Robber Knight: Special Edition

by Thier, Robert

  For a moment, she rested her hand on the rough wood.

  “You might not have lived in it,” she whispered, “but at least rest in peace. May God forgive you—and me.”

  Then she stood back to listen, together with the men who had helped her gather the bodies, to the short sermon of the village priest, about peace, the meaning of Christianity, and loving your neighbor.

  Well, the last bit is going to be rather difficult, she thought, as she felt a surge of hatred for the man who had made her do this. In that moment, she wanted to hurt the Margrave von Falkenstein, badly. He was the real enemy. If not for him and his lust for power, she would live in peace, and all those men would probably still be above the ground.

  She felt her eyes stinging, but knew she mustn't cry. Not here, not now. Not in front of her men.

  Oh, if only there were some way to let me forget all this for just a few minutes, she sighed, inwardly.

  And then she realized that there was—in a room, not too far, up in the castle.

  *~*~**~*~*

  There was a soft knock at the door.

  “Yes?”

  “Reuben? May I come in?”

  He would have known that voice anywhere.

  “Of course, Ayla,” he said, frowning. Her voice sounded oddly unsteady.

  She entered shyly, as if this were a stranger's house and not her own castle.

  “May I...” She swallowed and started again: “May I come sit by you for a while?”

  “Of course,” Reuben repeated.

  She came, her steps small and uncertain. When she was at his side, she almost collapsed beside him, her maidenly figure falling against his side. Her large blue eyes looked imploringly up at him, and he didn't need her to ask for it to know what she wanted this time. He just put his arms around her and held her close.

  Reuben didn't understand why she had come running to him, looking so terrified. His mind turned back to the last time she'd come into his room, looking for comfort. Had she needed to kill some more people? That didn't seem likely, though. He hadn't heard any sounds of battle from outside, only the dull tones of a priest preaching. That might be enough to send him running off in terror, but he didn't think Ayla shared his views of the clergy.

  What could he do to make it better?

  Tell her you love her, you idiot, he thought, furious with himself. If she's anything like the other females you've known, she'll throw herself into your arms right away.

  Except, of course, that she wasn't anything like the other females he had known.

  And, oh yes, she was already in his arms—though he had no idea why, which was immensely irritating.

  Tell her you love her! Go on! Tell her!

  But for some reason his usually so eloquent tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of his mouth.

  Rising Darkness

  Quiet returned to the castle. Over the next few days, everything was peaceful. The enemy did not make a single move—and it nearly drove Ayla insane with worry. The last time the red robber knight hadn't shown his forces or himself for days, he had been hatching an evil plan that had nearly destroyed them all. And back then, there at least had been the sound of axes to give her a clue as to what the enemy was doing, even if she hadn't realized it in time. Now, there was nothing. The many-headed monster of the enemy army just sat across the river, waiting.

  Isenbard's condition wasn't doing anything for Ayla's peace of mind, either. His bruise had faded to a yellowish color by now, but he was still completely unresponsive. No matter what Ayla tried, he remained in his too-deep sleep, and Ayla had no idea how to help him. She had already tried everything the nuns at the convent had taught her. Once, when Reuben was asleep and couldn't see what she was doing, she had even tried emptying a bucket of ice-cold water into the old knight's face. When that didn't work, she tried holding a piece of dung under his nose.

  The only result was that she’d had to wash her hands six times until she got rid of the smell.

  So, all in all, things weren't going too well within Luntberg Castle. And the silence, the silence from outside—it was slowly driving Ayla to distraction. She believed she really would have gone insane if it hadn't been for Reuben.

  He held her when she cried, joked with her when her spirits were low, and threatened to cut off Falkenstein's head whenever she was frightened. He had even once or twice suggested cutting off other parts of the Margrave's anatomy which weren't as suitable for polite conversation, but had stopped for her sake.

  The weird thing about his threats against the Margrave was that, sometimes, Ayla actually believed he wanted and could do it—which made her feel safe while he was talking about severed heads, and turn scarlet when he slipped and mentioned some particular part of the male anatomy.

  She chided herself for these feelings of safety. It was an illusion. Reuben was just a lowly merchant and couldn't protect her from anything, let alone a lord and warrior as powerful and accomplished as the Margrave von Falkenstein. Yet when Reuben's strong arms were around her, it was all too easy to indulge in this illusion of safety.

  Besides, Reuben's moral support wasn't the only thing about him that improved Ayla's spirits. As opposed to Isenbard's, Reuben's recovery was progressing at an amazing rate. Just two days after the attack over the river, he was able to sit up without help, and three days later he managed, with the help of a servant supporting him, to get up and make his first few clumsy steps around the room.

  He protested continuously that he didn't need the servant's help and tried to push the poor man away, until Ayla got tired of his tantrums and relieved the relieved servant of his duty. From then on, she supported Reuben herself with an arm around his waist, her body pressed tightly against his. He didn't seem to mind that for some reason.

  Two or three more times, when Ayla came into his room to check on him, she caught him lying on his back, stabbing at the air with a candlestick. Yet, regardless of how closely she looked, she could never see the fly he claimed to be chasing away.

  Since his fever had mostly retreated, she wasn't afraid anymore that this might be some febrile delirium, and she just accepted it as part of the puzzling person that was Reuben. The puzzling, warm, ferocious, wildly handsome person she held dearer with every passing day.

  Simply sitting quietly beside him was such a joy that it never seemed to be the right time to question him about his curiously comprehensive military knowledge. When she was with him, all she really wanted to do was smile, and hold his hand, and stare into his deep, stormy gray eyes.

  Well not all, perhaps. There were a few other things she would have liked to do with him, but even thinking about them made her blush, so she didn't. Most of the time.

  Yet these very feelings that gave Ayla strength and happiness unknown, also frightened her. Reuben was far removed from eligible circles, and that wasn't even the worst part. What if he didn't want her the same way she wanted him? What, she thought, and this was the most terrible of all possibilities, a new torment to her since she had begun to entertain the possibility of letting her feelings for him grow, what if he was already taken?

  He was a heartbreakingly handsome man, after all, and a few years older than she. Certainly old enough to be pledged or even—she shuddered at the thought—married. True, he had never mentioned a betrothed or a wife to her, but then, why should he? They had known each other only for a short while. Why should he disclose the details of his very private life to her?

  Of course, she could always ask him.

  Oh yes. She could say something like: “By the way, Reuben, are you already pledged to be married?” That would be totally not embarrassing. Her motive for asking the question would be practically printed on her forehead! And even worse... What if he said yes?

  The closer she got to Reuben, the harder it became to work up the courage to ask this question. Yet the closer she got to Reuben, the harder it also became to not ask it. She was desperate to know the answer, and became increasingly agitated, sometim
es trying to avoid Reuben's eyes, sometimes trying to read the answer to her question in them—without success.

  Then, one day, she was caring for Sir Isenbard, her back to Reuben, when she heard the words: “Reuben... are you pledged?”

  It took her a few seconds to realize that the question had come from her own lips. She cringed, waiting for the blow that might follow, the blow that would shatter her heart.

  “No, I'm not,” Reuben's unusually soft voice came from behind her.

  Ayla breathed a sigh of relief.

  He wasn't pledged! He was free. As free as she was.

  A small, rational part of her mind tried to remind her that she wasn't free, by no means. She was a noble lady with duties to her station and her people, and she couldn't just go running off marrying a mere merchant simply because she wanted to. Plus, she had no idea whether he might want to. He was still a mystery to her, as inscrutable as on the very first day.

  Yet, in spite of these doubts, possibilities opened up in front of her like a beautiful blossom, and she suddenly saw a vision in her mind's eye:

  Reuben, holding her in his arms before the doors of a church, both of them glowing with happiness, a ring on her ring-finger... not a ring put there by force, but put on by a loving hand. They started forward and passed between crowds of cheering friends towards a carriage drawn by two beautiful horses, one stallion and one mare...

  Ayla's daydream broke off abruptly. In her vision, she had imagined one of the horses to be Eleanor, only to remember that her dear friend was lost to her forever. Suddenly, her happiness was gone. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she covered her face with her hands.

  *~*~**~*~*

  What now? Reuben had expected some kind of response from Ayla, but she just sat there, her back to him, and didn't say anything. Had there been a purpose behind her question about his marital status? A shiver ran down his spine at the thought.

  Him?

  Married?

  Once, he would have laughed at the idea and kicked the one who suggested it in the ass. However, that didn't seem to be a wise choice here and now.

  Had she really meant what he thought she meant? Him? Marrying... her? But then, why wasn't she saying anything? He tried to put himself in her position. What if he had suspected she might be pledged, or, the devil forbid, married?

  Jealousy, red, hot, and unforgiving, coursed through his veins. Just the thought made him want to rip somebody apart! What if he had found out that such fears had been unjustified? How would he feel?

  That question was easy to answer.

  It would be the best feeling in his entire existence. Relief mingled with unbelievable hope. Was she feeling something similar at this moment? He dared to hope that was the case. What other than utter happiness could explain her prolonged silence?

  “Ayla,” he said, gently.

  Suddenly, she whipped around. Reuben had just enough time to see the tears in her eyes before she jumped out and ran out of the room. He could hear her sobs from somewhere out in the corridor.

  What? He had just told her he was still available, and she had run out of the room sobbing? Angrily, Reuben turned to the wall.

  That was it! He had had enough of trying to figure out women for one day.

  *~*~**~*~*

  It took some time for Ayla to cry herself out. She had thought that the pain of losing Eleanor might go away with time, or at least might be pushed away by the more pressing concerns of the siege, but not so. She still missed her beloved friend just as much as on the day the diabolical red robber knight had taken her away.

  On a small bench in her little orchard, she finally found some peace. It was a beautiful place, with ivy growing up the wall of the keep and forming a sort of arch over the heads of those who sat on the bench, sheltering them from the world. Her father used to sit with her here and tell her about all the lands that were under the protection of the house of Luntberg, and of the greater nobles of the Empire, and of the time he had been at the court of the Holy Roman Emperor himself.

  These matters had all sounded very impressive and weighty to Ayla back then. With big, round eyes she had sat here on this bench and listened to her father's tales. Now she couldn't care less about emperors and grand nobles.

  Well, except perhaps the one who was besieging her castle at the moment.

  But even he, she realized, wasn't as important as the central question that plagued her. The question that was more important than the siege, or Falkenstein, or Reuben's lowly station in society. The most important question of all.

  How was she going to get an answer?

  Her eyes strayed to the apple trees and their beautiful blossoms. Why not? It was as good a method as any. Maybe it would help calm her nerves.

  Getting up, she picked one of the apple blossoms and tugged at one of the petals. The soft thing came loose and fluttered to the ground.

  “He loves me,” she whispered.

  Another petal floated towards the earth.

  “He loves me not.”

  Another petal.

  “He loves me.”

  And another.

  *~*~**~*~*

  Reuben had soon grown tired of staring at the wall. He had turned instead to look out of the window and saw Ayla sitting down there in the little garden. She suddenly got up, went to one of the apple trees, and plucked a blossom. Slowly, she began to peel it apart, petal by petal.

  He frowned.

  What was she doing now? Collecting ingredients for some foul new medicine? But no, she didn't keep the petals, she just let them fall to the ground. Where was the sense in that? Would he ever get to the bottom of her?

  *~*~**~*~*

  “...loves me not.”

  And yet another.

  “He loves me.”

  There were only a few petals left. Should she count how many? No, that wasn't how it worked.

  “He—”

  “Hey!” At the sound of the squeaky little voice directly behind her, Ayla flinched and dropped what remained of the apple blossom. Turning, she saw Fye standing there, looking up at her expectantly. “You look kind of silly, just standing here, doing nothing. Are you going to stand there all day or are you going to come play with me?”

  Ayla blinked. Was it part of the duties of a castle lady to play with children? Well, the child certainly seemed to think so.

  “Err... well...”

  “You know, it's silly to waste your time like this.”

  Ayla looked down at the blossom on the ground. Fye had stepped on it, and it was reduced to mush.

  “You're probably right,” she sighed. “We'll just have to wait and see. Let's go play. How's Sir Reuben doing?”

  “Great! He has just decapitated one of his worst enemies! It was reaaallly bloody.”

  “Um... that's good. I suppose. Let's go and see if we can find any more enemies for him, shall we?”

  “Yes, please!”

  *~*~**~*~*

  Ayla had hoped fervently that when the little girl spoke of blood, she was only speaking figuratively. Her hopes were not dashed—they were just playing, after all. So instead of blood, Fye used mud.

  When Ayla could finally escape the clutches of the little girl, she needed two hours to get moderately clean. And when that was accomplished, Sir Rudolfus appeared, having completed his inventory of the castle supplies. Ayla was rather surprised that while not possessing a sharp sword, or indeed any sword, the young knight did possess an extraordinarily sharp mind. When not intimidated by too many people, he became quite loquacious, giving advice on which food would persist the longest, how to protect it against rats and other vermin, and how best to ration supplies.

  “How do you know all this?” Ayla inquired.

  “Well, fighting has never been a particular talent of mine,” he admitted with a lopsided grin, his big ears turning an even darker red than usual.

  “Yes, I've noticed.”

  “So I had to find something else to occupy my time. Learning how t
o manage my father's estate seemed the obvious choice. We had a lousy steward—until I got rid of him.”

  “You? You got rid of somebody?”

  The young man shrugged self-consciously. “Well, as I said, he was lousy at his job. I owed it to my father and our vassals.”

  Ayla looked intently at the young man, seeing him with different eyes this time. Suddenly, he didn't appear quite as ridiculous as before. “If you continue like this, you might very well turn out to be the most useful knight in the entire castle,” she said, giving him a smile.

  He blushed furiously. “Do you really think so?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I don't,” he said in a low voice, staring down at the floor. “We can ration all we want—in the end it will come down to steel against steel. And I won't be any help to you there.”

  His words, all too true, sent a shiver down Ayla's back. But she refused to be haunted by fear all the time, here, in her castle, her own home.

  Having concluded her business with Rudolfus and presided over dinner in the great hall, she turned in for the night, grateful that all her troubles, regardless of what they were, would wait until morning.

  *~*~**~*~*

  She was ripped from her sleep and at first didn't understand where she was or what was happening. It was completely dark around her, and in the distance she could hear shouts and the sound of metal on metal. What was going on?

  “Dilli! What is the matter?”

  Her maid did not answer. But had it not been she who had woken her? Had it been the noise outside? But what was the noise?

  Then she heard the alarm sound and knew what was happening.

  They were coming. They were coming in the dead of night.

  Enemy Ascending

  “Milady!” Someone started hammering against her door. “Milady, come quickly! The enemy is approaching!”

  Ayla scrambled out of her bed and reached for her dress.

  “Milady!” Again, the fist hit the door. “We need you!”

  No time! Grabbing a cloak that hung over the armrest of a chair, she threw it over her thin nightgown and rushed out of the room. Outside, a soldier was waiting, carrying a torch in his hand. The acrid stench of the torch bit into Ayla's nose and she almost choked from the smoke, but she didn't say a word about it. The expression on the soldier's face told her that just now, there were much more important matters to attend to.