by Robert Thier
He had to have some feelings for her, didn't he? Some tiny morsel of affection?
Ayla was overwhelmed by the response this possibility evoked in her. Her heart, which she had believed to have died days ago, started fluttering, her cheeks flushed, and random thoughts of her and Reuben—disconnected images she wasn't brave enough to examine too closely—flashed through her mind.
Never would she have thought that she still had such feelings for him. How could she? He had lied to her, betrayed her, stolen from her!
He had also saved her people's lives, risked his life to atone for his theft, and…and he had told her that he loved her.
Could it be true? Could it really, possibly, be true after all?
Well, there was one way to find out, wasn't there?
Steeling herself and wiping the moisture from her eyes that had begun to gather there, Ayla got up from the bale of hay and strode across the courtyard towards the entrance of the keep. Wherever she passed, she heard whispers of people discussing the adventure of the strange merchant, Reuben, and, more importantly, her words to him.
Sir Knight. Climb down from your horse, Sir Knight.
She should not have called him that. But really, it had been pretty obvious: a giant of a man in devilish crimson armor, riding like a master and bearing a sword at his hip so big it would make most poleaxes go green with envy—what else could he be but a knight?
The talk was everywhere. The talk of a possible new ally, right in their midst. And, as Ayla knew perfectly well, it was only a matter of time before Isenbard got to hear of this merchant, Reuben, riding around in red armor, and he would draw conclusions. Thank the Lord she hadn’t allowed the old knight to lay his hands on a sword yet. She had to think of some excuse to explain Reuben's little adventure before Isenbard found out who he really was and decided to decapitate Reuben at the next opportunity.
Ayla could feel the questioning, eager eyes of the villagers and guards on her everywhere she went. But she had not the time to answer their silent questions now. Reaching the door to the keep, she stepped inside and started to climb the steps to the first floor. The steps to Reuben's room.
Soon, she was up the steps. And then she started down the corridor, and soon that lay behind her, too. And then she stood before the large oak door and felt fear, hope, and anxiety all mixed in a tumultuous thunderstorm raging through her.
Slowly, she raised her hand and knocked.
Horseplay and Evil Plans
“Go to hell!” a familiar voice shouted from inside. “Didn't you hear me the last time?”
Ayla swallowed. Well, that was what one called a good, warm welcome.
“It's me,” she said softly through the door.
Silence.
“Do you still want me to go to hell?” she asked. “I must admit, I don't know the way.”
Silence again. Then: “No. Come in.”
Carefully, she opened the door and stepped inside. Reuben was sitting on his bedstead, leaning against the wall, his hands behind his head, looking at her without saying a word. There was no expression on his face, but Ayla noticed his scimitar-scar was slightly twitching.
He wasn't wearing the red armor anymore. It was stacked in orderly piles on the table and on the chest in the corner. But he was still wearing a mail shirt, and the giant sword at his hip could not be overlooked.
Ayla remembered that sword. Remembered it at her neck. Cold. Hard. Threatening to cut.
She shivered, but then collected herself and cleared her throat.
“I…um…came to see how you were.”
“Fine, thank you,” he said with a slight smile. “Your maid has just informed me that all of us are going to starve to death in about six weeks, but other than that, I'm feeling fabulous.”
Ayla couldn't help it—her own lips twitched in response.
“You have everything you need?” she persisted. “Food? Clothing? A game to pass the time…”
“…and still six guards in front of the door?” he completed the sentence, motioning towards the corridor from where she had entered, and smirking again. “Yes, I have everything I need. You have been most generous, Milady.”
Ayla couldn't believe it. She blushed! She actually blushed! This villain had betrayed her and stolen from her, and he was making her blush because she had the gall to have him guarded?
“The guards aren't here to protect me from you,” she snapped. “They're here to protect you from Sir Isenbard, in case he finds out who you really are! You kind of gave away the game with your impressive entrance into the castle. Any minute now, he might come storming down the corridor with a sword in his hand, screaming for the head of the red robber knight on a platter!”
“I can take care of myself,” Reuben grunted.
“I'm perfectly well aware of that! But if he does find out who you are, I don't want you to decapitate him, or him to hurt y—”
She stopped abruptly, realizing how she was about to betray herself.
I don’t want him to hurt you. That was the sort of thing you only said to somebody you really cared about.
Reuben's face softened.
“No,” he said. “I wouldn't want that to happen, either.”
There was a pause. Neither of them, it appeared, really knew what to say next. Ayla knew a million things she might have wished to say, but none of them would have been wise, and some would be downright improper. In spite of all the feelings raging inside her, this man was still a traitor and a thief.
“So,” he asked in a casual tone of voice, obviously wanting to steer the conversation to less troubled waters. “Anything interesting happen in the castle lately? A filly born? A load of bread baked? A chambermaid deflowered?”
“Reuben!”
“Ah,” he said with a wise nod. “I knew it. What's her name?”
If Ayla had been blushing before, it was nothing to how she blushed now. She felt as if, had she looked in a mirror, she surely would have mistaken her head for an overgrown beet.
“Nothing much has happened,” she murmured, “apart from me trying to figure out a way for us all to survive.”
“Oh, come on. There must be something more interesting than that.”
Ayla hesitated. Should she tell him? God alone knew what he would make out of that piece of information. It was best kept hidden, probably.
But Reuben had seen the hesitation in her eyes and demanded, “What is it?”
“Nothing. Just…”
“Tell me.”
“Well…” She sighed and said grudgingly, “Eleanor and that black monster stallion of yours seem to be getting along fairly well.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Do they, now?”
“Yes, they do. Is he one of the Margrave's animals?”
Reuben shook his head. “No, he's mine. I've had him for years. The mercenaries—those sons of mongrel bitches—took him from me when they shot me in the back and left me for dead in the forest. I must say, I was not very pleased about it. So, he and Eleanor like each other, hmm? They have been getting…closer?” He grinned at her lasciviously. “Maybe it's a sign.”
Ayla scowled. “A sign of Eleanor's bad taste for male horses?”
Reuben’s grin widened. “I didn't mean it quite like that.”
“I'm sure you didn't. What's his name, anyway?”
This time, it was he who hesitated. “Whose name, Milady?”
“Your stallion's.” It felt to Ayla as if he were deliberately delaying the answer. He looked like a little boy caught with his finger in the honey pot. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “His name is…Satan.”
Ayla's mouth dropped open in horror. “You named your horse Satan?”
“Umm…yes. I did.”
“That is blasphemous!”
“It's descriptive of his temperament. It is a very apt name, I assure you.”
She gave him her best penetrating glare. “For your horse? I have no doubt.”
There was silence again. Final
ly, Reuben asked, “Will you make sure he's looked after? He's been a loyal friend to me for years. Just about the only one I’ve ever had.”
The comment cut right through Ayla's anger and confusion and touched something deep in her heart. She swallowed, and for the first time, the thought struck her: how had he become what he was? She had never given it a thought before. Before, he had just been Reuben, the merchant. Now he was Sir Reuben, the robber knight, and she asked herself how a man like him, young, noble and undoubtedly skilled at wielding a blade, could have gone down this dark road. He could have become a king's commander! Even if no nobleman would take him on, he could still have made a fortune as a tournament fighter. She had seen the destruction he had wrought with his blade—he would have carried away the prize at many a tourney. Why turn criminal?
“Well?” persisted Reuben.
Ayla realized that she had been gazing at him in silence and hadn't answered his question. She cleared her throat, which felt unusually dry.
“He will be well cared for and properly fed,” she promised. “You have my word of honor.”
He nodded, accepting that. Apparently, he did not doubt her. Oh, if only she could trust his words as easily.
“Is there enough fodder?” he asked.
She laughed. “If we could all live on hay instead of corn, we could hold this castle for months without fear of starvation. My father always kept the hayloft well-filled. Grass is so much easier to come by than food.”
Once again, they both fell into silence. Finally, Reuben pushed himself up from the bed and stood in one single, fluid movement. Ayla found that he was, suddenly, only a few feet away from her, and his proximity was both sweet and painful.
“Why are you really here, Ayla?”
She closed her eyes for a moment, gathering her strength. When she opened them again, she said, “I was wondering what to do.”
“About the siege?”
“No. About you.”
“I see.”
“I thought that, maybe, coming here, talking with you, would help me to decide.”
He cocked his head. “And have you decided?”
She stood there, silent as the grave. She could not get one word past her lips in answer to that question.
“Ayla…” Reuben stepped forward and raised his hand as if to touch her. She jerked back abruptly, reflexively, as if it were the sharp blade of his sword he was holding out to her and not his open hand. Reuben let his hand fall.
“What is it to be, Milady?” he demanded, his voice colder now, his eyes burning into hers.
Ayla returned his gaze, trying her best to show no emotion.
“I swore by all the bones of my ancestors that I would hang you for your crimes,” she told him.
Reuben raised an eyebrow. Other than that, his face, too, showed no emotion. “And will you, Milady?”
“I don't know yet.”
Of course she knew. She had known all along. But she couldn't tell him. Before everything, before her own heart even, had to come the safekeeping of her people.
Slowly, she rose and went to the door. Over her shoulder, she said, “I will let you know once I've come to a decision.”
Then she left and closed the door behind her.
*~*~**~*~*
Sir Luca DeLombardi was shouting his head off. And he was shouting Italian.
“Tu infestato bastardo figlio di puttana!” With fire in his small, black eyes, he glared up at the castle and shook his fist in the direction where the red rider had disappeared. Long had the gates closed behind the mysterious intruder into their camp, but Sir Luca's rage had by no means subsided. “Ti sventrerò e darò quel che resta di te ai miei cani per colazione!” he roared. “Esci fuori a combattere bastardo! Esci demonio! Esci demonio!”
Fritz the soldier leaned over to one of his comrades and mumbled, “What's he saying?”
“That roses are red, violets are blue, but your eyes are more beautiful than either.”
“Really?”
“Demonio! Tu tre volte maledetto demonio!”
The other soldier rolled his eyes. “No. Not really.”
Sir Luca whirled around. Apparently, he was finished with shouting. But only because other, more vicious things were on his mind.
“Who was he?” His normally smooth and affected voice was hoarse from shouting. All of his men merely stood around in a loose semi-circle. Some shrugged. Some threw uncertain looks to one another. Nobody said a word.
“Well? I said who was he?”
Again, no answer.
“I thought this Lady Ayla had no real fighters, apart from that old man who was struck down? I thought she was defenseless! And now this?” Sir Luca advanced towards one of his soldiers, grabbed the man by the collar, and shook him like a rag doll. “Now this devil comes, enters our camp with impunity, and steals from me? Who is he? I want to know who he is!”
“I…I d-don't k-know,” the soldier stuttered, his face pale as a corpse. With another muttered Italian curse, his commander shoved him backward and turned to another soldier.
“Who,” he said in a low voice that somehow sounded even more dangerous than his shouting, “was on watch when this bastardo broke into our camp? Bring him to me.”
The soldier squirmed. “Err…Sir, I don't think that would be…”
“Do it! Now!”
The solder swallowed and bowed.
“Of course, Sir.” He ran off into the dark, beckoning to one of his comrades to follow him. They left in the direction of the gates. The rest, among them the still simmering Sir Luca, remained where they were, in front of the big command tent.
A minute elapsed. Then another.
“Where are you, you maggot-ridden sons of pigs?” roared Sir Luca.
“Coming, Sir, coming!” came the answer out of the darkness. “It's just not so easy to find him, that's all.”
“How can it be so difficult? Who is this man? What's his name?”
“Err…Rupert, I believe.”
“Well, have him called before me!”
“It's not quite that simple, Sir. Just wait a moment and…ah! There it is! Arnold, have you got his…very good! Come along.”
The first soldier appeared out of the darkness, carrying an oval object in his arms. He advanced towards his commander, knelt, and presented it to him. In the dim light of the torches, it took Sir Luca a moment to recognize the thing for what it was. When he did, he jerked back, cursing.
“That's not all of him, of course, Sir,” said the soldier, awkwardly turning the severed head from side to side. “Arnold is coming with the torso and one leg. We'll have to search a bit to find the other leg—I couldn't see it right now. Maybe it rolled off and…”
“Yes, all right, all right.” Sir Luca cut the soldier off with a motion of his hand.
“I could gather a few men and torches and look for it,” the soldier offered. “It can't have gone far.”
“That won't be necessary,” said Sir Luca, covering his nose with a handkerchief. “Remove this…thing from my sight immediately!”
“Yessir!”
Sir Luca turned towards the castle again. For a few minutes, he stared silently up at the dark stone form on the mountaintop. His men were throwing each other furtive glances, wondering if it would be permitted for them to leave, when Sir Luca said, in a voice like silk, “She will pay.”
That stopped everybody in their tracks.
“Sir?” asked one of the soldiers.
“She! Will! Pay!” With each word, Sir Luca struck his armored fist against the pole of a tent, making the whole construction shudder and groan. “By God's breath, I am Sir Luca DeLombardi, and I will be damned if I let some nobody invade my camp and put a knife to my throat! Whomever this Lady Ayla has found to do her dirty work for her, I will make her rue the day she decided to send him out here!”
“But,” one of the soldiers said, “the Margrave gave orders that he wants her alive and we—”
“I don’t gi
ve a pile of pig shit for the Margrave's orders! She will pay! Fetch Conrad to me, now!”
Wakeup Whisper
Ayla knew from the look on Isenbard's face when he approached her that the hour of her doom had come. He stomped towards her with an expression that made a thunderstorm look like a beautiful spring morning.
She was just on her way to pay Eleanor another visit and tried to slip into the stable and bolt the door behind her, but he cut her off and planted himself firmly in her way.
“What's that I hear about a red knight in the castle?” he said, his voice deceptively low.
“Knight?” Ayla responded brightly. “What knight? There's no knight. Apart from you, Sir Waldar, and Sir Rudolfus, of course.”
“Well, your maid, a few excited village girls, and half of the servants and soldiers tell me otherwise! They said they saw a red knight on a black stallion ride into the castle this very morning!”
Ayla groaned inwardly and internally chastised herself for having told Isenbard all about the robbery all those weeks ago. Had he not known about a certain red knight who had robbed her and left her stranded deep in the forest, he would not have been half as suspicious.
“Oh, that!” She tried to laugh. It didn't sound very convincing. “That was only Reuben.”
“Reuben?” Isenbard's eyebrows shot up.
“Yes, Reuben.”
“Let me clarify—we are talking about the same man here, aren't we? Reuben the merchant? Reuben the convalescent? Cannot-utter-a-sentence-without-swearing-vile-oaths Reuben?”
“Um…yes. That one.”
“Correct me if I'm wrong, Milady, but, as I said, isn't he supposed to be a merchant?”
“Yes.”
“Milady,” Isenbard said slowly, coming a step closer, his hands on his hips. “The villagers and guards not only say this red fellow came riding into the castle this morning, they also say he was clad from head to toe in armor and riding a black warhorse! They say he broke into the enemy camp and stole your mare back from under Sir Luca’s very nose!”
