Love. Real love. It was an amazing feeling. It made Reuben forget the world around him. It made him think of one thing, and one thing only: her. He didn’t notice when the servants served him his meat overcooked. He didn’t realize when it rained or when the sun shone. He didn’t notice that a few days later, the Emperor left the city on urgent business. He thought only of her.
Salvatrice.
“Salvatrice,” he sighed, leaning against the window of his chambers, gazing out over the city. “Salvatrice! Her mere name is like honey on my lips!”
“Um…yes, Sir,” said the servant standing in the corner.
“Her eyes are like emeralds, and her hair is like ebony! There is no beauty like her in the whole wide world.”
“I’m sure there isn’t, Sir. Now…do wish to inform me why you called me here?”
“If only there were some way to let her know how much I love her!”
The servant cleared his throat. “You could simply tell her, Sir.”
Reuben ignored him. “Oh, Salvatrice,” he sighed. “Salvatrice…how will you ever know of my longing for you!”
“Or you could send me to tell her,” the servant suggested. “That might not be very romantic, but quite fast. I’m quick on my feet and could be at her door in about two minutes.”
Reuben didn’t seem to hear.
“Salvatrice…oh, how I pine for you!”
Thus, Reuben spent hours in plentiful pining, and the hours turned into days. Reuben only awoke from his love-induced stupor when he heard the sounds of the town criers from outside the Palace.
“What are they saying?” he demanded of the servant who was busy brushing his boots right now.
“I don’t know, Sir Reuben.”
“It sounds like they’re announcing…but no! That would be too good to be true!” Leaning closer to the window, Reuben cupped a hand around his ear. “It…can’t be! It can’t!”
A grin spread over his face, and moments later he was rushing out of the room, jumping down the stairs three steps at a time. He only needed to stick his head out of the gate to know that yes, indeed, it was true! This was truly happening!
“…joust will be held on the day after tomorrow!” the town crier was just proclaiming. “On the following day, a great melee will test the knights’ skill in battle!”
*~*~**~*~*
The news spread like wildfire through the city of Palermo: there was going to be another tournament! Nobody had any idea why there would be one so soon after the last one. Most people attributed the announcement to the financial success of the last tournament and the new champion’s popularity with the ladies, though some voiced the opinion that now that the city had so dutifully celebrated the Emperor’s arrival, it only followed logically that it should also celebrate its being rid of him again.
Reuben didn’t care why the tournament was being held. He only cared about one thing: the chance it would give him to prove his love to Lady Salvatrice! For how else could a noble knight show a lady his devotion if not by beating the best knights in Sicily into a bloody pulp? Surely, every woman would instantly recognize such a sign of devotion for what it was: a declaration of undying love.
He had already been trying other ways to reveal his feelings: he had spent hours in his room composing a love ballad to the fair maiden. Yet he wasn’t having much luck with rhyming. He had rhymed “love” with “dove,” and that was quite all right for a courtly ballad, but the only rhyme for “kiss” he had been able to find so far was “pi—
Well, it wasn’t a word you could use in a love ballad.
Reuben was desperate for the day of the tournament to arrive, especially since he had begun to suspect that he was not the only one vying for Lady Salvatrice’s affections. There was a host of young fools mooning after her, and Lord d’Altavilla was hovering around the lady like an old bat around its favorite bell in the belfry. Reuben wished he could simply challenge the slimy snake to a duel to the death and be done with it. But he feared that cutting off somebody’s head because they were in love with a lady might not be entirely compatible with the knightly ideals of temperance and restraint.
He’d just have to wait until the tournament. Then he could cut off heads as much as he wanted.
*~*~**~*~*
“This is intolerable!”
“Yes, Milord.”
“He looks at her as if he’s undressing her with his eyes! That green boy doesn’t even deserve to walk on the same ground as her, let alone look at her!”
“As you say, Milord.”
The servant watched cautiously as Lord d’Altavilla strode up and down, throwing glares like lightning bolts right and left. They were alone in the Lord’s chambers, to the servant’s considerable relief. If anybody had heard the curses issuing from Lord d’Altavilla’s mouth whenever he mentioned a certain knight from Limburg, it would have caused a court scandal.
Whirling to face him, His Lordship pointed a finger at the servant, who shrank back against the wall. “And do you know what’s worst of all?”
“N-no, Milord.”
“She encourages him!”
“No! Surely not.”
“She does! The other day, I saw her accepting a rose he had picked for her. When I confronted her about it, she said she was being polite, and that no one could ever take my place. Bah!”
“Surely she was telling the truth, my Lord. How could any woman even think of daring to cast you aside for another man?”
Particularly when you have that look on your face, the servant privately added to himself.
“I don’t know.” His Lordship ground his teeth. “But I found out that, the other day, the first day after the Emperor had us ordered up to the Royal Palace, she was invited into the throne room, and so was he! She met him there, Sergio, I’m sure of it!”
“Well, if it was at the Emperor’s request, I’m sure it was all perfectly proper. I mean, in the Emperor’s presence, what could possibly happ—“
“The Emperor left halfway during the encounter.”
“Oh.”
“Exactly! If I could get my hands on that scheming, conniving bastard of an—“
“Psht!” Terrified, Sergio sprang forward and clamped a hand over his employer’s mouth, cutting him off. There weren’t many people in this world he was more afraid of than Lord d’Altavilla, and His Imperial Majesty the Emperor Friedrich von Hohenstaufen was at the top of the list. “You know he has eyes and ears everywhere!”
Hard, cold eyes bored furiously into his. Sergio dropped his hand as if he had been burned and knelt on the floor. “I beg a thousand pardons, Milord! I acted without thinking.”
“Yes, you did.” Slowly, d’Altavilla wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “But it was out of a desire to protect me, so you shall not die for it.”
“Thank you, Milord. You are most gracious, Milord!”
“Indeed I am.” A nasty smile twisted his mouth. “Though, rest assured that, to Sir Reuben, may the devil take him, I shall not be so gracious.”
“Death to your enemies, Milord!”
“That sounds like an excellent suggestion.” Taking a deep breath, d’Altavilla stepped over to the window and gazed out at the stands that were being erected for the coming tournament all around the courtyard. His right hand tightened around his sword hilt, and a smile curved his lips. “And luckily, I shall soon have the opportunity to implement it with the whole world watching.”
*~*~**~*~*
In the days leading up to the tournament, Reuben had started to double his efforts to win Lady Salvatrice. Beyond his half-hearted attempts at poetry, he began to give her flowers, smiles, and compliments and was cheered when she always accepted them and gave him a smile in return. Yet she also wore jewelry given to her by that unspeakable man, d’Altavilla. It made Reuben insanely jealous to see them glittering around her neck. He bought her one or two trinkets, too, but he couldn’t afford the priceless pieces that Lord d’Altavilla was lavishing on her. He could have, with his father’s wealth, but not with the little money he had left from his winnings.
Just wait, he promised himself. Wait a little longer. When you win the next tournament and carry away all the prizes, you can buy her as much jewelry as you want.
And in the meantime? Well, he could try to find a better word to rhyme with “kiss.” There had to be something!
Three days later, his efforts had still gone unrewarded. But who cared? The tournament was here! The time for rhyming was past!
“Sir Reuben von Limburg!” he herald call out. “The reigning champion!”
To tumultuous cheers from the crowd, Reuben checked the straps on his helmet, raised his lance, and cantered into the courtyard, joining the other knights who were already waiting there. Some of them he knew, some he didn’t. A few hadn’t arrived at Palermo in time for the last tournament and were delighted to find another in its stead, and eager to test their skills against the new champion. Reuben didn’t care about them. He knew he could and would crush them. Sir Tomasso had returned to his manor, so the only joust Reuben really looked forward to was the one with a certain Sicilian Lord.
“I will now announce the pairs that will joust in the first round! Sir Marcello against Sir Rinaldo! Sir Claude against…”
Tuning out the herald’s voice, Reuben looked up at the Royal Box. Since the Emperor wasn’t here, a local Lord presided over the proceedings instead. But Reuben didn’t even glance at him or care to remember his name. He only had eyes for the woman sitting beside the man. She wasn’t wearing a veil today, so her beauty shone uninhibited for all to see. Reuben was at once glad for it—the whole world should be illuminated by her aura!—and despised the fact that other men besides himself could see her.
Well…if things went as he planned, he would get to see parts of her that no other man had or ever would. His eyes narrowing, he glanced over at d’Altavilla. The Sicilian lord was looking back at him, the look on his face filled with intense loathing and, moreover, a deep-seated contempt.
We’ll see how long that will last.
*~*~**~*~*
The boy was looking at him. D’Altavilla felt sullied by his gaze alone, but of course he didn’t look away. That would have looked like weakness, and he’d die before ever showing weakness in front of a stripling like that Reuben! God’s teeth! The boy was hardly old enough to be a knight! What fluke had allowed him to ascend to Champion d’Altavilla would never understand.
The first jousts were called, and together with the other waiting knights, d’Altavilla retreated from the center of the courtyard. His squire and his servant, Sergio, awaited him.
“Give me some wine, Sergio, will you?” He held out a hand.
“Do you think you will have time, Milord?”
“Oh yes.” D’Altavilla eyed the two sturdy knights who had taken up positions on opposite ends of the fields. “They’ll go at each other for a good, long while. And there are two other pairs up after them, before it’s my turn.”
“Of course, Milord. Here you go.”
Sergio held up a leather wine bottle, and Lord d’Altavilla lifted it greedily to his mouth. “Ah! The heat is killing me!”
“Indeed, Milord. It is not pleasant.”
“Especially not if you’re boiling in this tin!” D’Altavilla tapped his armor.
A crash sounded behind them. Glancing up, d’Altavilla saw the two knights collide. Both were thrown back in their saddles, but neither fell.
“Care for a little wager?” asked another knight waiting at the sidelines. “How many runs do you think they’ll make? Two or three?”
“Three,” d’Altavilla answered without hesitation.
“Are you sure? That one seems to have a pretty strong arm to me.”
“I’m sure.”
“Sure enough for ten silver Thalers?”
“Twenty.”
“Done!”
The knights turned around for their second round. D’Altavilla’s new acquaintance watched with baited breath, but Lord d’Altavilla himself did not even glance up. He was not just an expert fighter, but an expert judge of abilities, too. When, a moment later, a crash sounded and a disappointed “ohhh” rose from the crowd as both knights still remained in the saddle, it did not take him by surprise.
He held out his hand.
The other knight cleared his throat. “Um…I do not have it on me. I—“
Without looking, Lord d’Altavilla’s hand shot out and closed around the man’s neck. He was not wearing a bevor—stupid! But that made things easier. Pulling him forward, d’Altavilla squeezed.
“I…rg…I just remembered…here! I have a purse here!”
“Good.”
D’Altavilla lightened his grip, but only slightly. Extending his other hand, he caught the purse the man threw at him and then let him go. Gasping, the man fell back onto his horse.
“A little friendly advice for the future,” d’Altavilla told him. “Do not make bets with me you cannot keep. You would not like to see me angry.”
“Sir Claude de Rémi, against Sir Reuben von Limburg!”
D’Altavilla’s ears perked up at the call. So…the boy was going for his first fight, was he? He probably would get more than a few scratches on that pretty armor of his.
“Care for another bet?” he asked the knight beside him with a smirk.
The man shook his head frantically.
“Didn’t think so.” D’Altavilla snorted. “Well, it’s a little too obvious how this fight will turn out anyway.”
Beside him, Sergio chuckled. “Indeed, Milord.”
“Will he hold himself in the saddle during the first run, do you think?”
“I doubt it, Milord.”
“So do I.”
“Laissiez-les aller!” called the herald in the background. Hooves began to thunder. Neither d’Altavilla nor Sergio deigned to look up, though.
“It would be a pity, though,” the servant mused, “if he doesn’t make it through. It will deprive your Lordship of the pleasure of skewering him with your lance.”
“True.” D’Altavilla gave a short, sharp laugh. “I should have challenged him to a duel after all! What I fool I was, thinking I’d get the chance to fight him in the tournament! He’ll be on the ground in a second.”
D’Altavilla’s squire, who had been the only one watching the joust, cleared his throat. “I rather doubt that, Milord. Actually, I think—“
Crash!
The sound of metal on metal ripped through the air. Then came a whooshing sound. Sergio and d’Altavilla turned just in time to see the armored body of Sir Claude de Rémi slam into the ground with enough force to bend metal.
For a few moments, silence reigned. Then the crowd all around erupted in to cheers.
“Reu-ben! Reu-ben! Reu-ben!”
Lord d’Altavilla stared at the prone figure of Sir Claude. Then, slowly, his eyes lifted towards where Sir Reuben von Limburg was just executing a smooth turn before galloping back up the lists.
“I declare Sir Reuben the winner of the joust!” called the herald. “Next pair!”
“A lucky strike,” Lord d’Altavilla said. “It had to be.”
“Of course, Milord,” Sergio hurriedly assured. But he wouldn’t meet Lord d’Altavilla’s eyes. His lordship took another good look at Sir Reuben. He had reined in his horse at the end of the lists and slid out of the saddle with an easy grace that didn’t exactly fit the idea of a novice fighter. The heavy lance with which he’d struck down Sir Claude he held easily in one hand.
“A lucky strike,” murmured Lord d’Altavilla again. “It had to be!”
The next two fights passed in tense silence. When the herald finally called “Lord d’Altavilla against Sir Richard de Morville!”
“At last!” Gritting his teeth and giving his mount the spurs, d’Altavilla galloped into the lists and whirled his horse around, facing his enemy. “I thought they’d wait till judgement day to let me crack some bones!”
He needed to work off frustration and confusion. And, right now, it didn’t matter that the knight at the other end of his lance wouldn’t be Sir Reuben von Limburg. Any scarecrow in a metal costume would do. But best it be a living one you could make feel pain!
The herald raised one hand—and let it fall.
“Laissiez-les aller!”
Two horses shot forward. Two knights lowered their lances. Two pairs of eyes narrowed, and two fists tightened. But when metal met metal—
Crash!
—it was only one knight who took flight. With grim satisfaction, Lord d’Altavilla watched Richard de Morville fly high, high up into the air and hit the ground with a bone-crunching thud. And with “bone-crunching,” he wasn’t just thinking in metaphors.
Sir Richard screamed.
“Surgeon!” yelled the herald, his voice rising. “Someone call a surgeon! His leg is broken!”
D’Altavilla turned his horse away and, nodding to his squire, said, “When Sir Richard is in one piece again, go to him and tell him I will accept a purse of sixty Thalers for his horse and armor.”
The squire’s eyes went wide. “Sixty—!”
“No less!” His Lordship cut him off.
“Yes, Milord. Of course, Milord.”
“And don’t let him put you off with excuses about his broken, little finger. Get the money, or get the armor and the horse.”
“As you demand, Milord.”
Lord d’Altavilla returned to his post beyond the lists. He didn’t need the money, of course. His estate was one of the richest in all of Sicily. But he would be damned if he would let some fool take him on and then swindle him out of his winnings. If you risked to ride against the Lord of Altavilla, you had to live with the consequences. Sir Richard de Morville had to learn that, and so, eventually, would Sir Reuben von Limburg.
If he got through his next joust, that is.
“Sir Reuben against Sir Gilberto!”
The two knights cantered out into the lists and took up positions. This time, d’Altavilla didn’t chatter with his servant. This time, he watched closely as Sir Reuben spurred his mount forward, rushing towards his foe. And he didn’t like what he saw.
The young man’s hand—for he was a young man, not a boy, no doubt about it—was rock-steady and strong, his horsemanship was the best, and as for his aim—
Crash!
Well, Sir Gilberto could attest to its accuracy a moment later, as he slammed into the ground, shield flung from his hand by the force of the impact, lance broken into a thousand splinters.
Another first-run victory. Slowly but inexorably, a shiver began to run up Lord d’Altavilla’s spine, making his hair stand on end.
“Another lucky hit!” proclaimed Sergio beside him. But he didn’t sound nearly as sure as he had the first time.
Lord d’Altavilla didn’t watch the other fights. He kept his eyes trained on Sir Reuben, for the first time not just glaring at him with the hateful eyes of a rival wishing to see the very worst in everything, but with the objective eye of an expert fighter. He saw the bulging packs of muscle on arms and chest, the swift and sure grace of the movements, and the towering height of over six foot five. Most of all, when the young man took his helmet off to drink from a bottle at his saddle, he saw the look of unbreakable confidence and iron determination—a look he had never before seen on the face of a man so young.
It was this look more than anything else that convinced Lord d’Altavilla that he was in big trouble. Very big trouble.
When he was called up for his next joust, he was still so distracted by thoughts of Sir Reuben that the first time he rode against his opponent, the man’s lance ripped his shield clear out of his hand and nearly skewered him. Cursing furiously, he rode back to his squire and flung out his hand.
“Another shield! Now!”
The squire had never moved so fast in his life. In an instant, Lord d’Altavilla was fully armed again. Whirling his horse around, he raced down the lists towards his enemy, lowered his lance, and—
Wham!
It was a glorious flight. But even the sight of his opponent sailing through the air and crashing into the ground with a satisfyingly painful sound didn’t give d’Altavilla the release he had hoped for. No, for that, he would need to see another knight beaten and stretched out on the ground. One with a red lion emblazoned on his chest.
He returned to the sidelines and continued to watch. The next time Sir Reuben was up, his opponent was announced to be Sir Geralt von Grimmsbach, the younger son of an impoverished Hessian family who had wrought a reputation for himself as a fierce tournament fighter. He fought in order to be able to pay for his next meal. The mere fact that he was not simply still alive, but also healthy and strong as an ox, spoke volumes about his talents with the lance.
“Laissiez-les aller!”
The two shot forward. Lord d’Altavilla watched with rapt attention as the distance shrank.
“Come on,” he murmured. “Just one little nudge…you can do it, Geralt…just do it…God’s teeth!”
With a loud clatter, the two knights slammed into each other and continued on, both having deflected the other’s lance with his shield. At the end of the lists, they turned. Lord d’Altavilla’s eyes flicked to the white and red figure of Sir Reuben, then returned to the green and gold of Sir Geralt.
“Come on,” he murmured again. “Do it! Do it this time, damn you!”
The two knights gave their mounts the spurs. Hooves thundered. The lances lowered until they were pointed straight forward. Lord d’Altavilla realized he was clenching the reigns of his horse so tightly it hurt, but he couldn’t stop himself.
“Do it, damn you! Just do i—“
Crash!
Sir Geralt von Grimmsbach was lifted off his horse, hurled through the air, and slammed into the ground with an ignominious clatter.
The curse that Lord d’Altavilla uttered made his squire shrink away in shock.
*~*~**~*~*
Sir Reuben was on a roll. Well, actually, he was on a horse, but he was constantly winning, so who cared? He certainly didn’t.
Crash!
Oh, how he loved that sound…
“And another win for Sir Reuben!” proclaimed the herald. “This concludes the joust for today!”
Protests rose from the crowd, but the herald remained steadfast. “So many brave knights have come to measure their skills against each other,” he called out, his hands raised, “and the day is already ending! Go home, good people. Get a good night’s rest, and tomorrow, you shall witness the best of the best fight for the crown of the champion!”
Reuben didn’t even pretend to pay attention to the herald or his fallen foe on the ground. In the light of the setting sun, he turned his mount and galloped back towards the Emperor’s box. Ripping off his helmet, he gazed up at the beautiful figure of Salvatrice, who was surveying the battlefield beneath her as regally as any queen.
“I vanquished this one for you!” he called up to her. “As I did with every single one that came before him today and I will do with every single one I face tomorrow!”
The people in the stands, some of whom had already started to rise, froze in place. All eyes instantly swiveled to the scene unfolding before them. Well, to be exact, all female eyes moved instantly. The male ones were a bit slower, but they got there, eventually.
Reuben lowered his lance reverently in front of the Lady Salvatrice, the same way he had done in front of the Emperor himself at the last tournament. Soft “oooh”s rose from the crowd. Up in the box, Salvatrice leaned forward, and a slight smile played around her beautiful lips.
“I am yours, Milady. Your obedient slave. I would conquer the world for you. Will you not give me a sign of your favor?”
There was a moment, suspended in time, hanging from a washing line somewhere in the land where all romantic moments live. One could almost hear the soft music playing in the background, the birds chirping, the hearts thumping in perfect synchronicity. Lady Salvatrice didn’t move. Everyone held their breath.
Then, slowly, very slowly, she leaned forward, withdrew the bright green cloth from the end of her hat, and let it fall. It sank through the air, graceful as a dove, fluttering this way and that, but going inexorably towards its destination. Everyone watched, spell-bound, and so everyone saw when Reuben’s hand surged up and snatched it out of the air, clutching it to his chest. Lifting it to his face, he took a deep breath of the intoxicating perfume that clung to it, and another sigh rose from the ladies in the stands.
Reuben held up the piece of silk.
“I shall treasure this like I treasure my own life—or, better yet, like I treasure yours, beautiful Salvatrice. Tomorrow, when I win the joust wearing this, you will know that I am yours and only yours!”
*~*~**~*~*
“She gave him a token!”
“Um…yes, Milord.”
“She gave him a goddamn token!”
“Indeed she did, Milord.”
It was nighttime. They were ensconced not in Lord d’Altavilla’s chambers this time, but in the stables, far away from the prying ears of the main palace. That alone should have given the servant a hint that the purpose for their meeting was less than savory. But he was too busy nervously studying His Lordship to realize or care.
“It’s all because she’s an orphan!”
“Pardon me, Milord?”
“An orphan! She’s an orphan and, technically, a ward of the Emperor. But he doesn’t care two pennies about what she does! He’ll let her have her own choice when it comes to picking a husband!”
“Scandalous!”
“And he shoved her into the path of that Reuben just to spite me!”
“Absolutely horrific, Milord.”
“If she were under the care of a sensible father or guardian, none of this would be happening! No sensible man would choose a penniless stripling like that Reuben over a wealthy and respected Lord such as myself.”
“Assuredly, Milord.” The servant cleared his throat. “But…”
Lord d’Altavilla’s head snapped up. “But what?”
“You asked me to inquire into the pedigree of this Sir Reuben.”
“Yes, I did. And?”
“He speaks the truth, Sir. I sent messengers north when he first began to interfere with Lady Salvatrice. They returned earlier this evening and gave me a description of the son of the Duke Heinrich. He is indeed tall, black-haired, with fierce gray eyes, and, ehem…”
D’Altavilla took a step forward. “Yes?”
“He seems to have a certain talent with the ladies.”
The Sicilian lord’s eyes blazed. “Is that so?”
“Err…yes, Milord.” The servant cleared his throat. “Besides, even if he were as ugly as the night, there would still be the fact that he is heir to one of the richest duchies within the Empire. Richer even than your estate, Milord.”
There were a few moments of heavy silence.
“So,” d’Altavilla surmised, his face cast in shadow. “He is rich, charming, and handsome. Now all that waits to be seen is whether he is strong. If he wins the tournament, she will pick him over me.”
“You cannot know that, Milord.”
“Oh yes, I can.” D’Altavilla gave a humorless laugh. “Because, unlike you, I know Salvatrice.”
“Oh.”
“Exactly.”
“But you cannot honestly think that he will prevail against you, Milord!” Sergio protested. “You’re the best jouster north of Salerno!”
“And Sir Tomasso di Zaragoza was supposed to be the best jouster south of it, and look what happened to him! I should have known! I should have realized sooner it could not just be luck that gained that fellow the victor’s crown!”
Breathing heavily, Lord d’Altavilla marched to the other end of the stable and slammed his fist into the wooden wall, making the whole building shudder. He remained standing like this for a few moments, frozen in rage. Then he turned, and, strangely, the expression on his face wasn’t all that angry anymore. If Sergio were to have put a finger on it, he would have said it looked rather…determined.
“You actually think he could beat you in a fair fight, Milord?” he asked cautiously.
“Yes, he probably could.” D’Altavilla stepped forward, and an evil smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “But who says our fight is going to be fair?”