The Robber Knight's Love (The Robber Knight Saga #2)(168)
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.