The Poor Fellow-Soldiers of…?”
“Yes, Milord.”
A grin started to spread across Lord d’Altavilla’s face. “He’s going to have to fight a goddamned Knight Templar?”
“So I understand, Milord. One of their prime fighters. You know that the order has never been particularly fond of His Imperial Majesty the Emperor—“
“—and they sent him here to snatch the trophies of the tournament from under his very nose?”
“I believe so, Milord.”
D’Altavilla’s grin grew so wide it threatened to split his head in two. “God’s teeth! I wish the Emperor were here! I’d like to see his face when he has to hand over a bejeweled sword to a Knight Templar in front of his entire court!”
It was at that moment that Sir Roger galloped out into the lists. D’Altavilla studied him intensely. He was not particularly tall, but that didn’t mean much. His shoulders were broad, and his grip on his lance was steady as a rock. Most importantly, from the way he handled his horse, one could see that he was used to being in the saddle—and fighting in it. The red cross on his white surcoat was
nearly the exact same color as the roaring lion on the surcoat of Sir Reuben. The two stared at each other from opposite ends of the lists.
“Laissiez-les aller!”
At the shout of the herald, they shot forward. Each pressed their heels hard into the sides of their mounts, urging them to give it all. The ground was eaten up by greedy, hammering hooves. Red and white surged towards red and white, and then—
Thud!
—both were riding on. Both had avoided a direct hit. There were long scrapes on their shields where the tips of the lances had slid off.
At the end of the lists, they sharply whirled the horses around and headed back, leaning forward in eager anticipation. D’Altavilla found himself mimicking their pose, leaning forward to see better. If only the Templar would win. That would make things so easy. Sir Pretty Boy Reuben would be humiliated in front of the lady he sought to steal away from d’Altavilla, her attentions would turn to him once more, and all would be well. If only…
Crash!
With a sound that tortured ears, Sir Roger took flight. He had been hit so hard that he whirled once in the air before coming down, and when he did, a cloud of dust rose around him, signaling the end of the joust.
“God’s blood!”
Lord d’Altavilla’s fist slammed so hard into the wood of the stands that it hurt, even through the metal and leather gauntlet. “God’s foul, stinking blood!”
Sergio glanced at him anxiously, but d’Altavilla didn’t notice. He was too busy staring at Sir Reuben von Limburg, his eyes filled with hatred. The stripling—no, the man, d’Altavilla reminded himself—could actually fight! Not just fight but…God, no one had the right to be this good at such an early age!
He knew that he himself was good, yes—but that good?
Well, he reminded himself, if all went well, he wouldn’t have to be. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, chasing the rage away, changing it into anticipation.
*~*~**~*~*
“The final joust!” announced the herald when the last contestant but two had fallen, “will be between Lord d’Altavilla and…” Pausing for effect, he looked around. “…the reigning Champion, Sir Reuben von Limburg!”
Abrupt cheers erupted from the stands. Glancing around, Reuben saw that people everywhere were standing, throwing their hats into the air, and clapping as if he had already won. A grin spread over his face. He liked that. Very much, in fact.
“Sir Reuben?”
His head turned in the direction of the shout. It hadn’t come from someone chanting his name. It had been someone calling to him personally. He spotted the man and frowned.
“I’ve seen you somewhere before. Aren’t you a servant of d’Altavilla?”
The man smiled up at him obsequiously. “I am a servant, Sir Reuben, yes, but not of Lord d’Altavilla. You must have confused me with somebody else. Could I speak with you for just a moment?”
“Ha! Not now! I have a joust to get to!”
“But Sir—“
“I said not now!” Reuben turned away.
“—I have a message from Lady Salvatrice!”
“What?” Reuben’s head flew back around to face the man. “Why didn’t you say so at once? What is it? Well, don’t just stand there, man! Spit it out!”
“Here? In front of everyone?” The servant cleared his throat. “Please, Sir Reuben, allow me to make clear that the message is of a private nature. If you would just be so kind as to dismount for a moment and come over here, behind this tent—“
“Of course! Wait a moment!”
Reuben signaled to the herald, holding up two fingers. The herald nodded and proclaimed, “There will be a short break for the contestants to rest. We shall continue in a few minutes.”
Ignoring the disappointed sounds from the crowd, Reuben slid down off his horse and followed the servant behind the tent.
When he was gone, a figure sidled closer to his horse. It was already getting dark, but in the faint light of the sinking sun, a knife blade gleamed.
*~*~**~*~*
“…and Lady Salvatrice also bid me to tell you that she sends her love. She will be with you through every strike and blow. She wishes you to know that you alone possess her heart and are the master of her soul.”
“Aaah…” Reuben gave a sigh. “What wonderful words to hear from the mouth of one’s beloved.”
The servant shifted. “Err…yes. Probably.”
“Thank you!” Reuben stepped towards him and impulsively pulled him close into a crushing embrace. “You have given me the strength I need to be victorious!”
“I have?” wheezed the servant.
“Oh, yes. And I won’t forget it. Against my enemies I am merciless, but my friends I reward well.”
For some reason, the face of the servant turned a shade paler at that. “Um…really? I’m glad to hear it. Thank you for your kindness, Sir Reuben.”
“It’s not kindness. It’s the simple truth.” Patting the man on the back, Reuben turned. “We’ll talk more when the joust is over.”
“I…look forward to it.”
Leaving the pale servant behind him, Reuben strode out from behind the tent. He felt as if he could kill a giant! The strength of love was coursing through his veins. No wonder all those knights of old had been able to perform such wondrous deeds! All the best knights in the court of King Arthur had had a lady to admire, love, and revere. And now he had one, too! And not just any lady, but the fairest, most loveable creature in the whole wide world.
Suddenly, walking wasn’t fast enough for Reuben anymore. He started running and leaped into the saddle. His mount, as if fired by his enthusiasm, shied and nearly bucked. Reuben laughed.
“Ho, Ajax! It’s just me!” Ajax quieted and pawed the ground. Reuben barked a laugh. “Anxious for the fight, eh?” His eyes focused on Lord d’Altavilla at the other end of the lists. “Believe me, Ajax, so am I. So am I.”
“Ready?” asked the herald, nodding to Reuben.
Reuben nodded in answer. His squire rushed to him to hand him his helmet, lance, and shield.
“Ready?” asked the herald in the direction of Lord d’Altavilla. The Sicilian Lord nodded, too.
“This is the final joust,” the herald declared. “Whosoever winneth this joust shall be champion and greatest of all the knights in the Kingdom of Sicily. He shall receive a sword beset with jewels and two of the best horses from the Emperor’s stables.”
And a lot more things besides. Reuben’s eyes rose to where Lady Salvatrice was sitting in her box. Things infinitely more valuable than horses or jewels.
In spite of the helmet he was wearing now, everyone seemed to know where his eyes were. Instead of looking at the two knights about to charge, the entire crowd gazed up at Salvatrice. She looked more queenly and beautiful than ever.
God! Reuben felt his heart squeeze almost painfully. I swear, today I’m going to win her love—or I’ll be damned!
“Once more,” the herald demanded, “are you both ready?”
Two lances dipped in answer.
“Then we can begin. On the count of three. One…two… Laissiez-les aller!”
Ajax was so agitated, he shot forward when Reuben’s heels had barely touched his sides. Through the slits of his visor, Reuben’s eyes focused on the man rushing towards him: d’Altavilla. Once that man was out of the way, his path to Salvatrice would be clear. He had to get him off that horse! If ever he’d needed to win a joust, it was today.
Oh heavenly Father, stand by me! Help me, just this once! For victory, for love—help me!
Reuben’s lance came down in a sweeping arc. He took aim, tightened his grip—
Crash!
And then, suddenly, he was flying—flying off his horse! But no! How could this be? D’Altavilla’s strike hadn’t been that hard. It could never have knocked him out of his saddle!
He barely had time to realize that the saddle was still under him, torn away from Ajax’s back—no, not torn, cut!—before he r
eached the peak of his trajectory and began to plummet towards the earth again.
God! The thought shot through his head. Do you hear me, God? You are going to pay for this!
Then pain exploded in his chest, and a maelstrom of darkness swallowed him.
THE END
of
THE FALL OF SIR REUBEN, PART TWO
Part one is available in the special edition of the first volume of the Robber Knight Saga, The Robber Knight.
Part three, the final part, will be available in the special edition of the last volume of the Robber Knight Saga, The Robber Knight’s Secret.
Dedication
I dedicate this story to all those valiant fans and readers who jumped into this story and fought bravely alongside Ayla and Sir Reuben. Most especially, I dedicate it to Nela Korenica, Courtney Chandler, and Salsabil Anwar, the brave warriors who battled against the typos in this medieval tale and vanquished them forever. Thank you all for your support!
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 humour 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 his-tory. ‘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.
Other Books by Robert Thier