Page 146 of The Robber Knight's Love
There was nothing Reuben could do aboutattracting the attention of the crowd, however, or, moreparticularly, its female half. Even through several protectivelayers of padding and steel, he could feel hundreds of long-lashedeyes on him, and he smiled to himself. Once he had conquered hisopponents in the tournament, maybe there would be time for otherkinds of conquests. After all, a perfect knight needed a lady toadmire, and in spite of Reuben's diligent search, he had not foundone who suited him yet.
The herald waited until all the knights wereassembled in a line in front of the castle. Then he took up a highposition on the castle steps.
“This time,” he announced, “the pairs thatwill be fighting shall be named beforehand.”
Helmeted heads swiveled. The knights eyedeach other suspiciously. Which one would they be fightingagainst?
Reuben imitated the gesture of the others,but only to fit in. He had already seen all he wanted to see of theothers. Looking at them now would give him no furtheradvantage.
“Sir Tomasso di Zaragoza against Sir Stefanodi Abbascia,” the herald called out. A growl went up from some ofthe knights. Of all people, the champion was going to have it easy:Sir Stefano was one of the left-over knights from the group ofjolly drinking companions. He would be lying in the dirt as soon asTomasso's lance touched him.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Reuben lookedat Sir Tomasso. The man appeared calm and unconcerned—emphasis on“appeared.” If you looked very closely, you could see his eyes wereturned to the side. It almost looked as if he was returningReuben's surreptitious gaze.
“Sir Adrian Rakowski against Amir ibn Sharifibn Alhasan Abdul-Ahad al-Arabi.”
Reuben didn't know whether it was possible tocrack your knuckles while wearing an armor-covered gauntlet, butSir Adrian managed to produce a noise with his huge, meaty fiststhat sounded very much like knuckle-cracking. He turned towards theSaracen envoy, and Reuben could imagine only too well theexpression on his face at that moment. Reuben thought you had togive the infidel credit—he didn't even flinch.
“Sir Reuben von Limburg...”
Reuben sucked in a breath. He had beendistracted, and hearing his own name caught him off guard.
“...against Sir Goffredo Terzi.”
Reuben relaxed. On one level he was relievedto be fighting against one of the young knights this time—it wouldgive him more time to study the others' techniques. On anotherlevel, he was angry. His hands itched to do real fighting.
“Sir Albin Rakowski against Sir Hermann vonder Hagen.”
Neither the scrawny little Pole nor thestark, black and white figure of the Teutonic Knight moved amuscle. This lack of visible reaction confirmed what Reuben hadalready suspected: they were professional fighters, there to winthe prize of victory. They were not afraid.
“Please, honored knights, retreat from thecourtyard. Sir Tomasso, Sir Stefano, please take yourpositions.”
The duel went as expected. Nobody showedgreat signs of surprise when Sir Stefano landed on his behind, noteven Sir Stefano himself. He laughed and bowed to Sir Tomasso, whoreturned the salutation with aristocratic grace.
The next fight was something altogetherdifferent. As the Saracen envoy rode by to take his place, thecrowd hurled hisses, curses, and a single rotten tomato at him, thelatter of which he expertly ducked. On the other side of thecourtyard, Sir Adrian was cracking his huge knuckles again. Hereached for his lance, and stabbed it towards the sky with abestial roar.
“Deus le vult! Deus le vult!”
The crowd howled its approval, clapping andstamping their feet. Reuben didn't move. He knew the call—Deus levult,God wills it. The call of theCrusaders. It was one thing to call it while storming the holy cityof Jerusalem; it was quite another to do so while fighting for yourown glory at a tournament in the not-so-holy city of Palermo. Healmost wished the Saracen might win, to teach that piece ofiron-clad beef a lesson.
However, as he saw how the Saracen was handedhis lance, and nearly dropped the unfamiliar weapon, he knew it wasnot going to happen.
“Laissez-lesaller!”
The herald's call to ride was hardly audible.It was almost drowned out by the stamping of feet and the shouts ofthe crowd: “Deus le vult! Deus le vult!”
The horses of the two contestants startedforward. Faster and faster they went, the Saracen's nimble mountquicker on its feet, yet the Pole's more powerful.
There was an almighty crash, and woodensplinters rained down onto the courtyard. Yet, among the woodensplinters, no sprawled body lay. The Pole whirled his horse around,and Reuben didn't need to see his face to feel his surprise andoutrage. At the other end of the courtyard, the Saracen had somehowmanaged to stay on his horse. He was holding the remains of hisbroken lance in his right hand.
He raised the stump, pointing it at the Pole,whose lance was also in splinters.
Reuben felt the corner of his mouth twitch.If it weren’t for the fact that this man was an abominable infideland deserved to burn in hell for the rest of eternity, he couldgrow to like the fellow.
Sir Adrian uttered another roar. This time,it sounded more like a Polish dialect than Latin, and Reuben wasreasonably sure that the words were a lot less seemly than “Godwills it.” From the crowd, too, muttered words in Sicilian befouledthe air.
Taking another lance, offered to him by thepursuivant, the Saracen didn't wait for his enemy to attack butspurred his horse forward, flying down along the lists withastonishing speed. Reuben marveled at the grace of horse and rider.The Saracen's grip on the lance already seemed a little steadierthan last time.
But a little was not enough. Ripping a secondlance from a rack by the stands, Sir Adrian charged. And this time,his lance did not break. There was an earsplitting collision, metalscreamed on metal, and the Saracen was sent flying. He landed onhis side in the dirt and there was a crack, as from breakingbone.
