by Robert Thier
He waited, his heart beating faster than usual.
“No,” Ayla said. “I do not have to explain myself to you, and Reuben's secrets are his own. None of that is the real issue here. The issue is: do you trust my judgment? Do you trust my word? Do you trust me to lead you?”
She stood and bent over the table, supporting herself with both hands on the rough wood.
“Or do you doubt the veracity of my word, Sirs? Do you think I would lie to you, do you think I would accuse one of my subjects unjustly?”
They all shrank from her gaze.
Then, the one person Reuben would never have believed capable of making a contribution spoke up.
“T-the facts as you have outlined seem to be undeniable, Milady,” Sir Rudolfus stammered in a low voice. “I do not know much about siege weapons or grappling hooks, but everything as you have outlined it was supported by logical arguments. I cannot deny the truth of your words, however much I might wish to. There is a traitor in the castle.”
Ayla nodded at him. “Thank you, Sir Rudolfus.” Then she turned towards her steward. “Burchard?”
He bit on his over-bushy mustache. “As much as I'd like to deny it, I can't,” he finally admitted. “What you've said makes sense.”
Her gaze wandered towards to Sir Waldar. He grumbled something unintelligible, but he too nodded.
Finally, her gaze landed on Captain Linhart.
“Captain?”
“Aye.” He nodded gravely. “I do not doubt you, Milady.”
“So we're all agreed that we have a traitor among us?” She gave all of them one final chance to object. But, to Reuben's relief, they lowered their eyes and nodded, submitting to her judgment.
“Very well,” she breathed. “Then the only thing that remains is: What are we going to do about it?”
Reuben straightened in his seat. His time to speak had arrived. He hadn't had a chance yet to talk to Ayla about the measures he had already taken to protect the castle from treachery. Last night, she hadn't been in any state for such a discussion. He would have preferred to talk it through quietly with her before discussing it in the open, but they had no time for such luxuries.
“May I speak, Milady?” he asked, using his best courtly voice. It was a bit rusty. He hadn't tried to sound subservient for more than five years in a row now. But he still managed a passable approximation of the tone.
“Certainly, Sir Reuben.” She nodded at him. Burchard's, Rudolphus’s, and Waldar's eyes flew wide open as they heard the title by which she addressed him: Sir—the title of a knight. For a moment, they looked as though they were about to interrupt and start questioning, but they held back.
Captain Linhart was the only one who didn't look very surprised. He had seen Reuben fight.
“Thank you, Milady.” Reuben bowed his head. “I have already taken measures to prevent the traitor from letting our enemies into the castle as he did that one night when you were almost captured. Up until recently, the guards on the wall went on their patrols alone. This makes it easy for a traitor to make contact with the enemy, as he is unsupervised. I have ordered the guards to form groups of three, so that one would always be watched by two others, who could overpower him if need be.”
“Thank you, Sir Reuben.” She nodded and gave him a minuscule smile that warmed Reuben's heart more than the full force of the sun. “That was a wise precaution. Any other suggestions?”
“We could inform the men of the danger,” Captain Linhart suggested. “It would make them more watchful.”
“It would also make them mistrust each other and rob them of confidence,” Reuben pointed out. “Trust me, I have commanded men in battle before. Telling them there is a traitor among them would not be a good idea.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Reuben saw how Burchard again opened his mouth at his mention of having commanded men in battle before, and again, he closed it without saying a word. Apparently for now, the steward would not pester him with further questions. But Reuben saw the question burning in his eyes: What if he's lying? And worse, what if he's telling the truth?
“What else can we do?” Sir Rudolfus inquired. The tremor in his voice was evident.
“Nothing much except tighten security.” Reuben shrugged. “We will have to keep an even closer watch on everything than before. Especially, we must guard the gates.” He turned to Captain Linhart, fixing him with an intent stare to convey the importance of what he was saying. “The traitor will use every opportunity he has to let the enemy into the castle. We cannot allow that to happen. If we are surprised by an attack through our own gates, we are finished. It is as simple as that. You, Captain, will be responsible for having the gates guarded strictly at all times, understood?”
Linhart nodded. “Yes, Sir.”
The title did not pass Reuben's notice. He smiled.
“No, Captain! You will do no such thing.”
His smile disappeared. Slowly, he turned in his seat to look towards the person who had countermanded his orders.
It wasn't Sir Rudolfus.
It wasn't Sir Waldar.
It wasn't even Burchard.
It was Ayla.
He blinked, the wrath he had been preparing to throw at his adversary evaporating in the blink of an eye.
“What?” he asked, flabbergasted.
“I believe my order was perfectly clear,” Ayla said. A dreamy smile had appeared on her lips. She seemed to look into a great distance. “You will not pay any particular attention to the guarding of the gates, Captain. In fact, you will withdraw all guards from the gates. Let it be known among the soldiers that the gate guards have been sent into the orchard to hold vigil at Sir Isenbard's grave.”
Pity welled up in Reuben. He saw the detached smile on Ayla's lips, and it was like a dagger through his heart. This had all been too much for her! She was beginning to lose it. But she couldn't, not now when everything depended on her leadership.
Reuben looked around. Everybody seemed just as surprised as he had been, but nobody had yet found the courage to challenge their mistress' orders.
“Ayla,” he began in a soft voice, but she cut him short.
“Then, after making that proclamation about the gates being unguarded, you will post your six most trustworthy guards hidden in the two towers on either side of the gates and will tell them to watch for anybody approaching. Whosoever comes to the gate that night, and if it only may be to oil the hinges, will be seized on the spot!”
A cold tingle ran down Reuben's spine as he started to understand. Ayla had not cracked under the strain. Not at all. Suddenly, he saw her smile in a different light. It wasn’t the smile of insanity. It was the smile of a commander who had just found out she had won a victory before she had even so much as drawn a sword.
“Do we understand each other?” Ayla demanded, rising from her chair and looking around the table. The five men, including Reuben, rose as one and bowed to her.
“Yes, Milady,” they chorused.
“Very well.” She nodded grimly, and Reuben almost thought he would burst with pride at the sight of the fire in her sapphire eyes. “We will catch this traitor tonight and make our people safe again. That I promise you on my life and my honor!”
Unguarded Guard
The night was silent over Luntberg Castle as it had not been in a long, long time. No unearthly racket pierced the darkness, no funeral oration was being held in a circle of torches. It was simply dark and quiet.
In the dark and the quiet, a figure slipped from one of the soldier's barracks and moved stealthily towards the outer gate. It didn't go straight across the courtyard. No, instead, it slipped from shadow to shadow in the manner of someone who had a powerful need to be silent. Nevertheless, now and again, a clinking noise betrayed the fact that it was there and that it was wearing pieces of armor.
In the shadows of one of the outer buildings, the figure hesitated, looking around. Nobody was there. The guards at the gate were missing, just as he had known
they would be, and nobody else seemed to have noticed his approach either. He noticed that even the doors to the towers on both sides of the gate stood slightly ajar. Had someone simply left them open? They had really left in a hurry to be at the grave.
The figure nodded. This was going to be easier than he had thought.
With his eyes, he measured the distance between his hiding place and the gate. Maybe thirty-five feet? He would have to be very quick and very silent, so the guards on the inner wall wouldn't notice him. It had been a piece of luck that he had been able to open the inner gate without anybody noticing. If he now managed to open the outer gate, too, all of this would finally be over. The Margrave would win the feud, and he would have his reward.
For a moment, he hesitated. Then three faces appeared in front of his mind's eye, and his jaw set in determination. For them! He was doing this for them!
Suddenly decided, he dashed from the shadows and across the yard, onto the path and into the shadow of the gatehouse. So eager was he to reach the safe shadows that he nearly slammed head on into the solid stone wall. Panting, he pressed himself against the stone and stared back up at the inner wall to see if any guard had noticed him down here.
But no. There was only one, and he was walking away to the west, his back turned towards him. As the man in the shadows saw that, his breathing became easier. Now for his final task. He steeled himself for what was to come. It had to be done.
Cautiously, he looked left and right to check one final time if there was anybody else in the outer courtyard who, by chance, might have noticed him. Nobody. The only movement came from the half-open door of the tower that moved a bit in the wind with creaking hinges. Reassured, he entered the gatehouse and stood before the giant wooden mechanism that was used to pull up the metal portcullis. Once it was up and the gates were open, the way would be free for the Margrave.
He gripped the first lever.
It was then that he realized something. The door of the tower had been swinging in the wind? But…there was no wind.
Heavy footsteps sounded behind him.
“You! Stop right there!”
He whirled around, but it was too late. The two guards were already on him and grabbed his arms. He struggled, kicking and snarling ferociously. If he didn't shout, if he overpowered them, he could still do it! He could still earn his reward!
Then two more guards appeared in the door of the gatehouse, both wide awake and in full armor, and he realized he would not be able to overcome them. These weren't just random men out for a late night walk. They had been waiting for him.
“No!”
One of the men strode forward, an expression on his face that was as dark as the devil's heart, and raised a fist.
It's over, was the last thought the man had before the fist hit him in the head and he stopped struggling abruptly.
*~*~**~*~*
“Check the gate mechanism!” the sergeant called to his men. “Are the pulleys still intact?”
Two of the guards went to the back of the gatehouse, and held up their torches to give everything a quick examination.
“Yes, Sir!”
“And the chains?”
“In perfect order, Sir!”
“Are the gates still closed?”
“Yes. And the portcullis is down, Sir. Everything is as it should be.”
“Good. You two, stay here.” Stepping outside, he gestured to the two guards, who immediately followed him out and took up positions on either side of the firmly closed gate. “The rest, follow me! And grab that piece of filth!”
The other two guards promptly seized the unconscious form on the floor. The traitor groaned, proving that he wasn't entirely unconscious after all. The guards didn't care. They didn't try to make him stand, just dragged him between them through the dirt.
The guards at the inner gate were already waiting, their eyes fierce in the torchlight, the gate standing wide. “You caught him?”
The sergeant nodded. “You bet we did.”
“And what’s going to happen to him now?”
“What do you think?” The sergeant half-turned to his two men, who were lagging a bit behind, hindered by their struggling burden. “Come on, you two! Milady is waiting!”
They did not choose the path to the main entrance of the keep, as one might perhaps have expected for a meeting with the mistress of the castle. Instead, they dragged their half-conscious captive to the rear of the keep, past the orchard and Sir Isenbard's grave, towards the entrance to a part of the keep that for a very long time had not been used: the dungeon.
“Stop!” the sergeant commanded. “We’re here!”
Right in front of the steel bar door that sealed the gloom of the dungeon from the outer world, they dropped their prisoner on the ground. He made a movement, maybe wanting to escape, but one of the guards slammed his foot into the traitor’s back and pressed him firmly into the ground. Soon after, the other one had managed to unlock the door. It squeaked ominously as it swung open.
“All right, men. Down into hell with him, where he belongs!”
“Yes, Sir!”
Grabbing their prisoner by the arms again, they began to drag him down the narrow staircase, not caring particularly if his knees scraped over the floor or if his head bumped against the wall. But they didn't just throw him down the stairs deliberately either, which, judging from their expressions, they were more than ready to do.
Finally, they reached their destination: one of the dungeon cells deep, deep underground, cut into the solid rock of the mountain. They unlocked one of the iron bar doors and dragged the moaning figure inside.
There, Ayla was waiting.
*~*~**~*~*
It was one of the larger dungeon cells. Yesterday, it had been dusty and unused, stacked full of odds and ends that had been lying around in the castle for years, just as the other cells. Today, it was spotless, all the junk thrown out. Spiderwebs and dust had vanished. The floor was freshly scrubbed. A bowl of water and a chamberpot waited in the corner. Manacles hung from an iron ring in the wall.
Burchard, Sir Waldar, Sir Rudolphus, Captain Linhart, and Reuben, together with a few of the most trusted guards, formed a sort of honor guard on both sides of the long room, holding torches aloft. But they were no honor guard, really. If anything, they were a guard of shame and betrayal.
The two soldiers who had the moaning man in their clutches marched between them, dragging him over the floor without being too careful about it. They marched right up to Lady Ayla, who stood waiting at the end of the two rows of men, and dumped him in front of her, on the floor.
“We did as you said, Milady,” one of the guards reported, his voice cold with rage. “We lay in wait for him at the gate, and he came. He was going to fling that gate wide open and let these accursed mercenaries in!”
He spat on the floor beside the man he had dragged inside. Ayla was gripped by a terrible sense of foreboding as she stared down at the sorry figure, who hadn't made a single attempt to move, but just lay there, shivering.
“Get up,” she whispered. “I want to see the face of the man who betrayed me.”
When no reaction came from the figure on the floor, one of the guards drew back his foot and kicked the man in the side.
“Show the lady your treacherous mug, you hell-hated worm!”
He drew back his foot to kick out again, but Ayla quickly held up a hand. “Enough! I will not have a prisoner mistreated in my castle!”
“Are you sure?” Reuben growled from beside her. “I know some pretty nice methods of mistreatment. You wouldn't have to watch, you could leave it all to me.”
“As much as I hate to agree with him,” Burchard growled, “he's right. This…creature deserves everything a torture chamber has to offer.”
Ayla didn't pay any attention to them. She could be angry with them later, or thank them for the offer, depending on her mood. At the moment, she really didn't know what to think or feel. This quivering mess in front o
f her was a traitor, a man who had willingly tried to sell her and all his friends to the Margrave. And yet, something in her held her back from letting the men around her vent their rage on him, as they obviously wanted to.
“Show me your face,” she ordered in a low voice. “You’re already a traitor, do you want to be a coward, too?”
Slowly, very slowly, the man on the floor did as she asked. He raised himself up on his hands and knees, and then raised his head until she could see his face clearly.
Ayla's mouth dropped open.
The Two Sides of a Traitor
“Greetings, Milady,” Hans the guard whispered, staring up at his mistress with dark, hollow eyes.
“You!”
“Aye. Me.”
A thunderstorm of twisted feelings was raging through Ayla. She had always liked Hans. He had been quiet and polite, even kind at times. Never particularly devoted to her, but steadfast enough. If asked a minute ago, before she saw his face here in the gloomy dungeon, she would have called him a good man. She would certainly not have called him a twisted snake of a traitor.
“Hans…”
She stared down at him, and he stared back unflinchingly. He had the gall to look into her eyes! He, who had betrayed them all! He’d had the gall to step up to her and tell her he was sorry Sir Isenbard died, when it was probably his fault all along! Ayla felt hot blood pound in her ears. If there were any justice in the world, this man’s eyeballs should shrivel and his hands drop off!
Enraged, she took a step forward, forgetting for the moment that she was a lady and violence was not what God had ordained for her. She raised her hand, wanting to slap the guard. No, not slap him—beat him until he hurt as much outside as she was hurting inside. But then she realized that was simply not possible, and her hand fell limply to her side.
“You betrayed us!” she said in a voice as cold as ice.
Hans nodded. “Yes.”
“You would have handed us all over to the Margrave!”
