A Contest Among Squires

"Me." A voice answered, startling the people who had been preparing to step forward. Then they saw Prince Baldwin, his face veiled in gauze and his hands gloved, walking toward them through the deep crimson afterglow.

"Have your servant go to the stables and bring out that little white horse with the black star on its forehead." Without waiting for anyone else to greet him, he said to Cesar, "But it is not lent to you, Cesar. Do you remember when you first arrived, Father promised to give you a pony? This is it."

"White coat, black star..." The youth who had been hiding in the shadows, delicate-featured but dark-faced, cried out, "Isn't that the horse His Majesty gave you?"

"Father's horse and an Arabian horse had two foals. Their umbilical cords were joined together; they are a pair of brothers." Baldwin did not respond to the youth. "I am giving it to you."

"But you promised to give it to David." The youth spoke unwillingly.

"That was before, Abigail," Baldwin said. "He is no longer my squire."

"But we are still..." Abigail caught himself. "Friends."

"One does not discuss the affairs of an office one does not hold." Baldwin's tone remained exceedingly gentle, but those familiar with him knew that he was beginning to lose patience. "And naturally, one does not enjoy its benefits either."

Those words were nothing less than a slap across Abigail's face. David frowned as well. He disliked Abigail. Even though Abigail appeared to be speaking up for him, he knew that Abigail had privately spread many false words unfavorable to this new squire. Now he was only saying this to provoke David's resentment toward the black-haired boy.

But Abigail ought to realize one thing as well: while David did not approve of an unknown outsider attending the prince's side, if the other boy displayed the qualities expected of a knight's descendant, he would not be so cowardly as to refuse to acknowledge them.

"Begin," Baldwin said. "I will be the judge."

Compared to a contest between knights, Cesar's proposal was much safer and simpler. David cast dice with him and won by three points, earning the right to mount first. With a time limit in place, this was undoubtedly a good omen. Most of the squires shouted, stamped their feet, and applauded for him.

Baldwin took the reins handed over by a servant, but did not immediately give them to Cesar. "If you regret this..."

Whatever David might say, he had received a full three years of training as a squire alongside Baldwin, from riding to martial skills. Cesar had received at most three months.

Not to mention that David, like his father Count Raymond of Tripoli, was a large youth with heavy bones. Though he was the same age as Baldwin, he was already built like half a true knight. Cesar was tall and slender, but his first impression was still one of excessive delicacy. In a contest such as striking targets, a frail person clearly had no advantage over a strong one.

But put another way, if Cesar defeated David, who vaguely held the position of leader among the young squires, he would have far fewer troubles in the future.

Cesar shook his head and mounted.

David had been watching Cesar all along. Only when Cesar came alongside him did he suddenly dash out. The youth's skill was indeed superb. It seemed that in an instant, his long wooden lance struck the shield squarely, producing a sound like thunder.

The iron-rimmed wooden board bent and sprang away. The crossbar began to turn, and the sandbag came tumbling toward David's back. Yet he merely tilted his upper body aside and avoided the blow by a hair's breadth. The squires burst into loud cheers. He turned to look at Cesar, only to find that the little white horse was already charging toward the other shield like a drifting cloud driven by the wind.

Cesar did not choose David's direction, though attacking the other shield along the same route would have been easier and less taxing. He struck his long wooden lance toward the opposite position. The kinetic force from the shield traveled through the lance into his hand, forearm, shoulder, and entire upper body. He gave a slight shudder and nearly failed to keep hold of the lance. But the result was plain for all to see: before the crossbar could begin spinning madly, it was accurately brought under control. It first jolted violently, then slid unwillingly toward the other side.

David clamped his legs around the pony's belly and swung his lance. With a resounding bang!, the shield and sandbag swept past Cesar's left shoulder almost at the same time. Then David urged his pony onward, making an obvious move to prevent Cesar from repeating his former tactic.

Cesar could only choose the same direction as David, pursuing the second shield and striking it. The crossbar's rotation immediately became astonishingly fast, and so did the sandbags. They had changed from hanging down to slanting outward. By the time David delivered his third strike, the sandbags were already parallel to the ground. The shields fixed to the crossbar had become so fast that the eye could barely follow them. Together with the sandbags, they tore through the air with a howl like the cries of wild beasts—

The duel-game, which could originally have ended quite peacefully, abruptly became dangerous. In the dim light, the riders galloping around the target post could no longer calmly pick out the shields' positions. They could only thrust by instinct amid the spinning ribbons of color. Moreover, they could only strike the edges of the shields. If they hit the center, they would not be able to pull back in time, and the following sandbag would slam into the wooden lance and drag the rider from the saddle as well.

Fortunately, the last trace of ominous red light was almost gone. Amid nearly uninterrupted thump-thump sounds, Baldwin was about to order them to stop when he heard Abigail cry out shrilly, "Seven strikes! David has seven, and he has six! You won!"

By then Cesar was already reining in his pony. David heard it, and it was as though grease had been poured over blazing firewood. If Cesar had only struck once, or twice, he would have been willing to admit that he had won.

But six strikes? He had gone first. He should have had one more strike than Cesar. At that thought, not only did he fail to stop, his blood boiled even hotter. Catching a glimmer of reflected light on the shield's edge, he leaned over without hesitation and thrust his lance.

Almost at the same moment, he knew something had gone wrong.

He missed. The lance was swept by the immense force that followed into the center of the vortex. His body, too, was seized by an invisible giant hand and hurled toward the target post, like the gaping jaws of a devil.

Cesar reacted faster than he ever had in training. When Abigail began shouting, he had already thrown away his lance and rushed to David's side. When David turned sideways toward the target post, Cesar had already reached out—he caught David's cloak. Though he could not entirely erase the consequences of David's recklessness, he at least kept the youth from being dragged into the rapidly spinning crossbar and battered continuously by shields and sandbags.

Now David had merely been thrown from his horse.

The other squires came running over in a clamor and gathered around him. After about half a quarter-hour, David finally sat up from the ground. His nose was crooked, his mouth full of blood, but he still struggled to say, "...I lost."

"You clearly had one more strike than him—no, two!" Abigail shouted.

"I missed the last one," David said firmly. "The first mover should have yielded one move to begin with." Besides... whatever he might say, this contest had still not been fair enough to Cesar.

The heir of the Count of Tripoli wiped the blood from his face and looked toward Cesar in the murky sky. At first, he could not make him out. Today Cesar wore a gray-black coat that nearly blended into the city walls at dusk. But Prince Baldwin had already approached his new squire.

Ever since it had been confirmed that he had leprosy, Baldwin's clothing had shifted from luxurious to plain. He often wore a humble undyed white robe. He was speaking to Cesar and examining his hand.

Cesar's right hand hung limp at his side. When he had grabbed David just now, he had had no time to consider his posture or the way he exerted force. His wrist had been dislocated. David stared blankly at them, recalling that long ago, when he had been injured during martial training, Baldwin had examined his injury in the same way.

"It is nothing serious," Baldwin said. "The monks will be here shortly."

The knight who had been supervising from the side indeed summoned the monks soon afterward. They were not permitted, nor did they possess the ability, to cure Baldwin's leprosy. But treating Cesar's dislocated wrist, as well as David's broken nose and lost teeth, was no great problem. Once David's bleeding had stopped, he pushed away the monks and his companions and walked straight to Baldwin. "Your Highness," he said, "let me return. I am not afraid of leprosy."

Baldwin watched him for a while. "Do not say such useless things."

If losing to Cesar had struck him like a heavy blow, then Baldwin's words were like a dagger plunged into his heart, tearing open all the filth within and exposing it beneath the light of day. David wrinkled his nose and bit his lip, but tears still streamed uncontrollably down his face—tears of guilt and anguish, for his own baseness.

After Amalric I had refused his father, Count Raymond of Tripoli, once, the count had never again mentioned sending him back to the prince's side. David knew it was not only because of leprosy, but also because Baldwin might be stripped of his inheritance and sent to a monastery to become a monk.

How could the heir of a county become a monk's servant?

This matter soon reached Count Raymond of Tripoli. Raymond did not care much that David had lost the contest. After all, knights almost spoke only with blades and swords; how could an ordinary man ensure that he would never be defeated? As for that irritating servant... Heraclius had already reminded him.

Since Amalric I and Baldwin had both given their assurances, he, as a vassal, should not overstep his authority. At least before the other party had sullied a knight's honor, he ought to grant him the respect he deserved.

What troubled him was how to face his son David. If Raymond had inherited half the stubbornness of his grandfather Raymond IV of Toulouse, then David exceeded him in that regard. Raymond had once been proud to have such a brave and virtuous child. Now, that very uprightness had become a cause for concern.

David had originally had many things to say. Baldwin had treated him so well, almost like a brother by blood; Amalric I had regarded him as a nephew; as a future knight, he ought to give his loyalty and compassion to the lord he had once sworn to serve...

But the moment he saw the deep wrinkles on his father's face, the black hair mingled with silver-white, and the complicated, unreadable gaze in his eyes, he could not say a single word.

Count Raymond of Tripoli was only thirty-five now. His age had all been wrought by war and toil. And all he had given was merely so that the bloodline of Jordan of Toulouse might endure forever upon the Arabian Peninsula—Baldwin was Amalric I's only son; was David not likewise the Count of Tripoli's only son?

"I'm sorry," he said through choked sobs. "I'm sorry, but Father, I miss Baldwin. I miss him so much."

The Count of Tripoli drew a deep breath, stepped forward, and tightly held David's head against his chest. "How could it be like this?" He had asked himself, asked God, asked the unfathomable fate hidden in the dark, that question countless times, yet had never received an answer.

Then David suddenly had an idea. "Father," he said, lifting his head and asking eagerly, "can Baldwin and I become brothers witnessed by God?" He remembered that neither he nor Baldwin had yet undergone the choosing ceremony.

Raymond hesitated for a moment. "I'm afraid not," he said. "Baldwin's choosing ceremony may have to be held early." Amalric I was surely dissatisfied with their hesitation as well. He had used them to test the new servant and squire, but he would no longer allow their son to become someone Baldwin trusted once again.

He did not look at his son's disappointed face. With a sigh, he returned to his desk and buried himself once more in endless official duties, hoping the troubles they brought would replace these unsolvable worries.

"Idiot!"

A slap knocked Abigail to the ground. His ears rang, his eyes swelled, and his mouth was sweet and bloody.

"If you stain my carpet," Bohemond, Duke of Antioch, said softly, "I'll whip you!" He watched Abigail hurriedly cover his mouth, the contempt in his eyes no longer concealed. "I thought you had done something worthwhile! So this was it?"

Abigail secretly used his velvet sleeve to soak up the blood that was about to spill over, then hurriedly and incoherently explained, "But... Father, as long as they fight, regardless of who wins or loses, it brings us nothing but benefit and no harm..."

He did everything he could to explain his reasoning. "If David won, Baldwin would surely despise the slave who had brought him shame, and draw away from him. But what if that slave won? Just as we saw, David would lose all face, and that slave would have no chance of gaining even the slightest goodwill from the Count of Tripoli in the future..."

Bohemond actually let out a sharp laugh. It was not a laugh of approval, but one brimming with mockery.

He strode over to his son, bent down, and brought their two strikingly similar faces close together.

We have said before that Amalric I was like a lion past its prime yet still full of majesty, while the Count of Tripoli resembled a steady, powerful great bear. The Duke of Antioch, meanwhile, was like a blend of cheetah and fox, agile without lacking cunning. Of the three, his appearance was the most praiseworthy. Yet no matter how handsome a face might be, under the torment of disappointment and rage, it would become especially terrifying.

"Say that again," he ordered.

"It's... it's... if they fight..."

"Not that." Bohemond said coldly, "'Slave, that slave, that slave'... Poor little fool, you said slave so many times, and yet you did not notice?" He spoke with great pity. "You urged the Count of Tripoli's only son to duel a slave, which means you placed him on the same level as yourselves!"