by Robert Thier
Bewildered, Reuben tried to read her face and could see pain and sorrow there.
“Err…and has she any special sword-fighting skills?” Slowly, he drew his blade and took his position beside her.
“None.”
“Is she a dangerous assassin?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Then why would you need my support?”
“I need your moral support, you loggerhead! Put that big meat-cleaver away, will you? You'll scare her to death!”
“Oh.” Frowning, Reuben lowered his blade. “I see. I’ll do my best about that moral support thing. But, just in case you haven't noticed, I must warn you: I'm not very moral.”
“I'm fully aware of that,” Ayla said, and her voice might just have contained a tiny amount of sarcasm. “Still,” she continued, now utterly sincere, “I need you here. Please stay.”
Reuben found himself made speechless by the earnestness of her plea. Satan’s hairy ass! Where were those snarky comebacks when you needed them?
Sliding the sword back into its sheath, he took up a position to the right of and slightly behind her chair. Still, he didn't release the grip on his sword hilt completely. He was far too experienced a fighter to think he could relax his guard just because the person that would enter the room was a woman.
The doors opened, and the servant stepped in, a smaller figure in his shadow.
“Madalena, wife of Hans the guard,” the servant announced with a bow. Reuben's eyes widened before he could get his face under control. So that was it! That was why Ayla was dreading this encounter! This was the wife of that Judas who had wanted to sell them all to the Margrave! And Ayla, in her usual unnecessarily emotional manner, was fretting over whether or not to torture the female to death.
The grip on the hilt of his sword tightened. Most likely, the witch was part of her husband's plot. If so, she would lose her head faster than you could say 'decapitation'!
“Thank you.” Ayla nodded to the servant. “Close the door on your way out and wait outside. If any more people arrive, please do not let them in. Madalena and I need to have a private talk.”
“Of course, Milady.” It was obvious to Reuben that the servant knew nothing of Hans’s betrayal. He looked confused as he nodded and retreated out of the room.
“Oh, Milady!”
Reuben’s eyes focused on the woman. The moment Ayla had spoken, a hopeful expression had appeared on her face. It wasn’t a particularly ugly face, Reuben supposed, just ugly in the way that all middle-aged women were ugly, with a plump face, graying hair, and wrinkles around her eyes. Wrinkles which now were crinkling into a smile of hope and joy.
“Milady, does this mean you have news of my husband? You know what happened to him?”
Without waiting for an answer, she rushed forward, directly towards Ayla. Her arms were clutched tightly around her own chest, just as Reuben knew one would hold them to conceal a small weapon.
“Stop!”
His word resounded like a whiplash. Quickly, he stepped in between the woman and Ayla, throwing Madalena a death-stare that made her stop in her tracks and almost keel over from fright.
“Reuben!” Ayla called from behind him, sounding amusingly like a lady who was miffed with her favorite hunting dog for growling at a stranger. “Let her through. She's just here to talk to me.”
The woman had dropped her arms by now. No concealed dagger was visible so far. Hm. Maybe it had just been a sign of emotion. He supposed women did worry if their husbands went missing.
Reuben rummaged around in half-forgotten memories and, after a second or two, managed to put on his most charming, courtly smile. After all, who knew? This woman might not be a bloodthirsty killer. There were women like that, somewhere, probably.
“You must forgive me, good woman,” he said with a slight inclination of the head. “I'm responsible for Milady's safety. If you would be so good as to show me your hands, I would be more than happy to let you through.”
“O-of course, Sir,” She replied in a quiet, anxious voice and held out her arms. No daggers visible anywhere, Reuben noted, with a slight twinge of disappointment.
“Very well. You can pass.”
He stepped back behind Ayla's chair, and the woman knelt at the feet of her liege lady.
“Milady, do you know what has happened to my husband? He went to his bed last night like every other night, and since then, I haven't seen him. I woke up, and the bed was cold beside me. Do you know what has happened? Has he fallen prey to the enemy?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Reuben saw a tear shimmer in Ayla's.
“Yes,” she replied. “I suppose, in a way, he has.”
She proceeded to tell the woman everything, without embellishment. When she came to the part where the woman's husband had been thrown into the dungeon, Madalena began to cry, softly and quietly, and started to rock back and forward.
“It can't be true,” she whimpered. “Milady, it can't be!”
“Madalena, I swear to you on the grave of Sir Isenbard von Riffgarten, it is.”
There was a pause.
“What…” Madalena's voice broke, and after a second, she started again. “What is going to happen to my husband?”
Ayla hesitated. She didn’t want to say it, Reuben could tell.
The knight felt an unexpected emotion stir up inside him: pity. True, her husband was the misbegotten spawn of a worm-eaten pig, but that didn't mean she couldn't be a perfectly amiable woman. She had shown no sign so far of being a traitor. She deserved to hear the truth.
“The usual punishment for treason is execution,” he told her, trying to smile reassuringly and thus convey to her that she would soon be free of that loathsome creature who called himself a castle guard. “It can take various forms: sometimes, people are hanged, drawn, and quartered. Sometimes, they are disemboweled. In extreme cases, such as the one your treacherous pig of a husband is, it's also possible for the culprit to be flayed alive.”
The woman paled, and Reuben frowned. He would have thought that his description was explicit enough to satisfy the anger of betrayal she must no doubt be feeling. Apparently not.
“Sometimes,” he added hopefully, “the culprit is emasculated before the execution, if that's any comfort to you.”
“E-emasculated?” The woman stuttered.
“Oh, you haven't heard that before? It means the cutting off of the boll—”
“Thank you, Reuben!” Ayla interrupted him. “Thank you very much for your elucidating little speech.” She flashed him a look that, for some reason, looked…angry? But now, that couldn't be, could it?
“Milady, I beg of you!” Prostrating herself on the ground in front of Ayla, the woman clutched at the hem of her dress. “Please don't! Please don't let him…” She threw a frightened look at Reuben, who frowned again. Had he still not been clear enough? Perhaps he should share a view of his private plans for Hans…
“I understand.” Ayla’s voice was so kind and gentle, it could practically have been bottled and sold as liquid gentleness on the nearest market. Taking the woman’s hands in hers, she squeezed. “I'll do the best I can.”
“Thank you! Milady, please, remember what would happen to us, to his poor children! Please, I beg of you…”
“I'll do the best I can,” Ayla repeated soothingly, and then nodded to the guards. “Show her out. I have something to discuss with Sir Reuben here.”
From her tone, Reuben didn't think the 'something' would involve much praise. What was the matter?
“Certainly, Milady.”
The guards helped the woman up, and then, since she was hardly able to stay on her feet by herself, helped her out of the room. As soon as the door had closed behind them, Ayla jumped up and rounded on Reuben.
“What on earth possessed you to say those things to that poor woman?” she hissed. “Have you gone utterly insane?”
Startled by her ferocity, Reuben took a step backwards.
“I j
ust told her the truth. You don't like me lying, do you? If I remember correctly, you were very angry the last time I wasn't completely honest with you. And now you're angry at me for telling this woman the truth?”
“Well, not exactly, no…” Ayla's anger was being cooled by confusion. But then, it suddenly flared up again. “You could have been more tactful!” she snapped.
“Tactful?” Frowning, Reuben tried to fathom her meaning. “I told her that her treacherous swine of a husband was going to be executed. Wasn't that tactful enough?”
Ayla covered her face with her hands and mumbled something. Reuben thought it sounded like “God give me strength,” but he wasn't entirely sure.
Slowly, she let her hands drop and stared up at him.
“Reuben, he's her husband. She obviously loves him.”
“Still? Although he has betrayed us?”
“Yes!”
“Oh.”
“How would you feel if somebody described to you in fine detail how they were going to execute the person you loved?”
“That wouldn't happen,” Reuben declared confidently.
“And why not, pray?”
He met her searching sapphire eyes head-on. “Because nobody can try describing an execution, or speak at all for that matter, with my sword stuck in their throat.”
Ayla didn't say anything to that. She just stared up at him, her eyes still searching. There was an expression on her face as though she were gathering her courage for something.
“What?” Reuben asked, smirking. “Something is up. I can tell from your face.”
She glanced down. “Well…”
“What is it? Spit it out!”
“I…” Ayla hesitated and wet her lips.
The sight of her moist lips almost made Reuben's knees weak. His! His knees were never weak! It was women’s business to get weak knees, not his!
“I was just wondering,” she continued, “who is the lucky lady that would deserve such protection from infamy?”
Reuben sucked in a quick breath. The subject of their conversation, the mood in the room, the significance of the words—all changed in a moment. What did he care about some stupid traitor and his old hag? What did he care about an army of men in front of the gates or, for that matter, all the armies in the entire world?
Suddenly, there were only Ayla and he, and the question that was hovering in the air, unspoken.
“I think you know.” His voice sounded raspy and very far away to his own ears. “If my memory serves me right, I told you how I feel a long time ago.”
She looked up at him. If he wasn’t mistaken, he could see a tiny little smile hovering at the corners of her mouth.
“I just wanted to make sure you were being completely honest with me,” she gave him back his earlier words, and her smile broadened a little bit. Reuben thought her smile was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Well, apart from her eyes, and her hair, and her bre—
No! Satan’s hairy ass, he'd better concentrate on the smile for now!
“I was, Milady. Completely.”
“Good.”
“And, how do you feel about me?” he asked, his voice still not quite even.
“Well…” She glanced down again, a rosy glow spreading on her cheeks. Reuben wondered if she knew she was killing him. He also wondered how the hell she was doing it! She didn't even have a sword on her, or even a dagger! It was just a smile, for the Devil’s sake! But he could feel it piercing his heart!
“Are you sure you really want to know?” she asked in a small voice. “Wouldn't you rather have your compensation,” she infused the word with ladylike distaste, “and ride off once all this is finished, your pockets full of money?”
“Oh, I want my compensation,” Reuben growled, stepping forward and cupping her face with one hand, turning it up so she had to look into his eyes. “And what I want has nothing to do with money. It has nothing to do with me leaving, either. In fact, it requires me to stay, here, with you.”
“Is that so, Sir Reuben?”
“Yes, Milady.”
“Well, in that case…” Slowly, Ayla reached into her sleeve and drew something out of it. It was a linen handkerchief, in the exact same color as the Luntberg coat of arms: sapphire blue. “In that case, you may carry this when you next go into battle.”
She held the small piece of cloth out to him. Reuben's eyes went from her face to the handkerchief and back.
“At the court of the Emperor,” he said, testing each word carefully in his head before speaking it out loud, “at least years ago, when I was there, ladies used to give their handkerchiefs to a knight they favored at the tournament. That was not only a token that they wished this knight to win the contest, but also that they had certain feelings for him. Feelings some might call…love?”
“Is that so?” Ayla raised an eyebrow. “Of course, I know little of the ways of such great ladies at the court. I’ve never been at court, and bards who sing of such matters don’t often visit my father’s castle. So, tell me, did the knight always accept the handkerchief of the lady?”
Reuben's lips twitched in an involuntary grin. “No, not always. Not if the lady was ugly, for instance, or if she was a shrew. And sometimes, a knight simply didn't accept the lady's token because he wasn't in love with her.”
“And you, Sir Reuben?” Ayla stretched out her small, ivory hand a little more and presented the piece of cloth to him. “Will you accept my token?”
Without answering, holding her beautiful sapphire eyes with his gaze, Reuben stretched out his hand and gripped the handkerchief. Then, before she could let go, he grasped her hand in his and, quick as tiger, brought it up to his lips. Softly, fervently, his lips pressed a kiss on the back of her hand, besieging her, beleaguering her fortress.
Reuben smiled.
For this siege, I won’t even need siege weapons. Well, apart from one, if I’m lucky…
He could feel Ayla's breathing speed up, and the heat that seemed suddenly to emanate from her slender body lured him forward. His smile widened, and he took a determined step towards her.
Behind Closed Doors
Ayla was just trying to figure out how not to faint from the feeling of Reuben's lips on her fingers when she heard a noise from the thing used to enter the room. What was it called again? Oh yes, door. Trivial details like that were so hard to focus on with the heat of Reuben’s mouth on her hand. And the noise coming from the door was called…
Reuben's lips slowly moved up her fingers, caressing, worshiping. It was so hard to concentrate.
A knock! That's what it was called! A knock. Somebody was knocking at the door.
So what? She didn’t have to let them in, did she?
“Ayla,” Reuben murmured against her skin. Her name, whispered against her skin, was the most intoxicating thing she had ever felt.
“Milady?” Burchard’s voice came from outside the room. The knock came again. “Are you in there?”
She opened her mouth, trying to reply “yes.” However, the weak noise that came out of her mouth wasn't very coherent.
“Milady? Why are you moaning? Are you sick?”
“Err…not really, Burchard. I…ohhh…”
“Milady? What's the matter? I'm coming in!”
Some survival instinct in Ayla made her snatch her hands from Reuben's grasp and fall back into her chair. It was just in time. At the other end of the room, Burchard thrust open the door and peered into the room, his mustache twitching suspiciously.
Reuben bent to her ear and whispered, “That old walrus has the worst sense of timing of anyone alive!”
Ayla had to work hard to suppress a grin. Finally, Burchard's gaze fastened on her reddened cheeks.
“What's the matter with you?” he demanded. “You look flushed. Are you sick?”
What could she tell him? What could she possibly say?
I think I have fallen in love, for the second time in my life, and it's the same man I fell in love with the
first time. Why twice, then? Well, he lied to me and robbed me, which kind of made me despise him for a while, but we've got that straightened out now. He's not going to betray me. At least, I hope so…
No. That would definitely not go over well.
Determinedly, she kept her eyes off Reuben and answered, “I'm just upset about this business of the traitor.”
She didn't mind that her voice sounded low and breathy. She had said she was upset, hadn’t she? For all Burchard knew, she might have been crying buckets. Out of the corner of her eyes, she chanced a quick glance at Reuben. Her heart nearly stopped at the sight.
“Well, I can understand that,” Burchard replied. But Ayla wasn't listening anymore. She was only seeing Reuben.
He was glowing. His fierce gray eyes were alive with a fire that was just as ferocious as the fire of battle she had seen there before, or even more so. If he had looked glorious before, he now looked sublime. What had happened?
The answer to the question presented itself so clearly that Ayla was terribly afraid it might be the wrong one.
What had changed?
She had given him a sign of her love. That had.
Could it really be that her love had lifted him to such levels of intimidating ecstasy? Well, his love had certainly done the same for her.
“…and I came to ask you…” Burchard was still talking. But somehow, although he still technically was in the same room, he seemed a thousand miles away. Ayla was still looking at Reuben out of the corner of her eyes.
Suddenly, she felt a surge of hot emotion course through her. Was it anger at the Margrave? No. It wasn't anger. She had felt anger before, and this was different. She had felt anger for him wanting to attack her people, for him wanting to take what was not rightfully his.
But now, she felt hate. She hated the Margrave for daring to want to take this man from her. This man whom she loved.
I won’t let that happen! she vowed to herself. I’ll do everything in my power to see that we come out of this alive, and together.
With enormous effort, she wrenched her eyes off Reuben and turned her attention back to Burchard. He was talking about important matters—probably—and she was neglecting her duties as the mistress of the castle. When they were safe, if they ever would be safe again, she could indulge in daydreams. Not before.
