Chapter 12: Duel Between Attendants
“Me.” A voice answered thus, startling the few who were about to step forward, and then they saw Prince Baldwin, veiled in fine gauze and wearing gloves, approaching them in the deep crimson glow.
“Tell your servant to fetch that white-furred pony with the black star on its forehead from the stable.” Without waiting for greetings from the others, he said to Caesar: “But it’s not a loan to you, Caesar. Remember when you first arrived, father promised to give you a pony? This is the one.”
“White fur, black star,” the young man who had been hiding in the shadows, delicate in features yet gloomy in expression, cried out involuntarily: “Isn’t this the horse His Majesty gave you?”
“Father’s mare and an Arabian had two foals, their umbilical cords connected, like brothers,” Baldwin did not respond to that young man: “I give it to you.”
“But you promised to give it to David.” That young man said unwillingly.
“That was before, Abigail,” Baldwin said: “He is no longer my attendant.”
“But we still are…” Abigail faltered: “Friends.”
“One who is not in position should not plan for the government.” Baldwin’s tone remained very gentle, but those who knew him well knew he was beginning to grow impatient, “Of course, one cannot reap the benefits either.”
This remark was essentially a slap to Abigail’s face. David also frowned. He did not like Abigail, even though Abigail appeared to be speaking up for him on the surface, but he knew Abigail had privately said many untrue things unfavorable to this new attendant. Now what he said was merely to incite his envy and hatred toward that black-haired boy.
But Abigail should also realize one thing: he certainly did not approve of such a mysterious outsider serving at the prince’s side, but if the other showed the qualities befitting a knight’s offspring, he would not be cowardly enough to refuse to acknowledge it.
“Let’s begin.” Baldwin said: “I’ll be the judge.”
Compared to contests between knights, Caesar’s proposal was much safer and simpler. David diced with him, beating him by three points to mount first. With the time limit, this was undoubtedly a good omen. Most of the attendants were cheering for him, stamping their feet and clapping.
Baldwin took the reins handed over by the servant but did not immediately give them to Caesar: “If you regret it…”
No matter what David said, he too had undergone a full three years of attendant education with Baldwin, from horse riding to martial arts, while Caesar had at most three months.
Not to mention, David, like his father Count Raymond of Tripoli, was a big man with sturdy bones. Though the same age as Baldwin, he was already burly like half a real knight. Caesar was tall and slender, but the first impression was still too thin. In contests like quintain, the strong clearly had an advantage over the weak.
But put another way, if Caesar defeated David, who vaguely held a leader’s status among the young attendants, he could avoid much trouble in the future.
Caesar shook his head and mounted the horse.
David kept watching Caesar until he came alongside, then he suddenly charged out. This young man was indeed skilled; in what seemed an instant, his long wooden stick struck the shield squarely, making a thunderous roar.
The wooden board framed in iron bent and flew off, the crossbar spinning accordingly, the sandbag rolling toward David’s back. But he just leaned his upper body aside, dodging the blow by a hair’s breadth. The attendants cheered loudly. He turned back to look at Caesar, only to find the white pony already rushing toward the other shield like a cloud driven by the wind.
Caesar did not choose David’s direction, even though attacking the other shield in the same direction would be simpler and easier. He struck the long wooden stick in the opposite direction. The kinetic energy from the shield traveled along the stick to his hand, forearm, shoulder, and entire upper body. He shuddered slightly, nearly unable to keep hold of the stick, but the result was plain to see. Before the crossbar could spin wildly, it was accurately controlled. It shook violently first, then unwillingly slid to the other side.
David clamped the pony’s flanks, swung the stick, and with a loud “clang!”, the shield and sandbag both swept past Caesar’s left shoulder almost simultaneously. Then he spurred the pony, making an obvious move to block Caesar from repeating the tactic.
Caesar could only choose the same direction as David, pursuing and striking the second shield. The crossbar’s spin immediately became lightning-fast, the sandbags too; they shifted from hanging to tilting outward. When David struck the third blow, the sandbags were parallel to the ground. By then, the shields fixed on the crossbar were nearly too fast for the eye to track, along with the sandbags tearing through the air, emitting a howling like the cry of beasts—
What could have ended quite peacefully as a duel game suddenly became dangerous. In the dim light, the riders circling the quintain could no longer calmly track the shields’ positions; they could only strike by instinct amid the whirling colors. Moreover, they could only hit the edges of the shields. Striking the center would prevent timely recovery, and the following sandbags would hit the stick and drag the rider off the horse.
Fortunately, the last ominous red light was about to fade. Amid near-continuous “ping-pang” sounds, Baldwin was preparing to order them to stop when Abigail’s sharp cry rang out: “Seven! David, he has six! You won!”
By then Caesar had already reined in the pony. David heard, but it was like pouring oil on blazing firewood. If Caesar had hit only once or twice, he would have conceded the victory.
But six? Don’t forget he went first; he should have had one more than Caesar. Thinking this, he not only did not stop but grew even more heated. Seeing a glint refracted from the shield’s edge, he unhesitatingly leaned his body and thrust the stick.
Almost at the same instant, he knew it was bad.
He missed; the stick was pulled by the huge force toward the vortex’s center. His body was likewise seized by an invisible hand and hurled toward the quintain like the devil’s giant maw.
Caesar’s reaction exceeded any moment in training. While Abigail was shouting, he had dropped his stick and rushed to David’s side. As David leaned toward the quintain, he had already reached out—grabbing David’s cloak. Though unable to fully negate the consequences of his rashness, at least it prevented the young man from being caught in the rapidly spinning crossbar, battered continuously by shields and sandbags.
Now David merely fell off the horse.
The other attendants came running and shouting, surrounding him. After about half a quarter-hour, David sat up from the ground, nose askew, mouth full of blood, but he still struggled to say: “…I lost.”
“You clearly had one more than him, no, two!” Abigail shouted.
“The last one missed,” David said firmly: “Going first should concede one anyway.” And… no matter what he said, the contest was still unfair to Caesar.
The heir to the Count of Tripoli wiped the blood from his face and looked at Caesar amid the darkening sky. He could hardly see; today Caesar wore a gray-black coat, nearly blending with the city wall at dusk. But Prince Baldwin had approached his new attendant.
Since being confirmed with leprosy, Baldwin’s clothing had shifted from luxury to simplicity, often a humble off-white robe. He was speaking with Caesar, checking his hand.
Caesar’s right hand hung limply; earlier, to pull David, he had no time to consider posture or force, dislocating his wrist joint. David stared dazedly at them, recalling long ago in martial arts class when he was injured, Baldwin had checked his wound the same way.
“Nothing serious,” Baldwin said: “The monk will be here soon.”
The knight who had been supervising nearby indeed quickly summoned the monk. They were not permitted, nor able, to heal Baldwin’s leprosy, but treating Caesar’s dislocation and David’s broken nose and lost teeth was no problem. Once David’s bleeding stopped, he pushed away the monk and companions, walking straight to Baldwin: “Your Highness,” he said: “Let me come back. I’m not afraid of leprosy.”
Baldwin looked at him for a while. “Don’t say such useless words.”
If losing to Caesar was a heavy blow, Baldwin’s words were like a dagger stabbing his heart, exposing all the filth inside to the light. David wrinkled his nose, bit his lip, tears flowing uncontrollably—tears of remorse and pain for his own vileness.
His father the Count of Tripoli, after being refused once by Amalric I, had never again mentioned letting him return to the prince’s side. David knew it was not just because of the leprosy, but also because Baldwin might be stripped of inheritance rights and sent to a monastery to become a monk.
How could the master of a county become a monk’s servant?
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This matter soon reached Count Raymond of Tripoli. Raymond was unconcerned about David losing the contest; after all, knights almost only spoke with swords, how could a mortal ensure eternal victory? As for that annoying servant… Heraclius had already reminded him.
Since Amalric I and Baldwin had both given their promise, as a subject he should not overstep, at least not before the other had tarnished a knight’s honor. He should grant the due respect.
What troubled him was how to face his son David. If he had inherited half the stubbornness of his grandfather Raymond IV of Toulouse, David had it in excess. Raymond had once been proud of having such a brave and virtuous child; now he worried for that uprightness.
David originally had much to say: how good Baldwin had once been to him, like blood brothers; Amalric I had treated him as a nephew; as a future knight, he should pledge his loyalty and mercy to the master he had once sworn to…
But seeing his father’s deep wrinkles, short hair mixed silver and black, and inscrutable gaze, he could say nothing.
Count Raymond of Tripoli was only thirty-five now; his aging came from war and toil, all to ensure the line from Toulouse could endure forever on the Arabian Peninsula—Baldwin was Amalric I’s only son; was he not the only son of the Count of Tripoli?
“I’m sorry,” he choked out: “I’m sorry, but Dad, I miss Baldwin. I miss him so much.”
The Count of Tripoli took a deep breath, stepped forward, and held David’s head tightly to his chest. “How did it come to this?” He repeated endlessly to himself, to God, to the inscrutable destiny, but never received an answer.
At this moment David suddenly had an idea: “Dad,” he lifted his head, asking eagerly: “Can I become brothers with Baldwin, witnessed by God?” He remembered neither he nor Baldwin had held the choosing ceremony yet.
Raymond hesitated a while. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “Baldwin’s choosing ceremony may be held early.” Amalric I was surely dissatisfied with their hesitation; he had used their hands to test the new servant and attendant, but no longer allowed their son to become one trusted by Baldwin again.
He avoided his son’s disappointed face, sighed, and returned to the desk, immersing in endless duties, hoping their troubles would replace these insoluble worries.
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“Fool!”
Abigail was knocked to the ground by a slap; his ears rang, eyes swelled, mouth tasting sweet and bloody.
“If you dirty my carpet,” Grand Duke Bohemond of Antioch said softly: “I’ll whip you!” He watched Abigail hurriedly press his mouth, contempt undisguised in his eyes: “I thought you’d done something good?! It turns out to be this?”
Abigail stealthily used his velvet sleeve to absorb the blood about to overflow, explaining hurriedly and incoherently: “But… Father, as long as they fight, no matter who wins or loses, it’s all benefit and no harm to us…”
He expounded his idea with all his might: “If David wins, Baldwin will surely despise that slave who brought him shame and distance him; if that slave wins? As we saw, David loses all face, and that slave will never gain a shred of favor from the Count of Tripoli…”
Bohemond, upon hearing this, let out a sharp laugh—not one of approval, but full of sarcasm.
He strode to his son, bending down until their strikingly similar faces were close.
We have said Amalric I was like a lion past prime but still majestic; the Count of Tripoli like a steady, strong bear. As for the Grand Duke of Antioch, he was like a blend of cheetah and fox—agile yet cunning. His appearance was the most praiseworthy of the three, but no matter how handsome the face, under torment of disappointment and rage, it became especially terrifying.
“Say it again.” He commanded.
“Just… just… them fighting…”
“Not that,” Bohemond said coldly: “‘Slave, that slave, the slave’… Poor little fool, you said ‘slave’ so many times, didn’t you notice?” He said full of pity: “You incited the only son of the Count of Tripoli to duel a slave, putting him on the same level as you!”
