The four towers of the Royal Palace of Palermo loomed high above Reuben as he approached the stairs to the entrance. The doorway stood open, and laughter and music could be heard from inside—strange, foreign tones, which, to Reuben's ears, sounded discordant and yet sweet, like the whistling of the wind which plays no melody yet still seems to call to you.
A page bearing the crest of the House of Hohenstaufen awaited Reuben at the foot of the stairs. The boy had long blond locks and an angel’s face and smiled broadly as he bowed to Reuben.
“I'm awaited at the feast,” Reuben began. “My name is—”
“Oh, I know your name, Sir Reuben,” the boy interrupted him eagerly. “I saw you fighting at the tournament. May I say what an honor it is to meet you?”
Reuben grinned. “Yes, you definitely may.”
“Beg your pardon.” The boy put his hand in front of his mouth. “I shouldn't have interrupted you, I'm so sorry. My knight master is always telling me not to interrupt people, but I couldn’t help myself. It was simply unbelievable how you unhorsed Sir Tomasso! Sir Tomasso, who has never been beaten in his life! How did you do it? Can you teach me how to do it? I so wish I could fight as well as you. All the castle is talking about the victory and how nobody has ever heard anything about you before, and people think the Emperor holds you in high esteem, and that makes them talk only more.”
Hurriedly, he put his hand in front of his mouth again. “Oh…um, I think I've talked too much again, haven't I, Sir?”
“A bit,” Reuben said amiably, “but not a lot. I'm in no real hurry.”
The page looked relieved and bowed again. “Well, thank you, Sir. If you'd follow me, I'll lead you to the feast.”
“Excellent. Lead on.”
The page led Reuben up the stairs, never taking his big blue eyes off the knight's towering figure.
“Do you give lessons in sword-play?” the boy asked, yearning in his voice.
“I'm afraid not, no.”
“Oh.”
“So people are talking about me?” Reuben asked, out of interest and because he wanted to wipe the expression of disappointment from the little fellow's face.
It worked. The boy immediately brightened. “Yes, Sir. The gamblers talk because they lost their bets on Sir Tomasso, the knights talk because they're itching to see your sword-play in the melee tomorrow, and the women…” The boy frowned. “Well, I don't really know why the women talk. They giggle and flutter their eyelashes and smile in a funny way, and they talk a lot about you, but I don't know why. After all, they can't be interested in seeing your sword-play, can they?”
“Who knows?” Reuben's grin widened. “Maybe they'd like a private demonstration.”
The boy's frown deepened. “Why? They're ladies. What would they want with a sword?”
“Oh, trust me, they like it if you know how to use it well.”
“I'm afraid I don't understand, Sir.”
“You will, one day, trust me. Just give it a couple of years.”
“As you say, Sir.”
They had reached the door by now. The page bowed and stood aside to let Reuben enter first.
“Welcome to the Royal Palace of Palermo, Sir.”
Fortunately, the muscles in Reuben's jaw were as well-developed as in the rest of his body. Had they not been, he would hardly have been able to prevent his jaw from dropping.
He was used to grand castles. He had grown up in one. But what he saw as grand were buildings made of giant blocks of stones, the walls bare, except for the occasional tapestry or weapons on hooks. The Royal Palace of Palermo had moderately resembled such places from the outside, but on the inside, it was a different world alltogether. Reuben felt as if he had been transplanted from Europe to the court of the eastern Roman Empire, or maybe even further, to Kairo or Baghdad.
The walls here were not bare. They were painted in bright colors—blue, red, green, even gold—in such quantities that it dazzled Reuben's eyes. In some places, he saw resplendent pictures of trees and birds with fantastic plumage, in others, there were dazzlingly complicated abstract patterns he had never laid eyes on before.
The page, noticing his stare, said, “The patterns were left behind by the heathens, from when they ruled this place. I have asked my knight master why they didn't paint pictures. He said it was because their laws forbid any artificial picture of any living thing.”
“Does that mean they have to get by without mirrors?” Reuben asked, grasping for the first thing that came into his stunned mind.
“I don't know, Sir.”
“It would explain why they all have such long beards.”
Reuben hardly heard himself speak. His mind was still fully engaged with the splendor around him as the page led him through the rooms and corridors of the palace. Even in the reddish torchlight that was the night's only illumination, the gold on the wall shone as bright as the sun. It was a scene right out of a fairytale. All that was missing, Reuben thought as he passed under a pointed archway, was a beautiful lady. Or maybe two, or three.
They had entered another corridor, and at its end, a door stood open, spilling out bright light over the relatively gloomy floor outside. Women's laughter could be heard from inside the room, interspersed with excited whispering.
My, my, Reuben thought. Wishes do come true.
The page bowed and pointed to the door. “The feast, Sir.”
“Oh yes.” Reuben heard the women laughing again. “A feast indeed.”
“Can I return to my post, Sir?”
“What? Oh, yes. Go. I shall manage fine from here, I'm sure. This looks promising.”
With another, final bow, the page hurried off. Reuben tugged on his immaculate, white surcoat, straightening it and showing off the crowned red lion on the front with all claws raised. As if by magic, his best irresistible smile appeared on his face. Pushing open the door, Reuben stepped into the hall.
Light and chatter greeted him. The light stayed, but the chatter subsided the minute people caught sight of his towering form. The herald beside the door pounded the floor with his staff and, in a voice that carried all across the room, called out, “Sir Reuben von Limburg! All hail the victor of the Royal Tournament!”
If anyone hadn’t been staring at him before now, they were now. Reuben felt the admiration of the crowd and drank it like nectar and ambrosia. This was it! This was why he had come to Palermo!
He was swept up by a crowd of people—particularly ladies—and questions rained on him from all sides. How old was he? Where had he learned to fight like that? Did he intend to stay for the melee?
The last one made Reuben want to laugh.
As if I’d ever miss that!
He was handed from group to group, being introduced to anyone and everyone who had not met him yet, climbing steadily up the social ladder of Palermo and moving ever closer to back of the great hall, where a raised dais with the Hohenstaufen coat of arms and the Imperial Eagle was just visible above the heads of the crowds.
Reuben enjoyed the attention very much, particularly the smiling ladies who batted their lashes at him and whispered secret suggestions into his ears. What he didn’t enjoy much, though, were the introductions. A typical case in point was his meeting with a fat little Palermo merchant halfway to the dais.
“Ah! The brave victor of the Joust!” The merchant clapped his fat little hands. “Marvelous, Sir! Marvelous! Forgive me, what was your name again, Sir? The herald called it out, but my hearing isn’t what is used to be.”
Reuben lowered his head—not a bow, just the hint of respect due to a man in high standing who still was a commoner. “I am Sir Reuben von Limburg, Son of Heinrich, Duke von Limburg, Count von Berg, and High Commander of the Imperial Crusade Forces. I am glad to make your acquaintance, Master Merchant.”
“Imperial Crusade Forces?” The jolly little man’s eyebrows shot up. “You don’t mean the crusade where all the old ladies in Jerusalem showed their naked butts to—?”
“Yes,” Reuben ground out between teeth clenched in a smile that wasn’t quite sincere anymore. “That crusade.”
“Ye God! That must have been embarrassing, don’t you think?”
“I would imagine so.”
“But quite funny in a way, too, if you think about it.”
“Indeed?” Reuben asked, his face hurting from the smile he kept on it, cursing the fact that a knight couldn’t challenge a merchant to a duel to the death. He only hoped that the Emperor had better memories of his crusade than naked old ladies’ butts.
Soon enough, the opportunity was provided for Reuben to find out whether his hope was justified. A path opened in the crowd, and at the end of it, on the dais, he could see the diminutive man with red hair and beard who held the whole of Europe in awe.
“Your Imperial Majesty.” Striding forward, Reuben knelt at the feet of the Emperor, meeting those intense hawk-eyes head on. “I am at your service.”
“We are glad to hear that.” Pulling a bejeweled dagger from his belt, the Emperor speared a date from one of the plates arranged around him and lifted it to his mouth. “From what we saw earlier, your service should prove quite useful.”
“I fervently hope so, Your Majesty.”
“Sit.” Patting an empty seat beside him, the Emperor gave a slight smile. “And tell me of your father. He was well last time you saw him, I trust?”
He was throwing a fit and threatening to disinherit me.
“He, um, was most energetic, Your Majesty.”
“Does he ever speak of the old times?”
Well, he forgot to mention the old ladies’ derrières.
“Oh yes, Your Majesty. He might have forgotten a detail or two, but his memory of Your Majesty is as clear in his mind as if your adventures had only happened yesterday.”
The Emperor’s smile warmed. “I’m glad to hear it. Just as I am glad—more than glad—that he has a son he can be justly proud of. Page!” Gesturing, Friedrich called the boy who was attending him to his side. “Bring wine for us and Sir Reuben. We wish to hear more and to toast the victor of the joust!”
*~*~**~*~*
A man entered the great hall of the Royal Palace of Palermo and threw a searching glance around. It was clear from his clothes that he stood on the upper rungs of the social ladder, and even if he had not been wearing a stitch, the dismissive way in which his gaze skimmed over those around him would have marked him as a nobleman.
“Lord Francesco d’Altavilla!” called out the herald beside him. “Baron of—“
“Yes, yes.” Lord d’Altavilla cut the man off with an impatient wave. “I know my title, as, I’m sure, does everyone in this room.”
“Yes, Milord.”
“The Emperor has arrived?”
“Indeed he has, Milord. And he asked me to inquire, Milord, if I may be so bold, whether the Lady Salvatrice is accompanying you.”
D’Altavilla’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“I do not know, Your Lordship. Maybe His Imperial Majesty wishes her company in the Royal Box tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” A frown joined the narrowed eyes. D’Altavilla gestured at the feast. “Judging from all this, I assumed the Tournament was already over.”
“Oh no, Milord. Just the joust.”
“Oh. I see.”
“And, if Your Lordship will forgive me for mentioning it, Your Lordship has not answered my question yet. Is the Lady Salvatrice—“
“Yes! Yes, she is with me.”
“Thank you, Milord.”
For a moment, d’Altavilla wanted to grab the scrawny little herald by the neck and shake him until he choked. Until moments ago, he had been confident—no, certain even—that there was no possible rival for the affections of the Lady Salvatrice that could compete with him. But an Emperor? The thought made him want to smash something. Or someone.
“Does His Imperial Majesty intend to spend more private time with the Lady Salvatrice?” he demanded, making a mental note to provide lodgings for his lady in his town house and not in the palace.
“I do not believe so, Milord.”
He breathed a sigh of relief. Of course. What had he been thinking? The Emperor was simply being polite. The man had a harem of hundreds of Saracen beauties at his back and call, for Heaven’s sake! What did such a man want with a single woman? He had overreacted. But men tended to overreact when a woman like Lady Salvatrice was involved—even men such as he.
But there’s no course for worry. Even if he were interested—who does a woman admire more? The man sitting safely in the box beside her or the man fighting down on the field in her name, with her token around his arm?
Lord d’Altavilla smiled. “You said the tournament is not yet over?”
“Quite correct, Milord. The melee will be fought tomorrow.”
Slowly, Lord d’Altavilla cracked his knuckles. Ah. Good. He knew his competition would be challenging, but there were always ways…
“I am glad to hear that. Speaking of tournaments, herald, where is Sir Tomasso? I would like to congratulate the winner of the joust.” And see if the old longshanks is still in good form.
“Oh, Sir Tomasso didn’t win the joust, Milord.”
“What?” Lord d’Altavilla’s head whipped around, and he stared at the herald. “What happened? Did he catch the black plague? I can’t imagine anything less keeping Tomasso di Zaragoza from competing in the joust.”
The herald cleared his throat delicately. “He did compete, Milord. He lost.”
“He what?”
“Lost, Milord. He was unhorsed.”
A fat countess from Capua chose that moment to take an interest in Lord d’Altavilla from which he had, up to that point, been blessedly free. “Oh, Lord d’Altavilla!” she giggled, sidling up to him. “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of our new champion yet? Where have you been?”
“Outside the city, on the road,” he shot back, trying to evade the choking cloud of perfume that engulfed her without being too obvious. “We don’t get many town criers announcing tournament results there.”
She giggled again, as if he had said something terribly funny. Lord d’Altavilla felt the urge to get a drink just so he could empty it over her empty head, but there were more important things on his agenda right now.
“New Champion, you said?” he demanded. “So it is true? Someone really did unhorse Sir Tomasso?”
A shiver went down his neck. He had thought he would only have to contend with the old longshanks. But this…
“Of course he did! From what they say, Sir Reuben can unhorse anybody!”
“Reuben?” That wasn’t a Sicilian name, and most certainly not a familiar one. “Who is this Reuben fellow?”
Again that giggle. “Look over there. No, not there. There. Do you see the man with the two dozen ladies around him?”
Lord d’Altavilla’s eyes moved, searching—then widened when they found the man. Or should he call that lad a man at all?
“Are you serious? That stripling is supposed to have beaten Sir Tomasso?”
“That ‘stripling’ made every single knight within Palermo taste the dust.”
“He’s hardly old enough to have his own sword!”
The woman smirked. “That’s not what the ladies say.”
Lord d’Altavilla took another good look at the boy—or was he a man?—sitting beside the emperor. God’s teeth! He was hardly old enough to be a knight! But the circle of wide-eyed, smiling ladies hanging on his every word seemed to have no such qualms. They were all staring at his face.
Abruptly, Lord d’Altavilla turned to the herald.
“Give the emperor my regrets, and inform him that Lady Salvatrice will not be watching the melee tomorrow.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes. We’re both exhausted from the journey and will be staying in my townhouse.”
The devil take this tournament! He had more important business to take care of. And he was not about to sully himself by crossing blades with a mere boy who didn’t deserve a moment of his attention.
“As you say, Milord.”
Lord d’Altavilla was just about to make a quiet exit when the Emperor lifted his eyes and—damn it all!—caught sight of him. Smiling, Friedrich lifted a hand and waved him over.
With a muttered curse, Lord d’Altavilla started forward towards the royal dais and the mountainous figure of the knight sitting beside the emperor. He stopped only a few feet away, performing his deepest and most elegant bow.
“Your Imperial Majesty.”
“Lord d’Altavilla.”
Neither of them exchanged real greetings. The Emperor knew that d’Altavilla, a descendant of House Altavilla, who had reigned over Sicily before the House of Hohenstaufen, wasn’t exactly fond of how history had worked out. D’Altavilla knew that the emperor knew, and the Emperor knew that D’Altavilla knew that the Emperor knew. That was why, right now, the monarch had this self-satisfied little smile on his face, and that was also why Friedrich would do anything to aggravate Lord d’Altavilla just to put him in his place.
“We were just discussing the melee tomorrow,” the Emperor said, picking a grape from a nearby tray and biting it in half thoughtfully. “I hope we will see you performing stunning feats of arms on the battleground?”
Against your puppy dog of a champion? No, thank you!
“I’m afraid I will have to decline, your majesty.” He made an expressive gesture. “The long journey, you understand, is very tiring…”
“Surely not to a warrior of your stature?” Hawk-eyes sparkling, the Emperor pierced him with his gaze. D’Altavilla wished those eyes didn’t make him feel as if they could look right through him. “Really, Lord d’Altavilla, I would be most displeased if I were not to see you fighting tomorrow. Most displeased indeed.”
“I would like nothing better than to cross blades with you,” the boy-champion offered, an insolent grin on his face.
Oh, really, boy? We’ll have to see if you still think that way the day after tomorrow.
“Of course, Your Imperial Majesty,” d’Altavilla ground out between clenched teeth. “I shall be ready and waiting on the battleground tomorrow.”
“And Lady Salvatrice? Surely she would want to see you fight.”
“I don’t think—”
“I am certain she would want to see you fight.” The Emperor smiled, glancing at Reuben. “And who knows, maybe she would like to have a look at your competition, too.”
Curse you!
D’Altavilla’s hands clenched around the hilt of his sword, and only with effort did he manage not to rip it out of its scabbard.
“As you command, Your Imperial Majesty. We shall both be there.”
*~*~**~*~*
“Sir Reuben von Limburg!”
Reuben held his head high as he cantered out onto the battleground to thunderous cheers. He’d had a little word with the herald after the feast last night and made it very clear to the man what would happen if he mentioned anything about a certain crusade while calling out his name. But, surveying the frenzied crowd, Reuben thought he probably needn’t have bothered. No matter how many old ladies’ bottoms his father had gotten to see in Jerusalem, these people would think he was a hero.
How very clear-sighted of them.
“Sir Tomasso di Zaragoza!”
Reuben smiled as the tall Sicilian galloped onto the battleground behind him. This would be an interesting day.
“Lord d’Altavilla!”
Hadn’t he heard that name before? Ah, yes! The Sicilian nobleman he had met last night at the feast.
“Sir Adrian Rakowski, Son of Count Rakowski.”
Reuben snorted and glanced up at the mountainous figure of the pole cantering out between the stands. That one he wasn’t likely to forget in a hurry.
“Sir Albin Rakowski!”
Nor his brother, for that matter. Reuben’s eyes met the eyes of the little rat-like fellow, and the promise of blood crackled in the air. He only hoped the two of them wouldn’t end up on the same team, or things might get ugly. Well, in Albin’s case, uglier than they already were.
“Sir Lorenzo d’Ortigia!”
Ah…the lone, local knight who had made it into the second round of the joust.
“Sir Hermann von der Hagen!”
The Knight Brother galloped onto the courtyard in full order regalia and was greeted with cheers.
“Amir ibn Sharif ibn Alhasan Abdul-Ahad al-Arabi!”
The Saracen rode out into the battleground and was greeted with rotten vegetables. One sailed over his head, another hit his round shield and impaled itself on the spike that stuck out of its middle.
“Peace!” the herald called, his voice rising in panic. “Please, good people. He is an envoy! Plea—iaah!”
He ducked just in time to evade a flying cabbage. Reuben thought it time to intervene. He raised his hand.
“Halt!”
His voice rolled over the courtyard like thunder. People froze, rotten vegetables clutched in their half-raised hands.
“Respect,” Reuben admonished, swiping his sword around, taking in the crowd with one gesture. “Respect for the Emperor, people of Palermo. Respect for the laws of chivalry!”
Quickly, the vegetables disappeared. Reuben looked over at Amir ibn unpronounceable. The dark-skinned man met his eyes and nodded. Directing his gaze up at the Emperor, Reuben lowered his lance in greeting. Not just in greeting to the Emperor, though—there was a lady sitting beside him, swathed in dark silk, including a veil that covered most of her face. Reuben could feel her eyes on him and lowered his lance particularly deep in reverence.
“Your servant, My Lady, Your Imperial Majesty.”
The other knights, too, inclined their lances.
“A worthy servant who observes the rules of chivalry.” The emperor inclined his head back. The dark beauty—for she was beautiful, Reuben was sure of that regardless of the veil—lowered her head in agreement. “Continue. Herald, tell us who shall be fighting whom this fine day.”
The herald pulled out two bags, one red, one blue. Inside each, Reuben knew, were the names of four knights inscribed on shards of pottery, put there by the herald’s assistant while wearing a blindfold. Nobody, not even the herald himself, knew which knights would fight on what team today.
Opening the red bag, the herald sank his hand into it. The crowd held its breath.
“Sir Reuben von Limburg!”
Roaring cheers rose from the stands. Reuben smirked. How nice. He knew he was on team red. Only, everyone else had still to be assigned, so that was of little help.
The herald opened the blue bag and pulled out the name of Reuben’s first enemy.
“Sir Adrian Rakowski!”
My, my… The day had started off well.
If only my first ally isn’t his lovely brother…
The red bag was opened again.
“Sir Tomasso di Zaragoza!”
Well? Reuben grinned. His day had just gotten a whole lot better than “well”! Locking eyes with the tall Sicilian, Reuben slammed a fist to his heart. The other man, his gaze as clear as his smile was bright, returned the gesture.
It was the blue’s turn again.
“Sir Albin Rakowski!”
Will you look at that? The two nasties were in a bag together. How splendid!
And red…
“Amir ibn Sharif ibn Alhasan Abdul-Ahad al-Arabi.”
Hm…interesting.
And blue.
“Sir Hermann von der Hagen.”
They could have him. Reuben didn’t particularly regret the loss.
Red…
“Lord d’Altavilla!”
Well, he didn’t particularly rejoice over this gain, either. Neither did the narrow-eyed Sicilian lord, to judge by the look on his face. Well, he’d just have to deal with it!
And the final blue…
“Sir Lorenzo d’Ortigia!”
Fish bait. Nothing more than fish bait. If there were any fishes in the courtyard, that is.
“The order of the fight has been announced,” the herald proclaimed. “The teams have been determined! Knights of the Empire, take your places!”
He gestured to two small, roped-off areas. Reuben gave his Ajax the spurs, cantering into the one over which fluttered a red flag. Sir Tomasso, the Saracen, and Lord d’Altaville followed, while the others took their places in the demarcated area at the other end of the courtyard, under the blue flag. Pursuivants awaited the knights, ready to take their lances. Unlike yesterday, today, these had just been for show. The melee was not a game aimed at throwing the opponent out of the saddle. The melee was a battle, fought with bludgeons, swords, and axes.
“We have to come up with a strategy,” Reuben said as soon as their horses had settled down behind the rope. “And fast!”
He threw a look at the herald. The man was busy holding a speech about upholding the values of chivalry. But there weren’t that many values of chivalry, and the speech would probably not last long.
“Agreed.” Sir Tomasso nodded, picked up his helmet from where it hung on the saddle, and set it on his head. “Will you have my back, Sir Reuben?”
“It would be my honor.” Reuben looked at d’Altaville. “You had best—“
The Lord cut him off, ice in his voice. “I’ll die before I take orders from a beardless boy like you!”
Reuben held his gaze for a moment—then shrugged. “Fine. Then die. Or fight and survive, but go do it alone.”
His gaze traveled to the Saracen.
“I, too, best fight alone,” said the dark-skinned man in a smoky voice that seemed to come from far-away. “No insult to you intended. It simply is the way I fight. I am quick. I am nimble. But only when I am alone.”
“I see.” Reuben nodded. “Quick, you say?”
“Yes. My horse, too. Bread for quick runs and turns, it is.”
“Then you had better take on the little rat.”
“Pardon?”
“Rakowski. The little fellow with the rat face.”
The Saracen’s sharp eyes swept over the opposing team until they found Albin Rakowski. “A wise choice. I shall attend to him.”
“And I think his brother wishes to have a little discussion with me,” Reuben growled. “I’ll be only too happy to give him the pleasure.”
“I shall most certainly not content myself with that one,” Lord d’Altavilla growled, gesturing to the young Lorenzo d’Ortigia, who seemed rather nervous at having ended up in the melee—and on the side opposing two tournament champions, no less. “I shall cross blades with the knight brother. The rest of you had better stay out of my way.”
Reuben exchanged a glance with Tomasso. The tall Sicillian shrugged. “Then I shall take care of my countryman. It seems fitting.” Through the slits of his visor, Reuben saw pearl white teeth flash in a grin. “Who knows, maybe I’ll be able to teach the young man a few valuable lessons?”
“No doubt,” Reuben said and thought, Poor Lorenzo d’Ortigia. But he had volunteered for this, as had they all, and besides, Tomasso would not go so far as to crack his head open. Probably.
“Knights of the Empire! The hour has come!”
The shout from in front of the stands made all eyes, Reuben’s included, turn towards the herald. “Prepare yourselves!”
Reuben was prepared. More than prepared, in fact. Meeting the gaze of Adrian Rakowski over the soon-to-be battlefield, he grinned. His hand grasped hold of the hilt of his sword in eager anticipation.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Reuben saw the herald raise a horn to his lips. The pursuivant standing close to the rope that cut Reuben off from the center of the courtyard raised a knife to the thin barrier. At the opposite end of the courtyard, beside the other team, another pursuivant did the same.
“May the battle begin!”
The long, clear tone of a horn rang out over the courtyard. To tumultuous cheers from the crowd, the ropes dropped, freeing the knights and their chargers. Reuben pressed his heels into Ajax’s sides.
“Hüa!”
Reuben felt Sir Tomasso beside him as he charged forward. He didn’t give another thought to the other two fighters on his team as they surged towards the enemy. He only had eyes for the giant Pole galloping towards him and the huge battle-ax clutched in his hands.
“For Limburg! For the Emperor!” he shouted.
Behind him, the crowd exploded into another cheer.
“Będę zgrać jaja!!” the Pole roared.
Reuben understood Polish quite well, and he thought that rather unlikely. Pressing his steed to go even faster, Reuben tensed his muscles in preparation. He would have to be fast. That was his only chance. If the Pole got one blow in, he was most likely dead. He would have to be very, very fast.
Racing closer, the Sir Adrian raised his ax.
Reuben raised his sword in response.
“Raaah!” the Pole shouted, and his battle-ax came down. Some words needed no translation.
Reuben swung his sword forward—then abruptly ducked, letting the blow swipe over his head. With his full force behind the blow, the Pole overbalanced and nearly plummeted out of the saddle. Grinning, Reuben gave his mount a good whack on the ass with the flat of his blade, making it rear.
“Yaah!”
Desperately, Sir Adrian clutched the reins, trying to calm his horse, to stay in the saddle, to do anything but fall to the ground. But Reuben had other plans.
Wham!
His first blow hit the giant knight from the left, nearly hurling him down.
Wham!
The second hit him from the right, robbing him of what little balance he had left. With another furious roar of rage, the Pole tried to turn his mount around to face his foe, but both horse and rider were huge and lumbering—not the right material for quick maneuvers. Reuben, on the other hand…
Wham!
Catching him right against the side of the helmet, the third and final blow catapulted Sir Adrian out of the saddle. He slammed to the ground, eliciting another round of thunderous cheers from the crowd. Reuben grinned. This was almost too easy! If only he could whack that boorish pig over the head, right there where he lay in the dirt…!
Patience, he reprimanded himself. A knight may never strike an enemy while he is on the ground. And he should always fight on equal terms.
Swinging down out of the saddle, Reuben strode towards Sir Adrian. “Up on your feet, Sir Knight! We have a fight to finish!”
Snarling, the Pole braced himself against the ground and pushed. He came up like a cork out of a bottle. Suppressing a curse, Reuben jumped back, barely managing to evade the blade of his enemy’s ax. That big oaf was faster than he had any right to be.
“All right!” Reuben growled. “Let’s do this!”
Angling his body to present a smaller target, he edged closer to the Pole. The big knight wasn’t so careful. He lunged, and this time, expecting it, Reuben had no problems evading the attack. Darting forward, he stabbed and would have impaled the Pole’s exposed armpit if the man hadn’t twisted out of the way.
But now he was standing sideways—not a good position for someone armed with a battle-ax. Reuben’s sword, on the other hand…
Grinning, he stabbed again!
“Aaarh!”
Blood spurted! Reuben breathed in the invigorating smell of impending victory, ducked under the Sir Adrian’s flailing arm, and delivered another blow, this time to the man’s right arm. He screamed again and nearly dropped the ax.
Whirling around, he struck a blow that would have knocked Reuben’s head off had he still been there. But Reuben was long gone. Confused, the Pole looked around, searching for his enemy.
“Hello there.”
Darting out from behind Sir Adrian’s huge horse, Reuben sprang forward, slamming his blade against the handle of the ax. It was severed clean in the middle, and with a dull clank, the blade of the ax dropped to the ground. Dumbfounded, Sir Adrian stared down at his decapitated weapon.
“Do you surrender, Sir Knight?”
“Yaaar!”
With a bestial roar, the mountainous warrior threw himself at Reuben, stabbing at him with the chopped-off ax handle. It slammed into Reuben’s chest. Although it slid off his breastplate, the impact nearly knocked him off his feet.
“I suppose that means no,” he grunted. “Very well, then! Let’s have at it!”
His sword came up in an arc, surging towards what was left of Sir Adrian’s weapon.
Thwack!
Another piece of wood fell to the ground.
Thwack!
And another. All the Pole now held in hand was…well, it was certainly no pole. A stump, or little stick at best. Cursing, he threw it at Reuben. It bounced harmlessly off his helmet with a clang.
“You know,” Reuben informed him, stepping forward, “you really should learn how to behave more chivalrously.”
And, with that, he slammed the pommel of the sword straight into the knight’s face guard. The metal crumpled under the force of his blow, and the Pole was hurled backwards, crashing into the ground for the second time today. But, a moment later, he shook himself and started to rise again.
“Damn the man!” Reuben growled. “Is his head made of metal?” He raised his sword above Sir Adrian’s head and was just about to test this theory when a blow caught him right in the back. He stumbled forward, past Sir Adrian, and when he whirled around to face his attacker, there stood Sir Albin, a feral look on his face.
“You little…!” Reuben started forward. But before he could even raise his sword to strike a blow, the Saracen was there, slamming his curved sword into Albin’s helmet so hard the metal dented.
“My apologies, my friend,” he grunted, inclining his head towards Reuben as Albin stumbled sideways. “I did not expect this one to abandon our exchange to interfere in your affairs. But—”
He raised his sword again.
Wham!
“—some people simply do not know that it is not polite to interrupt.”
Wham!
The third and final blow sent Sir Albin crumpling to the ground. Unlike his brother, he did not get up again.
“Raaaah!”
Something massive shot past Reuben in a blur. A moment later, the gigantic form of Adrian Rakowski slammed into the Saracen and threw him clean off his feet. All Reuben could still see of him were the ends of his flailing limbs as Rakowski covered him, pummeling him with his massive, metal-covered fists.
“I’ve had enough of that one!” Growling, Reuben strode forward. Bending down, he slipped the tip of his sword under the leather straps that held the big Pole’s helmet in place and pulled. They ripped, and the helmet tumbled off the man’s head. Grabbing his thick mane of mangy hair, Reuben pulled back his head and placed the blade of his sword at the man’s throat.
“Surrender!”
Sir Adrian gave a roar, twisted, tried to free himself, and when he couldn’t, simply continued pummeling the Saracen, who did his best trying to shield himself from the blows.
Pulling at the hair more forcefully, Reuben dug the blade of his sword harder into Sir Adrian’s throat.
“Surrender, or I—oh, to hell with it!” He let go of the man’s head. Sir Adrian was so surprised that his head slammed forward onto the Saracen’s chest and lay there for a moment, still and unmoving—the perfect target! When Reuben’s fist came down on the back of it, it made an unhealthy but intensely satisfying crunching sound.
The Pole slumped. This time, he didn’t get up again.
Propping his fists on his hips, Reuben surveyed his work contentedly. “Finally!”
Someone cleared his throat. Looking down, he saw the Saracen trying to roll the body of the man nearly twice his size off himself. “If you would be so kind…”
“Oh. Of course.”
A knight had to help his fellow warriors if in need, right? Reuben grinned and delivered a hearty kick to Sir Adrian’s side that threw the massive man clean off the Saracen and would probably leave a nice, purplish bruise.
Sometimes it really was fun to uphold the virtues of chivalry.
Extending his hand, Reuben helped the Saracen to his feet, and together, they surveyed the battlefield. D’Altavilla was just finishing off the Teutonic knight brother in a corner and would not, Reuben knew, appreciate any help, while Sir Tomasso had driven his countryman against the stands and was giving him advice on his swordplay and showing him new moves while the youth desperately tried to land a blow.
Reuben and the Saracen strolled over to observe.
“Need any help?”
“Most kind of you to offer, Sir Reuben. But I can manage, I think.” Swiping the boy’s latest ineffectual blow aside, Sir Tomasso shook his head disapprovingly. “No, no, Lorenzo! Not like that. This is how you do it!”
“Argh!”
“See? That worked much better. Now try it again.”
Reuben cleared his throat, and Sir Tomasso glanced at him. Reuben gestured to the crowd and the Emperor.
“I don’t want to seem impatient, but we do have royalty waiting for us to finish.” Looking up at the Royal Box, he flashed a smile at the veiled woman and bowed. “And a lady, of course. Maybe it might be a good idea to—“
“Ah, yes! How inconsiderate of me.” Sir Tomasso turned, bowing to Emperor Friedrich. “My apologies, My Lady, Your Majesty. I shall finish up quickly.”
Behind him, the desperate Sir Lorenzo, seeing his chance, dove forward, striking at Sir Tomasso’s back. Without looking, the former champion delivered a backhanded blow that slammed the youth’s sword aside and knocked him flat against the stands. His head against the wood, hard, and he crumpled to the ground, motionless.
“Apology accepted, Sir Tomasso,” said the Emperor wryly.
“Most gracious of you, Your Imperial Majesty.”
“Not at all. How could I not forgive the victors of the day?”
Reuben looked around and saw that it was true. The Teutonic Knight had surrendered his sword and was kneeling on the ground, d’Altavilla’s blade at his throat. Around them, the people of Palermo were on their feet, cheering, and the herald gestured wildly at his pursuivants to bring the trophies.
*~*~**~*~*
Thus it was that when, later that day, Reuben knelt in front of the Emperor, receiving golden laurels and a glittering bejeweled sword, Lord d’Altavilla hadn’t gotten a chance to fulfill his dearest wish and smash the young knight’s head in. As a member of the winning team, Lord d’Altavilla received his own laurels and his own sword and tried to think as little as possible about the fact that they were the same as Reuben’s. Instead, he only had eyes for the dark, veiled beauty sitting beside the Emperor, whose name he knew all too well. As soon as he could, he left the celebration and the castle, accompanied by the emperor’s lady guest, firmly resolved that he would never again waste another thought on the young, upstart jousting champion, Sir Reuben von Limburg.
But fate had other ideas.