Ivanhoe Gambit

2

Priest's suspicions about part of the implant programming having been subliminally inhibited were confirmed when they were dropped off on the mainland with their gear. He also saw that the ref was not without an ironic sense of humor when he faced them all and spoke the words, "Sir Walter Scott," and they instantly "remembered" things they never knew.

They stood upon the beach, watching the much-modified LCA making headway back toward the tiny, windswept island off the coast. Its engines were muffled to the point where they were barely audible and Lucas wondered what some passing Saxon would have made of the spectacle of their landing. But there were no passing Saxons, or Normans for that matter. The coastline was quiet and deserted. Nothing marred the stillness of the night save for the sound of wind, the crashing surf, and the cries of a few seagulls. They were on their own. Beached upon the shores of time.

None of them spoke as they started slowly moving inland, each experiencing unfamiliar memories. The four men in the cryogens had been drugged and questioned extensively so that the team might possess the information that would enable them to carry off their impersonations. Yet, there was no guarantee that the information that had been implanted in their minds would allow them to carry off their charade successfully. There were still a thousand things that could go wrong, such was the nature of covert operations. Risk was part of the game.

The men whose places they had taken had been snatched shortly before their arrival in Minus Time and they had been interrogated around the clock during the time in which the team completed their mission training. With the information extracted from Ivanhoe, Lucas was familiar with his background and with the status quo.

John Lackland was still controlling the reins of power in England. Richard had not yet returned from captivity. The main thing Lucas had in his favor was that Wilfred of Ivanhoe and Richard had been comrades in arms during the Holy Wars and Irving did not know that he was a bogus Ivanhoe. Perhaps the real Plantagenet would have been able to discern a change in his old friend, but Irving would be too busy playing his part to notice, unless Lucas made some dreadful error. Lucas guessed that Irving, despite the advantages that he possessed, would be as much concerned that his "friend and vassal" of Ivanhoe would not perceive a difference in his king as Lucas would be that he was taken at face value. It was to be a game of double bluff, with both parties striving to maintain a poker face to conceal the cards that they were holding.

Finn and Bobby, on the other hand, would be in a far more risky situation, since the people they would have to deceive would not be play actors, but the real thing. Robin Hood and Little John were both well known to all the "merry men," which meant that they would have to tread very lightly. As for Hooker, any concern he felt was being hidden beneath a stoic exterior.

The real Ivanhoe had been away, fighting in the Crusades. There were bound to be certain changes in him, but it was inevitable that sooner or later, Lucas would come across his "father." If anyone could penetrate his disguise, it would be Cedric. Since they were in medieval times, the likelihood of their being discovered for what they really were was virtually nil. Who, in this time period, would even entertain the notion of something like cosmetic surgery? Who would suspect that soldiers from a future time were masquerading as a knight, a squire, and two Saxon outlaws? Yet, these were very superstitious times. While no one would guess that Robin Hood was an imposter, they might well come to the conclusion that he had been somehow ensorcelled or that the person who identified himself as Ivanhoe or his squire, Poignard, was really some sort of wizard or warlock bent on evil. In his career as a fighting man, Lucas had many times contemplated the likelihood of death in all the ways that it could come to him, from a sword thrust or a bullet, from an arrow or the decapitating stroke of a headsman's axe. But he had never considered the possibility of being burned at the stake. He considered it now.

They made camp in the woods, electing to shiver in the night air rather than risking a fire. Lucas felt that they would have enough on their hands once they neared Ashby; there was no point to inviting trouble until they had some time to scout around. They had brought some provisions with them, so they did not go hungry, but they all ate in silence and then retired to sleep among the trees, taking turns at standing watch. It was like the quiet before a battle. The night passed uneventfully, giving Lucas a chance to contemplate his "memories."

Things had not gone well for Richard during this last Crusade. There had been yet another truce with Saladin, but it had been negotiated mainly in the interests of saving face. Saladin was a skilled and crafty warrior and his cause had only been advanced by dissension in Richard's ranks. A good sized faction of Richard's Norman knights had given their allegiance to Philip of France. Most of these knights belonged to the orders of the Knights of St. John and the Knights Templars. These same knights, the Templars and the Hospitalers, had taken the side of John of Anjou against his brother. While Richard was away, playing knight errant, John consolidated his power, egged on by that portion of the Norman nobility who stood to gain the most by his sitting on the throne. Most of the barons who had remained faithful to Richard and who had departed with him on his war had their lands and estates reassigned behind their backs by John, who neatly turned those properties over to his toadies in order to secure their backing. Among those unfortunate, now landless knights, Ivanhoe, a favorite of Richard's, had been among the first to lose his fief. He had returned to his native England, war-weary and penniless, without even a suit of armor to his name. That, at least, had been taken care of, courtesy of the U.S. Army. Lucas had a suit of nysteel that, while heavy in order not to arouse too much suspicion, was still lighter by far than the conventional armor of the day. It was far more flexible and impervious to swords and lances.

Ivanhoe had other problems on his hands, as well. It seemed that Cedric, his father, had been anxious to start a Saxon revolution to overthrow the Norman conquerors. To this end, he had hoped to arrange a marriage between his ward, Rowena, who was descended from the line of Alfred, and his friend Athelstane, a porker of a Saxcn knight who was also of noble blood. This union, Cedric had hoped, would prevent the formation of factions among the Saxons, uniting them behind one house. The only hitch in his plan had been Rowena, who preferred Cedric's son to Athelstane. Wilfred had taken quite a fancy to her. When ordered to cease and desist, the son had rebelled against the father. Cedric was already displeased with his son. The old man did not approve of Wilfred spending time at court, learning the Norman art of fighting and picking up various Norman ways. When Wilfred began to court the woman Cedric intended to marry off to Athelstane and under his own roof, yet, it had been the straw that broke the Saxon's back. In a fit of temper, Cedric had disinherited his son, banishing him from his house and vowing never to speak his name again. Thanks to Ivanhoe's incontinence, Lucas now had an angry father and a pining sweetheart to contend with. As far as he was concerned, he didn't care if he never met up with Cedric and Rowena could pine away to her heart's content. He had enough to worry about. Still, if he ran into them, it could present a weighty problem.

Lucas attempted to consult his programmed memory on the subject of Poignard, but it was of little help. They must have questioned Ivanhoe concerning his squire and how he came by his services, but Wilfred evidently thought so little of the man who served him that all Lucas knew was that Hooker was supposed to be a fallen Norman of some sort whose services he had won in a passage at arms. Wilfred evidently thought as much about Poignard as he did about his saddle, which meant that he hardly thought of him at all. It wasn't really surprising. Property was only property, after all. Still, Lucas might have expected at least some sensitivity from the man toward his squire, but it seemed that Ivanhoe was not the most sensitive of men.

When he had been snatched by the Temporal Corps, Ivanhoe had been on his way to Yorkshire to purchase a horse and a suit of armor for the tournament at Ashby-de-la-Zouche. To this end, the gallant knight had waylaid a Norman monk, bashing his head in with a quarterstaff and relieving him of his purse. Having been issued his horse and armor, Lucas felt that the best thing for him to do would be to proceed on to the tournament as Ivanhoe had planned and to see what would develop. All the local nobility would be there, since the festivities were being hosted by Prince John himself in an effort to entertain the populace. Lucas recalled that the Romans had done much the same sort of thing. If you kept taxing the pants off the people, they were bound to get a bit annoyed, so it helped to take their minds off their troubles every now and then by putting on a show. The Romans had their circuses, the Normans had their jousts. Plus ca change, plus c'est la mime chose.

They held a council in the morning to outline their plans. So far as either of them knew, Ivanhoe and the outlawed Baron of Locksley had never met, although they would know each other's names. Therefore, they had no need to get their stories straight. They decided to arrange a meeting later and the tournament seemed ideal for that purpose. They agreed to meet at Ashby and went their separate ways with no little reluctance. The journey could have been longer for his liking, but Lucas eventually found himself approaching Ashby, where the crowd was already gathering in anticipation of the tournament. Lucas put on his gear and donned his helmet, instructing Hooker to put on his hooded robe. He was not quite ready yet to meet anyone who knew Wilfred of Ivanhoe.

The galleries were all set up, as were the lists, which were nothing more than several fences running parallel to each other, forming tracks down which knights would hurtle toward each other from opposite ends, colliding as they passed. The battleground was in a small valley with the stands erected on a rise, a little hill that would afford the spectators an unobstructed view of the proceedings. On either side of the small valley, pavilions had been erected: tents with pennants flying from their peaks, the colors identifying the knights who occupied them. Some of these pavilions matched the colors of their pennants, revealing which of the knights were among the more well-to-do. As was the custom, one side of the field had been assigned to the hosts-or the home team as Lucas thought of them-the other to the challengers or visitors. Lucas had the purse which Wilfred had obtained by mugging some poor priest, so he gave it to Hooker and sent him off with instructions to secure a pavilion for themselves. "Make sure it's one of the cheaper ones," he said. "It's still early in the game and it wouldn't hurt to economize." When Hooker returned, he told him that they had a pavilion at the far end of the valley, out of the way of the center of activity, but close enough to enable them to observe the goings-on from within its shelter.

"Good enough, squire Poignard," said Lucas. "Let's go. Oh, and pick up a couple of those chickens that vendor's cooking over there. No point to jousting on an empty stomach."

Lucas stood just inside the tent flap, munching on a drumstick and watching the opening ceremonies. Hooker had collared one of the local lads and for a small price, they had a play-by-play announcer. Or blow-by-blow, as the case may be, thought Lucas. Under the circumstances, it was not an unusual thing for a knight to do. It was a large tournament and there were competitors present from all over the country. It was entirely within reason that a stranger to the land, especially one who had come from far away, would not be familiar with all the colors and heraldic devices. Lucas sat down on a crude wooden cot inside the tent, in a position so that he could see outside, yet at the same time appear to be resting for the time when his turn came. Hooker stood just outside with the boy, a youngster of about twelve who seemed to know everyone concerned, just as a modern kid would know all the players in his favorite sport.

"Describe everything to me in detail," Lucas told the lad. "I wish to close my eyes and rest awhile."

Then, while the boy stood outside and described what was happening in great detail, just as he was told, Lucas shifted his position so that he could see clearly everything the boy described. He could be forgiven for not recognizing all the colors, but it would look a little strange if he did not know any of them.

It was nearing midday and all things were in readiness to begin the tournament. It could have started hours ago, save for the fact that it was necessary to wait for the arrival of the nobility, who showed up in dribs and drabs, each delaying their arrival by a degree of lateness according to the positions they fancied themselves to hold in the social pecking order. Lord Bluenose couldn't possibly arrive at his seat before the Earl of High and Mighty. Finally, everyone was seated except for the prince and his retinue. They arrived with many fanfares from the trumpets, which sounded too much to Lucas like the braying of Hannibal's elephants. He was not, in the least concerned about the passage at arms. Having been charged by a bull elephant, Lucas felt that an armored knight on horseback seemed rather tame by comparison.

John rode in on a handsome charger, surrounded by his knights. Priest's young announcer called them off to him, identifying each by their colors and the devices on the shields carried by their squires. There was Maurice De Bracy, riding at the head of a group of his Free Companions, which translated as mercenaries. De Bracy was all decked out in gold, which Lucas thought appropriate, and his shield bore the emblem of a flaming sword. Riding on John's left hand was the warrior priest, the Templar Brian de Bois-Guilbert. He was dressed in the black and white colors of his order, his shield emblazoned with a stylized raven, wings outstretched, holding a skull in its claws. Beside him rode Sir Reginald Front-de-Boeuf, a bullish looking knight whose appearance suited his name. He was in blue lacquered armor with a bull's head on his shield. Somewhat behind them, attired in brilliant blood red with a fleury cross upon his shield, was a knight the boy identified as Andre de la Croix. And in the vanguard was the prince himself.

John of Anjou was a dandy, dressed in the height of fashion, complete with a fur-trimmed short cloak and boots with turned up toes. His black beard was neatly trimmed and pointed and his hair hung down to his shoulders, curled at the end in a style that reminded Lucas of the way women wore their hair in the period following World War II. He flourished a small mace as he rode, a peculiar thing with a triangulated head that seemed more for show than for fighting. To top off the ensemble, John wore a velvet cap set at a rakish angle.

He took his small parade through the lists and around in front of the stands, preening before the crowd, which greeted him with some enthusiasm. Perhaps he was a tyrant, but he was the patron of the festival and the people seemed grateful for what small favors they could receive. Still, there were those in the gallery who were conspicuous by their refusal to applaud His Majesty. Richard still commanded some loyalty and, of course, the Saxons had little reason to love John. The prince seemed far less interested in them, however, than in their women. He took his time riding past the stands. He paused in front of the section where there had been the least applause and Lucas shifted his position slightly to see what had captured his attention. It turned out to be a pretty blonde.

"The prince gazes boldly on the fair Lady Rowena," said the boy, somewhat testily, betraying his strong Saxon pride. "This will ill please the noble Cedric."

Lucas got up and moved closer to get a better view. So this was his supposed sweetheart and his father. So much for my revealing myself at this tournament, he thought. He had no desire for a family reunion. As he watched, John moved closer to Rowena and Cedric, evidently displeased at this attention or at something John had said, interposed himself between the sovereign and his ward. John said something to De Bracy and Lucas saw the knight stretch forth his lance, as if to give Cedric a sharp poke in the ribs. The burly Saxon's response was to whip out his sword and, with a quick chopping stroke, knock the point off De Bracy's lance.

"Well," said Hooker, "things are getting interesting."

For a moment, De Bracy stared stupidly at his amputated lance, having been caught unprepared by the quickness of Cedric's blow. Then someone called out, "Well struck!" in a loud voice and the crowd burst into cheers and laughter. De Bracy turned beet red and grabbed for his sword, but found a gloved hand covering his own. He looked up and saw the smiling face of the red knight, who had ridden up beside him.

"You find this amusing, de la Croix?" De Bracy snapped.

"No, somewhat predictable, given Cedric's character," said Andre de la Croix, suppressing a chuckle. The two knights conversed in French, as did all Normans when they weren't addressing Saxons in the mixed tongue of lingua franca.

"Remove your hand," said De Bracy, very evenly.

"I will," said de la Croix, "only remember that this passage at arms has been arranged to curry favor with the motley masses, the better to enable them to forget, for a time at least, their empty purses. It would prove somewhat contrary to the purpose were you to skewer Cedric, who has their affection."

Sullenly, De Bracy loosened his grip on the pommel of his sword and de la Croix removed the restraining hand. John, meanwhile, had missed this interplay, having been preoccupied with his indignation at the man who had set off the outcry and the laughter by calling out, "Well struck!"

" You!" He pointed his truncheon at the offender. "What is your name?"

"I'm called Grant the Tinker," said the man.

"I don't like your face," said John. "Step forward!"

Bobby Johnson ducked beneath the railing and stepped up to the monarch's horse. He inclined his head in a small and totally inadequate bow.

"You are insolent, Tinker."

"I was merely carried away in my enthusiasm at seeing a blow that had been struck so well," said Bobby, casually omitting any use of honorifics in his address of the prince.

"What would a tinker know of such things?" said John, contemptuously.

"It's true that I'm no knight," said Bobby, "but I'm a fair hand with a bow and I can appreciate the skill one man displays in that which he does best."

"You fancy yourself an archer, then? Why would a common tinker concern himself with such a martial art?"

"These are hard times in which we live," said Bobby. "Bandits are abroad and a man must learn to protect himself."

"The man is insolent beyond belief, Sire," said Front-de-Boeuf. "Let me run him through and we'll have done with him."

"No," said John. "I am of a mind to have some sport with this rude peasant. We shall put him to the test. We'll see how well you shoot, Tinker, if your arrows fly as true as your mouth runs ready. Marshal, prepare the butts. We will begin with archery today. And if you do not prove to be as expert as you are rash, my loutish friend, I'll see you lashed for your impertinence."

As the heralds proclaimed the beginning of the tournament, John and his retinue took their places in the stands in a section separated from the others by being somewhat elevated above them and enclosed on all sides save the front, giving those sitting within the most commanding view of the field. The archery butts were brought out and Bobby stepped forward to take his place among the ranks of the competitors. There were not too many of them, since challengers would have to shoot against John's Norman archers, who were famous for their marksmanship.

"Now look what you've done," growled Finn Delaney, who had gone along with Bobby to hold his quiver and his cloak.

"Now look what you've done, sir," said Bobby, grinning. Finn was old enough to be his father.

"Shit, give me a break," said Finn. He ran a beefy hand through his thick red hair. "This isn't funny. He wasn't kidding about giving you a whipping. You think they'll stop with just tearing some skin off your back? These bastards will keep at it till you croak!"

"That's assuming I lose this contest," Bobby said.

"Who do you think you are, Robin Hood?"

Bobby stared at him in astonishment, then broke up.

"Okay, very funny," Finn said, frowning. "But what if any of these characters are better than you?"

"Then I guess we'll be in trouble."

"We?"

"Thanks, Finn. I knew you'd stand by me."

"Jesus, you could at least have called him Sire or Your Majesty or something. You had to go and piss him off. What was the point?"

Bobby handed him his cloak and hat. "You're supposed to be Little John," he said, "and I'm supposed to be the fastest gun in Sherwood Forest, remember? If I win this shoot-out, they'll be talking about it all over the place. Can you think of a better way of establishing our credentials?"

"Give me a minute, I'm sure I can come up with something."

"Well, think fast, because they're about to get this show on the road."

The trumpets blared again and the herald announced that each man would have three flights of arrows at a distance of seventy-five paces. The moment that had been announced, seven of the competitors dropped out. That left only nine, including Bobby. Each man shot at will, taking as much time as he wished to shoot three arrows in succession. Bobby hit the gold with every shot with no apparent difficulty and, to most of the people in the stands, it looked like he hardly even aimed. Only two archers did as well, which eliminated everybody else.

"That wasn't bad," said Finn.

"I had to make harder shots in training," Bobby said. "Besides, this isn't entirely new to me, you know. Remind me to tell you about the time I took archery lessons from Ulysses."

They moved the targets farther back, to a distance of about one hundred yards. They shot again and this time one man was eliminated. That left Bobby and Hubert, John's champion archer.

"If Hubert doesn't beat this insolent braggart," John said, "I'll have his guts for garters."

The targets were now moved back to a distance of some hundred and twenty yards.

"You sure about this?" whispered Finn.

"Piece of cake."

Hubert was to have the first shot. He drew his long bow back to his right ear, aimed carefully, waited for the breeze to die down and then let fly. The arrow described a graceful arc in the air and landed directly dead center in the gold. A cheer went up from the stands.

"Hah!" John exclaimed, jubilant at Hubert's shot. "Let's see the Saxon bastard beat that shot! It can't be done!"

Finn's heart sank.

"Hell of a shot," Bobby said. "I'd give my left nut for a laminated Browning recurve with stabilizers right about now."

"What are we going to do?"

"The only thing we can do."

"Resign and run for it?"

"No, cheat."

He turned his back to the stands, taking a position so that Hubert couldn't see what he was doing. He removed an arrow from the quiver that was colored differently from all the others. He fitted the black arrow to his bow.

"A little something the ordnance boys whipped up for me, just in case," he said to Finn.

"What's the gimmick?"

"Look inside the quiver and you'll find a little black box. When I nock my arrow, the bowstring depresses the arming trigger. The moment I let fly, you hit the button on that box. Inside the shaft, there's integrated microcircuitry coupling a ferrous metal detector inside the bronze arrowhead with a limited trim system on the fletching."

Finn grinned widely. "Now that's style," he said.

"I don't know about style," said Bobby, "but I've got a strong sense of self-preservation. The black arrows have shaped charges in the heads. Just stand between me and Hubert while I remove that, I don't want to blow up my target."

The whispered conversation with Finn was taken for hesitation on Bobby's part by Hubert, who began to grin broadly and act as though he had already won. Indeed, he had no reason to believe otherwise. When Bobby took his stance and drew his bow back, the crowd fell utterly silent. No one believed that there was any way the tinker could match the shot, much less beat it, but they respected his determination.

"He'll never best that shot of Hubert's," John said confidently. "I'll teach that Saxon cur a lesson in manners yet."

Bobby made a show of aiming, then let the arrow fly. The moment the shaft left the bowstring, Finn depressed the button activating the guidance system. The arrow was halfway to the target when the ferrous metal detector picked up the presence of Hubert's iron arrowhead just ahead of it. Fortunately, there were no other iron objects near enough to confuse the system and the arrow flew straight and true, the fletching adjusting itself imperceptibly until Bobby's arrow hit the end of Hubert's shaft precisely, splitting it right down the middle until it came up against Hubert's arrowhead with a shock that sent it halfway through the butt. There was a moment of complete, unbelieving silence and then the crowd roared.

Hubert's jaw dropped in astonishment. He could have sworn that the tinker's aim was off.

"By God, the man's a devil, not an archer!" John swore in amazement, forgetting his annoyance with the tinker. "Any man who can shoot like that, I'll have in my service!"

He would have made the offer, only a mob charged out upon the field to congratulate one of their own, thrilling in a Saxon's victory over a Norman. When the tumult died down and the crowd dispersed, the black garbed tinker and his friend in lincoln green had disappeared. They did not show up to claim their prize. Vexed, John pronounced the man a craven coward and said that he hoped his Norman knights would make a better showing than his pathetic archers. Hubert left the field, looking miserable.

John flourished his truncheon and ordered the jousting to commence.

The Saxon boy was quite impressed with the tinker's performance. He could not contain his joy. Lucas thought that Bobby had showed off just a bit too much. It had been risky. Obviously, the last arrow had been a guided one. Lucas conceded that Bobby had no choice, since the Norman archer's shot would have been impossible to beat any other way, but still, he hadn't liked it very much. Fortunately, Bobby had been able to retrieve the arrow and melt away into the crowd. That, at least, had been prudent of him. The guided arrows were equipped with a fail-safe mechanism that would fry the circuitry inside the shaft if anyone was curious enough to examine them too closely, but he was still glad that Bobby had managed to get his arrow back and disappear. It had been an impossible shot. John might have decided to order him to duplicate it just to see if it was luck or skill. If it happened again, it would have been clear evidence of skill-superhuman skill. It was well to draw attention to themselves in order to curry sympathy with the locals and to flush out the renegade ref, but there was such a thing as carrying it a bit too far.

Now, his turn was coming up. Lucas decided to wait as long as possible to see how the competition shaped up. His nysteel armor would keep him fairly safe, but he could still be unhorsed and the whole idea was not to let that happen. He had no intention of risking a broken neck.

As the heralds announced the rules for the passage at arms, he sized up the other knights, watching as they were lifted up onto their horses. The rules were fairly simple. A challenger would ride through the lists to the opposing side and use his lance to touch the shield of the knight he wished to joust with. If he touched the shield with the butt end of the lance, then it was polite competition, lance points tipped with wood. It was still possible to be hurt, but at least the chances of getting skewered were somewhat diminished. However, if someone touched the shield of the knight he was challenging with the tip of his lance, then it was serious business. That meant either that he was bloodthirsty or that he had some personal grievance against the knight whom he was challenging, since then the joust would be carried out with untipped lances, like fencing with the buttons off the foils. For obvious reasons, most knights were polite to each other at tournaments. And for equally obvious reasons, the crowd simply loved it when shields were touched with tips of lances.

The first challenger rode out, heading toward the Norman side. The boy identified him for Lucas, engrossed in his role of play-by-play announcer and hamming it up to the hilt. Lucas wasn't paying very close attention. He wasn't interested in the challengers. They were not the ones he would have to fight. It was the home team he was watching.

The knight had crossed over to the Norman side and was slowly walking his horse past the pavillions, outside which the shields hung on upright poles. He hesitated at Front-de-Boeuf's shield, then smacked it with the butt end of his lance. He then returned to his side and waited until Front-de-Boeuf took his position. The fanfare sounded and both knights set spurs to their horses and thundered toward each other from opposite sides of the field. They entered the lists and dropped their lances into position.

Lucas noticed that Front-de-Boeuf dropped his lance fairly early, telegraphing his aim. They came together with a clash and clatter and Front-de-Boeuf nailed his challenger so hard upon his shield, directly in its center, that the knight was unhorsed immediately. Front-de-Boeuf took a hit himself, but he was built like the figure on his shield and although he swayed in his saddle slightly, he kept his seat. Home team 1, Visitors 0.

Two men at arms ran out carrying a wooden litter, but the challenger waved them off. He made an attempt to get up on his own, couldn't manage the weight of his armor and had to be assisted to his feet. He stumbled about like a drunk for a moment or two, then allowed the men at arms to lead him off the field, supporting him. He was given some appreciative applause.

The next challenger out touched the shield belonging to De Bracy. Lucas decided that this one, the mercenary, would bear close scrutiny. Men did not hire themselves out as mercenaries unless they damn well knew what they were doing. De Bracy rode out briskly to meet his challenger. There was a tension in his bearing, not a nervousness, but a tension of anticipation. A man who liked to brawl.

He stared across at his challenger, nodded to him, the other man returned the gesture and then they both dropped their visors and took a running start. Lucas saw that De Bracy waited until the last possible moment to position his lance properly and he held his shield just a bit high, for which he soon saw the reason. As the two knights came together, De Bracy gave his upper body a slight twist in toward his opponent, using his shield to mask the movement. He really needn't have bothered with the subtle ploy. His challenger had decided to try for a head shot, the most difficult target. He missed completely and De Bracy tumbled him to the ground easily. The crowd gave him a cheer and Lucas noticed that once again Cedric's section refrained from applauding.

Next came the Templar, Bois-Guilbert. The fighting priest. It always fascinated Lucas how many men of religion were able to preach Christ's doctrine and then go out and bathe in blood on His account, such as the warrior pope, Julian. Believe in peace and love or else I'll kill you, Lucas thought. It was an old refrain. To get a closer look at Bois-Guilbert, Lucas pretended to put on his helmet in order to check the fittings. He lowered the visor over his eyes and dialed in some magnification.

The Templar was good looking in a dark and swarthy sort of way and he had the meanest eyes Lucas had ever seen. He would have given Attila a run for his money in the "if looks could kill" department. Then Priest noticed something funny about his lance.

The wood that covered the tip had a faint, hairline crack in it. And a tiny portion of the lance's tip showed through. The moment that contact was made the wood would neatly splinter and the point of the lance would be driven home. It would all look like an accident.

The trumpets sounded, both knights spurred and galloped at each other. Bois-Guilbert's horse was a heavy, muscular charger that had a definite advantage of height over most of the other mounts. He would be forcing his opponents to strike up, thereby placing them at a bit of a disadvantage. Also, his shield with the skull-toting raven on it was oversized and heavy. Nothing wrong with that, but it showed that this was a man who gave himself every possible advantage. Not that Lucas could fault him for that, with Bobby's trick arrows and his own nysteel armor.

Bois-Guilbert came in like a juggernaut, holding his shield low and his head down. Lucas couldn't find any fault in his technique. It seemed letter perfect. He caught his challenger behind the shield, squarely in the chest. The knight was lifted straight out of his saddle. Predictably, the wood broke and when the men at arms rushed out to give aid to the fallen knight, they found him to be quite dead.

And that seemed to be that. There were still other challengers, but having seen the strength of the home team, none of them were particularly anxious to try their luck. The remaining Norman knight, de la Croix, sat unhelmeted astride a chestnut stallion. The red knight looked vaguely bored. Lucas waited until they called for challengers two more times and then decided that it was time. No one else was going to take a crack at it. He told Hooker to pay the kid and send him on his way, then he went behind his tent and mounted up. He didn't need any help getting on his horse. The nysteel armor was considerably more sophisticated than that worn by the other knights. He took his lance and shield from Hooker, had him give his horn a martial toot and then he was off.

There was some muttering in the stands as he appeared, which was predictable. No one had the faintest idea who he was. Lucas was all in white, upon a white stallion, which amused him since he was supposed to be one of the good guys. On his shield, there was a somewhat druidic looking device, a leafy green oak with its roots exposed, as though it had been torn up out of the ground. He guided his Arabian through the lists by pressure of his knees and rode past all the Norman pavilions, pretending to give each shield a brief, cursory glance. He had already made up his mind, however. It wasn't what he would have liked to do, but it was the strategically advantageous move. Any one of the Norman knights he had seen could give him trouble on this assignment and he wasn't looking for trouble. Besides, Bobby had set him a good example and a hard act to follow. He raised his lance, set spurs to his stallion and galloped down the line, knocking each shield off its pole with the tip of his lance.