The Robber Knight's Love

by Robert Thier

  In a space of ground between two of its large, knotted roots, a hole had been dug in the fertile earth. The hole was not very deep, because not far underground the earth gave way to the hard rock that formed the center of the mountain. But it did not need to be deep. There was only one thing that would ever be buried here.

  With a motion of her hand, she directed Reuben and Linhart to place the bier beside the open grave.

  *~*~**~*~*

  Reuben bent down until the bier touched the ground, then slowly let go and rose again. Around him, the villagers and guards gathered. Even those guards who, for the safety of them all, had to remain on the outer wall, were here in a sense. They were here with their hearts. Reuben could feel it. Grief and love mingled in the air, a bittersweet perfume he had not breathed for so many years, he who had been the cause of so many deaths over the years.

  This one felt more real than any of them.

  But among all the faces, he searched in vain for the one he had expected to see. The one he did not yet know.

  As Ayla walked around the bier to stand beside him over the dark hole, he whispered into her ear, “Where is your father?”

  She shook her head.

  “He's not here. And he won't be coming.”

  “But…isn't he Sir Isenbard's oldest friend?”

  “Exactly.”

  Confused, Reuben looked down at her. She just continued to stare fixedly into the dark hole.

  “I…don't understand,” he finally admitted.

  That was when she looked up at him, her sapphire eyes full of tears. “Reuben, I…please, I know he should be here. I know I should have told him. It's just…I couldn't. He's not well, and I'm so afraid. Afraid that if I told him, he…”

  The words broke off in a choked sob.

  “I…I can't lose him, too. Not so soon after…”

  Now he understood. He didn't say anything, just brushed his hand against hers, offering. She clasped it firmly, gratefully.

  A little man emerged from the silent crowd. From the wooden cross hanging around his neck, Reuben presumed him to be the village priest. Reuben wasn't too fond of priests. They had been too busy trying to convince him of the error of his ways, either with prayers or red hot knives, for him to like their kind much. This one looked different, however. Small and mousy in appearance, he still had a certain bearing. He stepped up to Ayla and took her other hand, pressing it for a moment.

  “Be brave, my child.”

  “Th-thank you, father.”

  Retreating towards the freshly dug grave, the priest took out a small container from under his robes. He swung it from side to side on a small chain, and the sweet smell of incense spread through the little orchard.

  “Thou shalt sprinkle me with hyssop, O Lord, and I shall be cleansed: Thou shalt wash me, and I shall be made whiter than snow.”

  Bending down to a bowl of holy water on the ground beside him, he sprinkled a few drops over the grave and continued. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, we dedicate and consecrate this spot of earth as the final resting place for the body of Sir Isenbard von Riffgarten. May this spot of earth forever be a hallowed place to which his kin might come and remember him, until our Lord's righteous servant rises once more on the day when all the righteous reawaken from the earth to the glory of God. For the house of God is founded on the summit of the mountains, and is exalted over all the hills, and all the people shall come to it. And they shall say: ‘Glory be to thee, O Lord.’”

  All voices rose up and, in a resounding chorus, proclaimed,“Glory be to thee, O Lord.”

  Only Reuben remained silent. He couldn't see what was particularly praiseworthy about a God who let good people die while evil men continued to live. For that matter, he couldn’t see what was praiseworthy about a God who let evil noblemen declare feuds against their peaceful neighbors in the first place.

  On the other hand, I’m pretty evil myself, he mused. So maybe I shouldn’t complain that God and his avenging angels seem to be taking a nap right now.

  Then he felt Ayla's hand tremble in his and decided that, yes, he would and should complain. Nobody had the right to make his Ayla suffer like that, not even the creator of all. If he ever went to heaven—which, considering his previous life, was, admittedly, pretty unlikely—Reuben was going to give God a good talking to!

  “Everything is ready, Milady,” the priest said with a slight bow of his head. “The grave is blessed, and we can proceed. Unless someone wishes to say a few words…?”

  Reuben felt her tremble again, stronger this time. His alarm bells began to ring. He had known enough ladies to know what they usually did in situations like this. Was she going to fall, or even faint?

  But the next thing he knew, she straightened herself. Letting go of his hand, she took a step towards the priest.

  “Yes,” she said, and suddenly her voice didn't sound weak, tearful, or frightened at all. It sounded like what Reuben imagined an avenging angel would sound like. The kind who didn't take naps. “I would.”

  Sweet and Bitter

  Ayla climbed onto one of the enormous, gnarled roots of the tree. With her standing on this makeshift platform, Reuben was the only one in the crowd who was as tall as her. She towered over all the rest.

  “My friends,” she called out, her voice echoing between the castle walls. “We all have lost our strongest protector today, our champion against the evil forces that are arrayed against us. And we have lost far, far more than that. We have lost a friend.”

  For a moment, it seemed her voice might break. But only for a moment.

  “The Good Book says,” she continued, “Brothers, we do not want you to be ignorant about those who fall asleep, or to grieve like the rest of men, who have no hope. We believe that Jesus died and rose again and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him.”

  She swallowed, wrestling with the power of the words.

  “I know these words, and I do believe in the resurrection and eternal life. And yet…Sir Isenbard lies there, unmoving, and my feeble, doubting spirits weeps at the sight. Before he will rise again with our Lord Jesus Christ, many hundreds or thousands of years may pass. Mountains will grow and fall, kings will die, and new ones be crowned, and we all will long be dust in the wind before the day comes when Isenbard von Riffgarten will rise again. He will never, ever again walk among us here at Luntberg.”

  Reuben heard small sobs from the crowd as women began crying and saw the grim faces of men trying not to let their fear show. He wondered what Ayla was doing. If she wanted to encourage the villagers, she hadn't had much luck so far.

  “I look into his cold, unmoving face, and the sight drains the hope out of me. I ask myself, what shall we do without him? What can we do? Now that he is dead, should we surrender to the Margrave? Give up hope?”

  There were uneasy mutterings among the crowd and some more sobbing. Reuben tried to signal to Ayla to shut up, but she didn't seem to see him. What the hell was she doing?

  “A voice inside me whispers, It would be the best thing to do,” she continued. “We could submit ourselves to his rule. Maybe he will have mercy. Maybe everything will turn out all right.”

  Reuben’s teeth clenched in outrage, and he had to restrain himself from grabbing and shaking her. What in the names of Satan and all his little devils…!

  Her head sank as she looked down and rested her chin on her chest. The mutterings increased. People threw each other looks of mingled despair and fear, and Reuben realized suddenly these weren't her own thoughts and fears Ayla was voicing. They were her people’s.

  “Yes, maybe we should surrender,” she continued, still looking down, avoiding everybody's eyes. “Maybe it would be the wisest thing to do. But, what then? What happens when, in a year, I come to this grave, a slave to the Margrave? Shall I bend my knee, speak a prayer, and say, ‘Isenbard, you fought for my freedom—and you died for nothing’?”

  Sudde
nly, the orchard went deadly quiet. Literally deadly. Even the birds in the trees had stopped singing for the moment.

  “Blasphemy!” Ayla’s head shot up, and she fixed the crowd with a stare so sapphire blue, so intense, that it made Reuben shiver from head to toe. “Pure blasphemy! Will I descend to that level of cowardice? Will I? Will we? Or will we remember the man that Isenbard was and honor his memory?”

  Suddenly, she seemed to grow taller, in a way that had nothing whatsoever to do with the large tree root she was standing on. The whispers in the crowd changed, no longer spreading despair, and on Reuben’s face a grin began to grow.

  He should probably try to hide it. This was a funeral, after all. But to hell with it! She was simply too marvelous.

  “Sir Isenbard was as much a father to me as my own flesh and blood,” Ayla proclaimed. “He was a good man, a kind man, an honorable man. And most of all, he was a very rare man in that he was willing to sacrifice everything to keep his oath of fealty and fight for what is good and just—even his very life!”

  The mutterings everywhere grew into a rumble of ascent. Several lone voices began calling out—some Isenbard’s name, some Ayla’s.

  “He was a knight the like of which we shall never see again, my friends! I could stand here and praise him for ten days and ten nights, and still, it would not be enough. It would never be enough!”

  Slowly, she raised her hands in front of her chest and folded them in silent prayer. Reuben found himself caught by the spell, listening and watching with rapped attention, like all the others in the orchard, he was sure. Yet he was experienced enough a fighter to recognize this for what it really was. It was not just a funeral oration. It was a general speaking to her troops. It was not just a speech to honor the dead. It was a speech to keep the living alive.

  “There is no doubt in my mind whatsoever,” Ayla proclaimed, lifting her eyes to the sky, “that right now, he is passing through the gates of heaven that stand wide open to greet him. There is no doubt in my mind that he is watching us. Is he smiling at us? Probably not.”

  Tears appeared at the corners of Ayla’s eyes.

  “He’s probably scowling and shouting at us to dump him in the ground already and get on with saving our necks.”

  More sobs from the crowd this time, mixed with a few half-weeping giggles. Reuben found himself smiling at the thought. Blast her! She was even getting to him!

  “It is because I know he is watching right now that I do not feel presumptuous in speaking to you as he would.” Ayla’s voice rose until it could be heard in the farthest corners of the courtyard.

  “I’m telling you that I am proud of you. You all have fought your very hardest. You all have been steadfast, loyal, and brave. You all have done as he has done, and if you continue on that path, I believe we can beat the accursed Margrave's bought murderers and save all of us, our friends and families from a fate worse than death. Do as Sir Isenbard has done for all of us: fight for loyalty, honor, and love! As long as you do as he has done, Sir Isenbard is not truly dead. As long as you fight on to honor him, he lives on in our hearts.”

  She raised her hands to the sky, clenched into fists. “Sir Isenbard!”

  The call was given back to her in thunderous chorus.

  “Sir Isenbard! Sir Isenbard! Sir Isenbard!”

  He would be proud of her, Reuben thought wondrously as he watched Ayla, who was standing over the cheering and crying crowd, triumphant and mourning all at the same time. If he could see this, he really would be proud of her. Who knows? Maybe he can. Maybe he is, right now.

  And in that moment, Reuben realized that he, too, was proud of her. Proud like the very devil! She had honored a warrior's death in the best way possible: she had given strength to the cause he had given his life for.

  My lady…that’s my lady!

  He could see the effect her words were having upon her people. They were not happy—it would probably have been difficult to ever catch them at a less happy time—however, they were resolved. Reuben could see it in their eyes, even in the eyes of the simplest peasants: that steely glint that marked an army which could not be bought, not be turned around by fear, not be beaten unless it was killed to a man.

  And that won’t happen. I’ll make sure of it.

  He could see that Ayla, too, recognized the effect of her words. She had given strength to her people, and the more she gave, the more she seemed to receive in return. Their strength was hers. It kept her standing, thinking, moving at a time when she probably would have liked nothing better than to lie down in a corner somewhere and cry her heart out. Her belief in the loyalty and love of her people was her strongest solace and sharpest weapon.

  Which made Reuben feel like a cad for the thing he knew he had to tell her.

  But then, I am a cad, he thought to himself wryly. So where’s the problem?

  As the shouts of the crowd died down, Ayla stepped down from the root and nodded to Linhart. Reuben looked around. Without him noticing, the Captain had attached ropes to the ends of the bier on which Isenbard’s body lay. He took up one of them in his hand. Reuben grabbed another, and two castle guards took the remaining two. Lifting the bier by the ropes, they moved it over the hole.

  Reuben looked questioningly at Ayla. “Milady?”

  She hesitated a moment, then nodded.

  Slowly, Isenbard's descent into the shallow grave began. After only three feet or so, he came to rest on the earth with a low 'thump'. People started moving forward, gathering around the grave, packed as tightly as possible. Isenbard's face could still be made out in the shadows down there. Half in darkness, the deathly pallor of his face seemed not as marked as before. He almost looked as if he were only sleeping.

  Which was not true, of course, Reuben chided himself.

  Ayla reached out to the tree beneath which the grave had been dug. From between the leaves, she picked one of the largest, most beautiful apple-blossoms.

  “Rest in peace, my friend,” she whispered and let it fall into the grave. It drifted downwards, slowly rotating as it sank through the air, and finally came to rest on Isenbard's chest, just above his folded hands.

  “Father?” With a shaky little nod, Ayla gave a nod to the priest. “You may do your duty.”

  The priest stepped forward, bent down, and picked up a handful of earth from the ground. Stretching his hand over the grave, he let it fall. Then Ayla stepped forward to do the same, and as she did, the priest intoned, “In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken…”

  Captain Linhart took Ayla's place and threw a handful of dirt into the grave.

  “… For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return…”

  The Captain stepped back and hesitated. Then, to Reuben's utter amazement, he gestured for him to step forward.

  Raising a questioning eyebrow, Reuben looked at Ayla. She nodded. That decided it for Reuben.

  He would not have said it was his place to do so, but he stepped towards the grave, bent down to retrieve a handful of earth, and let it fall into the gloom of the open grave. As the dirt hit the body, it had a sense of finality. Reuben realized that it had been his place to do this, for he was taking up the place of the man they buried here: the place of protector.

  “…in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who shall change our vile body, that it may be like unto his glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself. Amen.”

  “Amen,” repeated the congregation.

  There was a moment of utter silence. Then two guards armed with shovels stepped forward. It was time.

  As the two passed between Ayla and the villagers, blocking the former from the latter's view, Reuben saw her suddenly stumble and almost fall.

  Satan’s hairy ass!

  He abruptly realized that she had been running on borrowed strength this whole time. Her show of determ
ination in front of the villagers was just that—a show. She could only keep it up as long as she had to, as long as she knew the villagers could see her. Even so, she would not be able to keep it up for long.

  “Milady?” Taking her hand, he turned her towards him. “Perhaps I might prevail upon you to come to the keep with me? There are some urgent matters of defense I must discuss with you.”

  She threw him a grateful look, which cut Reuben to the bone. She thought he was just making an excuse for her, helping her find some peace, when what he said had actually been true, and he was about to destroy the last bit of peace she had.

  “Of course,” she mumbled. “Let's go.”

  A corridor through the crowd opened up in front of them. People respectfully bowed their heads to Ayla as she passed, and Reuben could feel that it was as much a sign of respect as an acknowledgment of her grief. Behind them, the soft 'thud, thud' of earth slowly covering up the remains of Sir Isenbard sounded out in an irregular rhythm.

  They walked quietly for a bit. Not that Reuben didn't have much to say, oh no. He had quite a lot to say. It was just that he didn't want to.

  The night around them was strangely peaceful, in spite of the terrible events that had shaken the castle of late, and he did not want to break that spell. He did not want to break Ayla, either. Walking beside him in her white linen gown, she looked as ephemeral and breakable as one of the beautiful apple blossoms in her orchard.

  Suddenly, as if in answer to his thoughts, she stumbled and fell against him.

  “Ayla!” His arms went around her instinctively. Holding her close, he felt her soft body pressed against his, her heartbeat feeling wonderfully alive, even through his mail shirt. He also felt the shivers that were racking her body.

  “Ayla, what's the matter?”

  What a stupid question! Her oldest friend has just been put six feet under with an ax wound in the neck!

  Desperately Reuben tried to remember any courtly lessons from his early days as a knight about cheering up tearful ladies. From what he could remember, most of the methods involved winning a tournament for the lady in question or sending her flowers. He didn't think either method would work in this case.