ALTDORF (The Forest Knights: Book 1) (7 page)

Count Henri of Hunenberg also sat on the raised platform with the young Habsburg Duke and the Vogt, albeit in a plain chair that lacked the intricate carvings of the other two men. The ever-present Klaus, Leopold’s man, stood at the bottom of the platform’s stairs, unmoving as an iron rod driven straight into hard-packed earth.

The crowd groaned as one of the competitors missed an overhead strike leaving himself open and his opponent brought his own blade crashing down across the man’s back, knocking him to the ground and ending the match.

“Sweet Mary. Finally. This match should have been finished long ago,” Landenberg said, standing to fart and stretch his joints. “Wine,” he said thrusting out his mug. “I have a mind to send for my own armor.”

Leopold was in no mood for Landenberg’s blustering. Granted the man had his uses, especially when it came to keeping order in the backward villages and mountain settlements of Unterwalden. Violence and intimidation were all those people understood, so they deserved to be governed by a filthy boar of a man like Landenberg.

The ride back from Salzburg had been long and wearying, made even more so because Leopold had to suffer the company of the Fool. His eyes scanned the crowd and immediately picked out the little man’s purple hair and white and black outfit doing a dance in front of some shabbily dressed peasants, who seemed to have forgotten their miserable lot in life and were enjoying his antics.

“Our tournament days are over, Berenger.” Count Henri said, invading on Leopold’s thoughts. “This is a young man’s domain.” Although much smaller than the hulking Landenberg, Henri still had the fit body of a knight. He had been fighting off and on in the Holy Lands for almost twenty years and had returned to the Aargau five years ago when his father died. He inherited his father’s lands: three lucrative estates in the Aargau and one rocky tract of land at the head of the Gotthard Pass. Not exceptionally rich titles, but Leopold was in negotiations to acquire the Gotthard land to add to the Habsburg family’s holdings. Henri’s family connections with landowners in Uri, where Saint Gotthard’s Pass was located, had proved valuable when Leopold had purchased land at the head of the pass last year. The same land where Leopold currently had fifty stone masons constructing a fortress that would be his new home. He needed some farmland to support the fortress, and poor though it was, Henri’s small estate should do nicely. Henri’s Connections would prove useful in the coming years if Leopold were to bring the pass under Habsburg control.

“Count Hunenberg is right. You have seen too many years to be playing the part of a ram so sit down and accept your place. I would wager there is not a man on this field who would not rather be one of my governors than chafing under sweaty armor.”

Landenberg grunted at the rebuke. “If I had your youth, my lord, I would gladly be on that field winning my share of honors.”

“Honor is a myth. The tourney was created to keep our warriors occupied in times of peace. To prevent the dogs from turning on their masters, if you will. A soldier is a tool of the nobility. One that must be stored with care, mind you, and sharpened regularly, but nothing more.”

“And when that tool ages and shows signs of rust?” Count Henri asked. “What then?”

Leopold did not hesitate. “We throw it out. Or occasionally, the axe is melted down and reshaped into a hoe.” He made a point in looking at Landenberg as he spoke.

Henri stood, smiling at Landenberg’s discomfort, and said to Leopold, “All this talk of politics has stirred my bowels. If you will excuse me, my lord.” He stepped down off the dais and moved between two merchant stalls, one selling fire-roasted sausages on a stick and the other small loaves of crusty dark bread.

Leopold motioned the next pair of combatants into the ring. Landenberg, scowling, wedged himself back down into his chair. His eyes lit up when he recognized one of the combatants, a thick young man with blonde hair and the neck of a bull whose shield bore the markings of several tourneys he had won.

“Ah. Now we shall see some sport,” Landenberg said. “That is Sir Rolf of Nuremberg—saw him kill a man on this field last year. Damned fool’s helm was too big and the force of Sir Rolf’s blow shook his skull to pieces.”

“He does appear capable,” Leopold said, but his eyes were on Rolf’s opponent.

He was a thin, unremarkable fellow with greying hair at least fifteen years older than any competitor on the field. And unlike the other fighters, the only armor he wore was a light mail vest that was almost hidden beneath a faded black tunic. Leather bracers covered his wrists, but there were neither plates on his shoulders or legs, nor a gorget around his throat. The older man hefted several different swords from the weapons rack and tested them for balance, shifting each one carefully from hand to hand, before finally deciding on a smaller one-handed blade with a single cutting edge.

Leopold’s lips turned up in a smirk. The young duke had been raised amongst men such as this. From an early age Leopold had been sent by his father to live for months at a time in soldier barracks throughout the German Empire, France, Denmark, and Italia. While his older brothers were kept at King Albrecht’s side in Austria to learn how to rule, Leopold’s father shipped him off to live with foreign tutors. Not so much to learn to be a soldier, but to learn how one thinks. To recognize what motivates them and what kind of discipline it takes to control them. He learned to read men’s eyes, their postures, what body types made a good horseman, and which were better suited to infantry. Who would be loyal and who could be bribed. This was his education. From the ages of ten to fifteen, Leopold saw his father only three times, at public functions of state that demanded a show of Habsburg solidarity. Frederick had visited his younger brother regularly, but both Leopold’s father and oldest brother were strangers who happened to share the same family name.

“One hundred silver says the old man makes your Sir Rolf yield like a pliant serving girl.”

Landenberg’s eyebrows arched and he looked at Sir Rolf’s opponent for the first time. He saw only an aging man with inferior equipment desperate to earn some prize money and perhaps, to hold onto a piece of his youth.

“Let us make it two hundred, and since you mentioned a serving girl, you arrange to have the innkeeper in Schwyz send his daughter to serve in my household.”

Leopold had no idea who this innkeeper was, but it did not matter.

“Done,” he said, waving his hand to a nearby servant. The aroma of the nearby roasted sausages had watered his mouth. He summoned a page and soon he had a hot, spitting sausage on a stick in one hand and a piece of dark bread in the other. He nibbled off a piece of the succulent meat and settled back into his chair to watch the match.

The master of the ring called the men to their marks.

“For the pleasure of our Lord Leopold, Prince of the august German Empire, Duke of Further Austria and Styria, Regent and heir—” Leopold made a cutting motion across his neck and waved impatiently at the man. He bowed stiffly and continued. “Lords and ladies, our next contest shall be between Sir Rolf of Nuremberg and…” He leaned close to the older man and asked him something. “…and…Gissler.”

***

Gissler bore no shield or helm, but walked calmly to his starting position. He avoided looking at his opponent. Sir Rolf’s face visor was raised and strands of blonde hair poked out from beneath his chain coif. A green silk kerchief from some female admirer fluttered in the breeze at his belt.

“Fear not grandfather,” Sir Rolf said to his older opponent in a clear tone that carried far into the ranks of spectators. “You will suffer no serious injury by my hand.” Laughter rippled through the crowd.

Gissler looked up for the first time at his much larger adversary. His eyes narrowed and flitted casually over the young knight. He rolled his shoulders once and spit on the ground.

“Of that I am sure,” Gissler said. He lifted his sword to a low guard.

Sir Rolf flinched at the impetuous attitude of his lowborn opponent. A few people close enough to hear Gissler’s quiet response cheered. One boisterous man yelled, “Take him over your knee old man!”

“Begin,” shouted the master of the ring and backpedaled away from between the two men. The crowd erupted.

Sir Rolf raised his shield and stalked forward without bothering to lower his visor. Gissler waited for him to close the distance and then changed to a high guard. He swung his sword at Sir Rolf’s head and the young knight thrust his shield up to meet the blow and set up his counter. With surprising speed for such a large man in full armor, Sir Rolf took the blow on his shield and then dipped it to the side as he swung his hand and a half sword towards Gissler. But the older man was no longer in front of him.

The moment the knight’s vision was blocked by his own shield, Gissler spun around his shield arm to Sir Rolf’s back, lifted his foot and smashed it down into the back of the young man’s knee, then thrust his shoulder into his back to topple the man forward. The knight hit the ground hard, coughing once as the air fled from his lungs. Gissler turned and whipped his sword down onto the back of Sir Rolf’s helm so hard the blade shattered like an icicle dropping onto a winter-hardened flagstone floor. Sir Rolf’s eyes jerked up into his head, the color all but disappearing and leaving only vacant whites staring into the crowd. He slowly pitched forward from his knees onto his face and did not move.

The crowd fell silent at the violent and excessive blow, but once it dawned on them the fight was over the cheering began. Sir Rolf’s squires pushed forward and rolled their liege lord onto his side and carefully removed his helm. He was unconscious, but came to moaning when they sat him up, and the sudden movement caused him to retch. Vomit cascaded down his chin, while a squire frantically used his sleeve to wipe the unseemly mess off Sir Rolf’s polished chest protector.

The ringmaster pushed his way forward and, his eyes wide with surprise, raised his arm in Gissler’s direction. “The winner is…Gessel!”

Gissler was already moving out of the circle toward the weapon racks when he heard his name called.

“Gissler? By God, what land is this? Is that really you?” Count Henri stepped out of the crowd and clamped his hand on Gissler’s shoulder. Gissler flinched, and he looked as though he might repel this new attacker, but then recognition flooded his face and he stared open-mouthed, unable to speak.

“But of course it is—I recognize your work,” Henri said, nodding towards Sir Rolf’s squires struggling to get their lord on his feet.

“Henri,” Gissler said finally, shaking his head. “Look at you.” He stepped back and gestured at the Count’s richly tailored clothes and plumed hat. “A lord of peacocks if ever there was one.” The two men laughed and threw their arms around one another in a rough soldier embrace.

“What are you doing here? Why are you not with the Order on Rhodes? I have word the Turks are giving the black knights an awful time on that rock.”

Gissler shrugged. “That no longer concerns us. The Grand Master released us from our oaths coming on a year now.”

“Us? Who else is with you man?”

“Every Schwyzer crew member of
The Wyvern.
” Gissler told Henri how he had traveled back with Thomas, Pirmin, Ruedi, Anton, Urs, and Max. A puzzled look crossed Henri’s face.

“But what of the others? Thomas’s crew had three score of you when I was last aboard. What of Lars and Gerhard? And that pug-faced fellow who fell in love with every Saracen whore he saw?”

Gissler nodded, but his smile turned grim. “Geoff. Turks captured him during one of our raids on the coast. He was known to them, so his passing was not easy, I have been told. Lars has been dead nigh ten years, about the time the Mohammedans stopped accepting ransom for Hospitallers. We lost Gerhard at Rhodes, and as for the others…” Gissler held up his hands and shrugged. “We have been fighting a long time.”

Henri’s grin faded and after a moment, he nodded.

“The mind tries hard to forget the wars in Outremer after leaving. Some memories are better left stored away, I suppose, but I shall make a point of remembering the Schwyzers in my prayers tonight. They were good lads. Some, like your captain Thomas, a little pious and headstrong, but a more loyal core of soldiers I have never known.”

He winked and put his hand on Gissler’s shoulder again. “But enough. I am sure you wish to put all that behind you now, so welcome home. What are your plans?”

Gissler shrugged. “I arrived only yesterday,” he said.

Out of the corner of his eye, Henri noticed Duke Leopold ascending from his dais and walking in their direction, his man Klaus hulking one step behind. Leopold was looking directly at Gissler, but pretending not to.

“Well, it seems fate is descending upon you as we speak. Let us make the most of it, shall we? Come, allow me to present you to the Duke.”

***

“You were a soldier in the Holy Lands?” Leopold asked.

“Yes, my lord,” Gissler said.

“He was no mere soldier. Gissler was with the Black Knights,” Count Henri said.

Leopold’s eyes widened and he looked a little harder at Gissler.

Ah, I see it now, he thought. The alert way the man carried himself hinted at a life of discipline, but the aloof mannerisms and impetuous eyes betrayed him. He was indeed used to being seen as more than a mere soldier. He was far above that. He was one of God’s chosen warriors, a Gabriel here on Earth. These Black Knights answered to no one but the Pope and God himself, just as the Templars once did. The Church had decreed that not even kings could command these men, never mind a lowly Duke of the German Empire.

“Your Order has done a great service protecting Christendom from the infidels. You are a Hospitaller Knight then?”

Gissler’s mouth twitched at the corner, and he paused before responding.

“Not a knight, your Grace. Merely a brother sergeant-at-arms. Or I was. I have recently been released from the Order.”

Leopold nodded, noting the bitter edge to Gissler’s voice. The Knights of Saint John were largely made up of nobles from France, Germany, England, Spain, and Italia. They were required to give up their noble rights and will their land and holdings to the Order upon their death. They also took vows of chastity and poverty, and swore to accept the poor and sick as their lords. But the title of “Knight” was reserved for those of noble blood. Despite the Order’s disdain for secular titles, there existed a strict hierarchy within the Order itself, and no commoner could ever rise above the rank of brother-sergeant.