The Robber Knight

by Robert Thier

  “But neither did you!” the maid protested loyally. “The fault is the Margrave's, Milady, not yours.”

  Ayla smiled at the maid's indignant expression at the thought of anyone laying blame on her mistress, even the mistress herself.

  “That may be so, Dilli. But it was I who picked up the gauntlet, and so it is I who must answer to my father.”

  “If you say so, Milady.”

  Ayla was about to leave when Dilli hesitantly asked: “Milady?”

  “Yes, Dilli?”

  “Why did you ask me to tell our guest that we had a great feast and that you ate five courses, when in truth, you've ordered the entire castle, including yourself, to be set on strict rations as long as the threat from the Margrave lasts?”

  Ayla grinned, feeling, just for the moment, completely free of worry. “For the fun of it, Dilli. Just for the fun of it.”

  Then she went away, whistling, leaving her confused maid behind.

  *~*~**~*~*

  Ayla's good mood lasted about two minutes, exactly the same amount of time it took her to climb the stairs to her father's bedchamber. He had deliberately chosen one of the high chambers, from which he could overlook the entire valley and enjoy the wonderful view. Ayla wished now that he hadn't. Surely he had already seen every bit of the siege preparations that had been going on down there. Count Thomas von Luntberg might be old, but he was neither blind nor senile. Exactly the opposite, in fact.

  Finally, she reached the old oak door that led to the Count's chamber.

  Raising a hand, Ayla knocked at the door, almost hoping he wouldn't hear. But of course he did.

  “Come in, daughter,” the Count called.

  Stolen Youth and Black Pudding

  Ayla entered the familiar circular tower chamber with its bright tapestries and broad, horn-pane windows. She had always loved those windows, as had her father. This high up in the castle, far above the reach of any arrows, the builder had judged it safe to install really broad windows, not just broader versions of arrowslits, and they granted an even more impressive view of the valley than the narrow windows in the main hall or the guest rooms did.

  Beside the largest of the windows stood a bed, and on the bed lay a frail figure.

  “Ayla? Come closer so I can see you.”

  Hesitantly, Ayla stepped closer and knelt before the fragile old man. She was shocked by what she saw, and for a moment wondered why. After all, she had got used to how small and weak her father had become over the years. Yet, she realized, seeing another figure lying on another bedstead today, a figure in the prime of his youth and as tall and strong as the Count had once been, had brought the decline of old age into sharper focus.

  Careful to keep the shock from her face, she raised her hand and stroked Count Thomas' white beard.

  “Hello, Father,” she said in a low voice, hardly able to keep herself from choking. Now she would have to tell him. She would have to destroy what little peace he still had. She couldn't bear it! But she had to tell him about the feud; it was her duty.

  “Sorry I haven't come to see you all day. It's just... something has happened. I... um...”

  “He has declared a feud, hasn't he?” The Count sighed. “I wonder what took him so long.”

  Ayla's mouth dropped open. “He? What do you mean he has declared...? How do you know? Which he?”

  “The Margrave von Falkenstein, of course,” Count Thomas said. “We are talking about the Margrave, aren't we? Don't say another power-hungry noble has beaten him to it?”

  “It is the Margrave! What I want to know is how you knew already. He only sent me the gauntlet today!”

  The Count sighed. “Oh, Ayla. I’ve known for a very long time that something like this was going to happen. For years and years I watched Falkenstein declare one feud after another, swallowing up every fiefdom in the neighborhood. His power has been growing constantly, and with his power his hunger for more. I tried to warn the other nobles, but nobody would listen to me.”

  “How come I didn't know anything about that?” Ayla demanded, anger replacing her shame. “How come you didn't tell me?”

  “You were still a little girl, Ayla. Falkenstein has been playing this game for years, and he's a careful player, always sending out generous gifts to every noble around him, promising he is their friend, their ally—until his troops stand at the border and it is too late for them to realize his true nature.” The Count's eyes became sad. “I'm sorry, Ayla. I should have taken action long ago, should have faced him in battle before he became as powerful as he is today. But I hesitated. To draw the bloody sword of war is a terrible thing. I hesitated too long. My sickness struck, and it was too late. Too late... Now I could not draw a sword even if I wanted to. Now you will have to face him. My little girl.”

  He held open his frail arms and Ayla rushed into his embrace, hugging him back with probably a little bit too much force. She quietly sobbed into his shoulder.

  “Shh.” The Count's voice was a raspy whisper. “It's all right. Everything is going to be all right, honey.”

  “No it's not, and you know that!”

  “Yes, I do. I'm so sorry, Ayla.”

  “For what?”

  “For you having to face the result of my negligence as a liege lord.”

  “Don't say that! There's never been a more just and honorable lord than you!”

  “Well,” he laughed drily, “now I will have to give up part of my dominion, no matter how just and honorable I am. Tell me, daughter, and do not try to shield me from the truth: how much did he demand?”

  Frowning, Ayla drew back. “What do you mean, Father?”

  “The Margrave von Falkenstein. How much did he demand?”

  “I'm afraid I still can't follow you.”

  Now the Count was frowning, too. “But... this is always the way it is done. He threatens someone with feud, unless they give up a part of their lands. What does he want? The bridge and the toll rights, am I right? I suppose we will have to comply. I won't deny it will be a heavy loss, but we will manage to survive somehow. We can...” The Count's voice slowly faded as he saw the expression on his daughter's face.

  “What did he want, Ayla?” he asked. “What did you agree to?”

  Ayla said nothing.

  “You did agree, didn't you?”

  Still nothing.

  “Ayla, child, what have you done?” The Count grasped her arms. The look in his ancient eyes told her that he already knew how she had responded to the Margrave's demands. “Send a messenger after the herald and tell him we accept the Margrave's terms. Child, this is no time for pride! The Margrave is not only powerful, he is as ruthless as Amon[34] and as greedy as Mammon![35] Better we give up some of our land than incur his wrath.”

  “You make the wrong comparisons, Father,” Ayla said, sadly. “If you wish to compare the Margrave to a prince of hell, Asmodeus would be the better choice.”

  The Count's grip tightened. There was a moment of deadly silence. Count Thomas knew the Bible well. These days, he had almost nothing else to do but read. He knew the names of all the saints and angels, and those of other things. Such as Asmodeus—the demon of lust.

  “What did he demand, Ayla?” Count Thomas asked.

  Ayla felt her jaw tighten. She raised her gaze and looked her father directly in the eyes. “The alternative to war wasn't giving him a part of our land, Father. The alternative to war was giving myself to him.”

  Slowly first, then faster and faster like a river that has broken its banks and ravages the land in a flood, rage spread over the Count's ancient face and his hand went to the left of his belt where, long ago, his sword had hung. It fell limply onto the sheets when he realized that the sword wasn't there anymore.

  “The devil be cursed for the weakness in my bones,” he growled. “I wish I had the Margrave here. Then, aged or not, I would take my sword and split his skull open, God be my witness!”

  “I know you would,” Ayla said, a faint smile on h
er lips. Oh God, it was so hard to see him this way.

  “I must get up. I must speak to Burchard, organize the men...”

  Before Ayla could move to stop him, he had attempted to stand—and before he was fully upright, he fell, like a tree brought down by an ax. His hands slammed onto the stone floor and his arms gave way. Cursing, he landed face first on the cold stone.

  “Father!”

  “It's all right, everything is all right,” he grunted, trying to disguise the pain in his voice. “I just stumbled. That's all.”

  But Ayla knew it was far more than that. She had watched him weaken over the years. She knew the accursed malady that was eating away at his bones, making him frail before his time.

  “I must rise,” he snarled, pushing himself up on his knees with every ounce of strength he still possessed. “I must rally the men.”

  Kneeling down before him, Ayla looked at him, sadness in every line of her ivory features and said: “You cannot.”

  It was no accusation, nor was it an expression of pity. It was simply a fact.

  And the Count knew it.

  Slowly, he let himself sink to the floor again.

  “What have I come to, Ayla?” he whispered.

  She didn't answer. Instead she just put her arms around him, grieving with him for what he could not do, and for what she knew she would have to do in his stead.

  *~*~**~*~*

  It was late when Ayla left her father's room to return to her chambers. After Ayla had helped the old man back to his bed, they had talked over everything that had to be taken care of—provisions, tactics, weapons of all kinds—all things of which Ayla knew little and of which she would never have had to learn had not fate struck down her father with premature old age.

  Although Ayla hated to even contemplate harming someone, she was glad for everything her father could tell her. At least, she thought, I won't be unprepared. At least I will be able to defend my own people.

  This thought had given her some confidence and had even brought a smile to her face as evening turned into night. But, seeing that, the Count had warned her: “What I can tell you is little enough: I was never part of a great campaign or a crusade, and besides, my knowledge is decades old. Honestly, I don't know what half of the defensive mechanisms in this castle of mine are for.” His face was grim as he said that.

  Ayla swallowed. “Sir Isenbard will know what to do,” she said with conviction. “He was in the Crusades, and a great tournament fighter besides.”

  “He was,” the Count granted, and then added, so low that she almost didn't catch it: “Thirty years ago...”

  The Count took his daughter's hand. “Just be careful. Promise me? Be careful and listen to Isenbard.”

  Ayla nodded. “I promise.”

  If even the name of his oldest friend, Sir Isenbard, couldn't make Count Thomas optimistic, Ayla thought as she descended the staircase, oil lamp in hand, then things were really desperate. She had heard her father's comment. Thirty years ago... How much could weapons and castles change in thirty years? Could swords become any sharper than they already were, and stone walls stonier? Ayla would have doubted it very much, if not for the grim expression on her father's face. That expression told her all she needed to know.

  They needed someone who knew what to do—and no one was in sight.

  Just as she thought that, Ayla caught a glimpse of something moving further ahead. Quickly, she pressed herself against the corridor wall and shielded the lamp with her hand. None of the servants were supposed to be up this late! There were guards that were still awake, of course, but all of them were posted outside the keep. Who the devil was sneaking around in her castle in the middle of the night?

  Peeking out of the stairway and into the corridor, she saw a massive dark figure moving towards the kitchen. Him? What was he doing here?

  *~*~**~*~*

  Reuben was faced with a very hard choice. He had to choose between black pudding,[36] chicken, and apple pie. In the end, he decided to take some of each. It couldn't hurt, he thought, and then grinned at his unintentional joke. No, it most definitely couldn't hurt.

  Biting a chunk off the black pudding, he stuffed the rest under his arm and made his way back to his room. Even if anybody noticed the theft, nobody in his right mind would suspect him. After all, he was an invalid, grievously wounded and unable to move.

  *~*~**~*~*

  Ayla could hardly believe her eyes as she watched Reuben enter the kitchen. No, that wasn't putting it right. She couldn't hardly believe her eyes, she could not believe her eyes at all.

  She had seen his wounds: seen them, cleaned them, and bandaged them. No one with that amount of damage to his body could stand without falling down, screaming in agony. And walking? Impossible!

  Perhaps her eyes were playing tricks on her. She had only seen him in the moonlight, after all, having extinguished the oil lamp in her hand so as not to be seen. Yes, that must be it. It couldn't be Reuben. How could that arrogant, pampered merchant even lift a finger in his current state? Though now she thought of it, he had shown no sign of pain while she bandaged him. Could it be...? No!

  Suddenly, the kitchen door opened again and a muscular black shape darted down the corridor, so fast that Ayla had not even taken a step before he was out of sight. No, that couldn't be Reuben! No merchant could move like that, with the speed of a snake and the strength of a lion.

  Her heart hammering, she set out to follow the stranger. She grasped the oil lamp with both hands and held it like a club. Not a very effective club, but still, it was better than nothing.

  Yes, and a knife would be better than an oil lamp, she thought to herself, scathingly. I need to have a talk with our master smith.

  She reached the end of the corridor and looked around. Nobody was in sight, and three corridors led off in different directions. The stranger was long gone by now.

  If it even was a stranger, she admonished herself. Maybe it was no man. Maybe it was just one of the maids fetching herself a glass of milk and you were being fanciful.

  Nevertheless, she went to check on Reuben. Slowly, so as not to wake him, she pushed open the door to his room and stepped in.

  *~*~**~*~*

  Reuben heard the creak of the door and hurriedly lay down on top of a half-finished black pudding, pretending to be asleep. He heard soft steps approaching. No man. And none of the maids, either. He knew these steps, he had heard them before. Soft, and yet lively, like those of a young doe on a forest path. Ayla!

  Why was she coming into his room in the middle of the night? Ice flooded Reuben's heart as he realized the only possible answer: she had realized who he was. She had recognized him, finally! Had she come to kill him in his sleep?

  Her steps stopped next to him.

  If that was so, he had to act quickly.

  Reuben peeked up at her, standing over him, the sparkling blue of her eyes intensified by the moonlight. A smile lay on her face. And... and there was something metallic glinting in her hand! A knife, it had to be a knife! She was contemplating revenge for his robbery, he knew it! He had to act now!

  One swift turn, knocking her legs out from under her, so she fell on top of him. One of his hands over her mouth to stop her from screaming, the other gripping her neck to provide leverage. Then a sharp twist to that delicate ivory neck and all would be over, and he would be safe. So easy, Reuben told himself.

  But then why wasn't he moving an inch?

  Why did he lie here like a stone, while this girl, this girl with the sparkling blue eyes, was preparing to stab him?

  Still, he didn't move as she bent down—and put her hand on his forehead.

  Ah, he thought, almost breathing out in relief. She is only here to check on me. Nothing more.

  Then he felt her soft little hand moving away from his forehead, down the side of his face. She stroked his cheek once, twice, a third time.

  Then she drew back hurriedly and almost ran out of the room—leaving behind a robber
knight who had suddenly forgotten all about the black pudding he was still lying on.

  Sir Isenbard

  I was only checking on his health. That's all. I was only checking on his health. My hand slipped from his forehead by pure accident. That became Ayla's mantra the next morning, directly after waking up. She was more than a little disturbed by what she had done, what she had felt, when she had suddenly been so close to Reuben, and alone with him in the dark. That her dreams that night had reflected those feelings hadn't helped matters much. Just to think of them made Ayla blush.

  She couldn't allow herself to think of him in that way. For God's sake, the man was a commoner, and an arrogant piece of horse manure to boot!

  “Milady?”

  Ayla's head jerked up. Dilli was standing in front of her, a steaming bowl of soup in her hands.

  “Oh, Dilli, it's you. Why didn't you knock?”

  “I did, Milady. Three times, in fact. You seemed to be... preoccupied.”

  “Sorry, Dilli. I was just thinking... about the siege. Yes, that's what I was thinking about.” She eyed the bowl in Dilli's hand suspiciously. “What's that?”

  “You had a tiring day, yesterday. I thought you might appreciate breakfast in bed.”

  “Thanks, Dilli. That's so nice of you.”

  With a smile, Ayla took the bowl from the maid and began to spoon the soup into her mouth. It was so hot that it almost burned her throat, but it helped to revive her and get her thoughts back to where they were supposed to be.

  “How are things with the castle servants, Dilli?” she asked. “What do they think about this business?”

  Dilli gnawed on her lower lip. “Well, everybody is anxious of course, and there's been a bit of rumbling about the rationing, when no one has even seen so much as one of Falkenstein's banners yet. But nothing serious.”

  “So they...” Ayla hesitated, then plowed on in a rush: “So they don't think I'm an incompetent little girl who is dooming them all to death and destruction?”

  Dilli looked truly shocked. “No, of course not, Milady! Whoever could think such a thing?”

  “Err... well, never mind,” Ayla muttered and returned her attention to her soup, her face reddening.