Simon Hawke - Ivanhoe Gambit

The crowd cheered wildly and many yelled encouragement to the white knight as he rode back to his side of the field. Up until that time, with the sole exception of the exhibition put on by the tinker, it had been a pretty dull show. No blood, except for the hapless knight unhorsed by Bois-Guilbert. Now the tournament would get truly interesting. It was a shame that this white knight would be killed, but they would applaud and cheer his bravery.

"This white knight is unfamiliar to me," John said to Fitzurse. "Do you know him, Waldemar?"

John's dignified looking minister, senior to the prince by twenty years, leaned forward so that he could speak into the prince's ear.

"The device upon his shield is one unknown to me, Sire. Possibly he may not be from these parts."

"An oak, uprooted," John mused. "What would that mean?"

"Perhaps it is meant to suggest that the knight has, himself, been uprooted from his homeland," said Fitzurse. "That appears to be a stout English oak. Perhaps he is a Saxon, one of those who went off to war on Saladin with your noble brother."

"If he is one of Richard's brood, then it is just as well that he has chosen untipped lances. It seems he has no great desire to live. If that be so, then we'll accommodate him. Front-de-Boeuf will uproot him from his saddle soon enough."

Both knights took their places and Front-de-Boeuf lifted his visor to the other knight. The white knight sat immobile at the far end of the field, his snowy stallion pawing at the ground. He refused to show his face. With a curse, Front-de-Boeuf slapped down his visor.

"Rude fellow, this new knight," said de la Croix to Bois-Guilbert.

"Some ill bred Saxon pig, no doubt, more fit to be a swineherd than a knight. Front-de-Boeuf will teach him courtly manners."

The trumpets sounded and both knights charged the lists. Front-de-Boeuf's lance splintered on the white knight's shield and both knight and horse went down, Front-de-Boeuf struck keenly on the head. The horse got up, Front-de-Boeuf did not. The men at arms carried the dead Norman off the field.

Cedric's section cheered themselves hoarse.

"Somewhat aggressive, these Saxon swineherds," said de la Croix, laconically.

The Templar spat upon the ground. "God smiles on fools and idiots," he said. "It was pure chance and ill luck for Front-de-Boeuf. Well, let the Saxons cheer their champion for a time. Maurice will lay him low."

The white knight returned to his side of the field and waited for De Bracy to take his position. De Bracy rode forward on his gray, helmetless. He sat and waited to see if the white knight would show him the courtesy of revealing his features, but the man made no move to lift his visor. De Bracy sat still, waiting. Finally, his patience broke and he called for his helmet.

"I'll knock the bastard's head off for him," he mumbled as his squire stood upon a wooden platform, putting on his helmet.

The trumpets blew and De Bracy was off like a shot, once again waiting until the last possible moment to couch his lance. Once again, the white knight took the blow on his shield, splintering De Bracy's lance while his own struck the gold knight in the shoulder, tumbling him from his horse and ending the tournament for him. The crowd went wild. De Bracy was on his feet in a moment, but there was blood on his armor where the lance had penetrated.

"It seems the leeches will be busy this day," said de la Croix in the same disinterested tone.

"Then I'll see to it that the gravediggers have more work, as well," said Bois-Guilbert, as he allowed his squire to put on his helmet. He rode out to take his place and did not do the white knight the courtesy of showing his face, matching rudeness for rudeness. The white knight touched his gauntleted hand to his visor in a casual salute, which only served to infuriate the Templar even more.

"Salute away, you Saxon pig," he mumbled. "You'll be saluting angels in a moment."

The trumpets blared and they were off, hurtling at each other at full tilt.

Lucas felt annoyed, to say the least. There was a tricky little gadget hidden in the tip of his lance that allowed it to fire a sonic burst, quick and very lethal. The only problem was that, when he dispatched Front-de-Boeuf with it, it did the job quite admirably and then ceased to function on the spot. Lousy army gear, thought Lucas. Trust it to break when you need it most. He thanked God he still had his armor and his shield. The nysteel was impregnable. Still, he had lost a good deal of his edge.

De Bracy was good, but he had spotted his weakness thanks to the magnification power of his helmet. When he gave his upper body that deceptive little twist just before impact, he left his right shoulder exposed for just a fraction of a second. That fraction of a second was all that Lucas needed. He took De Bracy right where he was vulnerable and tumbled him. De Bracy wasn't seriously hurt, but it would be a while before he could hold a lance or sword again. It would hardly endear him to De Bracy, but that was tough. If Lucas had his way, he would have killed him. He presented a threat and, as things had gone, he had gotten off easy. Lucas cursed his lance. Ordnance would hear about this. Now he had to square off against Bois-Guilbert and, priest or no priest, the Templar was no slouch with a lance.

He saw the Templar take position and he noticed that he didn't raise his visor as all the others had. His reason for not raising his own was simple. His "father" and his "sweetheart" were in the stands and it was best for them to think that

Ivanhoe was still off fighting the Saracens. He had work to do and he didn't want to complicate matters by inviting family problems. But the fact that the Templar didn't raise his visor showed that he had a temper. A temperamental Templar. Lucas grinned inside his helmet. That suited him just fine. When a man became angry, he was prone to making mistakes. And he hadn't seen Bois-Guilbert make any mistakes before.

The trumpets signaled the advance and Lucas kicked his horse, knowing that he would need every ounce of speed against the Templar. He chinned the switch inside his helmet that controlled the degree of magnification in the lens iust inside his visor. This was something of a calculated risk. Using magnification power in action and at speed could affect perspective if he couldn't adjust from the magnified image back to the standard one quickly enough. If he was unhorsed and killed in the fall, the nysteel armor would not go to waste and someone would discover that it could do all sorts of interesting things. From a historical viewpoint, it could cause problems, but then if he failed in his mission, that meant far greater problems than just leaving a futuristic suit of armor lying around would cause.

Bois-Guilbert had very good form, indeed. But Bois-Guilbert was angry and that gave Lucas an advantage. The Templar's shield was large and he hid behind it well, offering precious little target. His horse was larger than the Arabian, and he would be striking slightly downward. He had seen Lucas going for a head shot with Front-de-Boeuf and succeeding admirably, so he was holding his shield slightly high, in order to enable him to deflect the lance in the event Lucas tried the same thing once again. There Lucas had him, dead to rights. Thanks to the magnification power of his helmet, he had caught it just as the Templar was entering the lists. There was an exposed thigh that would serve quite well. If he hit it just right, his upward strike would unhorse Bois-Guilbert. Not a killing shot, unless he was lucky enough to strike him solid and pierce the armor, hitting the femoral artery, but he would settle for whatever he could get. Given the Templar's excellent technique, it was no time to be picky.

Lucas chinned his helmet back to normal scan and let his breath out. Bois-Guilbert was going for a head shot and he didn't have the slightest clue that Lucas had already figured out his game plan. Lucas slipped his lance just below his shield at the last moment, leaning out to his right slightly as they came together, which was dangerous for balance, but it resulted in Bois-Guilbert's lance passing over his head by just a fraction of an inch. The impact of hitting him almost made Lucas lose his stirrups, but he managed to hold on. When he reached the opposite end of the lists and wheeled his horse, not having seen the results of his strike, he was satisfied to see the Templar draped over the fence, trying to wriggle himself to fall to either side. He had dropped both his shield and lance and his horse had continued on without him. As Lucas passed him on the return trip, he was disappointed to see that he had caused no visible damage. It was what he had been afraid of. He had felt his lance skip slightly upon impact and guessed that he had scraped Bois-Guilbert's tuille and caught him a glancing blow along his skirt of tasses, but it had been sufficient to unhorse him. He could not complain. With his sonic device out of commission, he hadn't done too badly. As he passed the hung up Templar, he gave him a shot with the butt end of his lance, an ignoble assist to his efforts to dislodge himself. The Templar clattered to the ground like so much scrap metal.