While Niklas surveyed a table of fearsome weapons, Richard laid hold of his battle-axe like a man claiming the love of his life. He gripped it tightly, but respectfully, and then turned his shoulders squarely toward his opponent.
Niklas was almost ready to be knighted. In fact, he had rehearsed his ceremony of homage just a fortnight before. He was the son of a noble in Oldenburg and a relative by blood to Lord Klothar. He was steadfast, devout, and confident of his place in Creation’s Holy Chain.
The peasants gathered in a large ring around the combatants. They cheered most loudly for Richard, of course, since he was of lowly birth. The young man tied his long, blond hair in a knot behind his neck and crouched like a cat ready to strike. Niklas had chosen a fork as his weapon. It was a long-handled, three-pronged trident favored by the crusaders of Barbarossa for its ability to keep opponents at bay. Niklas reasoned he needed only to catch the handle of Richard’s axe and twist it from his grip. The two combatants nodded as Simon’s wife, the gracious Lady Irina, dropped a yellow kerchief to the ground. Surrounded by cheers and shouts, claps and whistles, the two circled each other slowly.
It was in that moment when Richard realized he was at a great disadvantage, for his axe was meant to be a rushing weapon, one used to charge a foe in an indelicate, crude assault. The trident was its perfect foil. “I should’ve chose the flail!” he muttered to himself.
Niklas thrust his fork forward, straight at Richard’s face. The startled peasant turned his head and swung a blocking blow that swept through empty air. Niklas laughed and feigned another parry. Richard dodged, but had dodged nothing, earning jeers from the crowd. Embarrassed and humiliated, Richard then rushed his opponent with his axe held high overhead. Niklas stepped quickly to one side and flung his fork toward the ground in front of Richard’s feet. The boy tripped and tumbled into the dust.
Now furious, Richard charged Niklas again. This time, Niklas deftly aimed his fork at Richard’s falling axe and caught the handle in the crotch of his spikes. He then jerked and twisted the weapon in hopes of dislodging it from Richard’s grip. But the peasant had learned well and held on tightly, lurching forward to absorb the squire’s yank.
The two circled again and Richard wisely waited for his foe to thrust. If my timing is good … thought the lad. He waited patiently, but the crowd was growing tired and loud, urging the two to get on with it. Richard looked sideways to see Lord Simon yawning and teasing with a maiden, and the lad knew he was not impressing anyone. He turned his eyes hard upon Niklas and varied his plan. He charged the squire with an ear-piercing yell.
Lord Simon turned his face to see young Richard’s brave charge and stood to his feet in anticipation. The young man raised his axe high over his right shoulder and kept his eyes fixed on Niklas’s fork as he stormed forward. Niklas stepped backward with rapid, short strides and kept his eyes fixed on Richard’s axe as it fell toward him in a mighty swipe.
Niklas had been well trained, and he instantly lowered the angle of his fork to catch the axe’s handle close to his opponent’s hands. But he lowered his pole too far, puncturing Richard’s right hand with one of the trident’s spikes. With a scream of anguish, Richard fell sideways to the ground. The poor lad rolled in the dirt, then rose to his knees and held his bloodied hand with tears of agony streaming down his face. Three attendants raced to his side and wrapped his wound with Lady Irina’s kerchief.
With words of comfort and encouragement they then carried Richard to a hastily cleared table in the great hall where the lord’s surgeon attended him. The young man was held fast to the tabletop and cried out in agony as the surgeon did his best to stitch and splint the hand. Simon offered a few words of sympathy to the devastated youth and left him to rest; he knew Richard’s hand would be forever lame.
News of Richard’s injury spread quickly to Weyer. Arnold was enraged and knew he had lost all hopes of a son well-placed in the warring class. Abbot Stephen was disgruntled as well, for he had loaned Lord Simon a healthy young body, only to have a disabled one returned. Indeed, Richard possessed qualities that were better suited for fields of battle than fields of grain.
Heinrich lamented his friend’s misfortune, but he had troubles of his own. It was the eve of his wedding and he faced Brother Lukas with a quaking voice.
Lukas tried to comfort him. “Heinrich, the price of joy is sorrow.”
“Then I shall be a joyful man, indeed!” Heinrich moaned. “And what sort of comfort is that?”
Lukas shrugged. He was at a loss for words, and all Emma could suggest was that the baker renounce the betrothal. “Nay!” snapped the baker. “I cannot break the pledge!”