The Robber Knight's Love (The Robber Knight Saga #2)(184)

Crash!

“And the winner is…Sir Reuben!”

Grinning from ear to ear behind his visor, Reuben rode back to his waiting post, the cheers of the crowd enveloping him. As he rode past the Emperor’s box, he lifted his lance, and thin strip of silk tied to it fluttered in the evening breeze, for all to see. Up in the box, Lady Salvatrice smiled.

~~*~~*

Lord d’Altavilla watched as duel after duel passed and Sir Reuben von Limburg beat one knight after another into the dust. His lance set perfect at each thrust, his shield never once quivered.

“It, um, really looks as if he’s going to make it through, doesn’t it?”

D’Altavilla didn’t turn towards the sound of Sergio’s nervous voice. “Who’s next?” he hissed. “Who’s going to be next to be hurled off his horse?”

“Sir Roger of the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon.”

Slowly, d’Altavilla turned around. “Did I hear you correctly? The Poor Fellow-Soldiers of…?”

“Yes, Milord.”

A grin started to spread across Lord d’Altavilla’s face. “He’s going to have to fight a goddamned Knight Templar?”

“So I understand, Milord. One of their prime fighters. You know that the order has never been particularly fond of His Imperial Majesty the Emperor—“

“—and they sent him here to snatch the trophies of the tournament from under his very nose?”

“I believe so, Milord.”

D’Altavilla’s grin grew so wide it threatened to split his head in two. “God’s teeth! I wish the Emperor were here! I’d like to see his face when he has to hand over a bejeweled sword to a Knight Templar in front of his entire court!”

It was at that moment that Sir Roger galloped out into the lists. D’Altavilla studied him intensely. He was not particularly tall, but that didn’t mean much. His shoulders were broad, and his grip on his lance was steady as a rock. Most importantly, from the way he handled his horse, one could see that he was used to being in the saddle—and fighting in it. The red cross on his white surcoat was nearly the exact same color as the roaring lion on the surcoat of Sir Reuben. The two stared at each other from opposite ends of the lists.

“Laissiez-les aller!”

At the shout of the herald, they shot forward. Each pressed their heels hard into the sides of their mounts, urging them to give it all. The ground was eaten up by greedy, hammering hooves. Red and white surged towards red and white, and then—

Thud!

—both were riding on. Both had avoided a direct hit. There were long scrapes on their shields where the tips of the lances had slid off.

At the end of the lists, they sharply whirled the horses around and headed back, leaning forward in eager anticipation. D’Altavilla found himself mimicking their pose, leaning forward to see better. If only the Templar would win. That would make things so easy. Sir Pretty Boy Reuben would be humiliated in front of the lady he sought to steal away from d’Altavilla, her attentions would turn to him once more, and all would be well. If only…

Crash!

With a sound that tortured ears, Sir Roger took flight. He had been hit so hard that he whirled once in the air before coming down, and when he did, a cloud of dust rose around him, signaling the end of the joust.

“God’s blood!”

Lord d’Altavilla’s fist slammed so hard into the wood of the stands that it hurt, even through the metal and leather gauntlet. “God’s foul, stinking blood!”

Sergio glanced at him anxiously, but d’Altavilla didn’t notice. He was too busy staring at Sir Reuben von Limburg, his eyes filled with hatred. The stripling—no, the man, d’Altavilla reminded himself—could actually fight! Not just fight but…God, no one had the right to be this good at such an early age!

He knew that he himself was good, yes—but that good?

Well, he reminded himself, if all went well, he wouldn’t have to be. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, chasing the rage away, changing it into anticipation.

~~*~~*

“The final joust!” announced the herald when the last contestant but two had fallen, “will be between Lord d’Altavilla and…” Pausing for effect, he looked around. “…the reigning Champion, Sir Reuben von Limburg!”

Abrupt cheers erupted from the stands. Glancing around, Reuben saw that people everywhere were standing, throwing their hats into the air, and clapping as if he had already won. A grin spread over his face. He liked that. Very much, in fact.

“Sir Reuben?”

His head turned in the direction of the shout. It hadn’t come from someone chanting his name. It had been someone calling to him personally. He spotted the man and frowned.

“I’ve seen you somewhere before. Aren’t you a servant of d’Altavilla?”

The man smiled up at him obsequiously. “I am a servant, Sir Reuben, yes, but not of Lord d’Altavilla. You must have confused me with somebody else. Could I speak with you for just a moment?”

“Ha! Not now! I have a joust to get to!”

“But Sir—“

“I said not now!” Reuben turned away.

“—I have a message from Lady Salvatrice!”

“What?” Reuben’s head flew back around to face the man. “Why didn’t you say so at once? What is it? Well, don’t just stand there, man! Spit it out!”