by Robert Thier
Dilli didn't leave, eying her mistress with concern.
“Dilli?”
“Yes?”
“Did you wander through the castle last night?”
“During the night? No, Milady.”
“And any of the other maids or servants?”
“Not to my knowledge, Milady.”
“Thanks, Dilli.”
Ayla fell into silence again and continued eating. She had almost finished her meal when, from outside the castle, there came a faint sound, long and deep.
Ayla's hand froze halfway to her mouth. “Did you hear that?”
“What, Milady?”
Again, the sound rang out, louder this time, unmistakable.
“That!” Ayla shouted and sprang up, delight shining on her face.
When she looked at Dilli, the maid's features were similarly glowing with relief and happiness. Of course! Everybody in the castle knew that sound, had known it ever since they were little: the horn[37] of Sir Isenbard.
“He has come!” Ayla cried. “Dilli, he has come! My things, quickly! I have to get down there! We haven't got a moment to lose!”
“Sir Isenbard is here,” Dilli sighed, as she helped her mistress into her clothing. “Now we are safe.”
So much for her believing I could handle things—the thought shot through Ayla's mind. But she immediately pushed it aside. There were more important things at hand than battling her own silly insecurities. They needed to get that barricade up before the Margrave's troops arrived. Plus, being busy would help get her thoughts off Reuben.
She ran towards the door, hesitating there and turning back. “Dilli?”
“Yes, Milady?”
“Go to the captain of the guards and tell him to post a man in front of the kitchen at night, will you?”
“The kitchen?” Dilli looked confused, but nodded. “As you wish, Milady.”
Ayla turned to the door again and rushed out. It couldn't have been Reuben last night. No, it couldn't have been—but better to be safe all the same.
*~*~**~*~*
Reuben lay in his room staring at the ceiling, once again. The view hadn't improved much in comparison with yesterday. A spider had expanded its web in the upper left corner a bit, and the morning light threw different shadows on the uneven stone—other than that, he supposed it looked quite the same. Yet he didn't really notice or care. His thoughts were on something completely different. Or rather somebody.
Slowly, he reached up and touched his cheek. His battle-hardened hand was almost as rough as the stubble on his face. Her touch had felt completely different. Soft, and warm, and gentle, and tender...
Tender? Aye, fat chance! She was just a crazy minx; that was all.
Get a hold of yourself, Reuben, he told himself. What's the matter with you? She probably touched you for the same reason that made her ride around with a horseshoe and a leather puppet in her saddlebags: because she's weird in the head!
Taking a bite of his black pudding, he tried in vain to think of something else. The girl was so infuriating!
Come on, whispered a little voice in the back of his mind. We know that you're not really angry at her—you're angry at yourself, for what you did last night, or rather for what you didn't do last night.
Reuben knew it was true, though he hated to admit it. Last night, he should have killed the girl. He thought she was coming to kill him, and he should have killed her first. As it turned out, he had been wrong, but that didn't change the fact that he hadn't acted when he should have. In essence, he had risked his own life to preserve another's. He hadn't done something so stupid since... since... well, not for a very long time.
Her bewitching eyes had been the problem! Bewitching in the real sense of the word, sparkling like sapphires. And that wasn't just any old metaphor. He had stolen enough sapphires to know how they sparkled. Through her eyes, he was sure, she had laid some kind of spell on him. She must have! She must really be a witch—there was no other explanation for his foolishness!
Angrily, he jumped to his feet and started pacing up and down. Dammit! If he didn't need to recuperate, he would already be on his way out of here. He should get as far away from Ayla as possible. He was furious that he couldn't leave, and even more furious that some part of him was glad he couldn't. Why should he want to stay here, where his life was in danger? It must be this castle. He hadn't been in a place like this since the old days, a place that felt comfortable and welcoming.
It is all illusion, he reminded himself. This is not and can never be your home. If the people here knew who you are, they'd hang you from the gallows in the blink of an eye!
Voices from outside his room distracted him. Shouts—a girl's voice. No, not a girl. The girl. Ayla. She sounded excited, and Reuben couldn't detect what kind of excitement: the “I just got a wonderful present”-kind or the “I knew I'd heard his voice somewhere! Hang him!”-kind. Quickly, he grabbed a big, metal candle holder from the table and positioned himself behind the door. If she had finally come to take his life, he wouldn't go down without a fight. He would give them a battle to remember!
But the voices rushed past his room.
“He has come,” Reuben heard Ayla's voice from outside. “Burchard! Get your behind down here! He has come!”
With curiosity, and also a twinge of annoyance he didn't quite understand, Reuben asked himself which “he” had managed to elicit the delight that was evident in her voice. Whoever he was, he must be someone special, for her to be bubbling over with joy like that. Perhaps her betrothed?
Reuben realized that he could easily satisfy his curiosity. His room afforded a beautiful view over most of the valley and the only path up the woody mountainside towards the castle. Before he knew it, he was standing at the window, peering down on an impressive sight.
A column of soldiers was approaching the castle from the west: twenty or thirty men at least, marching with the disciplined ease of hardened warriors. At the head rode a tall knight in a surcoat[38] and chain mail, his banner fluttering in the wind behind him: a gray wolf, just as gray as the massive stallion the man was riding. Reuben thought it a bit odd for guests to arrive at Ayla's castle dressed in chain mail, but he had noticed the way the man held himself in his saddle. This was a man that was always ready for battle.
As the rider approached, he pulled off his helmet and put a horn to his lips. A deep tone echoed all around the valley. Cheers broke out inside the castle, and the gate opened to welcome the visitors, yet Reuben didn't notice.
He didn't notice because, even at that distance, he could see that the man was old—very old indeed. His angular features were unmoving, his skin crinkly and tough like old leather. He had to be at least sixty, maybe seventy years of age. And this was to be Ayla's husband? That could hardly be the case. Reuben knew, of course, that young girls were often married to elderly men. It was an established custom among the nobility. Nevertheless, he found the idea of Ayla having to marry such an old man simply repugnant!
Surely, she would too? The visitor must be somebody else—perhaps a family member, a favorite uncle arriving for the planned festivities, to which he had still not been invited.
Then it occurred to him the preparations he had seen might very well be for a wedding feast.
“Satan's hairy ass!” he growled. “If I only knew what's going on down there!”
From his observation point he could see Ayla running out of the castle towards the new arrivals and for a moment, just for a moment, he thought he felt a twinge in his chest.
*~*~**~*~*
“Sir Isenbard! Sir Isenbard is here!”
The shouts echoed all around Ayla as she marched down the road towards the gray-haired rider. For a moment, Ayla felt pain at the thought that, normally, she would be riding on Eleanor to meet her father's old friend. She missed her horse terribly, and the thought of Eleanor wandering through the forest alone, or worse, in the hands of the Margrave's men, sent shivers down her back.
But the joy of her people and her own relief at seeing Sir Isenbard soon drove away those feelings. He was old, yes, but he had brought thirty men with him, and the way he held himself, stiff and unbendable like a stubborn old oak, made one thing clear: this was still very much a man to be reckoned with.
She went up to him and took the reins of his horse.
“Uncle Ironbeard,” she said, looking up at him and smiling at the use of her childhood nickname for the old man. “I'm terribly glad you're here!” She hugged his iron-clad leg, only just managing to keep her voice steady. “You don't know how glad. We need you.”
“Greetings, Milady.” Isenbard nodded. If one looked very closely, one could see the left corner of his mouth lifting slightly—Sir Isenbard's equivalent of a hug lasting three full minutes and tears of joy at a reunion of friends. “What's the matter? Your man said only to come quickly. Other than that, the fellow wasn't very coherent. You should get a man with more sense.”
“That's why I sent for you, Uncle,” she said, still smiling, though she could feel her eyes beginning to water.
“Watch what you're doing, girl! No crying, you'll get my armor rusty!” Sir Isenbard growled in what was probably an affectionate way.
“We wouldn't want that now, would we?” Ayla stepped back, sadness seeping into her voice. “Seeing as you're going to need it.”
Though it hardly seemed possible, suddenly the old man's face was ten times as hard as before.
“Need my armor? What for?”
“For defending your liege lord,” Ayla said, drawing herself up to her full height and meeting Isenbard's searching gaze. “Sir Isenbard, I call upon you to fulfill your oath of fealty.”
Understanding flashed back and forth between them. Now she was no longer the girl he considered the closest thing he had to a daughter. Now she was his mistress, with her people gathering behind her, watching. And she needed him to speak.
With astounding grace for a man of his age, Isenbard slid out of the saddle. Then he knelt in the dirt before Ayla and said, in a deep voice that carried all the way up to the castle and beyond: “As I have pledged, so I hold. My sword and my life, all that I am and will ever be, is yours!”
As the people behind her cheered, Ayla smiled.
*~*~**~*~*
So he was her betrothed! Grimly, Reuben stared down at the smiling Ayla. Even up here at the castle window, he had heard every word the old knight had spoken. And she was smiling, as that grandfather pledged himself to her! What kind of woman could be happy to give herself to a man thrice her age? He probably was a powerful noble, and she lusted for men with power and influence, like all the other women he had ever known—greedy, worthless creatures! The quicker he was out of here and on the road again, the better!
Though, for some reason, he suddenly felt the urge to test his dueling skills against that stone-faced, old pervert...
Worse than the Village Scarecrow
Accompanied by a cheering crowd of villagers, Sir Isenbard, his men, Burchard, and Ayla made their way up to the castle.
“I trust you will see to it that Sir Isenbard's men receive appropriate quarters, Burchard?” Ayla said to her steward.
“Yes, Milady.”
“Then do it, and we will meet later to discuss everything. I have to go and have a look at Reuben now.”
“Reuben?” If Isenbard hadn't already had so many wrinkles on his forehead, one might have detected a frown there. “Who is Reuben?”
“Ayla found a wounded bird in the woods she had to take care of until he can fly again,” Burchard grunted, rolling his eyes. “You know how she gets.”
“You mean charitable and caring?” Ayla asked sweetly. “Yes, I do get like that. You should try it some time.”
The steward pulled a face. “Actually, I meant foolish and reckless. We shouldn't be harboring any stranger in the castle now that we are about to be besieged! It is dangerous. We don't know anything about who he is or, more importantly, whom he serves.”
“What would you have me do?” Ayla demanded. “Throw him out to die on the off chance that he might be a spy?”
“Doesn't sound like a bad idea to me.”
“You had better concentrate on the real threats instead of making up imaginary ones,” she chided him. “Catch me that red robber knight for a start!”
“He's not likely to show his face on this side of the river now that we've got an armed guard at the bridge. And to cross the river to search for him would be too dangerous. Falkenstein could have hundreds of men in the forest by now.”
“So you're afraid?”
“Now listen here, you little slip of a girl...”
Isenbard had walked alongside them listening to their heated conversation without showing any emotion. Now he interrupted: “Milady?”
She took a deep breath and turned to him. “Yes, Uncle?”
“I think you said you needed my help. Against which of those two you mentioned? This robber knight or the Margrave von Falkenstein?”
“The Margrave,” Burchard replied immediately.
“The Margrave,” Ayla conceded grudgingly after a few moments. “Though I'd dearly love to see that villainous robber's head on a pike,” she added.
“Your wishes are duly noted,” Isenbard said with a bow of his head. “We shall discuss the matter of the Margrave as soon as my men are settled in at the castle.”
Ayla frowned, momentarily thrown off. “At the castle? Why at the castle, Uncle? We're planning to head the enemy off at the bridge. Wouldn't it be better to erect barracks or tents for the men there?”
Isenbard shook his head. “No. The bridge may be the first line of defense, but the castle will be any enemy's main objective. It may be that they find a way across the river other than the bridge. If we leave the castle unguarded, they could take it before we even notice. Such things have happened before—I've heard of one case where a lord with all the castle folk went to a feast in the neighborhood. When they returned, the doors were locked and a different flag was flying from the tower. One of his supposed friends had simply snatched the place while nobody was in it. We cannot make the same mistake. The castle must be guarded. We will station a small force at the bridge, and if they need support, they will have to wait until help from the castle arrives.”
Even though his words were grim, they brought a smile to Ayla's face, and she let herself bask in the security of his presence for a moment. This was why she needed Isenbard. He knew what he was doing. “Good. Burchard will see to your men's needs. I have to go and change Reuben's bandages now. Till later, Uncle.”
They had reached the keep, and she started towards Reuben's room. From behind her, she heard Burchard shouting: “Make sure you've got a guard posted outside the door while you're alone with him!”
Rolling her eyes, she began to climb the stairs.
*~*~**~*~*
By the time she had reached Reuben's room, a bright smile had replaced the annoyed expression on Ayla's face. Sir Isenbard's arrival, and the fact that he was obviously still in fighting form, was such a blessing that Ayla couldn't be put out by anything on this fine day. It was obvious as soon as she opened the door, though, that Reuben did not share her happy mood. The merchant—it was still odd to think of him in that way, he looked nothing like a merchant—lay with his back to the wall, staring at the opposite wall as though it were a deadly enemy. The scowl on his handsome face was truly impressive.
“Got up on the wrong side of bed, did we?” she said, cheerfully.
“I didn't get up at all,” he growled. “Injured, remember?”
“It was a figure of speech.”
“Aye, I know. And a pretty stupid one to boot.”
Normally, she would have been offended. But in her current good mood, she just shrugged it off. “Sorry if I'm annoying you. I can't help feeling happy today.”
For some reason, that seemed to upset him even more. “Yes,” he said, his teeth clenched. “Your guest has arrived. I heard.”
<
br /> “Sir Isenbard? Yes, he's exactly who I've been hoping for.”
“Oh really?” His voice was sarcasm incarnate.
“What's the matter with you?” Ayla frowned. “You don't seem to like him very much. Have you met him?”
“No, I've never met him.”
“Then what's the problem? Roll over, I have to change your bandages.”
Reuben just shook his head. “I don't have any problems. And I already have a bandage, I don't need another one.”
“No problems? When you mention Isenbard, your voice sounds like you've been force-fed vinegar. And one must change bandages regularly. If one doesn't, or moves about too much or gets them dirty, the wounds will fester and you'll get fever.”
Reuben muttered something unintelligible. Ayla only caught Isenbard's name among some muttered words that didn't sound very polite.
“What did you say?” she demanded.
“I just think he's too old!” Reuben growled. “That's all.”
Deeply offended, Ayla put her hands on her hips. This was her father's friend he was talking about! Her Uncle Ironbeard!
“What do you mean, too old? He can't help aging, now, can he? And he's in amazingly good condition for his age.”
“You think so, do you?” he asked, mockingly, then added: “Well of course you do, or you wouldn't be doing what you're about to do.”
Ayla stared down at her hands. “What I am about to do? What has any of this got to do with me changing your bandages?”
“I wasn't talking about the bandages.”
Ayla was getting confused. What was the matter with him? She had to find out. “Well then, what were you talking about?”
There were a few moments of silence.
“Forget it,” he said, his voice cool now.
Ayla stared at him angrily. So he wanted to annoy her, did he? Well, two could play at that game.
*~*~**~*~*
Reuben could almost feel her anger boiling. He was amazed at the show she put on. Seeing her infuriated like that, he could almost believe that she genuinely cared for that gray-bearded pervert. Yuck! That would be even worse than her intending to marry him for his lands or money.