Simon Hawke - Ivanhoe Gambit

Prince John was furious.

"In the name of Heaven, this is too much to bear! First a Saxon tinker shames my archers and now this nameless knight deprives me of Front-de-Boeuf, pricks De Bracy and leaves the Templar draped over the lists like a dressed and hung up stag! Is there no one who can put an end to this effrontery?"

"There still remains the sanguine de la Croix," Fitzurse said.

John scowled. "It irks me to have to depend upon that smirking Basque with his invented name. He costs me more dearly than half De Bracy's Free Companions. Were he not well worth the cost, I'd pay just as dearly to be rid of his soft speech and laughing eyes."

"The impertinence of de la Croix is characteristic of his people," said Fitzurse. "And if his soft and mannered ways seem to be a mockery of ours, they are more than offset by his prowess on the field of battle, a quality that, with all due respect, Sire, you can ill afford to overlook."

"True, too true," grumbled John. "Let us hope he proves worthy of the fees he charges. This white knight has embarrassed my best men."

The object of their conversation sat quietly astride a chestnut stallion, staring thoughtfully out at the field as the white knight returned to the far end of the lists. The red knight's squire fastened de la Croix's headgear, then handed up the lance and shield.

"Do you think you can best him, Andre?" said the squire.

"I don't know, little brother," de la Croix replied. "There is something very strange about him. He comes in fast and low, and did you mark how easily he moves inside his armor? His shield has borne the brunt of strong assaults without a mark of damage. He found De Bracy's weakness in his shoulder in an instant, perceived a flaw in Bois-Guilbert's defense where the Templar rarely leaves one and I will not soon forget the blow he dealt to Front-de-Boeuf. There is more to this uprooted oak than meets the eye, Marcel. Still, we shall make a gallant effort, eh?"

The red knight clapped the squire lightly on the shoulder with a gauntleted hand before accepting the shield with its fleury cross in white on red. The fanfare called the start and de la Croix set spurs to the chestnut war horse.

The red knight's horse was fresher than the white knight's stallion, but still they sped toward one another like shafts shot from a crossbow. Each knight aligned his lance, each took perfect position. They came together in the center of the lists with a resounding crash that reverberated throughout the valley like the ringing of a hammer on an anvil. Both knights were nearly thrown from their horses by the force of the impact, each shield taking a lance strike. The meeting brought them to a grinding, shuddering halt as both horses sank to their knees. Both lances shattered. Neither was unhorsed.

Lucas stared at the stump of his lance and could not believe what had just happened. It felt as though someone had stuck his head inside a giant gong and then let loose with a pounding that threatened to burst his skull like a melon. His lance broke! It was not supposed to break! First the sonic device malfunctioned, now the entire lance! And one was all he had! Where in Christ's name would he get another?

He rode slowly back to his end of the lists, tasting blood, his vision blurred. His nose was bleeding from both nostrils. It felt as though he had been hit by a locomotive. He could see the crowd going totally insane, but he could not hear them. The only sound he heard was an ung-ung-ung inside his head, a never ceasing echo of the crash. His armor and his shield had saved him, but it was all that he could do to stay on his horse. And the animal didn't seem too happy about it, either.

Holy shit, he thought. He had been concerned about the Templar. Here he was, a 27th-century man, feeling superior as hell to these Neanderthals and along came de la Croix to throw cold water in his face.

He rode back to his position and saw Hooker looking at him with concern. He flashed him a helpless look, lifting his visor briefly and taking in a gasping gulp of air. Now what was he going to do? They didn't bring spare lances.

"The expression on your squire's face reveals your problem, nameless knight," said a voice at his side. Lucas barely heard it. He quickly slapped down his visor and turned to see a young man at arms standing by his side, holding a lance. "My lord and master, on seeing how you disposed of Front-de-Boeuf, charged me to seek out your pavilion and to bring you ale in celebration of your victory. I could not help but notice that you lacked for some spare arms, no doubt through some inconvenience which you could not control. I reported this to my lord and he bid me offer you the use of this, his lance, should you not be too proud. The noble Athelstane would be honored if you would grace his lance by testing it in combat on this day."

The young soldier held out the lance to Lucas. So, Lucas thought, chivalry is not dead. He realized how silly that thought was the moment it occurred to him and it was all that he could do to keep from laughing out loud. It was a trait he had that, whenever he was scared out of his wits, he had the disconcerting tendency to guffaw. A nervous reaction that, under present circumstances, could be misinterpreted. He held back, swallowing his hysteria.

"Tell your master that I am indebted to his hospitality of arms and that I regret that I cannot tell him who owes him a debt of gratitude. I am under vow never to show my face until certain conditions prevail. I will try to do honor to his lance."

He accepted the lance and nodded to the man at arms, who returned him a small bow. Then, belatedly, he realized just who his benefactor was. The Saxon noble on whose account Wilfred had been tossed out of his father's house upon his keester. As far as Lucas was concerned, Athelstane could have Rowena. He'd just earned her.

The red knight returned to the other side of the field to pick up another lance. There was blood coming from de la Croix's mouth.

"Andre!" said the squire, Marcel, visibly frightened at the sight of the blood when de la Croix raised the visor. The knight's eyes were unfocused.

"Water, Marcel."

The squire understood the request and knew that it was not for a drink. He ran into the pavilion and returned with a bucket of water, which he dashed in de la Croix's face. The red knight coughed and took several deep breaths.

"I may have met my match, Marcel. I do not know why this oak chose to challenge with his naked lance, unless he despises Normans. If he is a Saxon, it is something I can understand."

"But we are not Normans," said Marcel.

"We serve the Normans and it amounts to the same thing. If Saxons can breed men such as this, then John of Anjou has good reason to fear them." Andre de la Croix paused, taking several deep and ragged breaths. "But John doesn't fear them. More fool he. Well, let's have that fresh lance, Marcel. We shall see if the Lord means for me to die this day. Thus far, He has seen fit to bestow His grace upon the nameless knight. Should I fail to return, Marcel, you know what to do. And I charge you to pay the oak my compliments."

The visor was slapped down and the knights faced each other once again. Again the trumpets sounded and again they charged. Again both lances splintered on their shields and the white knight's horse stumbled and came near to falling, but was saved by the interference of the list fence, which gave beneath the animal's weight but provided the necessary purchase that allowed it to regain its footing. Both knights reeled in their saddles like willows in the wind. The red knight dropped the fleury shield and Marcel ran out to retrieve it. Lucas lost the magnification power of his helmet. The lens, being considerably weaker than the nysteel armor, cracked and was dislodged by the shock of impact. It fell to rest in pieces against his chin, cutting into the skin. Both knights obtained fresh lances. This time Lucas got one courtesy of Cedric, who said he knew him as a Saxon knight. He was wrong, but Lucas was not up to correcting him.