Robber Knight: Special Edition

by Thier, Robert

  Reuben nodded to himself. That seemed like a good enough reason. He had to respect someone who knew how to use their threats. Slowly, he turned so that he was facing her. She had a very odd expression on her face, one he couldn't place right away. There was a little crease between her eyebrows, and her lips were puckered. Was she angry at him? Well, he thought wryly, she had reason enough.

  As soon as she noticed his look, the expression vanished, to be replaced by one supposedly far more fearsome. It almost made him laugh, because now he knew what her expression before had meant. It had only taken him so long to recognize because he hadn't seen that expression on another human face in a very long time. Silly girl! But it couldn't be, could it? Could she really be concerned for him?

  “Now,” she said, holding up a warning finger, “don't move,” and she began to smear the disgusting ointment all over his chest.

  “God's breath!”[30] He flinched back, away from her and the mixture on her hand. “What do you think you're doing?”

  “Helping you. And I forbade you to curse!”

  “That wasn't a curse either! You said that stuff came from a nunnery, didn't you? Well, something must have made it smell as bad as it does.”

  “That's blasphemy.”

  “Probably. Get used to it.”

  When Reuben retreated further up the wall, Ayla clenched her teeth and said, in a controlled voice:

  “Come back here.”

  “No! Not if you come near my front with that stuff again. What's in that mixture of yours, anyway?”

  “Nothing really bad. Just some rose oil.”

  “Rose oil? I know how roses smell. Definitely not like that.”

  “And some eggs, beeswax, cow fat, pus, and old wine.”

  “Pus? What kind of pus?”

  “I don't know. You'll have to ask the stable master who provided it. Now come here!”

  “No!”

  The girl glared at him. “I will apply this ointment one way or another.”

  “Not right under my nose, you won't.”

  “You were the one who suggested I push the arrows out the front instead of pulling. It's your own fault you've got wounds on the chest as well as on the back.”

  Reuben snorted. “Oh, excuse me for not wanting my insides ripped open by barbs.”

  “You are excused. Now come here already!”

  Reuben remained where he was, silent.

  In reply, she simply put her finger in the pot and scooped out a bit of the foul mixture. She looked at him with those big blue eyes of hers, seeming to ask: I want to help you, and you don't let me? Just because of a little smell?

  Oh damnation! Before he knew what he was doing, he moved forward, took a deep breath, and held it. “Do it!” he said.

  She began to apply the sticky paste. Her soft fingers slid over his chest around the area where the arrows had pierced the skin, just below his right nipple. Despite the stickiness of the ointment, it felt good for some reason. Reuben found himself relaxing.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid, he admonished himself. He shouldn't be relaxing. He wasn't safe here. He didn't even have a sword in his hand, which more or less equaled his conception of being safe. Why was he feeling like this?

  “I'm going to apply the ointment directly to your wounds now,” Ayla said. “It'll probably hurt very much. More even than when I pushed the arrows out. Do you think you can hold still?”

  That was why. The girl was so hilarious! How could one not be relaxed?

  “I think I'll manage,” he replied, trying very hard not to laugh.

  She caught on to his mood, though, and her eyes narrowed. “Very well.”

  She wasn't very gentle in applying the smelly stuff to his wounds. A few bits and pieces of skin came off. Reuben looked down at his chest curiously and wondered if this should hurt very much. Probably it should. What a strange world he was living in, sometimes. So different from anybody else's.

  “Does it hurt very much?” she asked sweetly, rubbing it in in the most literal sense.

  “Not at all,” he replied. “You have a most gentle touch, Milady.”

  She pressed harder. “Do I?”

  “Oh yes. The hands of a true healer.”

  “Well,” she said, her eyes burning with blue fire, “I'm very glad you think so. Time to wrap this up.” With a swift motion, she grabbed another linen from the table. “And you. Can you sit up?”

  Reuben sat in response.

  “Raise your arms.”

  “Why?” he asked, suspiciously.

  “Because I will need to wrap this around your chest to stop you from bleeding,” she replied, holding up the cloth. “And I don't think you would want me to tie your arms to your sides in the process. Although, now that you've mentioned it,” she added, her lips twitching, “that might not be such a bad idea.”

  Reuben raised his arms without deeming an answer necessary. That absolved him from explaining why exactly he had hesitated: namely because, normally, when someone asked him to raise his arms, it was because they wanted to take him prisoner.

  He was abruptly pulled from his thoughts when Ayla leant forward and suddenly their bodies were very, very close and... her arms were around him. This shouldn't have surprised him. It was only logical. She needed to reach around him to wrap the bandage around his chest. Once. Twice. Regretfully, he noticed that the linen bandage was nearly at an end. The girl reached around him a third and final time—and this time her hold lasted slightly longer.

  Reuben felt his arms drop and reach forward to take the ends of the bandage from her. “Shall I help you with that?”

  Somehow his hands didn't end up on the bandage, but on her shoulders.

  “Err... I... Yes, please do. I mean, do it yourself!”

  Quickly, she drew back and turned away. But not quickly enough. He had seen the rosy hue of her cheeks, and involuntarily grinned at the sight.

  Jumping to her feet, she quickly went to the door and, without turning, said: “I have to go now. There's important business I must attend to.”

  “I'm sure,” he said in an amused voice. “I can imagine that a lady such as you has many important tasks before her every day. When you take a break from combing your hair and plucking your eyebrows, do come and visit me. It's sure to be boring alone here.”

  She threw a scathing look over her shoulder. “Are you sure I didn't hurt you at all?”

  “Nope,” Reuben replied, jovially.

  “What a pity. Well, I will try my best to visit and put that right. If I can't manage it, I can always send Burchard.”

  With that threat hanging in the room she rushed out, leaving Reuben behind grinning like a Cheshire cat.

  Wobbling Bulwark[31]

  The impudent scoundrel! Fuming, Ayla marched down the corridor away from the chamber where that saucy, villainous, brain-boiled bastard lay in peace, probably contemplating how best to get his “compensation” out of her, while she had to get out there and face the Margrave von Falkenstein. Plucking eyebrows indeed! What did he know about her and the tasks ahead of her? Nothing!

  Yet what had aggravated her the most wasn't the fact that he seemed to radiate arrogance, nor that he had dared to order her servants about in her own castle, nor even the fact that he obviously thought of her as a brainless hen.

  No, what angered her was that through the entire procedure of removing the arrows, a process which should have left a pampered merchant like him, or indeed any man, screaming in agony, he hadn't uttered so much as a single sound of pain. He had even made polite conversation with her, for heaven's sake—the only time during their short acquaintance when he had actually deigned to be polite, so far.

  She had wanted to hurt him so badly—instead she ended up healing him. How she had wanted to hurt him! Especially, oh, especially when she had been forced to put her arms around him and—the thought almost made her blush even now—she had fallen on him.

  His insolent grin had been enough for her to want to sink into the fl
oor right there and then. She wondered at the fact that it hadn't burned an everlasting mark of shame on her forehead.

  Nonsense, she forced herself to think. I was only bandaging him. And the falling on him, that was an accident.

  Ah, a small voice in the back of her head said. But the problem isn't that it happened, is it? It's that you enjoyed it.

  “Shut up!” she growled.

  “Err... Milady? I didn't say anything.”

  Ayla looked up to see Dilli and three guards waiting at the end of the corridor. They stared at her with worried expressions.

  “What is it, Milady?” Dilli asked.

  Ayla just shook her head. “Nothing, Dilli. Will you look after our guest for the time being? I have to get down to the bridge to check how the barricade is coming along.”

  The maid blanched slightly, but curtsied. “Certainly, Milady. If I may ask, Milady, what should I do if our guest asks for a meal? Should I prepare something special?”

  Ayla scowled, not noticing the way her maid's voice shook when she mentioned their guest. “No! Just give him the same as the rest of us...” She stopped and considered for a moment. Thoughtfully, she tugged on her lower lip. “Actually, no, Dilli. You had a good idea there. Prepare him a meal according to the special diet for the sick and wounded by Hildegard von Bingen.[32] You know the recipe?”

  “Yes, Milady. You taught it to me last winter, when the smith got taken ill.” The maid hesitated. “Forgive me for asking, Milady, but what if our guest does not like his, err... special diet?”

  Ayla smiled and shrugged. “He will just have to stomach it, now, won't he?”

  “And... I am to bring him his meal myself? Alone? Without any guards accompanying me?”

  Ayla was looking another way and didn't see the pleading look in her maid's eyes.

  “Yes, yes. Sorry Dilli, but I can't chat anymore. I have to go now. You three!” She waved at the three guards. Still, there was a slightly vindictive smile on her face. She knew the special diet of Hildegard von Bingen. Reuben's reaction would be... interesting. “Follow me! We're heading down to the bridge.”

  *~*~**~*~*

  “You seem in a good mood this afternoon, considering we're about to be attacked by an evil tyrant,” Burchard remarked suspiciously as he beheld her striding towards the bridge.

  “Yes, something came along that made me feel a lot better,” Ayla replied with a smile.

  “Is that so? Well, I hope it lasts after you've seen the barricade.”

  The barricade was indeed a sorry sight. It looked like an array of overgrown toothpicks. Men were wandering around asking each other questions like how they were supposed to make the posts stand upright and whether the pointy end should point upwards or downwards.

  Ayla cursed herself for not noticing the confusion when she had passed through earlier. She had been too occupied with that scoundrel Reuben to even look at the fortifications, which had prevented her from noticing how very little fortified they actually appeared.

  “Hey, you!” she called to the man who seemed to think he was in charge—he was the one who was shouting the loudest.

  The big fellow immediately stopped shouting and came over to her, bowing. He was about two heads taller than Ayla and three times as hairy. Standing across from one another, they looked like a brutish bear and a little white lily. Yet it was the man that cowered, anxiously twisting his cap in his hands.

  “Milady.”

  “What's your name?”

  “Bardo, Milady.”

  “Then please tell me, Bardo: what is this,” she pointed at the pseudo-barricade, “supposed to be?”

  The big man scratched the back of his head uncomfortably. “Well... I don't rightly know myself, Milady. It's a bit of a mess, to be honest.”

  One of the poles chose this exact moment to topple over and fall onto the stones of the bridge with a loud clatter.

  “I can see that,” Ayla remarked. Bardo ducked, as if expecting to be slapped. Ayla immediately felt bad for taking her temper out on him. He was surely doing his best—his life and his family were as much at risk as anybody's here. It wasn't his fault that as a carpenter he had probably more often engaged in making desks and bedsteads than fortifications for an impending siege.

  No, it wasn't his fault. On the contrary, it was hers. She should have engaged in a few bloody feuds with her neighbors instead of passing her days riding through the forest on Eleanor. Then maybe Bardo would have acquired some practice by now, she thought wryly.

  And Eleanor might still be with her. The thought was painful.

  Softening her voice, she said: “Do you think you would be able to manage if somebody showed you how to do it?”

  Bardo nodded earnestly. “Yes, Milady. I'm good at what I do, good at working with wood. I just don't have any experience with this kind of thing, Milady.”

  “Well then, we will have to find someone who has,” she concluded. Turning to Burchard, who had stood by her side silently all the time, she asked: “Do you think Sir Isenbard has any experience in anything like this?”

  “He has been around for more than sixty years and fought his share of battles,” the steward replied. “What do you think?”

  Ayla nodded. “Then we're agreed. We must send word to him immediately, and to Sir Rudolfus and Sir Waldar, too. Thank God they live west of the river.”

  “I wouldn't be so hasty with my thanks,” Burchard growled. “Sir Isenbard will be helpful, I agree. He might not be in his prime anymore, but he's hard as an old oak. Sir Rudolfus or Sir Waldar, however... that's another matter.”

  Ayla raised her hands in exasperation. “They're the only other vassals[33] my father has, Burchard.”

  “That's what worries me.”

  “What would you have me do? Even if they're no help at all, they will at least bring a few more men with them.”

  The steward shrugged. “You're right, I suppose.”

  “Send three riders out at once. And make sure the fastest rider is sent to Isenbard. I want him here as quickly as possible.” Shaking her head, she examined their feeble attempt at a barricade again. “In fact, I wish he were here now. I'm a fool not to have sent for him already!”

  “And how would you have done so?” Burchard asked. “All our seven riders, including yourself, were rather busy up until now. There's no sense in beating yourself up. For your first siege, you're doing great!”

  “Oh really. And what makes you think so?”

  “Well, we're not dead yet,” the steward replied with a wolfish grin that showed his yellowing teeth. Before she could think of an answer to that, he walked off, beckoning three of the riders who had just returned from their rides to the eastern farms towards him.

  Sighing, Ayla turned back to Bardo, who had waited silently, watching their conversation with apprehension.

  “Well, it appears you'll soon get your help. Sir Isenbard will know what to do.”

  “Yes, Milady. Thank you, Milady.”

  She turned away, already considering what needed to be done next, but turned back one last time to look at the carpenter. “And one tip to start with...”

  “Yes Milady?”

  “The pointy ends go at the top.”

  Sewing Survival Tactics

  Ayla stood on the bridge looking after the three riders who were galloping off in different directions, but all of them generally westwards, all of them going in search of one of her vassals. She hoped to God the three knights would be at home and not out hunting or something similar. The defenders of Luntberg couldn't afford to lose any more time than they already had.

  Looking to the west, Ayla noticed for the first time that the sun had begun to sink towards the horizon. She had been so busy trying to save the ungrateful hide of that villain up in the castle that she hadn't realized how much time had elapsed. The day was almost over. Worried, she turned towards the east and searched the landscape for approaching figures. The setting sun tinged the forests crimson, as though it were au
tumn and not summer—or as though blood had painted the leaves of the forest red.

  Where were the peasants from the eastern farms? They should be here by now.

  “Milady?” Burchard stepped onto the bridge beside her, accompanied by a few villagers. “Do you have any other commands?”

  Ayla shook her head. She couldn't waste time worrying about those seven families now. There were dozens of families in her care. So many. Too many. And they all depended on her, a seventeen-year-old girl, to guide them through the approaching darkness. For a moment, she was near tears. Then, taking a deep breath, she raised her chin defiantly, facing the sea of blood-red light which was flooding her eastern lands.

  She was a Luntberg. She was her father's daughter, and she was not going to give up.

  “Indeed, I have,” she said, turning sideways to face the waiting people. “Burchard!”

  The steward abruptly stood straighter, hearing the unusually commanding tone of her voice. „Yes, Milady!”

  “Organize the best castle guards into a watch. They are to guard this bridge at all times. Always, at least six men are to be present: one stationed on the eastern side and one on the western side, each equipped with a torch during the night.”

  “And what of the remaining four, Milady?”

  Ayla smiled. “Three are to be spread on the eastern bank as lookouts, one is to stay with a horse on the western bank. None of them are to have torches, and they are to keep themselves concealed at all times, so when the enemy approaches, Falkenstein's men won't be able to kill them from afar with bows and arrows. It will be the job of the three men on the eastern bank to defend the bridge until the rider has had time to fetch reinforcements.”

  Burchard bowed, a proud gleam in his eyes. “Yes, Milady.”

  “Oh, and one more thing.” A hard glint entered Ayla's eyes. “If, by any chance, a knight in red armor should pass this way, seize him, clap him in irons, and bring him to me.”

  “Yes, Milady!”

  “You.” Ayla pointed to a peasant, who took a step backwards.

  “Me, Milady?”

  “Yes, you. I want you to gather all the wagons and handbarrows you can find, and some trustworthy men, and bring everything edible from the village into the castle.”