“Yeah? Who says-?”
“I do! These children don’t deserve what you have planned for them!”
“And just what do you intend to do about it?”
“I’ll show you!” I drew my sword.
FROM THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF SIR VLADIMIR CHARNETSKI
We were in a merry mood, my love and friends and 1, as we moved toward my father’s manor. Sir Conrad knows a thousand songs and stories and I know a few myself. What with our ladies’ jokes and songs, it was truly pastime with good company.
We stopped to let a caravan of goods and slaves go by. I was joking with the ladies as Sir Conrad chatted with one of the Teutonic Knights of Saint Mary’s Hospital at Jerusalem, known as the Crossmen, or the Knights of the Cross, from the huge black crosses they all wear on their white surcoats. They were guarding the caravan and owned the slaves.
They are the largest body of fighting men in Poland and are not to be trifled with.
Suddenly, to the surprise of all, Sir Conrad drew his sword and rode down the line of slaves cutting their chains. So incredible is that skinny sword of his that the iron chains parted while hardly jerking the necks of the slaves. They, and everyone else, stood stark still staring at him.
Then one of the knights came to life, shouted a battle cry, and charged with his sword held high. So intent was Sir Conrad that I don’t think he noticed.
His horse, so remarkable in other ways, saw the Crossman coming, but perhaps in fear that if she reared up she would spoil Sir Conrad’s aim and so injure a slave, she kicked out sideways, breaking the man’s thigh. I know that what I say is impossible, that a horse can’t kick high sideways, but I tell you I saw it.
Sir Conrad turned as if seeing the man for the first time. The Crossman’s sword was still high and Conrad took his hand off between wrist and elbow. The sword went flying with a hand and part of an arm still clutched to it. The armor was still on the arm, for that blade cares nothing for steel or leather or bone.
The six other Crossmen attacked Conrad and I was faced with a moral dilemma, with no time to think it out!
You see, I was vassal to my father who was vassal to Count Lambert who was vassal to Duke Henryk the Bearded. Count Lambert had all of his vassals swear to defend the trail so that it might be safe for merchants. My duty to my father thus required that I aid the Crossmen in subduing Sir Conrad. But the duke had me swear to defend Sir Conrad and by that oath, I was bound to attack the Crossmen in Sir Conrad’s aid.
Now, did my oath to the duke, who after all was neither my liege nor my father’s, take precedent over my father’s oath to Lambert? Or did the fact that the duke was Lambert’s liege mean than an oath to him was more important than an oath to his vassal? I could not resolve it in the time I had.
In truth, I have not resolved it yet.
All I could think was that if there were no survivors, no one would hear of Sir Conrad’s indiscretions. The matter would never come before any of the liege lords involved and so my dilemma would not require resolution.
I lowered my lance and charged the Crossmen.
“For God and Poland!” I shouted, out of habit. In part, a battle cry is made to warn an opponent that you are coming, so that you won’t dishonorably take him unawares. But now the niceties of civilized combat were less important than the fact that all the Crossmen must die. After that, the baggagetenders and other peasants would be the work of a few moments.
They didn’t notice me coming, probably because of those barrel helmets they wear. There were so many of them trying to get at Sir Conrad that they couldn’t all fit around him.
One man was hanging back watching the fight as I went by. I caught him square in the throat with a quick side jab of my lance. I saw the blood squirt and the Crossman start to topple. Then I was onto the main crowd of them and my lance tip caught one in the back of the neck just below the helm line. He fell beneath Witchfire’s hoofs as we went by, and I knew he was dead.
On my next pass, a Crossman turned to me as I came. I changed targets at the last instant and caught him in the eye slit. A difficult blow, but it went right in!
All the stories always talk about flashing swords and singing swords and every other kind of swords, but I tell you it’s good lancework that wins battles.
I was feeling glorious, unbeatable, as I turned again to see Sir Conrad’s sword trailing flecks of blood and a Crossman’s body sitting headless on its horse.
The remaining two Crossmen, seeing five of their number dead without injury to Sir Conrad or myself, promptly turned and fled. I raced after them. We ran a mile or so, with Witchfire glorying in the race as much as I did in the fighting. Then they stopped and saw that the two of them were being ignominiously chased by a tone knight. Their pride got the best of them.
They turned and they charged.
They came at me together and passed one at either side of me. I managed to parry both their lances at the same time with my shield-no easy feat! Try it in your next battle!-but my lance got only a glancing blow off the helm of the Crossman to my left.
We all three of us turned and went at it again. Something Sir Conrad once said occurred to me, that when faced with a problem, one should be wary of thinking in ruts.
Knights always pass on the right because they carry their shields on their left arms and their lances in their fight hand. So they’re used to striking another knight on their left, as I had done on the last pass.
This time I started out as usual, but switched opponents at the last instant and skewered my man fight fair in the gut! He hadn’t thought to cover his belly on that side. More, my brilliant tactic so startled both of them that they both missed me entirely.
I turned to see the last Crossman riding for the horizon. Watching all six of his comrades die was just too much for him. We chased after him but to no avail. After two miles he was still drawing ahead of us. In hindsight, I blame this on the barding Witchfire wore. It was a warm day and I think it overheated him.
I turned back with an enviable fighting record, but having ultimately failed. That Crossman didn’t look likely to stop this side of Torun and once he was there all the forces of hell would break loose.
But we are all in the hands of God. A man can only do what is right and hope for the best.
For myself, why, I had killed four full knights in a single afternoon. Crossmen who are less than noble wear a “T” on their surcoats rather than a cross and none of these had done so.
My God! That meant that I had won four full sets of arms and armor! And four war-horses besides! For the first time in my life, I was rich! I could buy things and have spending money and-I wondered if Sir Conrad would sell me a plot of land where I could build a small manor for Annastashia, so even if my father didn’t bless our union-but no. She deserved a true husband and an honorable marriage.
Then there was the rest of the caravan. All those mules and their cargo. Did I have a share of that? It had to be valuable to be worth sending all the way to Constantinople. And the slaves, what was a slave worth? Whatever it was, a gross of them must be worth a great SUM.
So my thoughts were pleasant as I came to the Crossman I had gutted. The poor wretch was still alive, but with a stomach wound, a man is dead even if it takes a week. I had nothing against him, even if he had charged me two against one.
“Well, sir, with that wound you know you’re as good as dead and a festering belly is a bad thing to die of. Would you like a bit of mercy?” I drew my misericord, the usual instrument for such things.
He answered me in German, a language I don’t speak.
I pantomimed his stomach blowing up and he nodded yes, he understood. I gestured at cutting his throat, but he shook his head and repeatedly made the sign of the cross.