My, my, Reuben thought. Wishes do come true.
The page bowed and pointed to the door. “The feast, Sir.”
“Oh yes.” Reuben heard the women laughing again. “A feast indeed.”
“Can I return to my post, Sir?”
“What? Oh, yes. Go. I shall manage fine from here, I'm sure. This looks promising.”
With another, final bow, the page hurried off. Reuben tugged on his immaculate, white surcoat, straightening it and showing off the crowned red lion on the front with all claws raised. As if by magic, his best irresistible smile appeared on his face. Pushing open the door, Reuben stepped into the hall.
Light and chatter greeted him. The light stayed, but the chatter subsided the minute people caught sight of his towering form. The herald beside the door pounded the floor with his staff and, in a voice that carried all across the room, called out, “Sir Reuben von Limburg! All hail the victor of the Royal Tournament!”
If anyone hadn’t been staring at him before now, they were now. Reuben felt the admiration of the crowd and drank it like nectar and ambrosia. This was it! This was why he had come to Palermo!
He was swept up by a crowd of people—particularly ladies—and questions rained on him from all sides. How old was he? Where had he learned to fight like that? Did he intend to stay for the melee?
The last one made Reuben want to laugh.
As if I’d ever miss that!
He was handed from group to group, being introduced to anyone and everyone who had not met him yet, climbing steadily up the social ladder of Palermo and moving ever closer to back of the great hall, where a raised dais with the Hohenstaufen coat of arms and the Imperial Eagle was just visible above the heads of the crowds.
Reuben enjoyed the attention very much, particularly the smiling ladies who batted their lashes at him and whispered secret suggestions into his ears. What he didn’t enjoy much, though, were the introductions. A typical case in point was his meeting with a fat little Palermo merchant halfway to the dais.
“Ah! The brave victor of the Joust!” The merchant clapped his fat little hands. “Marvelous, Sir! Marvelous! Forgive me, what was your name again, Sir? The herald called it out, but my hearing isn’t what is used to be.”
Reuben lowered his head—not a bow, just the hint of respect due to a man in high standing who still was a commoner. “I am Sir Reuben von Limburg, Son of Heinrich, Duke von Limburg, Count von Berg, and High Commander of the Imperial Crusade Forces. I am glad to make your acquaintance, Master Merchant.”
“Imperial Crusade Forces?” The jolly little man’s eyebrows shot up. “You don’t mean the crusade where all the old ladies in Jerusalem showed their naked butts to—?”
“Yes,” Reuben ground out between teeth clenched in a smile that wasn’t quite sincere anymore. “That crusade.”
“Ye God! That must have been embarrassing, don’t you think?”
“I would imagine so.”
“But quite funny in a way, too, if you think about it.”
“Indeed?” Reuben asked, his face hurting from the smile he kept on it, cursing the fact that a knight couldn’t challenge a merchant to a duel to the death. He only hoped that the Emperor had better memories of his crusade than naked old ladies’ butts.
Soon enough, the opportunity was provided for Reuben to find out whether his hope was justified. A path opened in the crowd, and at the end of it, on the dais, he could see the diminutive man with red hair and beard who held the whole of Europe in awe.
“Your Imperial Majesty.” Striding forward, Reuben knelt at the feet of the Emperor, meeting those intense hawk-eyes head on. “I am at your service.”
“We are glad to hear that.” Pulling a bejeweled dagger from his belt, the Emperor speared a date from one of the plates arranged around him and lifted it to his mouth. “From what we saw earlier, your service should prove quite useful.”
“I fervently hope so, Your Majesty.”
“Sit.” Patting an empty seat beside him, the Emperor gave a slight smile. “And tell me of your father. He was well last time you saw him, I trust?”
He was throwing a fit and threatening to disinherit me.
“He, um, was most energetic, Your Majesty.”
“Does he ever speak of the old times?”
Well, he forgot to mention the old ladies’ derrières.
“Oh yes, Your Majesty. He might have forgotten a detail or two, but his memory of Your Majesty is as clear in his mind as if your adventures had only happened yesterday.”
The Emperor’s smile warmed. “I’m glad to hear it. Just as I am glad—more than glad—that he has a son he can be justly proud of. Page!” Gesturing, Friedrich called the boy who was attending him to his side. “Bring wine for us and Sir Reuben. We wish to hear more and to toast the victor of the joust!”
*~*~**~*~*
A man entered the great hall of the Royal Palace of Palermo and threw a searching glance around. It was clear from his clothes that he stood on the upper rungs of the social ladder, and even if he had not been wearing a stitch, the dismissive way in which his gaze skimmed over those around him would have marked him as a nobleman.
“Lord Francesco d’Altavilla!” called out the herald beside him. “Baron of—“
“Yes, yes.” Lord d’Altavilla cut the man off with an impatient wave. “I know my title, as, I’m sure, does everyone in this room.”
“Yes, Milord.”
“The Emperor has arrived?”
“Indeed he has, Milord. And he asked me to inquire, Milord, if I may be so bold, whether the Lady Salvatrice is accompanying you.”
D’Altavilla’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“I do not know, Your Lordship. Maybe His Imperial Majesty wishes her company in the Royal Box tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” A frown joined the narrowed eyes. D’Altavilla gestured at the feast. “Judging from all this, I assumed the Tournament was already over.”
“Oh no, Milord. Just the joust.”
“Oh. I see.”
“And, if Your Lordship will forgive me for mentioning it, Your Lordship has not answered my question yet. Is the Lady Salvatrice—“
“Yes! Yes, she is with me.”
“Thank you, Milord.”
For a moment, d’Altavilla wanted to grab the scrawny little herald by the neck and shake him until he choked. Until moments ago, he had been confident—no, certain even—that there was no possible rival for the affections of the Lady Salvatrice that could compete with him. But an Emperor? The thought made him want to smash something. Or someone.
“Does His Imperial Majesty intend to spend more private time with the Lady Salvatrice?” he demanded, making a mental note to provide lodgings for his lady in his town house and not in the palace.
“I do not believe so, Milord.”
He breathed a sigh of relief. Of course. What had he been thinking? The Emperor was simply being polite. The man had a harem of hundreds of Saracen beauties at his back and call, for Heaven’s sake! What did such a man want with a single woman? He had overreacted. But men tended to overreact when a woman like Lady Salvatrice was involved—even men such as he.
But there’s no course for worry. Even if he were interested—who does a woman admire more? The man sitting safely in the box beside her or the man fighting down on the field in her name, with her token around his arm?
Lord d’Altavilla smiled. “You said the tournament is not yet over?”
“Quite correct, Milord. The melee will be fought tomorrow.”
Slowly, Lord d’Altavilla cracked his knuckles. Ah. Good. He knew his competition would be challenging, but there were always ways…
“I am glad to hear that. Speaking of tournaments, herald, where is Sir Tomasso? I would like to congratulate the winner of the joust.” And see if the old longshanks is still in good form.
“Oh, Sir Tomasso didn’t win the joust, Milord.”
“What?” Lord d’Altavilla’s head whipped around, and h
e stared at the herald. “What happened? Did he catch the black plague? I can’t imagine anything less keeping Tomasso di Zaragoza from competing in the joust.”
The herald cleared his throat delicately. “He did compete, Milord. He lost.”
“He what?”
“Lost, Milord. He was unhorsed.”
A fat countess from Capua chose that moment to take an interest in Lord d’Altavilla from which he had, up to that point, been blessedly free. “Oh, Lord d’Altavilla!” she giggled, sidling up to him. “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of our new champion yet? Where have you been?”
“Outside the city, on the road,” he shot back, trying to evade the choking cloud of perfume that engulfed her without being too obvious. “We don’t get many town criers announcing tournament results there.”
She giggled again, as if he had said something terribly funny. Lord d’Altavilla felt the urge to get a drink just so he could empty it over her empty head, but there were more important things on his agenda right now.
“New Champion, you said?” he demanded. “So it is true? Someone really did unhorse Sir Tomasso?”
A shiver went down his neck. He had thought he would only have to contend with the old longshanks. But this…
“Of course he did! From what they say, Sir Reuben can unhorse anybody!”
“Reuben?” That wasn’t a Sicilian name, and most certainly not a familiar one. “Who is this Reuben fellow?”
Again that giggle. “Look over there. No, not there. There. Do you see the man with the two dozen ladies around him?”
Lord d’Altavilla’s eyes moved, searching—then widened when they found the man. Or should he call that lad a man at all?
“Are you serious? That stripling is supposed to have beaten Sir Tomasso?”
“That ‘stripling’ made every single knight within Palermo taste the dust.”
“He’s hardly old enough to have his own sword!”
The woman smirked. “That’s not what the ladies say.”
Lord d’Altavilla took another good look at the boy—or was he a man?—sitting beside the emperor. God’s teeth! He was hardly old enough to be a knight! But the circle of wide-eyed, smiling ladies hanging on his every word seemed to have no such qualms. They were all staring at his face.
Abruptly, Lord d’Altavilla turned to the herald.
“Give the emperor my regrets, and inform him that Lady Salvatrice will not be watching the melee tomorrow.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes. We’re both exhausted from the journey and will be staying in my townhouse.”
The devil take this tournament! He had more important business to take care of. And he was not about to sully himself by crossing blades with a mere boy who didn’t deserve a moment of his attention.
“As you say, Milord.”
Lord d’Altavilla was just about to make a quiet exit when the Emperor lifted his eyes and—damn it all!—caught sight of him. Smiling, Friedrich lifted a hand and waved him over.
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 disappea
red. 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.
“Your servant, My Lady, Your Imperial Majesty.”
The other knights, too, inclined their lances.
“A worthy servant who observes the rules of chivalry.” The emperor inclined his head back. The dark beauty—for she was beautiful, Reuben was sure of that regardless of the veil—lowered her head in agreement. “Continue. Herald, tell us who shall be fighting whom this fine day.”
The herald pulled out two bags, one red, one blue. Inside each, Reuben knew, were the names of four knights inscribed on shards of pottery, put there by the herald’s assistant while wearing a blindfold. Nobody, not even the herald himself, knew which knights would fight on what team today.
Opening the red bag, the herald sank his hand into it. The crowd held its breath.
“Sir Reuben von Limburg!”
Roaring cheers rose from the stands. Reuben smirked. How nice. He knew he was on team red. Only, everyone else had still to be assigned, so that was of little help.
The herald opened the blue bag and pulled out the name of Reuben’s first enemy.
“Sir Adrian Rakowski!”
My, my… The day had started off well.
If only my first ally isn’t his lovely brother…
The red bag was opened again.
“Sir Tomasso di Zaragoza!”
Well? Reuben grinned. His day had just gotten a whole lot better than “well”! Locking eyes with the tall Sicilian, Reuben slammed a fist to his heart. The other man, his gaze as clear as his smile was bright, returned the gesture.
It was the blue’s turn again.
“Sir Albin Rakowski!”
Will you look at that? The two nasties were in a bag together. How splendid!
And red…
“Amir ibn Sharif ibn Alhasan Abdul-Ahad al-Arabi.”
Hm…interesting.
And blue.