TW01 The Ivanhoe Gambit NEW (8 page)

The crowd went hoarse with cheering, especially the Saxons, who had claimed the white knight as one of their own.

Just a few moments longer, Lucas told himself. Stay conscious just a few moments longer so you can play the graceful winner and then you can slink back to your pavilion and throw up.

Someone brought his horse around and several men came to lift him into the saddle. Lucas had enough presence of mind to become dead weight in their hands, to prevent them from finding his nysteel armor unusually light. In the excitement of the occasion, no one seemed to notice. Then Lucas realized that they were spectators who had run out upon the field. They were yelling things at him, but he could not make anything out of it. He was led to stand before John and he had to hold onto his saddle with both hands for several moments to keep from falling off. It was a while before he could make out what John was saying, then he realized that he was being asked to show his face. He couldn't do that just yet, not with Cedric and Rowena watching him with glowing eyes, the unknown Saxon who had brought havoc to the Norman lists. He mumbled something about having taken a vow, similar to what he had told Athelstane's man. John did not seem too pleased with that, but chivalry demanded that he accept it.

He was babbling something about a banquet and a Queen of Love and Beauty and Lucas finally understood that he was expected to choose some lucky lady to officiate at the celebration and at the festivities the next day. Miss Blood and Guts of 1194. He was told to hold out his lance and John slipped a crown of thin, hammered gold onto its end.

Lucas had enough presence of mind to know that picking a Saxon woman to fill the office would only serve to irritate John even further and he felt that he had already done more than his share. He decided to play it safe and pick the daughter of some Norman baron. Ivanhoe, no doubt, would have picked Rowena and rubbed their noses in it, but that was the last thing he wanted to do. Besides, she was a vapid-looking blonde who looked as though her mind had never been sullied by the presence of a thought. To top it off, she simpered.

He managed to stay in the saddle somehow as he rode past the stands, looking for a likely candidate, someone who looked rich. The one he found not only wore expensive jewelry, but in point of fact, deserved the office of the Queen of Love and Beauty if it was to be handed out on the basis of looks alone. And in these times, women weren't judged on much more than that. This raven-haired young woman was enough to take anyone's breath away. Good, thought Lucas, you've got it, ma'am. You win.

He dropped the crown at her feet.

Instant deathly silence.

She looked very embarrassed. Then Lucas realized his error. Even had he not seen the way she stood a bit apart from everyone around her, he should have noticed the man standing with her. He should have noted his dress, the beard and
pe-yot,
the Magen David he wore around his neck. He had supposed she was a Norman girl and having made his choice, he could not now take the crown back and say he'd changed his mind. He had hoped to avoid causing a scene by not picking out a Saxon girl, so he had chosen a Jewess.

Marcel was frightened.

According to the traditions of a passage at arms, Marcel was on his way to the white knight's pavilion with de la Croix's horse and armor, which were forfeit to the victor of the joust. Marcel was frightened of the strange knight and of what he had done to de la Croix. Marcel had never known Andre to lose.

Outside the white knight's pavilion, there was a small throng, including the squires of the other defeated knights who also waited with the gear of their respective masters. As was the custom, it was the decision of the victor to either keep the arms and horses or to ransom them back to their owners. Each squire had been charged by his master to offer a certain sum in exchange for horse and armor, but it was up to the white knight to accept or reject this sum. He would either keep the arms, or name a higher price, in which event he would keep the arms anyway, since each squire had been given a limit on the amount of ransom to be paid. The red knight had charged Marcel to allow the "nameless oak" to choose his own price for ransom. It had not escaped anyone's notice that the white knight had been forced to rely on Cedric's and Athelstane's generosity after he broke his lance, which meant that he was poor.

Doubtless, if the ransom offers of the other knights were generous, as they were bound to be since none of them wished to appear unchivalrous, then he would accept the coin. If the other knights were as generous as de la Croix, it would allow the white knight to name a ransom which would exceed the value of the horse and armor. Marcel knew that Andre prized the armor highly.

The white knight's squire spoke to the others in the matter of the disposition of the arms. The offers were all generous and they were all accepted. When it came his turn, Marcel stood nervously before the fearsome and cruel-looking squire.

"My lord, the red knight, Andre de la Croix, charges me to tell your master, the white knight of the uprooted oak, to name his own price for the ransom," Marcel said nervously.

"Your master is a most generous and chivalrous knight," said the white knight's squire.

"My lord also charges me to pay his compliments to the white knight and to tender his respect, which, I add on my own, is not granted easily. My master says that he has never fought so fine a knight and that he hopes, despite the challenge to pass with naked lances, that your master is not greatly injured."

"I thank you for my master," said Hooker, "and charge you in my master's name to tell Andre de la Croix that he returns the compliment and, although fatigued, does not suffer any great injury. Further, my master charges me to say that the offers of the other knights were generous and have left him not so poor as he was before the joust. Therefore, out of respect for Andre de la Croix, he will accept neither horse nor armor, nor ransom for same, since the lessons he has learned at your master's hands today have enriched him in a manner that he prizes much more highly. Take this small sum for yourself, however, and if you are not too proud, use some small part of it to drink my master's health."

Hooker tossed a small purse to Marcel, then turned and entered the pavilion. Visibly relieved, Marcel returned to de la Croix and related what the white knight's squire had said.

The red knight sat on a wooden cot inside the pavilion, clad only in a loose-fitting doublet and boots.

Andre de la Croix was tall and thin, with flaxen blond hair that fell shoulder-length. The red knight wore no beard or mustache and was strikingly good-looking in a youthful, boyish way.

"Thank you, Marcel," de la Croix said. "You've done well. I was afraid that I would lose my treasured armor, which I can ill afford to spare. These local artisans are not adept enough to craft so fine a suit as that which was given to me by our benefactor in return for secret services. In truth, I do not know what strange and wondrous craftsmen made this suit. I have never seen its like."

The red knight got up and ran a hand over the nysteel armor.

"I fear these secret services," Marcel said, "as I fear the stranger who demands them."

The red knight smiled. "We have shared many secrets since we left our mountain home, little brother.

What is one secret more? Besides, no secret can weigh on us so heavily as that which we guard most closely."

The red knight turned and allowed Marcel to unfasten the doublet and remove it, revealing the cloth swathed around de la Croix's upper torso. Slowly, carefully, Marcel unwound the cloth and, when it was done, de la Croix sighed and breathed deeply. The men who had fallen to de la Croix's lance would have been surprised to see the red knight now. Tired, de la Croix sat down upon the cot and slowly massaged the skin to return circulation to her breasts.

If the wooden cot inside the pavilion was uncomfortable, Lucas didn't notice. He was simply grateful for the opportunity to get off his feet. He lay stretched out on his back, his eyes closed, listening to the din outside.

Hooker was keeping a throng of well wishers at bay. It seemed that almost every Saxon at the tournament wished to pay respects to the white knight and Lucas simply wasn't up to it. He was, however, somewhat more concerned about the so-called physicians, whom he could hear arguing outside with Hooker. Cedric, Athelstane, and several other of the more well-to-do Saxon lords had sent their physicians to see to his well-being. He had two reasons for not wanting to see them. The first was that they would know Ivanhoe and the second was that he had no desire to be bled.

As it began to grow dark, Lucas lay motionless inside his tent, feeling the growing evening chill and trying not to pay too much attention to the leeches, who had now turned to fighting amongst themselves for the privilege of bleeding him. Hooker stuck his head inside the tent.

"You all right?" he said.

"I will be if those bloodsuckers don't get their hands on me," said Lucas, wearily. "Can't you get rid of them?"

"I'm having a hard enough time just getting them to listen to me," Hooker said. "You've become very popular all of a sudden and a certain amount of professional pride seems to be at stake."

"Look, I don't care if you have to knock their damn heads together," Lucas said, "just get rid of them.

I can't—"

There was a sudden commotion outside and Hooker quickly went to see what was developing.

Moments later, a young woman entered the pavilion. She was dressed in a long, flowing gown of dark purple gabardine which clung to her shapely figure. She had long, wavy black hair and large dark eyes.

Around her neck, she wore a diamond necklace hung with pendants and there were golden bracelets set with jewels upon her wrists. She was astonishingly lovely and she wore the thin gold crown which Lucas had earlier presented her with.

"This is Rebecca, daughter of Isaac of York, Milord," said Hooker. "She has come to pay her respects to the nameless knight and to see if you were injured." He cleared his throat. "She has, uh, sent away the leeches with some ... enthusiasm."

"They have the temerity to speak of healing!" Rebecca said hotly. "They would bleed a man to death if given the chance!"

Hooker kneeled by the cot and whispered to him. "She sent those boys packing one-two-three," he said, so that she wouldn't hear him. "She has no idea who you are, so I figured it was safe enough to let her in. She only recently arrived here with her father, who's been loaning money to John, though I wouldn't lay any odds on his ever seeing it again. I figured we could use some well connected friends, if you know what I mean."

"How do you know this?" Lucas whispered.

"Are you kidding? The moment you gave her that crown, it was all anyone would talk about. You've rubbed their noses in it by honoring a Jew. Scuttlebutt has it that Isaac paid for your horse and armor in exchange for protection. He's not very well liked in these parts, being rich and Jewish, to boot."

While they conversed, Rebecca stood near the entrance of the tent, her hands clasped together, a look of grave concern upon her face. Lucas started to sit up.

"We should not whisper in the presence of a lady," he began. She rushed to his side instantly, gently urging him back down.

"No, do not get up, my lord. You're hurt," she said.

"I am somewhat the worse for wear," said Lucas, gently removing her hands from his chest and sitting up, "but I assure you, I'm not injured, only weary."

"I came to see if I could help," Rebecca said. "Waldemar Fitzurse, John's minister, suggested it. He said that since I was taught the art of healing by Miriam of Endor, I should see to your welfare, since you named me your queen." She lowered her eyes. "In truth, he meant you no great courtesy, my lord, since Miriam stands falsely accused of witchcraft by those ignorant of her skills and I fear the minister's request was meant less for your welfare than to spare these Normans the embarrassment of honoring a Jewess at their feast, which even now progresses. Pleased as I am at having been honored by you, my lord, I am distressed by it. It was not wise. You could not have known I was a Jew, else you would doubtless have chosen another to receive your favor."

"I didn't know," said Lucas, "and to be honest, I meant to choose a Norrnan girl to placate these nobles somewhat. In truth, honoring women for nothing save their beauty does not appeal to me. Such empty, vain displays are not to my liking. As to your faith and heritage, I have known many Jews in my travels and I know something of your beliefs. While I do not share them, they are far from abhorrent to me. I am not one of those who would persecute your people or take advantage of them."

"Then you are a rare knight, indeed," she said. "Is it true what the people say, that you are Saxon?"

"I fear that I cannot answer you," said Lucas. "There is much at stake and I am not yet ready to reveal myself. I must ask you to be patient."

She lowered her eyes. "Forgive me for asking, my lord," she said softly. "It was not my intention to presume."

"There is no need to ask forgiveness," Lucas said. "It is I who must ask your forgiveness. By choosing you, it seems that I have caused speculation that your father is my patron, having provided me with the means to enter the lists today. This will not make the Normans love him more."

She smiled. "It will not make them love his money less. I am well treated by the Normans, inasmuch as any Jew can be, only because it is well known that John borrows heavily from Isaac. So long as they can use the usurer, they will continue to treat us with some little kindness."

"Your father treads deep water," Lucas said. "John is not likely to be fair in his dealings with a Jew.

He may decide to force him to give up all his wealth and then where will you be?"

She shrugged slightly. "Where my people have always been. What is there to do? Our fate is in God's hands."

Lucas smiled. "He will decide the disputes of the nations, and settle many a people's case, till swords are beaten into plowshares, spears into pruning hooks; no nation draws the sword against another, no longer shall men learn to fight."