by Robert Thier
“Back!” Roughly, Isenbard grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her away. “Didn't you hear what I said? You stay behind the barricade!”
But it was too late. Ayla had already seen the riders flooding from the forest onto the meadow.
“Those are at least a hundred!” she gasped.
“About fifty, I would estimate,” Isenbard corrected her.
“We'll be crushed—even if your men get here in time!”
“We'll see. And what do you mean if? They are already here.”
Startled, Ayla turned. And indeed, she had been so intent on watching the riders, that she hadn't noticed the small host[40] that was now marching down the path from the mountain towards them. At first Ayla thought it would take them ages to get there, but they were almost as quick as she had been on horseback.
“You can go,” Isenbard told the villagers who had been helping to build the barricade. They had been standing around, uncertain what to do, throwing fearful glances at the approaching riders. “This is a matter for soldiers.”
The relief on their faces was evident. They ran, evading the small force that was marching the other way, shouting encouragement to the hard-faced men in armor.
The warriors reached the bridge and looked to Isenbard.
At a silent hand gesture from the old knight, five of them took up positions blocking the narrow bridge. The rest arrayed themselves in a line on the meadow behind them. Then they stood and waited.
And waited.
While the riders advanced.
“What's the matter?” Ayla hissed. “Why aren't they doing anything?”
“Like what?” asked Isenbard, not taking his eyes off the approaching enemy cavalry.
“Attacking those riders, for instance!”
“The bridge is the best defensive position. Wait and see. And remember.”
The mercenary cavalry gathered speed. They were only a few hundred feet away now. The riders lowered their lances to the height of a man's chest. Ayla could see their grips tighten, their spurs pressing into the sides of their stallions. The thunder of the hoofs grew louder and louder.
“And what are those men behind them doing?” she demanded. “Those on the meadow? Tell them to join the others! Never can five men hold the bridge against such an assault!”
Isenbard didn't reply.
“Uncle? Did you hear what I said?”
Isenbard raised his arm.
“Ready your bows!” he shouted, and his voice sounded even over the thundering hoofs.
As if one man, the fifteen on the meadow threw their cloaks back, revealing long bows and quivers.
“Nock!”
The men put arrows to their strings and placed the bows against the ground for leverage.
“Mark.”
The bows shifted slightly.
“Draw!”
Isenbard's voice was hard as stone, and just as unemotional. Fifteen bowstrings were drawn back at his command. Ayla's heart hammered as her gaze went back and forth between Isenbard's men and the mercenaries—the mercenaries whose eyes widened at the sight of the weapons aimed at them.
“Hold...” Isenbard growled. “Hold... Hold...”
The riders gathered even more speed. Blood gushed from the sides of their horses as they drove their spurs into the flesh in a desperate rush to close the distance.
“Loose!”
Like a dozen angry hawks, the arrows took flight, splitting the air before them and heading straight for their targets. Quickly, Ayla ducked and closed her eyes. But she could still hear the anguished cry of the first horse and the thump as it stumbled and fell, smashing its rider into a bloody pulp. More cries erupted from all around her as other arrows found their mark.
“Nock! Mark! Draw, and... loose!”[41]
A second volley erupted into the air with the swish of sudden death.
“Nock, mark, draw! Loose!”
And a third.
“Nock, mark, draw! Loose!”
And a fourth. And fifth, and sixth, and seventh.
All of it took not much more than a minute. Yet, for Ayla, it seemed like hours as she cowered behind the barricade, listening to the sounds of men dying—dying for her.
No, not for me, she reminded herself. For all our freedom.
That didn't make her feel much better, though.
What am I doing? I came here to be there for my people and now all I'm doing is cowering behind a barricade. I have to face the enemy.
Finally, she gathered all her courage, stood up, and turned to look past the barricade—just in time to see the last rider yank his horse around and gallop back towards the safety of the forest. The meadow was strewn with the bodies of men and horses. The lush grass which had formerly been green was now dyed red. Ayla felt bile rise up in her throat from the violent sight and quickly turned away.
After a few moments, she felt someone's eyes on her. Looking up, she saw Isenbard studying her intently. Defiantly, she raised her chin and met his gaze. “Yes? What is it?”
“You had the courage to watch, Milady. At the very end, you found it.”
To everybody else, it sounded like a simple statement. Ayla, however, knew that it was more—much more.
She nodded thankfully.
“You want to see. To be there,” Isenbard continued.
It wasn't a question.
“I have to,” she said.
“And there's nothing I can say to dissuade you?”
She shook her head, repeating: “I have to.”
Isenbard nodded to the soldiers who still hadn't moved. “None of them would think any worse of you if you didn't, and neither would the villagers.”
“I know that they wouldn't, Uncle, but... I would.”
The old knight nodded again. “I see. Then perhaps, next time, you will find the courage to give the order yourself.”
Ayla looked back at the field of death across the river. A shiver ran down her spine. “Perhaps,” she whispered.
*~*~**~*~*
One of Isenbard's men was sent into the village to fetch back the peasants and carpenters. Work on the barricade still wasn't finished and Isenbard seemed to be in a hurry.
“Why, though?” Ayla asked, looking at the slain enemies. Though the sight filled her with dread, it also filled her with a strange, fierce kind of hope. “You were perfectly able to handle their cavalry. Why not the foot soldiers, too?”
Isenbard looked at her with sad eyes. “Think, girl.”
Ayla stared at him. “I don't know what you mean, Uncle.”
“What did they come here for? What are they expecting?”
“Err... a siege, I presume.”
“And would you bring many riders to a siege?”
“I don't know. I'm no expert at tactics.”
“Can horses climb castle walls?”
“No, of course not!”
“Then let me ask you again, would you bring many riders to a siege?”
“Err... no?”
“Exactly. And yet they had fifty riders—a force double the size of mine. How large do you think their force of foot soldiers will be?”
There was silence. Ayla could almost taste her fear on her tongue. Isenbard looked uneasy. He probably would have put a comforting arm around her—but he’d had problems with gestures like that ever since she had grown into a young woman. His personal code of chivalry and respect for the honor of the fair sex forbade him to touch just about any spot on her, apart from her foot when helping her into a saddle.
“Come.” Isenbard nodded towards the castle. “You need to rest. And I need to report to your father.”
“But what about the bridge? Who will guard it?”
Isenbard looked back to his men. One stepped forward and bowed. “We will defend it to the last man,” the soldier said.
The old knight nodded, as if he had expected nothing less.
Then, to Ayla's utter surprise, the soldier turned and bowed to her. “I have never seen a lady leave
her castle to be with her men in battle. I am honored to serve you, Milady. Your father must be proud of you.”
The sincerity of his voice was unmistakable. Ayla couldn't help smiling. “Thank you. Be careful. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you—any of you.”
“We will fight with all we have. God be with you, Milady.”
“And with you.”
Ayla and Isenbard shared one horse again on their way back to the castle. Halfway there, Ayla asked: “What about the barricade? Don't you need to be there to make sure the villagers do their job properly?”
“I have instructed them already. They can get by for an hour or so without me. I have to report to my liege lord.”
Ayla appreciated his need to keep the Count in the picture. The two had been childhood friends, Count Thomas always the stronger, the quicker, the more powerful one. Now he was lying up in his tower chamber, an invalid, watching powerless while his friend had to defend his lands and his only daughter.
With horror, she realized that her father had probably seen the entire battle from up there, had seen how she ran down towards the fight. The thought filled her with guilt, though she knew she wouldn't have acted differently even had she thought of it beforehand. It had been her duty. Her father would understand, even if he might not like it.
At least, if he had seen the battle, he would also see her riding back to safety, unharmed.
But the thought of what battles he might yet have to watch filled her with dread. Fifty men killed... and yet, according to Isenbard, they had hardly inflicted a scratch on the enemy. She shuddered.
“Uncle Ironbeard?” she asked.
“Yes, Milady?”
“Are we going to survive this?”
There was silence for a moment, apart from the pounding of hoofs.
“I don't know, Milady.”
Silence again—silence filled with fear.
“But I do know one thing,” he added.
“Yes?”
“We will not stop fighting until the end.”
Ayla felt a feeling flood her. It wasn't happiness. It wasn't even hope. No, it was... determination.
“No,” she said. “We won't.”
They rode in silence the rest of the way to the castle. Now though, the fear was gone. Having passed through both gates, Ayla jumped off the horse and ran up towards the keep. In front of the door she hesitated, remembering how she had run up the keep just about an hour ago. Remembering Reuben.
Pain shot through her chest, and for a moment she thought she knew how the mercenaries must have felt—she thought she knew how it must feel to have an arrow pierce your heart. Then she pushed those thoughts aside and wiped away a small tear that had escaped her. Reuben was long gone now. It was useless to think of him.
She pushed open the door and marched towards the staircase. Only when she was almost upon it, did she see the lifeless body lying at the foot of the stairs.
Her scream echoed all around the valley.
Welcome Weakness
Three seconds later, Isenbard came storming into the entrance hall, sword in hand and a ferocious glint in his icy eyes. Ayla's scream had sounded as if a dozen enemies had invaded the castle, but inside, the knight could see nobody but his mistress.
“Ayla?” In a blink he was at her side. “Are you hurt? What's the matter?”
He gripped Ayla, who was kneeling on the floor, roughly by the shoulders, turned her, and inspected her. Only when he was finished with his inspection did he notice the man on the floor beside his lord's daughter—and the tears on her face.
“Who is that?” he demanded.
Ayla tried to speak, but apparently couldn't. The sight of the man lying there in a tangled heap had knocked the breath out of her.
“Who is he?” Isenbard repeated with mounting concern.
“He... he...” Ayla swallowed and tried again. “That's... Reuben.”
“Reuben? The fellow you were taking care of?”
Ayla nodded. Isenbard's eyes wandered between the man on the floor and Ayla's tears, reassessing the situation.
“Well,” he said gruffly, “let's get him upstairs.”
“He isn't... isn't... d-dea—”
The old knight knelt and checked the man's heartbeat. “He's alive.”
Ayla sank against the wall. “Thank God.”
“Hey, you!” Isenbard called to two guards who were passing the keep outside. “Come here!”
The two men hurried inside, and at a gesture from Isenbard, picked up the unconscious fellow on the floor without asking questions. The old knight pointed towards the staircase and the guards started upstairs, needing no further instruction.
Isenbard's mind was hard at work trying to figure out Ayla's response to seeing this fellow Reuben being hurt. It was natural enough, he supposed. She had been through a lot today, seen death and destruction. Having it follow her to her own home had probably been too much. Yes, that had to be it.
Isenbard didn't want to consider the alternative explanation—that her distress had nothing to do with finding a badly-wounded man, but rather with the fact that it was this particular man. That look in Ayla's eyes...
He pushed away the thought. He had other things to worry about at the moment. Anyway, maybe Ayla's surprising behavior didn't need any logical explanation. After all, although mildly sensible, she was a girl.
The surprises of the day weren't over yet. Two castle guards carried the fellow called Reuben up the stairs while Isenbard, supporting Ayla, brought up the rear. Halfway up the stairs, one of the guards almost stumbled over a half-eaten black pudding and chicken leg which lay on the steps. When Ayla saw them, first a smile flickered on her tearful face, then she moaned, “That cheater! That scoundrel of a cheater!” and broke into another fit of tears. Not knowing what else to do with a crying female, Isenbard tried to maneuver her, as gently as possible, into her room.
However, in spite of all the tears blocking her sight, Ayla's eyes still seemed to work fine. She caught on to the fact that she wasn't going the same way as the two guards and wouldn't move another step. So Isenbard just shoved her in after them, into the room where they had put the fellow, and then went in search of some female able to cope with this situation.
*~*~**~*~*
When Reuben opened his eyes, everything was fuzzy for a moment. Once his sight became a bit clearer, he saw a by now very familiar stone ceiling. Slowly, he began to turn his head sideways—an action which took a lot more effort than usual—and he spotted a slender figure in a brown dress with brown hair sitting beside him, her face in her hands, turned away from him.
He squinted. No, the dress wasn't actually brown, and neither was the hair for that matter.
“Ayla?” he croaked.
At the sound of his voice, the girl spun around, and her hands fell from her face.
“Reuben? Reuben, you are awake? How are you?”
Reuben ignored the question, continuing instead to stare at her astonishing brownishness. “Why are you covered in mud?” he inquired.
“What mud? Oh, that... Isenbard threw me down and jumped on top of me in a muddy field, that's all.”
“What?”
Reuben's eyes almost emitted sparks at her casual statement. That creepy old bastard! Maybe he hadn't been so far off the mark with his first suspicions after all.
Seeing the look on his face, Ayla's eyes began to sparkle. “Does that bother you?” she asked in a teasing tone.
“No,” he grunted. “Why should it?”
“Oh, I don't know.” The sparkle in her eyes increased and now he could see that it stemmed from the moisture which threatened to spill down her fair face. “Personally, I'm glad he did it, because otherwise, I might have been shot today. But I don't know why you would care about that, I really don't!”
She hid her face in her hands again and began to cry quietly. Reuben tried to raise his hand—somehow he wanted to comfort her, though he didn't know how. His hand didn't move an inch.
His whole body felt incredibly overheated and sluggish.
With great effort, it seemed, Ayla appeared from her hiding place and wiped her face with her sleeve. Still sniffling, she demanded: “Now are you going to tell me how you are or will I have to beat it out of you?”
“That might be interesting to see.”
“How—are—you?”
“Not too bad...”
“Don't lie to me!”
“Well, all right.” He sighed. “I feel terrible. Weak and hot and unable to move a muscle. Never felt anything like it in my life.”
“That's because you have a fever,” she said, bending forward and feeling his forehead. “Somehow your wounds got infected. I have no idea how.” She peered at him suspiciously, her eyes still wet. “You did follow my instructions, didn't you?”
“To the letter,” he assured her.
“Really?”
“Oh yes.”
“Then can you tell me what this is?” She dangled a half-eaten black pudding in front of his nose.
He managed a ghost of his usual insolent grin. “There may have been a few little deviations.”
“You stupid fool!” She smacked his arm, and her eyes started tearing up again. “Those things I told you weren't simply meant for my amusement! They were meant to help you get better!”
Reuben's mouth opened slightly, but for once, he didn't know how to respond. No cheeky remark, no sarcastic words sprang to his lips.
“Which of the kitchen maids did you coerce into bringing you this? What did you promise in return?”
That brought the grin back to Reuben's face. “Why? Jealous of what I might have promised the fair maiden?”
Her cheeks blossomed red, which made Reuben's grin only widen.
“I... you... Answer my question!”
“Not until you answer mine.”
Angrily, she threw the black pudding behind her. It hit the stone wall with a resounding smack. “You're impossible!”
For a few moments she just sat there beside his bed in angry silence.
Finally, he decided it was time to say something, preferably something that didn't get her temper up again. “How bad am I?” he asked, quietly.
“I don't know! If you'd done what I said, you'd probably be on your feet in a couple of days. But now—you fell down the stairs and have bruises on every inch of your body.”