by Robert Thier
“What if I want to?” he asked. “You are a beautiful young lady and deserve to be honored with the title. In fact, I would rather think 'queen' more appropriate than simply 'Milady'.”
This piece of flattery, however, didn't have its intended effect. Instead of fluttering her eyelashes at him suggestively, like any lady at the Imperial Court would have done, Ayla didn't even seem to register his compliment on her beauty. Instead, her face fell and she busied herself with the linen and water she had brought, so as not to have to meet his gaze.
“I'm no queen,” she mumbled. “I don't even deserve to be the lady of a castle. Now turn over, will you? I have to change your cataplasms.”
Reuben didn't move. “What's wrong?” he asked with a softness in his voice that surprised even himself.
Ayla's eyes flitted to the gray-bearded knight on the other bed.
“Oh.” Now Reuben understood. “My new roommate?”
“Yes,” Ayla whispered.
“But surely you don't blame yourself for that. He went onto the battlefield to protect you, to fulfill his oath of fealty. That he lies here isn't your fault, but the fault of the man who struck him down.”
“No, I don't blame myself for what happened, Reuben.”
He studied her face closely. “But you do blame yourself for something?”
“How is it you know me so well?” Ayla asked, seeming half annoyed, half amused.
“Well, you've had a pretty close look at me over the last few days. I've tried to do my best to return the favor,” he said, grinning up at her and lifting a suggestive eyebrow.
She smacked him with a wet cloth. “You be careful what you say or I'll stuff one of these down your throat!”
“Yes, Milady. Certainly, Milady.” He waited for a few moments, but when she didn't say anything, just continued her ministrations in silence, he asked: , “So, what is it you blame yourself for?”
“You don't give up, do you?”
“Never.”
The playful mood in the room shifted, and when Ayla continued, her voice was soft and somber. “I blame myself for not knowing what to do, now that he's not there anymore. A real mistress of a castle should know what to do. She would know how to defend her lands and her people.”
Reuben smirked. “Are young girls hereabouts usually taught swordplay? Did your father forget that in your education?”
“Of course not!”
“Neither is that practice very widespread anywhere else, I think. That's hardly your fault.”
“I wasn't talking about defending my lands personally, with a sword in my hand. I was talking about knowing what to do. What orders to give, how to appear as a confident leader, what to expect of the enemy. They are planning something, I know it. I just have no idea what, and I feel lost and alone.”
You won't be alone much longer, Reuben thought. As soon as I get off this sickbed, I will make your enemies quake in their boots.
But it was too early for that. He couldn't say it. Even if he could, she wouldn't believe him.
And if she did, she would hang you, came the grizzly afterthought.
A fresh cataplasm was wrapped around Reuben's calf by Ayla's gentle hands. He shuddered under the touch—and not because of the coldness of the water. Satan's hairy ass! This girl was... alluring. Despite the fact that, or maybe even because, she wanted to see him swing from the highest tower.
“By the way,” he said quickly, to keep his imagination from getting out of hand, “these cold thingies really seem to work.”
He couldn't see her smile because he had his back to her, but he could feel it, could hear it in her voice.
“The cataplasms? Of course they do. I'm good at what I do.”
“Yes, you are,” he said, closing his eyes and carefully flexing the muscles in his leg, under her fingers. “Very good. Please don't let me interrupt you.”
A wet cloth slapped against the sole of his bare foot, and he yelped in surprise.
“We were, I believe, talking of the defense of this castle,” she said in a haughty tone. “Let's stick to that subject, shall we? Now turn around, I have to wind those cloths all the way around your legs.”
Reuben did as she asked and lay on his back, staring up at her face. She was looking down at his calves, and the blond curtain of her hair shielded most of her face from him, but her cheeks had definitely reddened. Oh yes, she was blushing.
He grinned as he watched her pick up the next cold cloth. But then the cloth slipped through her fingers and fell to the floor. With a jolt, Reuben realized that her hands were shaking. Guilt, hot fiery guilt, washed through him. She was beset by her enemies, had just lost her only protector, and he was making fun of her! Could he be any crueler? Yes, he probably could, but still...
He didn't want to make fun of her. All right, maybe he sometimes did, but not now, not when she was in need. Now, he just wanted to help.
But how could he? He was tied to this bed. He couldn't even get up, he was so weak.
Her words came back to him: I was talking about knowing what to do. What orders to give, how to appear as a confident leader, what to expect of the enemy.
Could he help with this? How, without blowing his cover? And if that happened, she would hang him...
“I... I'm sorry,” she whispered, picking up the cloth. “I'm just not feeling very well right now.”
Oh, hang his cover! And himself, if need be.
“Soldiers are organized into lances,”[47] he said suddenly, “tactical units of varying size and shape. A number of lances in turn make up a banner. Lances are usually commanded by a knight, or in his absence, by an appointed captain.”
Ayla's head jerked up. The cold cloth in her hands was forgotten as she stared at him. “H-how do you know that?”
“When the lances and banners go into battle,” Reuben continued in a rush, “it is the knights who lead the charge against the enemy, riding full gallop with their lances in hand to try and break the ranks of the enemy. The bannermen come after them, destroying what is left. Since you are fighting a siege, a protracted battle without wide open areas and with good defensive positions, there will be greater emphasis on the foot soldiers than on knights. You will have to defend a barricade, not charge the enemy on an open field, the only place where knights could bring the mounted charge with lances, their most powerful weapon, to bear. Isenbard's incapacitation, tragic though it is, might not be the catastrophe it appears to you now. One knight more or less does not win or lose you a siege. With the right leadership, a few lances of good foot soldiers can hold that bridge of yours against an army.”
By the time he had finished his lecture, Ayla's mouth was open in the cutest “O” in the history of the alphabet.
“Are you making fun of me?” she demanded.
*~*~**~*~*
The devil of a man actually managed to look hurt!
“Does it sound like I am?” he demanded.
After a few seconds, Ayla slowly shook her head, still too confused to really know what to think. “No, Reuben. As strange as that sounds, what you've said actually seems to make some sense.”
“Why, thank you, Milady.”
“But where did all this stuff come from, Reuben? You're a merchant, not a mercenary.”
He grinned at her, that devilish grin she just couldn't resist. It made his gray eyes burn right through her to the center of her soul. “Even merchants have brains, you know.”
She pouted. “I have brains, and eyes and ears, and I've lived in a castle with soldiers and knights all my life—but I didn't know half the things that just came tumbling out of your mouth.”
Reuben shrugged. “Well, I guess I'm a very special merchant.” He raised an eyebrow at her, which made the scimitar scar on his forehead crinkle up in the most adorable way.
Oh, how Ayla wanted to touch the scar, to stroke it with gentle fingers. She couldn't help it; her expression softened and a smile suffused her features. “That you are,” she said, staring deeply
into his predatory gray eyes. “And I'm supposed to believe everything you've said, just like that? What guarantee do I have that you aren't just making it up?”
“You could just trust me,” he suggested innocently.
“Trust you?” She snorted derisively. “Yes, of course! Do I look that stupid?”
*~*~**~*~*
“...greater emphasis on the foot soldiers than on the knights,” Ayla said. “You will have to defend a barricade, not charge the enemy on an open field, which is the only place where knights can bring the mounted charge with lances, their most powerful weapon, to bear. Isenbard's incapacitation, tragic though it is, might not be the catastrophe it appears to you now. One knight more or less does not win or lose you a siege. With the right leadership, a few lances of good foot soldiers can hold that bridge of ours against an army.”
The captain of the guard, Burchard, Sir Rudolfus, and Sir Waldar sat around the lord's table in the great hall, staring at her, their mouths hanging open. This looked particularly unattractive in Sir Waldar's case, who still had a half-eaten piece of mutton stuck between his teeth.
“Well... err...” The captain of the guard scratched his head, then bowed to her. It was not an empty gesture. “That was really convincing, Milady. Thank you. And how should we position ourselves?”
“How many lances do you have?”
“Six, Milady.”
“How many men in each?”
“Three lances of ten men in the castle guard, Milady. Sir Isenbard brought one lance of twenty with him, and Sir Waldar and Sir Rudolfus each one lance of five.”
Ayla frowned. “We must organize a constant watch of about the same number of soldiers. You know the men best, Captain. You have fought beside them. Do you think it would be best to divide them up into more regular units or leave them as they are, with their familiar comrades?”
The captain shuffled uncomfortably. “Either way, these men will die to protect you, Milady.”
The frown disappeared from Ayla's face and was replaced by a smile. “I'm touched by your words, Captain. I am sure they come from the heart. Yet I do not wish these men to die in defense of me. I wish them to fight in defense of their home and live through it.”
“Yes, Milady.”
“Also, you did not answer my question, Captain. When I ask a question, I expect to be answered.”
“Yes, Milady. I... think the men would prefer to stay as they are. They know the men in their own lances, know they can trust them to protect their backs.”
“I see. Then the lances will remain as they are. Please see to it that one lance of castle guards, supplemented by the other lances so as to bring up the total number of men to at least twenty, is always guarding the barricade.”
“Yes, Milady.”
“Also ensure that the soldiers from the different lances are quartered next to each other and mingle when they are not on guard duty. I want them to get to know and trust each other. We cannot afford strife amongst ourselves if we wish to win this struggle. If there are any problems with discipline or morale, I wish to be informed immediately, do you understand?”
“I do, Milady. It shall be done as you wish.”
“You are dismissed, Captain.”
The soldier bowed and left the room, a spring in his step.
Next, Ayla turned to Sir Rudolfus and Sir Waldar. To Sir Rudolfus she entrusted the inventory of their stocks of food and everything that could be handy in a siege, reminding him that the pen was mightier than the sword. He almost fell over his feet thanking her. To Sir Waldar she entrusted the leadership of the castle guard while their captain was in charge of the barricade's defense, reminding him that the sword was mightier than the wine bottle. He snorted with laughter and marched out of the room, his belly wobbling.
When they were alone, Ayla's eyes strayed to Burchard.
His mouth was still hanging open.
“Where,” he asked, and she couldn't decide whether he sounded angry or curious or impressed or all at the same time, “did all that just come from?”
Ayla gave him her most dazzling smile. “I am simply an inspiring military leader with a natural talent for strategy.”
His bushy eyebrows drew together. “Are you now? Since when, exactly?”
“Oh, just shut up.”
Cupid's Arrows
Over the next few days, an atmosphere of tense silence began to descend over Luntberg Castle. The enemy didn't attack. The only sign of their presence was the continued sound of axes from the forest. Now and then, a tree fell. Every piece of dead wood that hit the ground stoked the fires of Ayla's anxiety. What was the enemy up to? This quiet wasn't natural. There was something coming, she was sure of that.
However, only a small part of her mind could be bothered with fears like this. With the defense of the barricade in the hands of the very capable captain of the guard, Linhart, she could, at least for now, concentrate her full attention on the sick and wounded.
Every day, she spent hours doing her best to reduce the ugly swelling at the side of Isenbard's head, and she succeeded. After a couple of days, she thought its color might slowly be beginning to change back from a disturbing black and blue to a more natural color. She would have been relieved and very proud of herself indeed, were it not for one bitter fact: Isenbard did not wake. He did not even stir or mutter a word in his deep, unnatural sleep. After the swelling had begun to retreat, there was nothing Ayla could do, except wait, hope for the best, and look after all the other sick people in the castle. They needed her full attention. Especially one of them.
“Eat,” she said, putting the bowl in front of Reuben and holding out a wooden spoon.
He wrinkled his nose at the smell of the fennel soup. “Do I have to?”
“You do, if you want to get on your feet again. Come on. Do it for me.”
Immediately, he took the spoon and began shoveling the stuff into his mouth. Ayla was so surprised that she just sat there gaping at him.
After a while, Reuben glanced up at her and saw her expression. “What?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“You actually did what I said.”
“Well, I want to get well again.”
“That hasn't stopped you from ignoring my orders before and generally behaving like an egotistical brat.”
“You are too kind, Milady.”
“So what changed your mind?”
He flashed her his trademark devil's grin. Until a few days ago, Ayla would have said everything about the devil was abominable. But that grin... She could see the evil behind it, and still, all she wanted to do was grin foolishly back at him, happy that he was happy.
“It was your gentle persuasion, of course,” he murmured very, very convincingly. “You are simply irresistible.”
She gave him a slap on his arm. This was one of the few ways of touching him she didn't feel too guilty about, and one she frequently indulged in. He certainly gave her plenty of cause. “Be serious, please! I don't want to hear things like that from you, understand?”
Suddenly, the grin had vanished from his face. It was replaced by an unexpected earnestness that left her breathless. “Why not?” he asked.
Ayla blinked. Had she imagined it or was there... hurt in his voice?
“Because you don't mean them,” she whispered.
“What if I do?”
Almost without realizing it, Ayla had moved closer to Reuben, until only a few inches separated her face from his. His face, his wild, hard, handsome face. He looked much stronger now already, his cheeks a healthy color and only a light sheen of sweat on his forehead. Sweat that actually might not come from the fever. Ayla reached up, touching her own face which was flushed and moist with excitement.
“Reuben, I...”
Precisely at that moment, the door swung open.
Guiltily, Ayla jerked around, thinking that it might be Burchard. He had developed the annoying habit of interrupting her when she was with Reuben with increasing frequency, God only knew wh
y.
But it wasn't Burchard. It was Heilswinda.
The maid stared at her mistress leaning over the face of the handsome man on the bed, her cheeks flushed. A grin appeared on her face, and she curtsied.
“Begging your pardon, Milady. Didn't want to interrupt.” She turned on the spot, waggling her hips suggestively before closing the door. “Mum's the word,” she called from outside in an excited, girly voice.
They could hear her giggling as she hurried away down the corridor.
Reuben raised an eyebrow at Ayla. “Mum's the word?”
Ayla wished heartily she could sink into the floor.
*~*~**~*~*
Apart from moments such as these, Ayla felt quite marvelous considering there was a siege going on which could result in sudden and violent death. Every time she looked at Reuben's face, feelings of tenderness and desire swept through her that she didn't know how to deal with.
She spent hours dreaming of running her hand over his face, once, just once, not pretending it was to check his temperature but for the simple feel of him under her fingers. A feel that sent shivers up her arm and played music on her heartstrings.
Sometimes she dreamed that he was a knight who came to her rescue. Then she berated herself. She was being as silly as a four-year-old—playing with her mind, while reality was very different. The bleak truth was: Reuben was not hers, nor would he ever be. The thought sent an aching pain through her heart. A pain so great that she started dreaming of the impossible again, just for a few hours while she sat at his bed, gazing at his relaxed, sleeping face and listening to the axes hacking away at the forest beyond the river.
The sound still made her uneasy. But she was heartened by another sound: Reuben's strong, regular breathing. He was getting better quickly, now strictly following all her instructions. She was amazed at his rate of recovery: it seemed almost as though he were consciously fighting the illness, determined to get on his feet as quickly as possible for some reason. Though what that reason might be, she couldn't fathom. She could only be thankful for his increasing recovery, feeling a fear she hadn't really known was there drain out of her with every day his health improved. All that was in her power to bring him back to health she did without hesitation, changing his bandages and cataplasms several times a day, applying salves, and force-feeding him all manner of medicines.