The Robber Knight's Love (The Robber Knight Saga #2)(180)
“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.