by Robert Thier
He started looking around for something else to smash—when, suddenly, a thought struck him:
Ayla had promised to hang him from the highest tower of the castle.
But he wasn't dead yet, was he?
Carefully, he reached up and checked his neck. No, definitely no rope marks. And no noose around it, either.
Something was holding her back.
Of course, it might just be the preparations for having him hanged, drawn, and quartered instead of just hanged. Or maybe, just maybe…she might not want to kill him.
Could there still be hope?
Improper Ideas
Ayla found Burchard in the main hall, where he was trying to coordinate the accommodation of the displaced villagers. It looked like he wasn't having much success thus far. The dark hall was a chaos of frightened people shouting, asking questions, and not receiving any answers. Burchard stood in the center, holding a torch aloft and yelling at people who wouldn't listen.
When Ayla entered, a hush fell over the assembled crowd. People made way for her as she approached her steward, bowing to her respectfully.
“How is everything coming along?” she asked, marveling at the fact that she had managed to keep her voice reasonably steady.
“As well as can be expected,” Burchard grunted. He peered at her suspiciously from under his impressively bushy eyebrows. “Why is your face wet?”
“The rain,” she said.
“Oh, right.” He was about to return his attention to the parchment in his hand when he frowned. “But it isn't raining outside.”
“Is the castle large enough to house everybody?” she asked in a desperate effort to distract him. It worked.
“No, of course it isn't.” The answer came clear and concise. The steward lowered his voice so the surrounding villagers couldn't listen. It didn't get any less furious in the process. “This castle was meant to be a refuge for its lord or lady, not for several hundred puny peasants. Oh, and let's not forget that you let them bring their cows and geese and heaven only knows what else along!”
“Which I'm sure was a good idea, considering how many hungry mouths we will have to feed.”
“Yes. But it was also you who brought all those hungry mouths into the castle in the first place.”
“What should I have done?” she demanded. “Left them to the mercenaries?”
“No, of course not. Not you.” He glared at her fondly. “You've always had more heart than sense.”
“Thanks.”
“That wasn't intended as a compliment.”
“I'm sure it wasn't. Now, are you sure we can't find a place for everyone?” Concerned, Ayla let her eyes drift over the many people milling about in the main hall. “It's a pretty big castle, you know.”
“Actually, I do know its size. I've been running it for over two decades, after all,” the steward said morosely. “And no, there is not enough room. The barracks are occupied by the soldiers, and we can't let the village folk get in their way. I have been able to place about one hundred in the stables. It's not very comfortable, but at least it's warm and dry. Another fifty will be able to camp out in the main hall, once this rabble has dispersed.” He gestured at the villagers around them. “Then there's the armory—all the weapons we have are in the soldiers’ hands right now, so it's empty and can be put to use. The servants can make a bit of room in their quarters, too. That's another fifty. But many of the guest rooms are already filled with men recovering from their wounds.”
His words hit Ayla like a spear in the chest. The guest rooms. Men recovering from their wounds. Her thoughts were immediately with one particular man, who had just now recovered from a grievous injury. One man who had lied to her. One man who had betrayed her.
Only with great effort did she prevent tears from coming to her eyes again.
Burchard, never particularly sensitive to feelings that weren't proclaimed from the rooftops, plowed on: “So that leaves about twenty or thirty, maybe even fifty peasants without a roof over their heads. Sir Rudolfus is counting right now. He seems to be very good at counting.”
“So a few dozen people at least,” concluded Ayla, just managing not to sob.
“Yes. And we have nowhere to put them.”
Ayla frowned. “But…what about my chambers?”
Burchard blinked.
“You sleep in your chambers, Milady.”
“Yes, I know that, Burchard. And?”
“Do you seriously mean to suggest, Milady, that you want to share your chambers with a group of complete strangers?”
Ayla blushed. “They wouldn't have to be men.”
“I should bloody well hope not!” Burchard's bushy mustache bristled with rage. “Have you any idea how improper that would be?”
“I have no doubt you will be informing me over the course of the next half hour.”
Burchard eyed her suspiciously. “Where did you learn to be so cheeky all of a sudden?”
Another lance of pain pierced her heart. Ayla knew exactly where she had picked that up—or to be more exact, from whom.
“I practiced secretly,” she retorted, keeping the pain hidden as well as she could. “Now, are you going to give the orders for people to bring their belongings to my chambers or do I have to do it myself?”
“But even if you were to share your personal chambers—” Burchard glared at her, this time not so very fondly as before, “—which, by the way, is completely out of the question, there still wouldn't be enough room.”
“Well, as for that, I have an idea.”
*~*~**~*~*
Very softly, Ayla knocked at the door.
“Enter,” came the brittle voice from inside. Ah, she knew he wouldn't be asleep. It was the middle of the night, true, and he was an old man, but who could sleep on a night like this? She opened the door, slowly walked to the bed, and knelt beside her father.
“I'm sorry I haven't come to see you before now,” she said, grasping his hand and pressing it softly.
The count's lips twitched in a humorless smile. “You don't need to be. From what I could hear from my tower chamber, you are pretty busy these days.”
She nodded, trying to swallow the lump in her throat.
The count studied her face intently. Apparently, he didn't miss much, even by the scant light of the single candle beside his bed. He reached up and softly touched her cheek, which was still damp from the tears and glittering in the candlelight.
“Is the siege going that badly?”
She didn't bother to correct him. No need to tell him that the reason for her tears had nothing whatsoever to do with the enemy army before their gates. He had enough to worry about as it was.
“We're surrounded,” she said, not bothering to sugarcoat anything. It was too late for that. “There is no hope of escape or relief.”
“Still, all our people are safe within the walls of Luntberg Castle?”
“They are safe—for now.”
The count breathed a sigh. Of relief? Of resignation? “Aye. For now.” He gazed at his daughter intently. “Why have you come up here, child? There are people down there who need you. I am sure you have better things to do than to tend to an old man who is of no use to anyone.”
Impulsively, Ayla leaned forward and hugged her father. The frail old man was as light as a feather in her arms.
“Never say that,” she breathed. “Do you hear me? Never! I don't know what I'd do without you. After mother's death…”
“Psht.” Softly, the count pushed her away and put a finger on her lips. “Let's not speak of that today. You have enough troubles.”
Ayla took a deep breath and tried to force the thought from her mind. He was right. More right even than he himself knew.
“So, why did you come, daughter?”
She tried to force a smile.
“Why, to see you, father. And to steal your servant.”
“Indeed?” The old man's white eyebrows went up.
“Yes.” Ayla m
anaged a half-hearted grin. “There's so much work to be done down in the castle right now, I'm afraid we can't spare anyone just to look after a crotchety old man such as yourself.”
Now the count smiled as well. “Dear me. And there was I, thinking I was something special.”
“Don't you worry,” Ayla said and stroked his beard. “I've found you a replacement. Several, actually.”
“Several? My, my, these are days of luxury. I thought you said we were cut off from the outside world. How have you procured new attendants for me, then?”
“Oh, it wasn't that difficult.” Ayla turned her head and called, “You can come in now.”
The door to the room opened, revealing a family of four: a widowed mother with three little children.
Ayla smiled at her father. “You see, father? This good woman has kindly agreed to enter your service as a chamber maid, and she has found three pages to tend to your every need. Not only that—she has even agreed to sleep in the same room with you, so if ever you were to wake up during the night and require anything, she is there to aid you.”
“How prodigiously kind of her,” the count said with a secret smile directed at his daughter. Then, to the mother and her children, “Come in, come in, and be welcome.”
Hesitantly, the mother ushered her three little ones into the count's bedchamber. She looked around, her eyes almost as big as those of her children, taking in the massive stone walls, the fine tapestries, the intricately carved furniture made out of heavy, dark wood.
“And we are really to stay here?” she asked, fear and doubt mingling in her voice. “In this fine room? But Milord, we couldn't. It would be a presumption.”
“Nonsense,” the count said with a wave of his hand. His voice might be brittle and old, but its tone was both firm and kind. “You heard what my daughter said. You're entering my service. I am so old and sickly, I need constant supervision.” He made an effort to look especially weary as he spoke. “In fact, you would be failing in your duties to your liege lord if you didn't stay with me.”
“Well…” the woman still hesitated. “If that is the case…”
“It is, it is,” the count confirmed. He pointed towards the back of the room. “Over there is another bed, sheets and pillows are in the chest by the window. You and your little ones make yourself comfortable. You've had a long night, and I'm sure you are exhausted. I will call you when I need you.”
Gratefully, the woman nodded and went to make a bed for her and her children, who were still staring at Ayla with big eyes.
“I see you have learned the merit of diplomacy,” the count quietly said to his daughter. They shared a brief smile. Then, the count's eyes flickered over to the staring children.
“Why are their eyeballs almost popping out of their sockets?” He asked in an even lower voice.
Ayla shrugged. “I guess they're just impressed. It's their first meeting with a count, after all.”
“Yes, but they are staring not at me, but at you.”
“Are they? I hadn't noticed.”
“You are a terrible liar, my child.”
Ayla scowled. “I wonder who I inherited that trait from. It's not my fault that I'm the daughter of the most honorable and upright man in the entire Holy Roman Empire.”
The count frowned.
“Flattery won't get you out of this, Ayla. What are you hiding?”
Ayla plastered a smile on her face. “Nothing, nothing. Rest now, will you? I have things to do, so I probably will not be able to come see you for a while. But now I know you're well cared for.”
And before the count could protest, she had kissed him on the cheek and was out the door.
Outside, she rid herself of the cloak she had thrown over before coming to see her father, thereby revealing the large tear-stains on her dress where she had wiped her eyes with the cloth. She really needed to change.
*~*~**~*~*
Ayla left her chambers dressed in a fresh white linen dress. She was acutely aware that it was the last time she would be able to change in her chambers for a while if she managed to implement her plans against Burchard's resistance.
Oh, well, there were many noblemen who didn't wash or change their clothes for weeks on end. What did it signify? She might not even live that long. And it wasn't like she wanted to look her best for someone. Not now, that Reuben—
Ayla stopped that thought in its track. She had to remember that in truth, she had never had any feelings for that traitor. Yes, that was something she had to keep in mind.
She also had to start working now. Watches on the wall, rationing of food and water, there were a hundred things that needed to be organized.
Those are only two things, that nasty little voice in the back of her mind said. Not a hundred. And there is one matter more important than anything else. The sentencing of a traitor within your walls.
No, no, that could wait. He was well guarded. She needed time to think!
Desperate for some quiet and fresh air, Ayla left the keep and made her way to the back, to the little orchard where she had found peace and serenity so often before.
Before Reuben.
No. It would help, even now. She would find her peace and strength again—for her people. It surely shouldn't be so difficult to forget a man who had never cared for her in the slightest. As Ayla entered the little orchard and felt the trees enclosing her in their arms like old friends, her breathing steadied and her mind relaxed. She would be herself again. She needed no man. She was strong and independent.
“Hey!” a voice suddenly came from behind her out of the darkness, and somebody grabbed her sleeve.
Flinching, Ayla whirled around.
Miniature Betrayal
Fye tugged again on the sleeve of the pretty blonde lady and stared up at the face far above her. The lady looked funny. Her eyes were all puffed up, but Fye couldn't waste any time wondering why. She was on a mission.
The blonde lady, Ayla, wiped water from her puffy eyes and bent down, smiling, though a bit weakly.
“Y-yes, my girl? What is it?”
“I'm bored,” Fye declared, holding up her two dolls—the knight and the lady. “I'm tired of my old game and want a new one.”
“I see. And how can I help?”
“I wanted to ask your opinion. You see, at the start, I thought it would be fun to have Sir Reuben,” she held up the knight doll, “save his Lady so they could both live happily ever after.”
“Sounds nice,” whispered the blonde lady, although her smile wavered as she said it.
“No, no.” Fye scowled. “That's what I thought at first, too. But then I realized it's soooo boring. So, how about this: Sir Reuben betrays his lady and becomes evil!” She smiled, proud of her innovative idea. “Wouldn't that be much more interesting, do you think?”
Suddenly the wet stuff started to leak out of the blonde lady's eyes again. She turned abruptly and hurried away, clutching her face in her hands and wailing like a pig with a sore foot.
Frowning, Fye stared after her. Adults were really weird sometimes.
*~*~**~*~*
Sir Luca scowled up at the dark castle, silhouetted against a moonlit night sky, and muttered curses in Italian. He was not pleased about what had happened just now. Not pleased at all.
He was a renowned warrior and general, commander of the armed forces of the Margrave von Falkenstein and leader of the campaign against Lady Ayla von Luntberg. He had just succeeded in taking the bridge down in the valley and trapping his enemy inside her castle, so he should be happy, no?
But the triumph had turned sour in his mouth. He had just had a little talk with this Lady Ayla. He had impressed upon her how fully he had beaten her, how superior he was in military matters—and he was just about to proceed to detail all the horrible things he would do to her if she did not surrender when she suddenly, in the middle of the parley, asked some odd, unconnected questions, then turned and left him standing in the dark. This was not proper behavior for b
eleaguered damsels! They were supposed to quiver in fear of you, not ignore you and leave you standing. They were supposed to tremble before your mightiness and properly beg for mercy, which, of course, they would not receive.
Instead, Sir Luca had ended up at the foot of the wall of Luntberg castle, shouting himself hoarse for half an hour, trying to get the little zoccola to come back and listen to what he had to say. It had been for naught.
So now he was staring at the castle with as much hatred as could burn in his small, dark eyes—which was quite a lot.
“Mannaggia tua!” he muttered to himself. “If only I could attack. Then I would show her!”
Ah yes, if he could attack! For a moment, he indulged in the fantasy, imagining the war cries from hundreds of men as they stormed towards the castle walls, equipped with torches, ladders and heavy weaponry. He imagined the sound of a trebuchet as it hurled its deadly load against the home of his enemies, smashing the mighty walls of the castle to dust.
But no, it was not to be.
Falkenstein wanted the castle intact, and, if possible, also its lady.
From the left, he heard footsteps approaching and turned to see Conrad coming towards him. The mercenary bowed.
“What is it?” growled Sir Luca.
“The men have looted the village and burnt it to the ground.”
“And?”
“They're not very satisfied, Sir. There wasn't much left to loot.”
“Well, you can guess where your loot is, can't you?” Angrily, the commander gestured at the castle.
“Aye, Sir.” Conrad bowed again. “So, what now? The men are tired. May they retire for the night?”
“Retire?” Sir Luca let out a short bark of laughter. Energy again coursed through him. It had always been thus. The laziness of others roused in him the desire to whip them until they continued. One reason why he was such an excellent commander. “Tell the bastardi that tonight's work has just begun!”