It was Holy Thursday, the nineteenth of April, 1207, when Richard faced Lord Niklas once again. The knight was drunk with brandy cider and was accompanied by two escorts as he struggled across the castle bailey. The courtyard was a quagmire of mud and manure, and terribly rutted, so it was not uncommon for a pedestrian to lose a boot or find himself floundering, ankle deep in the brown muck. It was in just such a state that Lord Niklas was discovered by Richard as he passed by atop a cart of firewood. Having spent a winter of utter melancholy, having passed months with nary a smile or a grin, the blond peasant roared in delight. The loud laughter boiled the blood of the chagrined knight, and he responded with a string of oaths and blasphemies, scourges, insults, and mockeries that hushed the whole of the castleyard.
Richard seized his teamster by the shoulder and bade he hold fast. He turned and faced Niklas squarely. “Eh?” he cried.
“You heard me, y’son of Satan’s brothel. You one-handed simpleton, you’d be playin’ the fool your whole life, y’worthless coward!”
Richard stared silently at the knight who was shaking a fist at him. The disappointment of his life’s dream had never truly left him. Despite all efforts to break free, his lame hand still held him within its grasp; like others, he suffered a wound of life that he permitted to define him. He suddenly pictured his father’s face staring at his hand. He heard the man’s words ringing in his ears: “Worthless!” Richard wanted nothing more than to release his itching anger and avenge his shattered hopes. He scrambled through the logs until he laid his hands on the axe he had wielded all that dreadful winter. He snatched it and held it high. “I challenge you, Niklas! Have you the courage to face a simpleton and his axe?”
With a haughty laugh and a snarl, Lord Niklas agreed.
Word spread quickly throughout the castle sheds that a duel was about to begin, and the combatants barely had time to face each other before a circle of foul-smelling, black-toothed peasants were cheering and mocking the both of them.
Niklas was clearly drunk, and he stumbled this way and that as Richard cut the air with his swinging axe. Yet the knight had been well-seasoned by combat and quickly sharpened his senses with each near miss.
Heinrich pushed his way to the front of the circle and closed his eyes. “Oh, Richard! Poor fool … poor hopeless fool.” He clenched his teeth and grimaced and groaned as his friend and kinsman lunged about the mud, red-faced and furious.
At thirty-one, Richard surprised most, particularly Lord Niklas. For an aging peasant with a lame hand, the impudent rebel gave a good account of himself. He had not forgotten his training under Lord Simon, and years of repressed bitterness now uncoiled into a fierce assault. He blocked Niklas’s sword with skill, then swept his axe smoothly toward the knight’s dodging belly; he followed with a savage swipe at Niklas’s head, then swung another, and another.
But Niklas was no fool. He quickly discerned that his foe was driven by a fury that would blow itself away, like a gust on a cloudless day. The seasoned knight dodged and ducked, turned and stepped. He blocked and did not counter until Richard’s blazing eyes began to cool.
The flex in Richard’s joints slowly stiffened. His movements became less fluid and more lurching. His legs began to wobble, and soon sweat dripped heavy from his brow. Richard sucked air through a gaping mouth and his chest heaved. The white grip of his knuckles faded and his forearms burned. He cast one fleeting, desperate look at Heinrich and the baker held his breath.
Richard never really had a chance against the knight, and his vain effort finally earned only scoffs and ridicule from the circle of spectators. His arms now began to fail him and the axe weighed heavy. On burning legs he sloshed backward against a rapid flurry of Niklas’s sword. But, with a loud cry, Richard rallied what reserve of hatred he had left and charged forward one last time.
With a sneer, Niklas deftly dodged the assault, then plunged his sword through Richard’s lungs. The woeful cry of Heinrich filled Richard’s ears with their last sounds on earth. The pierced peasant stood wide-eyed for a moment, impaled nearly to the hilt of Niklas’s blade. The knight then yanked his sword away with a sickening sound and Richard toppled forward. Heinrich ran to his friend, only to have Falko hold him while Niklas rolled Richard over. Mercifully, the man’s soul had flown away and he was unaware of his final indignity as Niklas scraped his muddy boots across the bridge of his nose.
Heinrich claimed Richard’s body quickly. He washed and shrouded the bloodied corpse, and a willing priest said the final prayers as he and Blasius dug a grave beyond the castle wall. Then, as a spring cloudburst added yet more misery to the sad day, Richard’s body was lowered to its eternal rest.