The Robber Knight's Love

by Robert Thier

  What she didn’t realize was the risk this lonesome walks would entail for her. She didn't realize that she was alone and that somebody was looking for her until she heard his voice behind her.

  “Finally.”

  Slowly, Ayla began to turn around, though there was no need to. She would have recognized that voice anywhere.

  Reuben was leaning against a tree, a red, ripe apple in his hand. The expression on his face almost made Ayla's knees buckle.

  “Finally,” Reuben repeated, taking a slow, deliberate bite out of the apple. The crack of his teeth biting into the apple echoed through the orchard. “I've caught you. And I've caught you all alone, it seems.”

  Desperately, Ayla looked around for a way to escape.

  “To your left is the keep wall,” she heard Reuben's voice. “To your right is the back of the stables. Behind you is a thick undergrowth. I wouldn't recommend going through that, unless you want your dress ripped to shreds.” He considered for moment. “Not that I'd mind that, of course, but I would like very much to do it myself.”

  Ayla turned back to him, regarding him like a doe trapped by a wolf—with good reason. He certainly stared at her as though he'd like to eat her up.

  “W-what…” She cleared her throat, trying to steady her voice. “What do you want, Sir Reuben?”

  He tilted his head, as though giving the question serious consideration. Finally, he said:

  “You.”

  Ayla gulped. “Oh.”

  He began to slowly advance towards her, his burning gray eyes not leaving her face for an instant. Well…not quite. Sometimes they strayed to take in other parts of her.

  “You want me for something, do you?” she said hurriedly, taking a few steps back until her back touched the bushes behind her. The branches dug into her skin, protected only by a thin layer of cloth. Right now, it felt very thin indeed—the only barrier between her and the man in front of her. “Is there something you wanted to discuss with me? To be honest, now might not be the best time. There's something very important I have to think about, and to think, I need to be alone, so you had better go, and we can talk later, if that's all right with you, and…”

  “I don't want you for talk,” he cut her off. Now he was only a few yards away from her. Ayla turned away to the side and stumbled backwards again until her back was pressed against the cool stone of the castle keep. Reuben followed her with the ease of a practiced predator. With a flick of his hand, he flung the half-eaten apple into the bushes.

  “Th-that’s not nice,” Ayla mumbled. “We don't have food enough for you to just waste it like that. You shouldn't…”

  His finger on her lips stopped her. It was such a shock to feel him there, skin against warm skin. His finger felt strong and hard, an unyielding barrier that stopped everything else she had planned to say.

  Reuben leaned closer. His finger wandered from her lips, then suddenly his whole hand was touching her face. Ayla hardly knew how it happened. He began to stroke her face, gently, lovingly, leaving a marvelous tingle in the wake of his magical fingers.

  A little sound escaped her throat. Was it a protest? Yes, surely it was a protest! This wasn't right, so it had to be a protest. Although her treacherous ears claimed it sounded more like a moan of pleasure.

  “You're so beautiful,” Reuben murmured, his voice low and intense.

  His other hand came up—not to touch her face, but to go around to the small of her back. Taking hold of her, he pulled her up against him in a manner definitely not in the knights' book of courtly etiquette. She gasped as she felt his hard muscles against her soft front.

  She hadn't realized until now that he wasn't wearing armor, not even chain mail. She noticed it now. All he was wearing was a tunic and trousers, which meant there was little to conceal his perfect musculature from her touch. Almost unknowingly, her hands traveled upward, sliding over the cool linen beneath which she could feel the hard muscles of his abdomen.

  She closed her eyes. This was too intense. Too much to be seeing as well as hearing. She just lay in his strong arms as he held her, stroking her face, making her feel things she'd never ever felt before.

  “So beautiful…”

  Her eyes snapped open again. His voice had sounded so close! But it couldn't be any closer than before, could it? He would have to be almost touching her face with his.

  And he was. He was hardly half an inch away. Why would he…?

  And then, as she saw the resolve in his eyes, she realized. She knew what he was here for.

  “No!” She meant to say it in a stern voice. Somehow, it came out as a whisper.

  “Oh yes, Milady.”

  “No, Reuben, don't. It wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be moral.”

  He smiled his devastating, devilish smile. “And your point is?”

  She grasped desperately for anything that would save her honor. She had to. If she didn't make the effort, she would have to admit to herself that she wanted this—had wanted it for a very long time.

  “You're forgetting yourself, Sir Knight,” she said, her voice barely audible. “Aren't knights supposed to respect a maiden's virtue and never take advantage of her?”

  His smile widened, and his fiery gray eyes burned into hers. “I'm a robber knight, Milady. I take what I want.”

  And then he swooped down, his lips claiming hers. She had expected it to be forceful, ravaging, painful—instead, their lips seemed to melt into one another. His lips were soft, maybe even a little hesitant, moving with wonderful small caresses from the corners of her mouth to her center, entangling her in a dance of ecstasy.

  Had he always been like this, with everyone? So gentle? So loving? She was sure she wasn’t the first girl he had kissed. Now that she was at his mercy, willingly, why didn't he just take all he wanted, like the rake she knew he was?

  Then she realized: she might not be the first girl he had kissed—but she was the first girl he had kissed out of love. She could feel it, could sense it in every small touch of his lips, as he moved his mouth against hers. He had kissed her because he loved her.

  The simple knowledge filled Ayla with a fiery light, and she snaked her arms upwards, over his muscular chest and to his face, caressing the stubble on his chin, feeling him, reassuring herself that he was there, and he was hers, and he loved her.

  Still, there was more to his kiss than gentle love. As it went on, it deepened. The pressure of his mouth on hers increased, and suddenly she could feel a delectable trace of moisture there. How…? She tasted it, confused and careful. It didn't taste like water. Rather heavier, with a hint of musk that made her head swim and crave more. What could…?

  It was him. It was Reuben's taste.

  “Ayla…!” Her name, uttered in an animalistic growl, sent a shiver down her back.

  Suddenly, the hand at the small of her back pressed even tighter. She was lifted into the air and away from the wall. He didn't even take the trouble to set her down again as he moved her backwards until they were in a free space among the green trees, where they had room to move. Still holding her with one hand behind her back, he increased the force of his kiss, bending her backwards.

  And she let him. Her body shaped herself to the form of his, melting against him, into him. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a small voice still tried to tell her that this was wrong, that pleasure like this should not happen until after marriage, if at all, but soon enough the voice was silenced by love and desire, fighting side by side.

  Finally, his grip relaxed, his lips slowed their assault, and he drew away from her a few inches, so that their faces still were almost touching.

  Ayla gasped, sucking in fresh air. She had no idea how long ago it was that she had taken her last breath, but it seemed to be ages. Air rushed into her lungs, carrying the scent of fresh earth, horses, and apple trees. Everything seemed a hundred times more intense now, more alive, more worth living for. Most of all, of course, she wanted to live to smell his scent, to feel the feeling
of his arms, which were still holding her tightly, and to see the sight of his intense gray eyes boring into hers.

  “And?” he asked, his voice raw. “Do you think that was wrong?”

  Ayla stuck her chin out. She had to be true to her moral principles. “Yes, it was.”

  His hold on her tightened imperceptibly. His eyes darkened. “Really, Milady?”

  “Yes. But…”

  “But?”

  “But I think I'd like to do it again anyway!” she blurted out. Her cheeks burned as the fatal words escaped her. She looked up at him anxiously. She'd meant what she had said. What she had experienced was so glorious, so overwhelmingly full of love—she could not wish for it to go away, although everything she had been taught told her to shun it. She wanted more. More of him. More of them together, sharing love.

  But did he? Had it been as wonderful for him, or had she displeased him? He didn't look very pleased. If anything, he looked a bit stunned.

  Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face. That smile.

  “Did I hear right? You wish me to sully your maidenly honor once more? To put your good reputation in danger?”

  If she hadn't felt so wonderful in his arms, she might have slapped him in that moment. He looked too smug to be allowed!

  Casting her eyes down, she nodded hurriedly.

  He bent forward again until his mouth tickled her ear. “You want me to kiss you again? Long, and lingeringly, sensually, in a very elicit, forbidden, and definitely sinful manner?”

  “Are you quite finished?” she demanded. He was having altogether too much fun with this. Her cheeks felt like overheated ovens.

  “Not quite,” he whispered. “I'd like an answer to my question.”

  “What question?”

  “Do you want me to kiss you again?”

  “B-but I did answer you.”

  “You only moved your head, Milady. That is not very polite. Answer me, out loud.” He moved back again so he could stare into her eyes, and no doubt also so she could see the diabolical smirk on his face. “Do you want me to kiss you again? With all the passion I can press on your soft, maidenly lips?”

  Had she thought her cheeks had been warm before? How wrong she had been. Heat rose up in them until they were literally burning. Her lips were open, but unmoving—unable to form the fatal words that would seal her fate.

  Reuben moved closer. Only the fraction of an inch separated them. She could feel his warm breath on her face—so loving, so alluring…

  “Do,” Reuben whispered, enunciating each syllable. “You. Want. Me. To. Kiss. You?”

  And suddenly, instinctively, Ayla nodded again. “Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, please kiss me!”

  “Oh, Milady,” he growled, his grin widening. “Your wish is my command!”

  He swooped down on her once more, and for a time, Ayla ceased to register the world around her. There was only him and her and the feel of their connection. She didn't notice the birds singing in the trees. She didn't notice the calls of guards in the distance. She didn't notice the squirrel running past them in the grass. She almost didn't notice the yelp of the servant who came hurrying around the corner of the keep into the orchard.

  Reuben did, though.

  His lips froze. Slowly, he let go of Ayla, and a growl rose from his throat. The servant, who had been about to hurry away again, was frozen in place.

  Continuing to hold Ayla with one arm—for which she was quite grateful, because her knees still felt wobbly—Reuben slowly straightened himself to his impressive height and turned to glare at the little man. Angry recognition flashed in his eyes as they fell upon him.

  “You again! What is it this time? Let me guess. You've brought a bowl of soup for the earthworms and the songbirds?”

  “N-no, Sir,” the little servant stuttered, retreating several steps. “I just…I didn't mean to interrupt… I mean, not that you were doing anything worth interrupting, ahahaha.” He laughed nervously and took another few steps back. “I didn't see anything at all, especially not the kissing, which of course didn't happen. So sorry to interrupt.”

  Ayla tried to untangle herself from Reuben. Her knees felt steady enough to stand again, but he seemed reluctant to let go.

  “Will you please let go of me?” she whispered.

  “Actually, I wasn't planning to, no.”

  “Reuben!”

  She threw a meaningful glance at the servant, who looked like he was devoutly wishing for the ability to disappear into thin air.

  “Um…we were just…discussing something,” she said. “Totally harmless. Your eyes probably misled you. And no reason at all to mention what you thought you saw but definitely didn’t see to Burchard or my father.”

  “Yes, Milady. Of course, Milady.”

  Beet-red, the servant looked back over his shoulder, clearly plotting an escape route. Yet although, in Ayla's opinion, there was nothing particular to keep him, and although Reuben was still glaring at him furiously, he did not go. Finally, she asked politely, “Was there anything particular you wanted?”

  He gulped. “Yes, indeed, there was, Milady. I have been sent to find you on an errand from the Steward. Master Burchard says if you would please come quickly to the great hall? There is a matter that requires your immediate attention.”

  “Indeed?” Reuben growled. “And what is this matter that is so terribly urgent that it requires the lady's immediate attention?”

  “A herald has arrived, Sir. A herald with a message for Lady Ayla.”

  “A herald?” There was a dangerous tone in Reuben's voice now. Actually, Ayla admitted to herself, there always was a dangerous tone in Reuben's voice. But now it sounded especially dangerous. “You interrupted our…discussion for some flap-mouthed messenger?”

  The herald gulped again, but he drew himself up and nodded, looking Reuben straight in the eye. Ayla looked at him more closely and saw in his face what she hadn't noticed before: fear.

  “Yes, Sir. A messenger from the Margrave von Falkenstein.”

  Iron Tidings

  This herald was nothing like the last one—that was the first thought that ran through Ayla's mind when she looked down at him from her father's high chair on the raised platform in the great hall. The last one had been small, narrow-eyed, and shifty. This one was large, with a pale, bony face and a mustache that solemnly drooped at both ends. His hands were very hairy and looked too large for the small scroll and leather pouch he carried.

  All in all, he reminded Ayla a bit of Bardo—only that the gigantic carpenter's shoulders weren't weighed down by a thousand worries, as this man's shoulders clearly were, and that Bardo wasn't quite as old. Gray streaked the hair of this man, and there was a sad wisdom in his eyes that only people who have seen too much possess.

  What is he doing here? she wondered. What message could the Margrave possibly want to send me? What need is there for words, after we've exchanged blows and Luntberg has emerged victorious?

  The herald walked down the hall with hesitant steps. Before the raised chair, he halted and licked his lips. Obviously, he was none too happy about the message he had to deliver.

  “I…I bring you greetings from the mighty Margrave von Falkenstein, oh worthless harlot who…”

  Before he could get out another syllable, a red-clad figure streaked past Ayla and grabbed him by the neck. The herald was a large man—but nowhere near as large as Reuben. The Red Robber Knight kicked the man's legs out from under him and slammed him into the floor, face first.

  “Show proper respect to the lady!” he snarled. “If I hear another foul word from you, I'll cut your throat! And don't think I won't recognize them. I know foul words like old friends!”

  “Please, no! Please, Sir Knight, do not kill me! Please, Lady!”

  The man tried to raise himself to his knees, but Reuben increased the pressure, and he stayed where he was, his breathing hectic.

  “Reuben?” Ayla raised a hand, her eyes fixed on the man at the floor.
She wasn't surprised at the insult—it was what she had expected from a herald of the Margrave. What had surprised her was the man's obvious reluctance. “Let him up. And you, man, had better keep a civil tongue, or I cannot guarantee for Sir Reuben's actions. He gets…easily excited.”

  The man scrambled to his knees and remained like that, kneeling in front of her. He had nothing in common with the other herald. Ayla wondered why the Margrave would have chosen such a man.

  She had her question answered almost immediately.

  “I am so sorry, Milady,” the man panted, pleading in his eyes. “The Margrave forced me to say this. He forced me to come here, threatening he'd kill my family if I didn't. None of the other heralds would go, they fled when they heard what the Margrave wanted them to tell you rather than face your anger, but he knew he could use my family as leverage to force me. Please, if you have to torture me, do so, only do not kill me. Without me, my family would…”

  Ayla held up a hand to stop his desperate flood of words. Outwardly, her face was calm. But inside, she was filled with rage. A man who did this to one of his own vassals, merely to deliver a series of insults, did not deserve to call himself a knight, much less a margrave. He did not even deserve to call himself a man!

  “Speak the words your master has sent you here to speak,” she told the herald in as gentle a voice as she could. “Here at Luntberg, we do not punish the messenger for the insolence of his master.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Reuben growled. He still hadn't let go of the man's neck. “I, for one, could think of some interesting ways to punish this worm.”

  Ayla sighed. “Reuben?”

  “Yes, Milady?”

  “Let go of the man's neck.”

  “Are you sure? I could…”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I believe you told me not too long ago that my wish is your command, did you not?”

  The scowl on his face gave way to twitching lips. “Now that you mention it, I believe I did.”