FullReads

“Thanks. When the going gets rough, I really enjoy an Old Kings.”

He put one end of the cigarette in his mouth and lit the other from the lighter in Sir Gaeton’s hand.

“Yes, sir,” said Sir Gaeton, after lighting his own cigarette, “Old Kings are the greatest. They give a man real, deep-down smoking pleasure.”

“There’s no doubt about it, Old Kings are a man’s cigarette.” Sir Robert could feel the soothing smoke in his lungs as he inhaled deeply. “That’s great. When I want a cigarette, I don’t want just any cigarette.”

“Nor I,” agreed the Gascon. “Old Kings is the only real cigarette when you’re doing a real man’s work.”

“That’s for sure.” Sir Robert watched a smoke ring expand in the air.

There was a sudden clash of arms off to their left. Sir Robert dropped his cigarette to the ground. “The trouble is that doing a real he-man’s work doesn’t always allow you to enjoy the fine, rich tobaccos of Old Kings right down to the very end.”

“No, but you can always light another later,” said the Gascon knight.

* * * * *

King Richard, on seeing his army moving suddenly toward the harassed rear, had realized the danger and had charged through the Hospitallers to get into the thick of the fray. Now the Turks were charging down from the hills, hitting–not the flank as he had expected, but the rear! Saladin had expected him to hold fast!

Sir Robert and Sir Gaeton spurred their chargers toward the flapping banner of England.

The fierce warrior-king of England, his mighty sword in hand, was cutting down Turks as though they were grain-stalks, but still the Saracen horde pressed on. More and more of the terrible Turks came boiling down out of the hills, their glittering scimitars swinging.

Sir Robert lost all track of time. There was nothing to do but keep his own great broadsword moving, swinging like some gigantic metronome as he hacked down the Moslem foes.

And then, suddenly, he found himself surrounded by the Saracens! He was isolated and alone, cut off from the rest of the Christian forces! He glanced quickly around as he slashed another Saracen from pate to breastbone. Where was Sir Gaeton? Where were the others? Where was the red-and-gold banner of Richard?

He caught a glimpse of the fluttering banner far to the rear and started to fall back.

And then he saw another knight nearby, a huge man who swung his sparkling blade with power and force. On his steel helm gleamed a golden coronet! Richard!

And the great king, in spite of his prowess was outnumbered heavily and would, within seconds, be cut down by the Saracen horde!

Without hesitation, Sir Robert plunged his horse toward the surrounded monarch, his great blade cutting a path before him.

He saw Richard go down, falling from the saddle of his charger, but by that time his own sword was cutting into the screaming Saracens and they had no time to attempt any further mischief to the King. They had their hands full with Sir Robert de Bouain.

He did not know how long he fought there, holding his charger motionless over the inert body of the fallen king, hewing down the screaming enemy, but presently he heard the familiar cry of “For St. George and for England” behind him. The Norman and English troops were charging in, bringing with them the banner of England!

And then Richard was on his feet, cleaving the air about him with his own broadsword. Its bright edge, besmeared with Saracen blood, was biting viciously into the foe.

The Turks began to fall back. Within seconds, the Christian knights were boiling around the embattled pair, forcing the Turks into retreat. And for the second time, Sir Robert found himself with no one to fight.

And then a voice was saying: “You have done well this day, sir knight. Richard Plantagenet will not forget.”

Sir Robert turned in his saddle to face the smiling king.

“My lord king, be assured that I would never forget my loyalty to my sovereign and liege lord. My sword and my life are yours whenever you call.”

King Richard’s gauntleted hand grasped his own. “If it please God, I shall never ask your life. An earldom awaits you when we return to England, sir knight.”

And then the king mounted his horse and was running full gallop after the retreating Saracens.

* * * * *

Robert took off his helmet.

He blinked for a second to adjust his eyes to the relative dimness of the studio. After the brightness of the desert that the televicarion helmet had projected into his eyes, the studio seemed strangely cavelike.

“How’d you like it, Bob?” asked one of the two producers of the show.

Robert Bowen nodded briskly and patted the televike helmet. “It was O.K.,” he said. “Good show. A little talky at the beginning, and it needs a better fade-out, but the action scenes were fine. The sponsor ought to like it–for a while, at least.”

“What do you mean, ‘for a while’?”

Robert Bowen sighed. “If this thing goes on the air the way it is, he’ll lose sales.”

“Why? Commercial not good enough?”

“Too good! Man, I’ve smoked Old Kings, and, believe me, the real thing never tasted as good as that cigarette did in the commercial!”