Warrior Knight Page 2

“Honour?” said Sir Galrath. “Yes, I suppose that’s one way to look at it. On the other hand, maybe they don’t want to risk their lives on such things.”

  “Are you saying they’re cowards?”

  The knight looked him squarely in the eyes. “If I were you, I would guard my tongue. It would not go well for you to spread such false accusations. Someone may take offence and demand to settle the matter once and for all.”

  “A duel? I would welcome it.”

  “Then you are a fool, my young friend.”

  Ludwig’s back stiffened. “I take offence at that, sir. Will you retract your words?”

  Sir Galrath shook his head. “I meant nothing by the remark, Sir Ludwig. I merely wished to indicate that tournaments are not for everyone.” He rolled up the sleeve of his tunic, showing off a long scar. “See this? I got it from the tip of a lance. The thing punched clean through my vambrace, and I was lucky not to lose the entire arm.”

  “And so your wounds have made you more cautious?”

  The knight refused to be drawn into the conversation. “I can see you think quite a lot of yourself. I hope the confidence is warranted.”

  “It is,” assured Ludwig. “Allow me to name Kurt Wasser.” He indicated his companion with a wave of his hand.

  Kurt bowed. “An honour, Sir Galrath.”

  “The honour is mine, sir.”

  “Perhaps,” offered Ludwig, “we shall meet on the field of honour.”

  Sir Galrath rose, moving to stand before the young man. He eyed him up and down, then finally offered his hand in friendship. “I shall look forward to it.”

  “Might I ask who you’re competing against in the first round?”

  “I don’t know,” replied the knight. “At this point, none of us do. Come morning, though, it’ll be an entirely different story.”

  “Morning?”

  “Yes, that’s when they post the schedule. The jousting is done in rounds. Defeat your opponent, and move on.”

  “And if you lose?” asked Kurt.

  “Then you forfeit your horse and armour.”

  Ludwig turned pale but soon recovered. “Is this always the way?”

  “Of course,” said Sir Galrath, “although a knight may always pay out his ransom in coin.”

  “I thank you for the lesson, sir, but I fear we must be on our way.”

  “If you must. I shall look for you on the field.”

  “As will I,” said Ludwig, turning abruptly and almost colliding with Kurt. He took a moment to recover, then strode off with purpose.

  Kurt followed after him, calling out as he went. “Ludwig, for Saint’s sake, man, slow down. This isn’t a race!”

  “I must find a tent.”

  “Have we enough for that?”

  “I told you, we’re fine,” said Ludwig.

  “So you say, but I’d feel a little more secure if you'd let me deal with our finances.”

  “Must I remind you again that I am the son of a baron?”

  “I’m well aware of that,” said Kurt, “but you’re no baron’s son now. You chose to run away, remember?”

  "Which makes it all the more imperative we make a favourable impression with the duke. We can’t do that without a pavilion.”

  “And you expect to find one here?”

  “Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

  “Do you? I have my doubts.”

  “There.” Ludwig pointed. “You see?”

  Kurt swivelled his gaze. A young man, not even twenty years of age, was folding up a worn-looking canvas while all around him were tent poles and rope. They moved closer until the youth was within hailing distance.

  “Excuse me,” called out Ludwig.

  The youth looked up from his work, tracks of tears evident on his face. “Yes?”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “It is indeed,” the young man replied. “My master, Sir Haren, was killed this very morning while he practiced for the joust.”

  “I’m sorry to hear of it,” said Ludwig. “May I enquire as to the manner of his death?”

  “He was knocked from the saddle and broke his neck in the fall.”

  “Didn't he have a helmet?”

  “He did, but it helped him not. The body is a frail thing, even when encased in steel, and my master was not well-armoured.”

  “I take it you’ll return home?”

  “Home? I have no home, nor did my master. He left there long ago, vowing never to return. For the last ten years, he has been travelling the circuit, earning a living off his martial prowess.”

  “See?” said Ludwig. “I told you it was possible.”

  Kurt frowned. “This pavilion is not that of a successful man,” he warned.

  “It is not,” agreed the youth, “but it's all I have left.”

  “What will you do?” asked Ludwig.

  “The only thing I can do—sell this off and seek employment elsewhere.”

  Ludwig smiled. “Then perhaps fate has brought me to you. How much for this?” He waved his hand, encompassing the campsite.

  “Which?” asked the youth. “The pavilion?”

  “All of it.”

  The young man smiled. “Make me an offer.”

  “Would fifty crowns suffice?”

  Kurt covered his eyes, unable to watch the disaster unfolding before him, yet powerless to prevent it.

  “More than sufficient,” said the youth.

  Ludwig found a dry section of canvas and dumped out his purse, counting out the coins. Satisfied, he threw down the purse itself and withdrew five crowns, leaving the rest for his purchase.

  The young man scooped the pile up eagerly, filling the purse once more and running off in the direction of the Hammer.

  “It looks like we now have a pavilion,” Ludwig said with a smile.

  “We do,” admitted Kurt, “but we have little left in the way of coins. Five crowns, was it?”

  “Come now, it’s not all bad news. I’ll win this back in no time. Now, let’s get this pavilion put up, and then go and fetch the horses. There’s no sense in paying for another night at the inn."

  Kurt moved closer to the pile of canvas, walking around it, trying to make sense of it all.

  “Well,” he said at last, “we have plenty of rope, and those would appear to be tent poles. How, exactly, does this thing go together?”

  “I have no idea,” said Ludwig, “but how hard can it be?”

  2

  Preparation

  Spring 1095 SR

  * * *

  A drop of water struck his face, and Ludwig opened his eyes. Above him sagged the top of the pavilion, weighed down by the accumulated rain. He sat up on his straw pallet and rubbed his eyes, trying to banish the fatigue. The sound of ripping fabric greeted his ears, and he looked up right as the top of the tent gave way, releasing a torrent of water.

  Kurt, who was on the other side of the pavilion, woke with a start. The sight of Ludwig’s indignation at being drenched was too much for him to bear, and he burst out laughing.

  “It's not funny!” shouted Ludwig.

  “Oh, yes it is!” roared his companion. “You look like a drowned rat.”

  Ludwig stood, shaking the water from his hair. It was a brisk morning, cold enough to see one's breath, and the water had been frigid. Digging through his meagre belongings, he pulled forth a dry shirt and donned it quickly.

  From outside drifted the sound of a herald making his way through the camp, calling the participants to gather at the registration tent.

  “Looks like I’d better hurry,” said Ludwig. “It sounds as if things are starting.”

  Kurt, who had also risen, was less enthusiastic. “Don’t do this, Ludwig.”

  “What, joust? I told you, I know what I’m doing.”

  “No you don’t," insisted Kurt. "You could get yourself killed.”

  Ludwig, who was already in a foul mood, quickly turned on the man. “I know what I’m doing!”

  “Do
n’t be a fool, Ludwig. You’ve never fought from horseback, or even held a lance, and you expect to win?”

  “Don’t tell me what to do. You’re not my father!”

  “No, I’m not. I’m your friend, and I’m trying to help you.”

  Ludwig felt his rage building, yet he was unwilling to contain it. “You can help me by staying out of my business.”

  “This competition will be the death of you, Ludwig. I want no part of it.”

  “Then leave! No one’s stopping you.”

  Kurt stared back, stunned by the words. “You don’t mean that.”

  “Don’t I?” Ludwig took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, but he was furious. He snapped up his tunic, pulling it over his shirt.

  “I’m going to find out who I’m fighting,” he grumbled. "You’d best be gone by the time I return.” Ludwig immediately regretted his words but refused to back down.

  “And don’t darken my presence again,” he shouted over his shoulder as he stormed out of the tent, a blast of cold wind doing little to cool his temper. He stomped past the horses tethered outside on his way towards the registration tent.

  A group of knights was gathered here, talking in low tones as they waited. Ludwig’s arrival was marked by little more than a cursory glance when he took his place amongst the others, cursing the temperature under his breath while he shivered.

  It felt like an eternity passed before the official finally emerged, along with a young lad holding a small pot and a clerk, carefully balancing a portable table on which rested quill, ink, and parchment. The official lifted his arms to get everyone's attention, and the crowd fell silent.

  “I am here this day to draw names for the joust,” he announced, “but before I do, I shall go over the rules, few as they are. Combatants will make up to three passes each round, the victor being the individual who accumulates the most points. Any hit with a lance nets one point, whilst breaking said lance is worth two. If you should manage to unhorse your opponent, three points shall be granted. The competition will immediately cease should either person reach five points. Otherwise, the greatest accumulation of points will advance to the next round.”

  “What of a tie?” someone called out.

  The official smiled, warming to the task. “In such a case, additional passes will be run until such time as one combatant gains more points than his opponent. Once all knights have completed their initial rounds, new opponents will be assigned.”

  “What of ransom?” called out Sir Hendrick.

  “Short on funds, are we?” said the official. The knights all laughed, but Ludwig felt sweat begin to break out on his brow.

  “The usual rules will apply,” the man continued. “Now, shall we proceed with the draw?” Nods of encouragement soon convinced him to continue.

  “Each knight’s name has been placed in this pot. I will now draw them, two at a time, to determine whom each of you must face in the first elimination round.”

  He looked at the clerk who, having set down the small table, had taken up the quill and was waiting to record the results. With a nod, the official began the process.

  “The first match will be between Sir Hendrick of Corburg and Sir Nathan of Feldmarch.”

  Congratulations were offered from the rest of the competitors, then all eyes once again returned to the official. The man dipped his hand into the pot once more, pulling forth another pair of names. “The next match will be”—he paused as he read the name—“Sir Ludwig of Garmund, who faces Sir Galrath of Paledon.”

  “Who?” called out Sir Hendrick.

  “Sir Galrath of Paledon,” replied the official.

  “We all know Sir Galrath, but who is this Sir Ludwig of which you speak?”

  “That’s me,” piped up Ludwig. He held up his arm to make his presence known.

  The crowd parted, and Sir Galrath came into view. The large knight looked him up and down in a dismissive manner. “Oh,” he finally said, “it’s you.”

  “We met yesterday,” said Ludwig.

  “So we did, but I’d forgotten your name.”

  Ludwig felt slighted, and his ears began to burn. Did this man intend to insult him?

  “I shall look forward to thoroughly trouncing you,” the knight continued.

  “It is I who shall trounce you, sir!” countered Ludwig.

  Galrath smiled, evidently pleased with the response. Ludwig was ready to continue the debate, but his opponent simply turned, facing forward once more as the official continued. Ludwig fumed, letting the anger build within. It wasn’t until they neared the end of the announcements that he resolved to take more immediate action.

  The crowd began to thin as most knights returned to their tents to prepare themselves, but Ludwig sought out Sir Galrath. The man was chatting amiably to Sir Hendrick when Ludwig interrupted.

  “You owe me an apology, sir!”

  The older knight turned to him in surprise, a hint of amusement on his face as he saw his accuser.

  “Well?” demanded Ludwig.

  “Well, what?” said Galrath.

  “Will you apologize for your slight?”

  The knight glanced at his companion, who offered a wry smile of his own. Hendrick provided his own observation. “Apparently our friend here is unfamiliar with the etiquette of the tourney.”

  “Ah,” said Galrath, “the passion of youth. Well do I remember it.”

  “Don’t talk about me as if I’m not here,” demanded Ludwig.

  “My dear fellow,” continued the knight, “I can assure you I bear you no ill will.”

  “In spite of that, you insult me to my face.”

  “It's naught but friendly banter meant to harden your resolve, common enough at events such as this. You must take no offence.”

  Ludwig felt his face turn crimson. Was this man mocking him, or had he truly misread his intentions? It was so hard to tell.

  “In any case,” continued Sir Galrath, “we must both prepare for the joust. You’d best go don your armour and get your horse saddled.”

  “But we are second up,” said Ludwig, struggling with what to say.

  The knight chuckled. “You are young, my friend, and inexperienced in such things, so I will forgive your ignorance. A round of jousting is short, seldom lasting more than two or three passes. If you are not ready when your name is called, you will forfeit your placement, and your opponent will advance without challenge. While that might suit some, it does not sit well with me. I prefer to earn my spot at the top, not be handed it by someone's lack of preparedness. Now off with you, and we shall settle our differences later, at the joust.”

  Sir Galrath turned his back on Ludwig, continuing his discussion with Sir Hendrick. Ludwig felt his pulse quicken but wheeled around, stomping off to his pavilion to prepare.

  By the time he got to his tent, his temper had fled, to be replaced by a sense of worry, even fear, although this he fought to control. He wanted to talk to Kurt, but as he rounded the pavilion, only his own horse remained.

  Ludwig looked around, desperate to find his friend, but it was useless; he had long since fled. Once inside, he realized with a shock that he had no one to help him armour up. How then was he to dress for battle? It was one thing to put on a tunic, quite another to actually don armour. He stepped back outside, casting his eyes about to see the other knights already dressing, helped by their squires. Ludwig cursed himself for his selfishness. If he hadn’t lost his temper, he wouldn’t be in this mess.

  A man in the brown cassock of Saint Mathew wandered through the tents, offering prayers as the knights readied themselves. He halted before Ludwig. “Is something wrong, Sir Knight?”

  “Yes,” the young man replied, “I need help getting into my armour. My helper appears to have run off.”

  “Could I be of assistance?”

  “Are you a Temple Knight?”

  “Saints, no. I am but a humble lay brother.”

  “Then I doubt you can help.”

  �
�On the contrary, I have two older brothers who took up the lance. I am more than familiar with the armour of knights. Would you accept my aid?”

  Ludwig nodded. “Aye, for I have little choice. My name is Ludwig.”

  “Of Garmund?”

  “You know of me?”

  “I was reading over the list of competitors just now, and I saw your name. Mine is Brother Vernan.”

  “Very well, Brother Vernan. Shall we step inside?”

  “By all means, Sir Knight.”

  “Please, call me Ludwig.”

  Inside the tent, Ludwig began spreading out his armour.

  “You’ll want to start with the doublet,” said the Holy Man, “although this one appears a little the worse for wear.” He held it up, examining the cuts and tears.

  “I used it when practicing,” explained Ludwig. “I’m afraid I left home before I had a chance to have repairs made.”

  “It matters little. After all, your armour will be worn overtop." He held it as Ludwig slipped his arms into the sleeves and began tying it up.

  “So how is it,” said the young lord, “that you ended up joining the Church?”

  “My father was a knight, as were my two older brothers, but I was never one for fighting, enjoying the simple pleasures of education and intellect instead. It was only natural that I should join the Church. What of you? Did you leave home in somewhat of a hurry? Of course, if you prefer not to talk of it, I shall understand.”

  “No, it’s all right. I left home over a disagreement with my father. It concerned a woman.”

  “As it so often does,” said Brother Vernan. “Might I enquire if she is still with you?”

  “She is not,” said Ludwig, his cheeks blushing. “She joined the Church. The last I heard, she had left for Eidenburg.”

  “So she is to be a Temple Knight?”

  “A Temple Knight?”

  “Yes, that’s where they train them, you know.”

  Ludwig grinned. “That makes perfect sense, now that I think of it. I remember asking her once what she would do if she hadn’t been a smith.”

  “Your lady friend was a smith?”

  “Yes,” said Ludwig. “Why? Does that surprise you?”