Chapter 12: A Duel Between Attendants

"I will." A voice answered, surprising the few people who were preparing to step forward. Then they saw Prince Baldwin, wearing a veil and gloves, walking toward them in the crimson sunset.

"Tell your servants to go to the stable and lead out that pony with white fur and a black star on its forehead." He didn't wait for others to greet him and said to Cesar, "But it's not lent to you, Cesar. Remember when you first came, Father once promised you that he would give you a pony? This is it."

"White fur, black star," a youth who had been hiding in the shadows, with exquisite features but a gloomy expression, shouted out, "Isn't this the horse His Majesty gave you?"

"Father's horse and an Arabian horse had two foals. Their umbilical cords were connected; they are a pair of brothers," Baldwin did not respond to that youth. "I give it to you."

"But you promised to give it to David." That youth said unwillingly.

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

"But we are still..." Abigail stammered. "Friends."

"Do not seek political office if you are not in that position." Baldwin's tone was still very gentle, but those who knew him knew he was beginning to lose patience. "Of course, you also don't get the benefits."

This sentence was simply a slap in Abigail's face. David also frowned. He didn't like Abigail. Even if Abigail was speaking for him on the surface, he knew Abigail had said many untrue things unfavorable to this new attendant in private. Now, saying this was just to provoke his jealousy toward that black-haired boy.

But Abigail should also realize a problem, that is, although he did not approve of such an outsider with an unknown background serving by the Prince's side, if the other party showed the qualities that a knight's descendant should have, he wouldn't be cowardly enough not to admit it.

"Begin." Baldwin said. "I will be the referee."

Compared to the duel between knights, Cesar's proposal was much safer and simpler. David rolled the dice with him and won by three points, getting to go first. Because there was a time limit, this was undoubtedly a good omen. Most of the attendants were shouting, stomping, and applauding for him.

Baldwin took the reins handed over by the servant but didn't immediately hand them to Cesar. "If you regret it..."

No matter what David said, he had also received three full years of attendant education with Baldwin, from riding to martial arts, while Cesar had at most three months.

Not to mention, David, like his father, Count Raymond of Tripoli, was a big guy with thick bones. Although he was the same age as Baldwin, he was already as burly as half a real knight. Although Cesar was tall and slender, his first impression was still too delicate. In a duel like target practice, a thin person was obviously not as advantageous as a strong person.

But in other words, if Cesar defeated David, who vaguely had the status of a leader among the young attendants, he could save himself a lot of trouble in the future.

Cesar shook his head and got on the horse.

David had been watching Cesar until he came to his side, and then he rushed out suddenly. This youth was indeed skilled. As if in an instant, his long wooden stick hit the shield squarely, making a sound like thunder.

The wooden board wrapped in an iron frame bent and flew, and the horizontal bar rotated accordingly. The sandbag rolled and rushed toward David's back, but he just tilted his upper body and avoided the blow by a hair's breadth. The attendants cheered loudly. He turned to look at Cesar, only to find that the little white horse had already rushed toward the other shield like a cloud pushed by the wind.

Cesar didn't choose David's direction, even though attacking the other shield along one direction would be simpler and easier. He hit the long wooden stick toward the opposite position. The kinetic energy from the shield was transmitted along the wooden stick to his hand, forearm, shoulder, and entire upper body. He trembled slightly and almost couldn't continue to hold the wooden stick, but the result was obvious to all. The horizontal bar was accurately controlled before it started to spin wildly. It first shook violently and then slid to the other side unwillingly.

David tightened his grip on the pony's belly and waved the wooden stick. Accompanied by a loud "Bang!", the shield and sandbag swept past Cesar's left shoulder almost at the same time. Then he urged the pony to make a clear gesture to prevent Cesar from repeating his old trick.

Cesar could only choose the same direction as David, chasing the second shield and hitting it. The rotation speed of the horizontal bar suddenly became very fast, and so did the sandbag. They had changed from hanging to tilting outward. By the time David made the third hit, the sandbag was already parallel to the ground. At this time, the shield fixed on the horizontal bar was already so fast that it was difficult to capture with the eyes, together with the sandbag breaking through the air, making a whistling sound like a beast crying—

The duel game, which could have ended quite peacefully, suddenly became dangerous. In the dim light, the riders circling the target post could no longer capture the position of the shield calmly. They could only stab based on their instincts in the rotating ribbons. Not only that, they could only stab at the edge of the shield. If they hit the middle of the shield, they couldn't stop in time, and the following sandbag would hit the wooden stick and drag the person off the horse.

Fortunately, at this time, the last trace of ominous red light was about to disappear. In the almost continuous "ping-pong" sound, Baldwin was about to order them to stop, but heard Abigail shout sharply, "Seven hits! David, he has six hits! You won!"

At this time, Cesar was already pulling the pony. David heard it, but it was like sprinkling grease on burning firewood. If Cesar had only hit one or two, he would have been willing to admit that he had won.

But six hits? Don't forget he was the first to move, he should have had one more hit than Cesar. Thinking of this, not only did he not stop, but he became even more enthusiastic. Looking at the faint light refracted from the edge of the shield, he tilted his body without hesitation and stabbed the wooden stick.

Almost at the same time, he knew it was bad.

He missed, and the wooden stick was swept into the center of the vortex by the huge force that followed. His body was also grabbed by an invisible giant hand and thrown toward the target post, which was like the devil's giant mouth.

Cesar's reaction was far beyond any moment during training. When Abigail was shouting, he had already dropped the wooden stick and ran to David's side. When David tilted toward the target post, he had already reached out his hand—he grabbed David's cloak. Although he couldn't completely eliminate the consequences of his recklessness, at least he didn't let this youth be swept into the fast-rotating horizontal bar and be continuously hit by the shield and sandbag.

Now David just fell off the horse.

Other attendants ran over, surrounding him. After about half a quarter of an hour, David sat up from the ground, his nose bridge crooked, his mouth full of blood, but he still struggled to say, "... I lost."

"You clearly had more hits than him, no, two!" Abigail shouted.

"I didn't hit the last one," David said firmly. "The first move should have let one go." And... no matter what he said, this contest was still not fair enough for Cesar.

The heir of the Count of Tripoli wiped the blood from his face and looked at Cesar in the dim sky. Originally, he couldn't see clearly. Today, Cesar was wearing a gray-black coat, which could almost blend into the city wall at dusk, but Prince Baldwin had already approached his new attendant.

Since being confirmed to have leprosy, Baldwin's clothing had turned from luxury to simplicity, often wearing a humble off-white robe. He was talking to Cesar, checking his hand.

Cesar's right hand was hanging weakly. Just now, in order to pull David, he didn't have time to consider his posture and the way he used force, and his wrist joint was dislocated. David stared at them, remembering a long time ago, when he was injured in a martial arts lesson, Baldwin had also looked at his injury like this.

"It's nothing serious," Baldwin said. "The cleric will be here soon."

The knight who had been supervising on the side indeed called for a cleric very quickly. They were not allowed, and did not have the ability, to cure Baldwin's leprosy, but treating Cesar's dislocation and David's broken nose and missing teeth was not a problem. After David's bleeding stopped, he pushed away the cleric and his companions and walked straight to Baldwin. "Your Highness," he said. "Let me come back, I'm not afraid of leprosy."

Baldwin watched him for a while. "Don't say such useless things."

If losing to Cesar hit him like a heavy blow, then Baldwin's words were like a dagger stabbing into his heart, exposing all the filth inside to the daylight. David wrinkled his nose, bit his lip, and tears flowed down uncontrollably. These were tears of guilt and pain, for his baseness.

His father, the Count of Tripoli, after being rejected by Amalric I once, never mentioned the matter of him returning to the Prince's side again. David knew this was not only because of leprosy, but also because Baldwin might be stripped of his inheritance and sent to a monastery to become a cleric.

How could the master of a county become a servant of a cleric?

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This matter soon reached Count Raymond of Tripoli. Raymond didn't care about David losing the duel. After all, knights almost only spoke with swords, and how could a mortal ensure that he would be invincible forever? As for that annoying servant... Heraclius had already reminded him.

Since Amalric I and Baldwin had already given their promises, as a subject, he should not overstep his authority. At least before the other party had tarnished the honor of a knight, he should give the other party the respect he deserved.

What he was worried about was how to face his son David. If he inherited half of the stubbornness of his grandfather, Raymond IV of Toulouse, then David was even worse. Raymond had once been proud of having such a brave and virtuous child, but now he had to worry about this integrity.

David originally had many things to say. Baldwin had once been so good to him, almost like a brother by blood; Amalric I also treated him like a nephew; as a future knight, he should have given his loyalty and mercy to the master he had once sworn to...

But as soon as he saw the deep wrinkles on his father's face, the short hair mixed with silver and black, and the complex and difficult-to-understand eyes, he couldn't say a word.

Count Raymond of Tripoli was only thirty-five years old now. His aging was brought about by war and toil, and he had given everything just so that the bloodline of Raymond of Toulouse could be passed down forever on the Arabian Peninsula—Baldwin was Amalric I's only son, and wasn't he the only son of the Count of Tripoli?

"I'm sorry," he said, choking. "I'm sorry, but Dad, I miss Baldwin, I miss him very much."

The Count of Tripoli took a deep breath, walked forward, and hugged David's head tightly to his chest. "How could it be like this?" He asked himself countless times, asked God, asked the immeasurable fate in the dark, but never got an answer.

At this time, David suddenly had an idea. "Dad," he looked up and asked eagerly, "Can I become a brother witnessed by God with Baldwin?" He remembered that neither he nor Baldwin had held the selection ceremony yet.

Raymond hesitated for a while. "I'm afraid not," he said. "Baldwin's selection ceremony might have to be held early." Amalric I must also be dissatisfied with their hesitation. He used their hands to test the new servants and attendants, but no longer allowed their sons to become people trusted by Baldwin again.

He didn't look at his son's disappointed face, sighed, returned to his desk, and threw himself into endless official business, hoping that the troubles they brought could replace these unsolvable worries.

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"Idiot!"

Abigail was slapped to the ground. His ears were ringing, his eyes were swollen, and his mouth was sweet and fishy.

"If you dirty my carpet," Bohemond, Prince of Antioch, said lightly, "I'll whip you!" He looked at Abigail, who was hurriedly pressing his mouth, his contempt undisguised. "I thought you had done something good?! So this is it?"

Abigail secretly used his velvet sleeve to absorb the blood that was about to overflow, hurriedly and incoherently explaining, "But... Father, as long as they fight, no matter who wins or loses, for us, it's only good and no harm..."

He tried his best to explain his thoughts: "David won, Baldwin would definitely hate the slave who made him suffer shame, and alienate him; what if that slave won? As we saw, David lost face, and from now on, that slave would have no chance to get even a little bit of favor from the Count of Tripoli..."

Bohemond heard this and let out a sharp laugh. This laugh didn't represent approval, but was full of sarcasm.

He strode to his son, bent down, and two extremely similar faces leaned together.

We once said that Amalric I was like a lion in his prime but no longer possessing his former power, the Count of Tripoli was like a calm and strong giant bear, and the Prince of Antioch was like a combination of a cheetah and a fox, vigorous and agile. His appearance was the most commendable among the three, but no matter how handsome his face was, it would become exceptionally terrifying under the torture of disappointment and rage.

"Say it again." He ordered.

"It... it is... they fight..."

"Not that," Bohemond said coldly. "'Slave, that slave, that slave'... poor little fool, you said slave so many times, but didn't you notice?" He said with pity. "You instigated the only son of the Count of Tripoli to duel with a slave, which means you put him in the same position as you!"

(End of chapter) ===== CHAPTER 13 =====