by Robert Thier
“By the way,” she said sweetly, “I wanted to ask you how you liked your supper yesterday. I hope you like fennel soup?”
He couldn't help grinning. So, it was time for her revenge, was it? We'll see about that, he thought to himself.
“I liked it very much. Please send my compliments to your cook,” he replied uber-politely.
Her mouth dropped open and formed a tiny little “O.” It looked very cute, and his grin widened at the sight. Quickly though, she regained her composure. Her eyes narrowed and she said: “Good, very good. So you won't have any objections to eating nothing else for the rest of the week? It'll do you a world of good, believe me.”
“No, that's fine. It is really an excellent soup. Thank you so much for your concern about my diet, Milady.”
“It's my pleasure,” she said, probably truthfully. He had to work hard not to chuckle.
“And there's something I wanted to ask you,” he added.
“Yes?”
“Have you made a decision about my compensation yet?”
She gasped, and again he had to suppress a chuckle. In a voice that sounded endearing in her attempt to be intimidating, she said: “Not quite. Though I thought maybe I could give you a pot of fennel soup, since you like it so much.”
He let his face assume a sad expression. “Alas, Milady, that will not be possible. You see, I am a merchant and will have to sell it to buy me new wares to trade with. And while I know that your fennel soup is excellent, the people on the nearest market might not share that opinion. They might even think it tastes like overcooked horse manure.”
He had expected her to be angry, or to make some sarcastic remark, or something along those lines. Her actual response took him completely by surprise.
She laughed.
It was a wonderful sound, like the music of a harp—so wonderful that he found himself joining in. They laughed and laughed, and then their eyes met, and suddenly they were both silent. There was a moment where they just stared into each other's eyes. Reuben drank in the sapphire-blue and thought of nothing else: not of his life being in danger, not of the fact that she was his enemy and captor, not of the pains of his past.
Then the moment was over, and she lowered her gaze. “So you're still convinced you deserve compensation, are you?” she mumbled.
“Absolutely,” Reuben stated confidently, true to his role as the greedy merchant.
“Interesting. I still think you deserve being thrown out of the window, ungrateful lout that you are.”
Reuben made a show of holding out his arms as if about to be picked up. “You're welcome to try, Milady.”
Her face flushed the most adorable shade of red. “You will behave,” she said, wagging a finger in his face, “or I will try—with the help of three of my guards. Understood?”
“That is hardly fair, four against one.”
“Neither is it fair to talk ill of people simply because they're old,” she chided. “I want to know—what do you have against Sir Isenbard?”
All of a sudden, Reuben's good mood evaporated. The mention of that pervert reminded him of what he had successfully managed to forget for the last few minutes: she was pledged to a man who could be her grandfather.
Yes, she is, he thought. But the real question is: What concern is it of mine? She could shack up with the village scarecrow and it shouldn't be any business of mine.
“I told you, Milady,” he couldn't help saying. “I think he is too old for you. You should choose someone better suited.”
*~*~**~*~*
Ayla stared at him quizzically. How could one be too old to tell people how to build a barricade?
“What do you mean, I should have chosen someone else?” she demanded. “People like Isenbard don't grow on trees, you know. He is immensely experienced and talented. I can't think of anyone half as good as him. Believe me, I have seen him in action.”
Reuben's eyes bulged, and he looked about to choke for a moment. “Seen him... in action?” he managed.
“Yes. Reuben, what is the matter?”
“When?” he demanded. “When did you...?” He broke off, seemingly unable to continue.
“A few years ago. My father was having some troubles, and he called Isenbard in to assist him.”
At that, his eyes almost popped out of his head. “Your father?”
“Yes, my father.”
“And...” Reuben took a deep breath. “Did Sir Isenbard deliver a satisfactory performance?”
“Yes, he did. So you see, you have nothing to worry about.”
“Yes, I see.” Reuben's voice was colder now. “I see that it's none of my business. I shouldn't have said anything. Please forgive me, Lady Ayla, for my discourteous speech.”
She looked at his face in puzzlement, not having the slightest clue what was the matter with him, or what he had been rambling about just now. Maybe he already had a fever and was starting to talk nonsense?
Without thinking, she placed her hand on his forehead and felt the temperature. No fever. Then her thoughts, or more precisely her memories, caught up with her actions. She remembered how, last night, she had snuck into his room, touched his face and...
Her cheeks blossomed red, and she quickly said: “Turn over now, will you? I haven't got all day!”
Reuben met her eyes with an unreadable expression and turned without another word.
Ayla untied the knot in the bandages and removed one layer after another. When she pulled away the last piece of linen, her breath caught and she felt dizzy all of a sudden. The wounds were a bloody mess, literally. This was not how they were supposed to look. Worst of all, the skin around the wounds was beginning to turn red.
Oh God, no, Ayla thought. Please don't let it fester.
“Reuben?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. “Did you move around at all?”
“No,” was his only reply.
Overcoming her apprehension, Ayla looked at his wounds again. Were they swollen? It was hard to tell. Innumerable bands of muscle bulged everywhere on Reuben's back, swelling him in an absolutely natural and, admittedly, even quite attractive way.
“Reuben?”
“Yes?”
“I'm going to touch your back now. I have to examine something. It will hurt a lot, but please hold still.”
“That won't be a problem,” he said. His voice still sounded gruff with anger, but why was there also a trace of amusement in it? Ayla would dearly liked to have known. She herself couldn't see anything funny about the situation.
Very, very carefully, she reached out and touched the red spot on Reuben's back, conscious of the fact that at any moment he would cry out and flinch away.
He did nothing of the sort. Instead, he took a deep breath, and his breathing slowed. What was the matter with this man?
As soon as she had felt the unhealthy bulge under the red skin, she could answer at least part of this question. Yes, there was a swelling. But that was only an indication, she reminded herself. It didn't necessarily mean the wounds were getting infected.
“I'm going to have to wash this,” she said and rose to her feet. “Don't move while I get some water and fresh cloth.”
*~*~**~*~*
Reuben just lay there, thinking, while Ayla worked over him for almost an hour. He didn't really know or cared what she did. The wounds didn't bother him, they would heal soon enough, and then he would be out of here, away from her.
She had looked so radiant when she had come into the room earlier, so utterly happy. She must be a damn good actress to appear happy because of that stone-faced old creep. He had almost, almost believed that she was really looking forward to marrying that fellow—until her cheeks had reddened when she had touched his face.
That blush had sent a tumult of emotions tumbling around in his chest. So many, so various, that he didn't know which to name first. The strongest, however, was one he wasn't able to identify at all. A tugging sensation near his heart. It was almost as though his heart
was hurting. But that was ridiculous, of course! Nothing could ever hurt him, least of all such a soft, slender creature.
Best you remember that, he told himself. And remember what kind of a gross witch she is. He wasn't all that keen on morals himself, but to freely admit she had been busy with her future husband and her father...
God in heaven, he thought. At least the last woman I fell for pretended to be honorable and kind. This little monster in an angel's guise freely admits to debauchery and bloodthirst, and still I can't help thinking about her. She really must have put a spell on me. The quicker I get out of here, the better!
The Enemy
Tired but satisfied, Ayla left Reuben's quarters an hour later. She was fairly sure she had prevented any festering. Just before she left, she had drilled it into him again to move as little as possible. But she knew he wouldn't be able to anyway. Any movement would still cause enough pain to have him writhing on the floor. He would have to stay where he was, and he would get better.
The question was: Why did that knowledge fill her with such overwhelming relief?
Shaking her head, she pushed Reuben to the back of her mind, where he belonged. Crossing the entry hall, she stepped out of the keep and saw Isenbard already waiting at the gates of the inner wall ring, his stallion beside him.
He nodded to her and pointed down towards the bridge, raising an eyebrow a fraction of an inch. This had always been his way: never waste a word you might need later.
“Yes, we're going,” she said.
He climbed his horse. Ayla didn't waste time calling for another horse to be saddled. She felt too sad about the loss of Eleanor to be riding herself anyway. “Could you give me a lift, Uncle?”
He held out a gauntleted hand. She took it and swung herself into the saddle in front of him. He spurred his horse and they galloped out of the gate and down the mountain path. Ayla held on tightly to the arms clasped around her waist so as not to fall off the gigantic animal. She wasn't used to riding a horse this big and powerful.
“Are your men settled in?” she asked, breathlessly.
“Yes.”
“And Burchard told you everything?”
“Everything about the feud, Milady.”
You always had to listen very closely to Isenbard. There was always more to his short sentences than was apparent at first.
“So what didn't he tell you?”
“He wasn't very specific about this robber knight, Milady.”
“Does he matter? He's somewhere on the other side on the river, and he's just one man.”
“Every enemy matters. Tell me.”
Ayla knew it was useless to argue with Isenbard. You could just as well try and persuade a mountain to move. So she told him about the robbery—except the details about where the knight had grabbed her to get her off her horse. No way was she going to admit that to her Uncle Ironbeard! He listened with the intensity of a man who knew how to be silent. However, while paying close attention, he didn't seem very interested in the story—not until she mentioned the knight's red attire.
Immediately, she could feel him stiffen behind her.
“Red?” he asked sharply. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, absolutely. Blood-red. Why do you ask?”
“Not that one,” she heard him mutter under his breath. “Lord, let it be someone else.”
“Uncle?” She tried to twist around to look at his face.
“Sit still, girl! We're galloping down a mountain! Do you want to fall off and break your neck?”
“Sorry!” she whispered, turning to face the path again. “Uncle, what's the matter?”
He sighed. “I guess you wouldn't know, you've never been to a tournament. Red isn't a color that is used in coats of arms within the Holy Roman Empire, generally. It's only used abroad, for example in England. Did the knight sound foreign to you?”
“I don't think so.” Ayla's reply was hesitant. “But then, I've never met an Englishman. He didn't sound foreign to me.”
Isenbard was silent.
“So what do you think?” she probed. “That he was English?”
“No, I don't think that.”
“Then what?”
“There is one knight I heard spoken of, shortly after I had to end my days as a tournament fighter because my bones got too old and brittle.”
She could feel him shudder even through several layers of armor. It was a moment before she could link the feeling to the probable cause. But no, that couldn't be. Her Uncle Ironbeard frightened?
“Mind you, I only heard rumors. But what I did hear... Let's just say I'd rather be facing a hundred Englishmen than that devil of a knight on his own. If it truly was he that robbed you, you're lucky to have got away with your life.”
Ayla frowned. The knight had been arrogant and rude, he'd even threatened her, but somehow, looking back, she didn't believe he would actually have hurt her. Bound her to a tree and made fun of her, yes, but not hurt her.
“He didn't hurt me,” she felt it incumbent upon her to point out, “and he had ample opportunity.”
“Hmm. Well, perhaps it was not the one I have in mind. Let's pray to God it isn't, and that if it is, he's far, far away by now from you and your castle.”
*~*~**~*~*
As soon as Ayla was out of the room, Reuben jumped up and went over to the chest in which he had stored his remaining hoard from his raid on the kitchen last night. He wasn't really that hungry yet, but Ayla had told him that he had to stay in bed, so he naturally wanted to stretch his legs. He snorted as he tore into a chicken leg. Trying to give him orders! The girl had some nerve.
After he had eaten all he could and jogged a few times up and down the room just for the fun of it, he went to the window. Strange—it hadn't been all that warm half an hour ago, but now he had started sweating and felt the need to feel a cool breeze on his face. Leaning out the window, he breathed in deeply, and then let his eyes wander over the beautiful valley.
The first thing he saw was Ayla, clutched tightly in the arms of the old gray-beard, riding down the mountain. Beautiful valley his ass! It shouldn't surprise him, after what he'd heard from her own lips, but it still disgusted and enraged him just to look at the two of them. Suddenly, he felt dizzy. Wiping sweat off his face, he stepped back from the window and sat on his bedstead, staring angrily at the wall opposite him.
*~*~**~*~*
Riding on Isenbard's powerful gray warhorse, Ayla and her vassal reached the bridge within a couple of minutes. He slid off the horse's back and then, as he had done ever since she was five years old, held out his arms to help her down. And she, as she'd done since she'd been five years old, slid down the other side.
He made no comment but turned towards the bridge. His eyes widened. “What was it you said you were trying to build here?” he asked.
“A barricade,” Ayla told him.
“Well.” Scrutinizing the disorderly heap of wood in front of him, he scratched his beard. “I can see why you sent for me.”
“Since when have you been learned in sarcasm, Uncle Ironbeard?”
“I was being perfectly serious.”
Still, a few men were hopelessly trying to arrange the logs in a more barricading order. When they spotted Sir Isenbard, they stopped what they were doing, and Bardo the carpenter came hurrying over to them.
“Sir Isenbard! The Lord be praised, I heard you had come!” He made a bow which, Ayla noticed, was even deeper than the ones he had made to her. It didn't surprise her, really. She would have to gain a lot more experience and self-confidence before she could command people's respect with as much ease as the old Sir Isenbard.
“What do you think?” she asked, pointing to the bridge. “How long will it take to raise a barricade?”
“Give me a day and it shall be done,” the old knight responded, and then, without further ado, he proceeded to issue orders to the surrounding people at lightning speed, demanding more men, wood, nails, shovels, and a host of other things. A
fter only ten minutes, they had dug a hole deep enough for the first pole to be planted in the damp earth.
“Good!” Sir Isenbard shouted, marching through the lines of sweating workers. “But you can do better! You can be quicker! Your families’ lives are on the line here! You there, yes you, the scrawny fellow! Get me ropes! And hides, as many as you can lay your hands on!”
Ayla watched the proceedings, conflicting feelings raging in her. On the one hand, she was terribly anxious for her friends and family. They were all in mortal danger and their lives depended on what arose out of the earth in front of her eyes. On the other, she was also excited. Never had she been to any big tournament, or even a city, or any of the exciting places the minstrels[39] sang of. She had never even ventured beyond the borders of her father's land. Now the outside world would come to her bearing a bloody sword, and a battle the likes of which she had only heard of in tales would be fought on her very doorstep.
“Milady! Sir Isenbard! Look out!”
The shout of the watchman on the other side of the river pulled her abruptly from her thoughts. Her head snapped up, just in time to see a dark figure darting between the trees on the edge of the forest beyond the river.
“Get down!”
Not until Sir Isenbard rammed into her, knocking her to the ground, did Ayla realize that his shouted warning had been meant for her.
“Use your senses, girl,” the knight growled, in his anxiety forgetting her proper title. “That's an enemy scout! He might have bow and arrow!”
“So what?” she protested, struggling to get free. But the heavy, chain mail-clad figure of the old knight pressed her firmly to the ground. “The Margrave wants to marry me, not murder me! Get off me, Isenbard!”
“He might prefer to have you as his wife—that would give his conquest a semblance of legality. However, that doesn't mean he won't consider your head on a platter a viable alternative. Do you think that's a risk I'm willing to take?”
That was about the longest speech Ayla had heard him make in years. She stopped struggling. Only when they heard the lookout shouting, “He's turned around! He's heading into the forest!” did Isenbard roll off her and get to his feet. He offered her his hand to help her up.