"My lord, the red knight, Andre de la Croix, charges me to tell your master, the white knight of the uprooted oak, to name his own price for the ransom," Marcel said nervously.
"Your master is a most generous and chivalrous knight," said the white knight's squire.
"My lord also charges me to pay his compliments to the white knight and to tender his respect, which, I add on my own, is not granted easily. My master says that he has never fought so fine a knight and that he hopes, despite the challenge to pass with naked lances, that your master is not greatly injured."
"I thank you for my master," said Hooker, "and charge you in my master's name to tell Andre de la Croix that he returns the compliment and, although fatigued, does not suffer any great injury. Further, my master charges me to say that the offers of the other knights were generous and have left him not so poor as he was before the joust. Therefore, out of respect for Andre de la Croix, he will accept neither horse nor armor, nor ransom for same, since the lessons he has learned at your master's hands today have enriched him in a manner that he prizes much more highly. Take this small sum for yourself, however, and if you are not too proud, use some small part of it to drink my master's health."
Hooker tossed a small purse to Marcel, then turned and entered the pavilion. Visibly relieved, Marcel returned to de la Croix and related what the white knight's squire had said.
The red knight sat on a wooden cot inside the pavilion, clad only in a loose-fitting doublet and boots. Andre de la Croix was tall and thin, with flaxen blond hair that fell shoulder-length. The red knight wore no beard or mustache and was strikingly good-looking in a youthful, boyish way.
"Thank you, Marcel," de la Croix said. "You've done well. I was afraid that I would lose my treasured armor, which I can ill afford to spare. These local artisans are not adept enough to craft so fine a suit as that which was given to me by our benefactor in return for secret services. In truth, I do not know what strange and wondrous craftsmen made this suit. I have never seen its like."
The red knight got up and ran a hand over the nysteel armor.
"I fear these secret services," Marcel said, "as I fear the stranger who demands them."
The red knight smiled. "We have shared many secrets since we left our mountain home, little brother. What is one secret more? Besides, no secret can weigh on us so heavily as that which we guard most closely."
The red knight turned and allowed Marcel to unfasten the doublet and remove it, revealing the cloth swathed around de la Croix's upper torso. Slowly, carefully, Marcel unwound the cloth and, when it was done, de la Croix sighed and breathed deeply. The men who had fallen to de la Croix's lance would have been surprised to see the red knight now. Tired, de la Croix sat down upon the cot and slowly massaged the skin to return circulation to her breasts.
Chapter 4
If the wooden cot inside the pavilion was uncomfortable, Lucas didn't notice. He was simply grateful for the opportunity to get off his feet. He lay stretched out on his back, his eyes closed, listening to the din outside.
Hooker was keeping a throng of well wishers at bay. It seemed that almost every Saxon at the tournament wished to pay respects to the white knight and Lucas simply wasn't up to it. He was, however, somewhat more concerned about the so-called physicians, whom he could hear arguing outside with Hooker. Cedric, Athelstane
, and several other of the more well-to-do Saxon lords had sent their physicians to see to his well-being. He had two reasons for not wanting to see them. The first was that they would know Ivanhoe and the second was that he had no desire to be bled.
As it began to grow dark, Lucas lay motionless inside his tent, feeling the growing evening chill and trying not to pay too much attention to the leeches, who had now turned to fighting amongst themselves for the privilege of bleeding him. Hooker stuck his head inside the tent.
"You all right?" he said.
"I will be if those bloodsuckers don't get their hands on me," said Lucas, wearily. "Can't you get rid of them?"
"I'm having a hard enough time just getting them to listen to me," Hooker said. "You've become very popular all of a sudden and a certain amount of professional pride seems to be at stake."
"Look, I don't care if you have to knock their damn heads together," Lucas said, "just get rid of them. I can't—"
There was a sudden commotion outside and Hooker quickly went to see what was developing. Moments later, a young woman entered the pavilion. She was dressed in a long, flowing gown of dark purple gabardine which clung to her shapely figure. She had long, wavy black hair and large dark eyes. Around her neck, she wore a diamond necklace hung with pendants and there were golden bracelets set with jewels upon her wrists. She was astonishingly lovely and she wore the thin gold crown which Lucas had earlier presented her with.
"This is Rebecca, daughter of Isaac of York, Milord," said Hooker. "She has come to pay her respects to the nameless knight and to see if you were injured." He cleared his throat. "She has, uh, sent away the leeches with some ... enthusiasm."
"They have the temerity to speak of healing!" Rebecca said hotly. "They would bleed a man to death if given the chance!"
Hooker kneeled by the cot and whispered to him. "She sent those boys packing one-two-three," he said, so that she wouldn't hear him. "She has no idea who you are, so I figured it was safe enough to let her in. She only recently arrived here with her father, who's been loaning money to John, though I wouldn't lay any odds on his ever seeing it again. I figured we could use some well connected friends, if you know what I mean."
"How do you know this?" Lucas whispered.
"Are you kidding? The moment you gave her that crown, it was all anyone would talk about. You've rubbed their noses in it by honoring a Jew. Scuttlebutt has it that Isaac paid for your horse and armor in exchange for protection. He's not very well liked in these parts, being rich and Jewish, to boot."
While they conversed, Rebecca stood near the entrance of the tent, her hands clasped together, a look of grave concern upon her face. Lucas started to sit up.
"We should not whisper in the presence of a lady," he began. She rushed to his side instantly, gently urging him back down.
"No, do not get up, my lord. You're hurt," she said.
"I am somewhat the worse for wear," said Lucas, gently removing her hands from his chest and sitting up, "but I assure you, I'm not injured, only weary."