Robber Knight's Love: Special Edition

by Thier, Robert

  That was when he heard the footsteps behind him. He knew at once that it wasn't Ayla. They sounded much too heavy. Besides, if Ayla were to grunt and grumble like that, he might reconsider the plans for their joined future.

  Burchard entered Reuben’s field of vision. A thick bandage was wrapped around his shoulder.

  “I heard shouts out here from the keep,” he grunted. “Sounded like a raging bull.”

  “That was me,” Reuben told him.

  “I see.” Burchard studied the slaving soldiers. “I also see you have them firmly in hand.”

  Reuben nodded smugly. “It's nice to have some respect.”

  The steward gave a derisive snort. “They don't respect you. They're just scared to hell of you.”

  “Where's the difference?”

  The steward gave a non-committal grunt, then he fell silent and just stood behind Reuben, his jaw working. Reuben ignored him. He figured the steward would start talking soon enough about why he was really here. Reuben had an idea what that might be.

  Finally, Burchard cleared his throat. “You're…interested in Lady Ayla.”

  Ah. He had been right.

  He raised an eyebrow. “How quick of you to notice.”

  “Don't be flippant with me, boy!” Gripping Reuben by the arm, Burchard tried to pull him around to face him. Reuben remained standing, as if he were a stone statue, his muscles not even having to bunch to resist the older man. Slowly, he turned of his own volition and fixed a fiery gray glare on the steward.

  “And you,” he said in a low voice, “do not call me boy. You will find that it is really very inappropriate. Now, let go of my arm.”

  Burchard let go of him as if he held a poisonous adder.

  “Very well then,” he started again, clearly having to force his voice to remain calm. “Listen to me, Sir Reuben. It is evident that you intend to court my Lord's daughter. It is evident that she cares for you deeply, the devil knows why! From what I've seen, I believe you care for her too. But with you, I'm not going to settle for belief. Ayla is a brave mistress, and as clever a young lady as ever I have seen, but she is still a young girl. She does not see through your pretenses as I do.”

  Oh, trust me, Reuben thought to himself, tempted to smirk, that's where you're wrong.

  “What are you trying to say, steward?” he asked out loud. “Are you trying to give me fair warning?”

  “Indeed I am. As Lady Ayla's vassal, it is my duty to protect her, no matter whether or not I am a warrior. You will not encourage and then betray her. You will not harm her in any other way. If you do, if you hurt her…” Burchard's massive eyebrows bunched together. Even Reuben had to admit, it was an impressive sight. There was a pause as the steward thought furiously.

  “I just realized something,” he finally admitted, muttering a low curse and glancing over at Reuben's muscled form and the huge sword at his belt. “There's nothing I can threaten you with, is there?”

  “You could threaten to come into my room in the middle of the night and cut my throat,” Reuben suggested. “But if you try, I should warn you. I always keep my door bolted from the inside, no matter where I sleep, and I have various…surprises for people trying to pay my room a nocturnal visit.”

  Burchard glared at him. “You're no knight of honor!”

  “No,” Reuben admitted rather cheerfully. “But I'm willing to pretend to be one sometimes, for Ayla's sake.”

  “Who are you, Sir Reuben Rachwild?” Burchard whispered. “Where do you come from? What is it you are hiding?”

  Meeting the older man's gaze steadily, Reuben remained silent. He had no intention of telling this old walrus a single syllable.

  “Sir Isenbard knew, didn't he?” Burchard demanded. “And that Italian commander! They knew what you are.”

  Again, Reuben remained silence. But this time, his silence served only to confirm what Burchard already knew.

  “He called you something…” Burchard muttered. “The Commander. He called you something in Italian before he died. If only I could remember.”

  Reuben tried not to let the relief show on his face. He wasn't very good at concealing emotions. Rather, he usually chose to air them, preferably with the help of a human punching ball. But this was one time when he had to keep a tight hold on his emotions. Burchard didn't remember—thank all the demons of hell!

  Burchard raised a finger till it was under Reuben's nose.

  “You just wait. I'll find out what it is you're hiding. And if it is anything that can hurt my Lord's little girl—may God have mercy on you!”

  “He? Mercy on me?” One corner of Reuben's mouth twisted up in the semblance of a smile. “Now that is very unlikely.”

  *~*~**~*~*

  Ayla's eyelids fluttered open. She was lying in her bed, soft sheets surrounding her. For a moment, she didn't know why she felt so warm and happy. Then she remembered: Sir Luca was gone, his army was beaten, her people were safe, and Reuben loved her!

  She allowed herself to dwell on the last point for a few minutes, enjoying the feeling of warmth from both the outside and the inside as the sun fell in through the window and her heart blossomed.

  Then, slowly, she stretched and prepared to rise. But no, her bed was just so warm and comfy… She snuggled into the warm sheets once again and repeated to herself, Reuben loves me. Reuben loves me.

  Yes, a little voice in her head told her, but who is Reuben really? Or rather…what is he? Do you remember the hand in the fire…?

  Shoving back the thought and her blanket aside, Ayla set up and drowsily reached for her shoes. Still in her nightgown, she pattered towards the narrow window and looked out over the valley. The sun was rising. Birds were singing in the trees and on the tops of towers. Far below her in the distance, the river glittered in the sunlight.

  Ayla smiled again.

  She had been right to banish all dark thoughts. Nothing could be amiss on a morning like this. It was going to be a perfect day, of that she was certain. After all, what could possibly go wrong now?

  Newfound Discipline

  Ayla gave herself one day of rest from the work that lay ahead. One day, and no more. She badly needed a day of rest, and besides, it was time to visit her father.

  “Hello!” Sticking her head through the door, she lovingly looked down at the old man. “Are you awake?”

  “Yes,” he yawned. “I slept like a baby.”

  “You didn’t hear anything during the night?”

  “No. Why, did something happen?”

  “Well…sort of. The siege is ended. We’ve won the feud.”

  “What?”

  It took Ayla quite a while to convince him that she was not, in fact, making a bad joke. When she had managed to convince him of that, his next theory was that either she had gone mad or he was dreaming and would wake up any minute. It took a good part of the morning to rid him of his doubts.

  “But how?” he kept saying, even when he finally believed her. “How could you, Captain Linhart, and the others suddenly achieve this victory? To do that, one would have to be a master tactician and experienced warrior! We have no one like that here!”

  Ayla felt a blush creep into her cheeks.

  “Ayla?” the Count gave her an intent look. “We have nobody like that here, right?”

  “Um…I think I must go,” she mumbled, getting to her feet. “I forgot, there are still wounded to look after, things to arrange, houses to rebuild…”

  “Ayla! Come back this instance and explain!”

  “Bye!”

  And she dived out of the door, down the tower steps. Somehow, up to this point, she had conveniently forgotten to mention a certain lecherous red knight’s presence to her dear father. That would have to be rectified, with a clear head and a wagonload of diplomacy.

  For now, Ayla went to the wounded. Yes, it had, at first, only been an excuse to get away from her father’s threatening inquisition, and yes, she had given herself one day off, but only from all the rest o
f the work. She couldn't sit idly by while there were still people hurting and sick within her walls. So she worked pretty much the whole morning, changing bandages, talking to people, applying salves, and, in one case, holding the hand of an old soldier who had gotten a guisarme in the gut.

  “I'm so sorry,” she told him with tears in her eyes. “There's nothing I can do for you.”

  The old man smiled a crooked smile. His teeth were uneven and yellow, and half of them were missing. Still, for some reason, it was a beautiful smile.

  “Milady, I knew that I was gonna die the moment that pick-sticker cut me open. I've been a soldier for more than thirty years, remember? Don't worry yourself. I've had a good time. I've died the way I've always wanted to: in battle.”

  “But I don't want you to!” Ayla protested. “I don't want you to die! I don't want anybody to die!”

  The man's smile became softer. He moved his head in what might have been a nod. It might also have been the best attempt at a bow which a dying man could manage.

  “It has been an honor to serve you, Milady von Luntberg. I shall give Sir Isenbard your regards.”

  Managing a small nod of her own, Ayla attempted to smile. It turned out more like a grimace, but it was the effort that counted.

  “You do that,” she sniffed. “And be sure to tell him that I love him.”

  The old soldier pressed her hand gently. “I figure he already knows that, Milady. But enough of us boring, old, dying men. I want to talk of the living as long as I still can talk! Are congratulations in order?”

  What? Ayla was confused, so much so that it even stopped her tears. What was he talking about?

  “You know? That Reuben fellow?” The old soldier winked at her. He actually winked at the mistress of his castle and his liege lady! “Are you going to tie the knot with him?”

  Ayla turned as red as beetroot and hid half of her face behind her hands. The old man chuckled.

  “It's all right, lass. The reaper will be along to collect me soon. I'm allowed to ask rude questions. Remember, before I go, the priest will come and forgive all my sins.”

  Ayla couldn’t help smiling a little at that. “True.”

  “So, what about the two of you? Are you two…?”

  “I…I think so,” Ayla mumbled. What was she doing? Why was she suddenly opening up about her innermost feelings, fears, and doubts to this man, whom she'd known all her life simply as a friendly face under an iron cap? “Yes, I think so.”

  “Is he a good man?”

  Ayla gave this question due consideration.

  “Well…I'm not too sure about that. I rather think he isn’t. But I think he's the man who could make me happy.”

  The old soldier chuckled. “That's often the way it is. Well, Milady, I wish you a happily ever after. You've certainly gotten the right fellow to make sure no harm ever comes to you.”

  Ayla looked at him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  He chuckled again, but this time, it ended in a coughing fit. Ayla held him and tried to soothe him until it had subsided. When finally he could breathe again, the soldier smiled. A trickle of blood ran down the side of his mouth.

  “I saw the look in his eyes when that Italian bastard had you. Milady—I've been a soldier all my life. I've seen my share of wroth and hatred. But never in my life did I see a look like that. If you want the advice of an old soldier—take him. He'll go through hell for you.”

  Ayla's fingers shook. The words of the old soldier had struck a chord in her, reawakened her deepest fears and darkest questions. For a moment, in front of her inner eye, she saw a hand burning in flames. Reuben’s hand.

  “I know,” she whispered. “I'm only afraid he's already been there.”

  A frown appeared on the old man's face.

  “What do you mea—” Suddenly, he broke off. A violent coughing fit seized him. Ayla tried to soothe him or give him some water, anything, but it would not do.

  “Fetch the priest!” she yelled at a passing maid. “Tell him to bring everything for the last rites! Quick!”

  The old soldier died within the hour. She never even got a chance to ask his name. Later, another guard told her it was Wigand. Ayla knew she would not forget Wigand for the rest of her life.

  There were many others she tried to save that day, some she could help, many others she couldn't. Lunch was no particularly appetizing prospect when she was finally finished looking after all her patients. Yet Ayla went anyway, knowing that it would be her first real meal in a long time. Knowing the castle was besieged, she had reduced her rations and skipped meals for a very long time. Even though her faithful watchdog, Burchard, had done his best to stuff her like a goose at regular intervals, Ayla had more than once given her rations to children or the sick.

  She entered the great hall—and suddenly, the buzz of voices around her ceased. Everyone was there: the villagers, the off-duty guards, the servants, maids, cooks, and kitchen boys. Suddenly, they sprang to their feet and started cheering.

  “Milady!”

  Dilli came running towards Ayla and hugged her without bothering to curtsey. “Milady, where have you been? The enemy is gone! Destroyed! We are safe! You saved us, Milady! We have to celebrate! Where have you been? Oh, thank you for saving us, Milady! Thank you!”

  The call was taken up by others. Ayla was grabbed by dozens of hands and lifted on the shoulders of the crowd that streamed towards her. Cheering and throwing their hats into the air, they passed her from hand to hand like a victory trophy.

  “Please…let me down! It wasn’t I who saved you! The plan wasn’t my idea! Let me down! We still have a lot of work to do!”

  They didn’t hear a word she said.

  Finally, she just stopped her useless protests, put on a brave smile, and let them carry her around. Apparently, they didn't seem to think it was enough to carry her to the Lord's table. They carried her three times around the room in an improvised victory parade, calling out her name and blessings on her house.

  Shaking her head, Ayla lovingly looked down at the motley mix of faces: bearded wood-cutters and farmers, the old crone of a cook that had been here since her grandfather's days, young boys and girls of every size and shape. She felt a warmth blossom in her heart.

  They have a right to celebrate, a thought shot through her mind. They and their families are alive when they thought they would never see the living light of day again.

  Finally, the victory parade was stopped by Dilli, who called out, “Shame on you! Shame on you! Milady hasn't had any more to eat than the rest of us—probably less!—and you keep her from her meal! Set her down and get back to your places!”

  Chastened, the crowd set Ayla on her feet again.

  “Sorry, Milady,” said Bardo the carpenter, twisting his cap in his hand. “We didn't mean no harm. We was just…”

  She couldn't help laughing. “Yes, Bardo, I know. I know you didn't mean any harm. On the contrary, you meant good, and I thank you.” She clapped her hands. “Everybody! Back to the tables. Tell the cooks to serve everybody a full meal! Rationing is over. And besides that, everybody will get one cup of my father's best mead!”

  A cheer went up.

  “Everybody?” Squeaked an excited boy, who was sitting on his father's shoulders. He had to be no more than five years old.

  “Everybody except the children, of course,” she corrected herself, which got a few grumbles from the younger people in the room. “For them, it shall be an extra slice of salt pork instead,” she added, an announcement that was greeted with a second cheer.

  Soon, the food was ready, and its warm smell filled the hall. It was by no means a real feast laid out before them. even though the siege was over, they still had to be careful, with autumn and winter approaching. But, to the people of Luntberg, every slice of pork was a roasted boar, every sip of mead a bottle of the finest wine.

  Ayla, who had contented herself with her usual bowl of gruel, found that it tasted much better than she would have
expected. It was still the same gruel, still the same plain fare, but there was a sweetness to it: the sweetness of victory, seasoned with the mustard of peace and the pepper of companionship. Around her, Ayla saw people happily chatting with one another, anticipating a speedy return to their homes down in the valley. Ayla knew that it wouldn't be so easy, but she also knew that the day would come, sooner or later. She would make sure of that. These people deserved a home.

  At the very end of the guard's table, she saw two quiet figures: Hans and his wife Madalena. The guard bore a new scar on the left cheek, where a blade had nearly missed his eye during the fighting. She looked at them. They looked at her. Then, slowly and deliberately, they bowed their heads to her, and she nodded in return. Madalena reached down, and from between raucously laughing guards, picked up two girls: tiny little things with shy smiles and identical little pigtails. Anna and Katherine. The moisture glittering in their mother's eyes as she held them and looked at Ayla said more than words ever could.

  Ayla ate slowly that day, enjoying her first relaxed meal in weeks. She was one of the last to leave the hall. Having already seen to the wounded that day, she made a tour of the castle, checking how the families that were camped out everywhere were doing. Wherever she went, she was welcomed with warmth and exuberance. The people bowed, laughed, cheered, and, in some cases where familiarity had worn down the feudal distinctions, gave her a hug—a thing she treasured more than all the bows in the world.

  “Milady,” one of the women whispered, grasping her hand, “if I may be so bold as to ask…what will become of us now? Our village is still in ruins.”

  “Don't be silly,” Ayla told the woman with a reassuring squeeze of the hand. “You'll stay here in the castle of course until all the repairs are completed. It's a bit cramped for so many people, but I think it will be all right, don't you worr—”

  Before she could finish, the woman had pulled her into her arms and hugged her tightly.

  “Thank you, Milady!” Ayla could hear the half-suppressed tears in her voice. “Thank you! May St. Matilda[24] bless you and all your children!”