Chapter 12: The Duel Between Squires

“I will.” A voice answered, startling the men who had been about to step forward; then they saw Prince Baldwin, masked with a fine veil and gloved, walking toward them through the crimson afterglow.

“Send your servant to the stable and bring out the white-coated mare with the black star on her forehead,” he said to Cesar without waiting for greetings: “But I’m not lending her to you, Cesar—do you remember when you first arrived, your father promised you a foal? This is the one.”

“White coat, black star,” whispered the boy, always hidden in shadow, his features delicate but his expression dark: “Isn’t that the horse His Majesty gave you?”

“My father’s stallion sired two foals with an Arabian mare; their umbilical cords were joined—they are brothers,” Baldwin said, ignoring the boy: “I give her to you.”

“But you promised to give her to David,” the boy protested.

“That was before, Abigail,” Baldwin said: “He is no longer my squire.”

“But we are still…” Abigail hesitated: “friends.”

“Where you are not, there you have no authority,” Baldwin replied, his tone still gentle, but all who knew him recognized his growing impatience: “Nor any benefit.”

This was a slap across Abigail’s face. David frowned—he disliked Abigail, even though Abigail appeared to speak for him; he knew Abigail had spread many false rumors against the new squire, and now this was merely to stoke his hatred toward the black-haired boy.

Yet Abigail ought to have realized one thing: though he disapproved of the prince being attended by such an unknown outsider, if that outsider displayed the virtues befitting a knight’s son, he would not be so cowardly as to deny it.

“Begin,” Baldwin said: “I will judge.”

Compared to a knightly contest, Cesar’s proposal was safer and simpler: David and he rolled dice; David won by three points and took first mount—given the time limit, this was an auspicious sign, and the squires cheered, stamped, and clapped for him.

Baldwin took the reins from the servant but did not immediately hand them to Cesar: “If you regret this…”

No matter what David said, he had undergone three full years of squire training alongside Baldwin—from horsemanship to martial arts—while Cesar had at most three months.

Not to mention, David, like his father, Count Raymond of Tripoli, was a broad-shouldered giant; though the same age as Baldwin, he was already as massive as half a true knight. Cesar, though tall and slender, appeared frail at first glance; in contests like target practice, the weak clearly had no advantage over the strong.

But conversely, if Cesar defeated David—who was the de facto leader among the young squires—he would spare himself much trouble in the future.

Cesar shook his head and mounted.

David watched Cesar until he drew near, then suddenly surged forward; the boy was indeed skilled—within an instant, his long wooden rod struck the shield squarely, producing a thunderous crash.

The iron-framed wooden board bent, flew outward, the crossbar spun, and the sandbag rolled toward David’s back; he merely tilted his upper body, avoiding the blow by a hair’s breadth. The squires roared their approval. He turned to face Cesar—only to see the white foal already racing like a cloud swept by wind toward the opposite shield.

Cesar did not follow David’s direction; though attacking the same side would have been easier, he struck his rod toward the opposite position. The force traveled up the rod to his hand, forearm, shoulder, and entire upper body; he shuddered slightly, nearly losing his grip—but the result was clear: the crossbar was precisely controlled before it could spin wildly; it jerked violently once, then reluctantly slid to the side.

David squeezed the foal’s flanks, swung his rod, and with a loud “Bang!” the shield and sandbag swept past Cesar’s left shoulder. He spurred the foal, adopting a clear posture to prevent Cesar from repeating his move.

Cesar could only follow David’s direction, chasing the second shield and striking it. The crossbar’s spin accelerated instantly, so did the sandbag; they shifted from hanging vertically to slanting outward. By the time David delivered his third strike, the sandbag was parallel to the ground, and the shield fixed to the crossbar had become nearly invisible to the eye—along with the sandbag, it tore through the air with a howl like a beast in agony—

What had been a peaceful contest now turned dangerous. In the dimming light, the riders circling the target post could no longer calmly track the shield’s position; they could only strike by instinct amid the spinning bands of color—and they could strike only the shield’s edge. If they hit the center, they could not stop in time; the following sandbag would strike the rod and drag them off their mounts.

Fortunately, the last sliver of ominous crimson light was fading. Amid the relentless “clack-clack” sounds, Baldwin was about to call a halt when Abigail shrieked: “Seven! David, he only hit six! You won!”

At that moment, Cesar had already pulled his foal to a stop. David heard it—and it was as if oil had been poured onto blazing logs. If Cesar had struck only once or twice, David might have admitted defeat.

But six? Remember—he went first. He should have had one more hit than Cesar. Realizing this, he did not stop—he burned hotter. Seeing a glint along the shield’s edge, he leaned forward without hesitation and thrust his rod.

Almost instantly, he knew it was a mistake.

He missed. His rod was snatched into the vortex’s center by a sudden force; his body was seized by an invisible hand and hurled toward the spinning target post like a demon’s maw.

Cesar’s reaction surpassed any moment of training: as Abigail screamed, he dropped his rod and sprinted to David’s side; as David leaned toward the post, he reached out—he seized David’s cloak. Though he could not fully negate the consequences of David’s recklessness, he prevented the boy from being caught in the spinning crossbar, battered repeatedly by shield and sandbag.

Now David had merely fallen from his mount.

Other squires rushed over, surrounding him. After nearly half a quarter-hour, David sat up, his nose crooked, mouth full of blood—but he struggled to speak: “...I lost.”

“You hit one more—no, two more!” Abigail shouted.

“I missed the last one,” David said firmly: “The first mover should yield one point.” And... no matter what he said, this contest had still been unfair to Cesar.

The heir of the Count of Tripoli wiped the blood from his face and looked toward Cesar in the dimming twilight. He had barely been able to see him—today Cesar wore a gray-black coat, nearly blending into the dusk-colored walls—but Prince Baldwin had already approached his new squire.

Since being diagnosed with leprosy, Baldwin’s attire had shifted from luxury to simplicity; he often wore a humble, plain white robe. He was speaking to Cesar, examining his hands.

Cesar’s right hand hung limp; in pulling David back, he had neglected posture and force, dislocating his wrist. David stared at them, remembering long ago, when he’d been injured in martial training, Baldwin had looked at his wound just like this.

“No serious harm,” Baldwin said: “The monk will come soon.”

The knight supervising nearby promptly summoned a monk. They were forbidden and incapable of curing Baldwin’s leprosy, but treating Cesar’s dislocation and David’s broken nose and lost teeth posed no problem. After David’s bleeding stopped, he pushed away the monk and his companions, walked straight to Baldwin: “Your Highness,” he said: “Let me return. I am not afraid of leprosy.”

Baldwin regarded him for a moment: “Don’t speak such useless words.”

If losing to Cesar had struck him like a blow, Baldwin’s words were a dagger plunged into his chest, exposing all his filth to the light. David pinched his nose, bit his lip, tears streaming uncontrollably—tears of shame and pain, for his baseness.

His father, Count Raymond of Tripoli, after being refused once by Amalric I, had never again mentioned returning David to the prince’s side. David knew it was not merely because of leprosy, but because Baldwin might be stripped of his inheritance and exiled to a monastery as a monk.

How could the lord of a county become a monk’s servant?

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The matter quickly reached Count Raymond of Tripoli. Raymond cared little that David had lost the contest; knights spoke only with sword and lance—who could guarantee eternal victory? As for that annoying squire... Heraclius had already warned him.

Since Amalric I and Baldwin had both made their promises, as a vassal he must not overstep; at least until the newcomer defiled a knight’s honor, he ought to grant him due respect.

What troubled him was how to face his son David. If Raymond had inherited half his grandfather Raymond IV of Toulouse’s stubbornness, David surpassed it entirely. Raymond had once been proud of such a brave and virtuous child; now he worried over that very integrity.

David had many things to say: how Baldwin had treated him like a blood brother; how Amalric I had regarded him as a nephew; as a future knight, he ought to have pledged his loyalty and compassion to the master who had once sworn to protect him...

But seeing the deep wrinkles on his father’s face, the silver-streaked black hair, the unreadable eyes—he could not utter a word.

Count Raymond of Tripoli was only thirty-five; his aging came from war and toil, and all he sacrificed was to ensure the bloodline of Toulouse would endure forever on the Arabian Peninsula—Baldwin was Amalric I’s only son; was he not Raymond’s only son too?

“I’m sorry,” he choked: “I’m sorry, Father, but I miss Baldwin. I miss him so much.”

The Count of Tripoli drew a deep breath, stepped forward, and pulled David’s head tightly against his chest: “How could this happen?” he repeated endlessly—asking himself, asking God, asking the unfathomable fate—yet never received an answer.

At that moment, David suddenly had an idea: “Father,” he looked up earnestly: “Can I become a brother to Baldwin before God?” He remembered—he and Baldwin had never undergone the Selection Rite.

Raymond hesitated: “I fear not,” he said: “Baldwin’s Selection Rite may be moved forward.” Amalric I was surely displeased by their hesitation; he had used them to test the new squire and servant, but would no longer allow their son to become someone Baldwin trusted.

He did not look at his son’s disappointed face, sighed, and returned to his desk, burying himself in endless duties, hoping their burdens might replace these unsolvable sorrows.

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“Fool!”

Abigail was struck to the ground, his ears ringing, eyes swollen, mouth sweet and metallic.

“If you dirty my carpet,” Bohemond, Prince of Antioch, said softly: “I’ll whip you.” He watched Abigail hastily press his hand to his mouth, his contempt unmistakable: “I thought you’d done something clever? This is it?”

Abigail secretly wiped the blood threatening to overflow with his velvet sleeve, babbling frantically: “But... Father, if they fight, whoever wins or loses, it only benefits us—no harm at all...”

He desperately explained his reasoning: “If David wins, Baldwin will despise the slave who shamed him and distance himself; if the slave wins? As we saw, David loses face, and the slave will never gain even a scrap of favor from the Count of Tripoli...”

Bohemond listened—and let out a sharp laugh. It was not approval; it dripped with mockery.

He strode to his son, bent down, and pressed their nearly identical faces together.

We have said: Amalric I was a lion past his prime but still fearsome; the Count of Tripoli, a steady, powerful bear; Bohemond, however, was a fusion of cheetah and fox—agile, yet cunning. His features were the most admirable among the three, yet no matter how handsome the face, when tormented by disappointment and rage, it became terrifying.

“Say it again,” he ordered.

“It’s... it’s... when they fight...”

“Not that,” Bohemond said coldly: “‘Slave, that slave, the slave’... Poor little fool, have you said ‘slave’ so many times without realizing it?” He spoke with pity: “You goaded the only son of the Count of Tripoli to duel a slave—that means you’ve placed him on equal footing with them!”

(End of Chapter)