by Robert Thier
“Conquer and... kill? My goodness. Have you talked to them? Asked them nicely not to?”
*~*~**~*~*
Ayla contemplated Reuben's question for a moment, remembering. Then she nodded.
“Yes,” she answered Reuben. “That bad.”
*~*~**~*~*
Sir Waldar arrived a few minutes later. Three men helped him off his horse. The poor animal seemed to be exceedingly glad to be free of the burden.
“Isenbard, you old sack full of sauerkraut!” Sir Waldar stamped towards them and slapped his paunch, a greeting he apparently considered more appropriate than a bow. Or maybe he just would have fallen over if he'd tried that. “How are ye holding up?”
“I am well, thank you,” Isenbard responded. “Greetings, Sir Waldar.”
“Greetings Sir Waldar? Greetings!” Waldar burst out laughing as if the word were the best joke he had ever heard. “Listen to him! Going on like we're at the Emperor's court.”
“We are not,” Isenbard said. “In fact, we are at the court of your liege lord, the Lady Ayla von Luntberg. I believe you have yet to pay homage.”
He indicated Ayla who stood beside him, staring at Sir Waldar with open amazement.
Waldar glanced over at her and grinned. Several of his teeth were missing. “Oh. Sorry, lass, didn't see you there.”
“You need not apologize, Sir Knight,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Not everybody draws attention as easily as you do.”
He blinked at her for a moment, then burst out laughing again. “You mean not everybody is as fat a fart as old Waldar? Well, you're right!” He slapped his enormous belly again. “When I saw you just now, I thought you were no good, but now I see you're really old Luntberg's girl. You've got spunk!”
“If I do have 'spunk', as you put it, Sir, I assure you it accumulated merely accidentally. Do you know why you have been summoned hither?”
“God's breath! Just like the old Count! He used to get all formal too when something tickled his gall bladder.”
“Kindly refrain from befouling the air with your tongue whilst on my land, Sir Waldar. Will you be so kind as to answer my question now?”
“Sure, lass, sure.” The jolly little fat man nodded. “You've got some trouble with that upstart little pisser of a Margrave and want Waldar to rush to the rescue.” He leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered: “You have absolutely nothing to worry about. It's good swordsmen you need? Well, let me tell you, I am a master of the steel!”
Ayla felt a tiny glimmer of hope. Perhaps the appearance of the man was deceiving. Perhaps he was a fierce warrior who just didn't look the part.
“At least as long as the steel comes in the form of a metal beer mug,” he added, and burst out laughing again. “Ha! Got you! That was a good one, wasn't it?”
*~*~**~*~*
Ayla seemed to consider the matter for a moment longer, and then added: “In fact, maybe even a little bit worse than that bad. Really, really, really bad.”
Reuben looked up at her. Even seen from below, as she looked down upon him, she appeared to be such a vulnerable creature. She had felt incredibly soft and small in his arms when he had plucked her from the saddle during that fateful robbery. And although she was so vulnerable, she had shown nothing but strength and bravery then, staring him down along four feet of deadly steel. Just as she showed nothing but strength and bravery now, faced by even greater danger and the incompetence of those who were sworn to protect her.
If only he were out of this bed and on his feet again, with a sword in his hand...
“Where is the enemy now?” he asked to distract himself from useless wishful thinking.
“Camping on the other side of the river, opposite the bridge and the barricade, which is, at least, finished now, thank the Lord.”
“And is it a good barricade?”
“It didn't fall apart when I knocked on it. That's all I can tell you, I'm afraid.”
“How high is it?”
“About seven feet, I think.”
“What kind of wood? How thick? With or without a guard's walkway? With or without murder holes?”[44] The questions were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. Too late, as Ayla looked at him oddly, he realized how strange they must sound coming from a merchant.
“Why would you want to know what kind of wood it is made of, Reuben? And what in God's name is a murder hole?”
“Just something I heard,” he muttered.
She leaned forward, a concerned expression on her face, and laid a hand on his forehead. Satan's hairy ass, she thought he was rambling from the fever! Well, at least that made it unnecessary for him to come up with a clever lie. His head felt so slow and heavy, he couldn't think straight enough to lie convincingly. And with him, that meant something. He could have lied convincingly while tap-dancing on a poisonous snake.
But he couldn't just shut up now and pretend to be delirious. He needed to know more. He needed to know what kind of danger she was in. He was useless now, but he wouldn't always be. Soon he would be on his feet again, and then these accursed mercenaries would find out just whom they were dealing with.
“What does this Margrave want from you?” he asked.
Ayla's face darkened. “He wants my hand.”
“Your... hand?” For a moment, Reuben didn't understand. Then the meaning came to him, and he sucked in a sharp breath.
“He wants to force me into marriage and gain my father's lands.” Never had her face looked this pale, her eyes that much like shining blue ice. But although she was in command of herself, he saw her lower lip tremble. “Though I gather, from what his herald told me, that land is not all he hopes to gain from the union.”
Taking her hand from his forehead, she wrapped her arms around herself and looked down at the floor.
Reuben wished so much that he could take her in his arms right now, that he could shelter her as she was so obviously trying to do herself. But he didn't have the strength for it.
Anger rose in his chest. Anger the like of which he hadn't felt in a long, long time. Not since the tournament. His hand reached for his sword—but still the place at his belt was empty. He dreamed of having a blade in his hands, almost as fiercely as he dreamed of having Ayla.
She peeked down at him. He could see the moisture in her eyes, ready to spill over. Yet when her eyes fell on him, the fear in her face was replaced with curiosity.
“Why do you do that?” she asked.
“Do what?”
“Clutch your belt. You do it whenever you're angry. I've seen you do it a number of times now.”
“I'm wishing for a sword to cut off the Margrave's head,” he told her.
She stared at him for a moment, wide-eyed. Then a grin spread across her face and she started giggling. “Reuben! You're so funny!”
“That wasn't supposed to be funny,” he protested. And it hadn't been. For once, he had told her the truth—and she was laughing at it. Well, all the better. “I'd love to cut off his head. Then you wouldn't be troubled by him anymore.”
“That's sweet of you.”
She leaned forward, and before he knew what had happened, her lips brushed against his forehead. She herself didn't seem aware of what she had done. But he was. She was totally innocent. But he wasn't.
“However,” she continued, “I wouldn't want you to throw your life away for me.”
“And why do you think I wouldn't be successful?” he asked, breathless. His mind was still elsewhere—still experiencing the moment when her lips had touched his forehead. Did he dare call it a kiss?
She giggled again. “Reuben, you, swinging a sword? Please! You look strong enough, but you're no fighter. You're too good a merchant.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You think I'm such a good merchant, do you?”
“Well...” She blushed. “You could make me give you pretty much anything for free, just for one of those cheeky smiles of yours.”
This immediately brought said cheeky smile to Reuben's face, more r
adiant than ever before. “Really? Anything?”
“If you're going to ask for honey wine, forget it. You're not getting any.”
That wasn't what had been on Reuben's mind. But it was probably better to let her think so and keep his real wishes to himself—for a while. Unless he was very much mistaken, she was just starting to like him. Definitely not the right moment to provoke her into slapping his face.
Know Thyself
Ayla changed Reuben's cataplasms again and gave him some more water, then left reluctantly, not able to think of another excuse to stay and enjoy his company.
She had just returned to her own room when she realized what she had done. Terrified, she slapped her hands over her mouth and sank against the wall, groaning. “Oh God, no!”
Heilswinda, another one of her maids, though not as close a confidante as Dilli, was just folding linen in a corner of the room. Leaving her work immediately, she came hurrying over to support her mistress. “Milady? Are you alright? Are you ill?”
“No, it's not that. I... I...”
“What then?”
“What have I done?” Ayla moaned.
Heilswinda's young and kind but simple face wrinkled in confusion. “Well, I don't know. You should know that best yourself, shouldn't you?”
“I do!”
“Then what are you asking me for, Milady?”
“I... oh, forget it!”
There was a moment of silence while Ayla contemplated her shame.
“Well, what was it?” Heilswinda asked, face alight with curiosity.
“What was what?”
“What did you do?”
Ayla hesitated. But although she was curious, Heilswinda wasn't one to gossip. And it would be good to confess to someone.
“I kissed Reuben,” she admitted, shame-faced.
The curiosity in Heilswinda's face increased tenfold. “And?” she demanded. “Was he good?”
“Was he... Heilswinda!” Ayla's face turned a brilliant shade of scarlet.
“Sorry, Milady.”
“It wasn't like that. I kissed him on the forehead.”
“Oh.” The maid seemed severely disappointed. And Ayla had to admit, part of her felt the same.
However, she didn't have much time to dwell on this improper feeling. Just then, there came three knocks from the closed door, and Isenbard called: “Milady? I need you. Urgently.”
Quickly, or at least as quickly as possible, Ayla banished thoughts of Reuben from her mind. When Isenbard said things were urgent, they were.
“You say nothing about this to anyone, understand?” she whispered to Heilswinda.
The maid giggled and nodded. “Mum's the word, Milady.”
Ayla opened the door and met the eyes of her father's old friend apprehensively. She was sure that her shameless action would be written on her forehead, plain for all to see, or at least that the blush in her cheeks would give her away. But Isenbard didn't seem to notice.
“Follow me, Milady. The enemy is flying a white flag.”
Ayla's eyes widened. “They want to surrender?”
For a split second, she could have sworn the corner of the knight's mouth twitched. But probably she was mistaken.
“No. A white flag is not only used to surrender, but also to signal a parley. They want to talk.”
That made Ayla's eyes only widen further. “Talk to whom?” she asked, though she thought she already knew.
“The liege lord must lead such negotiations, Milady.”
Ayla knew what that meant. She knew because her father hadn't left his bed for years. She knew because Isenbard called her “Milady” in that special, deferential tone. He only did that when official business was at hand.
“They wish to talk to the liege lord?” She straightened and swept her long, golden hair back. “Then they shall. Lead the way, Sir Isenbard.”
He bowed. “Milady.”
Just as before, they took a single horse down to the barricade. Ayla still couldn't find it in her heart to find a replacement for Eleanor. She felt like, if she did that, she would banish her dear friend from her heart, making sure that she would never see her again.
It was silly, and she knew it, but she just couldn't let go. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
As they rode out of the gates and Ayla turned, looking back up at the castle, she remembered something that thankfully drove Eleanor from her thoughts.
“Isenbard?” she asked.
“Yes, Milady?”
“What's a murder hole?”
There were a few moments of silence. Then Isenbard answered in a careful tone: “A contraption used in the building of the most modern castles, Milady. At the very top of the wall, there are constructed platforms with holes in them. On these platforms men stand and drop things on the enemy.”
The way he said the word “things” made Ayla suspicious. “What kind of things?”
“Rocks. Pitch. Boiling oil. Things like that. The holes through which these things are thrown are called murder holes for a good reason.”
“I see.”
“It is one of the more devious and highly effective methods of siege warfare—and not commonly known. If I may ask you, Milady, where did you hear this term?”
“Reuben mentioned it.”
“Is that so?” Isenbard scratched his beard, thoughtfully. “Interesting fellow, your Reuben. I'd like to meet him.”
“He isn't my Reuben.”
“Of course not, Milady.”
“Isenbard? Why do you sound as if you are placating me?”
“Placating, Milady? I sound as I always do.”
“That's exactly the problem. You manage to sound placating while at the same time sounding just as you always do.”
“Milady?”
Ayla was just about to tell him what was going to happen to him if he said “Milady” one more time in this stupid, innocent way, when about a hundred yards in front of her, the barricade appeared from behind a gently rising hill. Behind the barricade, she could see dozens of enemy banners fluttering in the breeze. In contrast, the four small banners mounted atop the barricade, showing the brown bear, the star, the gray wolf, and the white lily, seemed to hang sad and limply.
A horn sounded from beyond the barricade. Ayla knew that it was not one of hers. It was the enemy, announcing his approach. Isenbard reined back his horse in front of the barricade, climbed down, and offered Ayla a hand.
She slid down on the other side.
From behind the horse, she heard something like a chuckle. But that couldn’t be, could it? After all, it was Sir Isenbard who stood there.
She rounded the horse, and indeed there he stood, just as solemn and dignified as ever.
The horn sounded again.
“If you want me to come up on the barricade with you...” he offered, but she interrupted him: “No, Uncle Ironbeard. This is something I need to do alone.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sir Isenbard, I just gave you an order, didn't I?”
“Yes you did, Milady. How could I have overlooked that?”
He stood aside and let her climb the barricade.
“If one of them decides your head is worth more than his honor and shoots at you, duck quickly!” he shouted after her.
With those encouraging words, Ayla climbed the ladder leading up to the guard walk. The wood felt rough through the thin leather of her shoes. Not nearly as rough, however, as what was awaiting her beyond the barricade.
For one moment, just one moment, she hesitated.
No, she couldn't turn back now. She had a responsibility towards her people. She was their liege lord, and she had to act like it. So she made herself climb up farther and farther. Finally, she stood atop the finished barricade for the first time, looking out over the enemy camp.
To say that it was an impressive sight would have been a lie.
It was a terrifying sight.
Rows upon rows of tents, a sea of tents, stretched as far as the eye coul
d see, with the subtle hint of bloodthirsty sharks moving everywhere under the waves of canvas. Armor rattled and hammers fell heavy on metal. It was the sound of a giant pack of beasts preparing for attack.
Yet nothing was as frightening as when all these noises suddenly cut off.
The horn rang out one more time. A white flag appeared between the tents, slowly moving forward.
Ayla stood straight atop the barricade, taking a deep breath. She was about to come face to face with the man who was preparing to attack her castle and her people. She vowed to herself not to be intimidated by the Margrave's chief killer, whoever he might be, whatever he might look like. If he were a giant Norseman, she would not be afraid. If he were a ruthless, scarred mercenary, she would not be afraid. Even if the Margrave himself were to ride out to meet her, she would not be afraid. She was the Lady Ayla von Luntberg, and she would let nothing and no one intimidate her.
An enormous mounted figure approached through the enemy camp. Even from this far off and with the tents blocking most of her view, Ayla could catch glimpses of the massive rider. She caught a glimpse of red.
Her heart beat faster, threatening to burst out of her chest. No, she feared nothing and no one.
Except, perhaps...
Know Thy Enemy
Out from the sea of tents he rode: a knight in blood-red armor on a gigantic stallion as black as midnight, a spear held aloft in his gauntleted fist, a double-bladed ax strapped to his back.
Out from the sea of tents he rode, the figure that had haunted her, that she had hated, ever since that day in the forest when he had held a sword to her throat and taken her Eleanor away from her.
The red robber knight.
Ayla had asked herself ever since that day in the forest why he had left her alive. Why not simply take her honor as he had taken her horse and then slit her throat, like any other cutthroat would have done?
Now she knew.
He was no ordinary villain.
He was her greatest enemy, and evil to the core. He had wanted to humiliate her first, bring her to the cusp between life and death, only to return now, when she thought herself safe within her own lands, and show her she was safe nowhere. Not from him. Not with such a force behind him.