by Robert Thier
“I wish for you to let go of this man's neck. And apologize to him.”
“As you command, Milady.”
Letting go of the herald's neck, Reuben said, “There you go. I apologize for throwing you to the floor and for wanting to rip out your intestines with a carving knife. Oh, and for the further list of tortures I would like to subject you to, such as squashing your—”
“That will be enough apology from you, Sir Reuben.”
“Are you sure, Milady?”
“Quite sure.”
The herald had paled. Ayla gave him what she hoped was an encouraging smile and made a gesture that invited him to continue, and hopefully also reassured him that his intestines wouldn’t be ripped out with a carving knife. For a few moments, there was only silence in the room. Finally, the herald dared meet Ayla’s eyes cautiously.
“Milady, may I continue with my message?”
“You may.”
“And you…?”
The question hung unfinished in the air, but Ayla guessed what it was without much difficulty. She forced a smile on her face.
“And I won't punish you for what it says, rest assured.”
The man lowered his eyes again.
“Thank you, Milady.” His voice was low and thick with emotion. “You are a truly great noble. May God forgive me.”
He reached for the small leather pouch that had fallen to the floor in Reuben's sudden attack. Picking it up, he held it out to Ayla.
“The Margrave ordered me to bring you this. He told me you would know what it meant, though what a Lady such as you would know of such objects of horror is beyond me. He said the thing inside accompanies the words I have to speak.”
More than a little nonplussed, Ayla took the leather pouch and loosened the drawstring. As she turned the leather pouch upside-down, a shiny metal object fell into her palm. It was a metal vice of some sort. Somehow, it looked strangely familiar. She strained to remember where she had seen it before.
When it finally came to her, a cold tingle went down her back. The hand on which the shiny metal device lay began to shake.
There it was: the thumbscrew she had sent the Margrave, along with her defiance, so many months ago. There the thumbscrew lay, freed of rust, polished, and ready for use. Suddenly, she knew what was coming. She knew, although it seemed impossible. They had won! They had beaten the Margrave's army. How could this be happening?
The herald took a deep breath.
“The Margrave wishes me to tell you…wishes me to tell you…” He broke off, shaking his head. His voice was hoarse as he said, “I can't find the words for it myself. I simply can't. You're a noble lady, I can't tell you what…what he told me.”
“Can you quote his words?” Ayla asked gently. Inside, she felt cold as a winter night.
The old man hesitated—then nodded. “I think so. If my tongue can bear the shame.”
He swallowed.
Then he began to speak, slowly and clearly. His voice suddenly sounded distant, artificial, and…cold. Ayla shivered again. Was this what the voice of the Margrave sounded like?
“You sent me a message saying you preferred this to a golden wedding ring?” The herald demanded, pointing at the thumbscrew in Ayla's hand. “Very well, then. I shall take you at your word. I advise you to try it on and accustom yourself to the feeling, for I shall come and put it around your soft little fingers, one after the other, and squeeze until the bones crack. I shall cast you into my deepest dungeon, where nobody shall hear your screams. I shall burn your castle to the ground and kill your father with my bare hands. I shall bring ruin and desolation to your life until nothing is left of it but a shadow which I shall consume!”
The words fell on Ayla like the blows of an executioner's ax. This could not be! It simply could not be! The Margrave was finished! Beaten! This had to be a load of empty threats.
However, when the herald continued to speak, his words didn't sound empty.
“There will be no chance for you to escape this time. No opportunity to surrender. If you will not bend to my will, you must be taught a lesson. And I intend to teach it to you with fire, steel, and blood. As soon as my banners are assembled, I shall ride forth at the head of my army. And then woe betide you that dared to defy the Margrave von Falkenstein.”
When the herald ended, there came a long, long silence. Ayla didn't know how the others felt, but she struggled for something to say, struggled even for the strength to open her lips. Finally, she managed it.
“W-what is this?” she demanded. “What trickery? What empty threats? The Margrave has no soldiers, let alone an army! We destroyed his army, we killed his soldiers!”
In search of affirmation, her eyes wandered to Burchard, who was standing to the left of her chair. The bulky steward just shrugged.
“Don't look at me. I'm no military expert. Though, I have to admit, to me, they looked pretty much dead.”
“They were dead! All of them, the entire army.”
“A mercenary army.”
Ayla's head whipped around to see who had spoken. It was Reuben, his voice unusually calm and self-possessed. He was staring at the kneeling herald with a calculating expression on his face.
“A mercenary army,” Reuben repeated, “brought in from outside the Margrave's domain and promised payment and loot after they had dealt with us. All we achieved by killing them was to free the Margrave of the obligation to empty his coffers to pay them.”
Ayla felt hope slipping away from her. Still, she firmly clung on to it, refusing to accept what she was hearing.
“But still, what army could he send against us? His army is gone!”
“Banners,” Reuben said softly. He made a motion with his head to the kneeling herald. “He said banners. The Margrave is going to call his vassals to arms. Now that his use of mercenaries has failed, he is going to assemble all his liegemen and send his real war machinery against you.”
“But why?” Ayla asked, moisture coming into her eyes. “Why would he do this? Surely, we have demonstrated that we're more trouble than we're worth, that we won't give up easily! Why would he continue to hound us now?”
The three men exchanged looks. Somehow, they all seemed to know something, to understand the motives of the Margrave on some level she could not. What was going on?
“Tell me! Why do this?”
“Because he has been defeated,” Reuben answered gravely.
“That doesn't make sense! If you're defeated, you go away and hope it won't happen again!”
“No.” He shook his head, and Ayla thought she could see a sad smile flicker on his face. “Not if you're a powerful noble. If you are, and you are defeated, you stand up again and attack with everything you have. Backing down is not an option. Especially—“ his eyes focused on her, “—when your opponent is a girl. I know men like the Margrave, Ayla. I've served them, made them, killed them, even been them. Men like that live by their reputation of ruthlessness. He cannot let it get about that he has been beaten by a girl with no experience in war whatsoever. His enemies would surround him, his own men laugh at him and desert.”
“But that is…that is just…”
The herald slowly came to his feet, his head bowed. Reuben stepped away from him and returned to his post by Ayla's side. She was grateful for it. “Begging your pardon, Milady, but the knight is right,” the old messenger ventured in a low voice. He hesitated, and Ayla saw him shiver. “You weren't there when he received the news of Luca's death and defeat. I've seen him fly into a rage before, but this… Three men who had the misfortune to stand too close to him that night lost their heads, simply because they were there. He called his banners that same night, sent out riders into all directions. For the first time in seven years, they were to assemble his full force of liegemen.”
He stopped, apparently fearing he might have said too much, still not quite sure he would not be harmed. Bowing silently, he retreated towards the door. But when there were no shouts of “Aft
er him!” or “Throw him in the Dungeon!”, he apparently deemed it safe enough to turn towards Ayla one last time. She clearly saw the pity in his eyes.
“I…I hope you don't take this wrongly, Milady. I just feel honor-bound to tell you. Last time the Margrave sent an army against you, he came for acquisition. This time, he comes for revenge. And he comes himself, with everything he has—which does not include mercy.”
“Then what shall I do?” Ayla asked, her voice quivering. She could have slapped herself the moment she said it. What kind of noble was she, asking advice from the enemy's herald?
The big man shrugged and looked away, his eyes pained.
“Pray,” he suggested. Then, with a final, hurried bow, he turned and fled the hall.
Ayla sat on her father's chair, petrified. Fear gripped her heart and would not let go. She had believed everything was over. She had believed that, after all their struggles, they were finally safe. How naive she had been! She didn't deserve to lead her people. She would only lead them to death and destruction.
Beside her, Burchard cursed. Ayla didn't even think about chastising him for it.
“That maggot-ridden haggard! The curses of all witches down on him!”
On her other side, Reuben said nothing. And suddenly, Ayla remembered something. She turned her head to face him.
“You knew, didn't you?” she asked, for some reason with a weak smile on her face. “You knew this was going to happen. That's why you didn't want the people to start working on rebuilding the village.”
He shrugged. “I suspected. I thought it would be better to wait, to be sure.”
“And you didn't say anything?” Burchard exploded. “Are you mad, or just a traitor, you loggerheaded lout?”
“Why should I have said anything when I might have been mistaken?” Reuben enquired calmly.
“Because…because we could have prepared! We could have done all kinds of things! We could have started repairing the castle, training the men…”
Burchard's voice trailed off slowly.
“Exactly.” Reuben nodded.
“You have already begun preparing,” Ayla realized with a whisper, leaning sideways until her head rested against Reuben's side. It felt wonderfully solid and warm. The thought of being torn from him forever…no! She couldn't allow herself to think like that.
“Yes, Milady.”
“But what use is it?” she whispered. “If the threat is truly as great as the herald says it is, if this army will be so much stronger than the one before…”
“Oh, it will be stronger. I have no doubt.”
“Then why?” Ayla shook her head, not ashamed of the tear that was running down her left cheek. She should be stronger! She should fight! “Why should we even try? How could we possibly have a chance?”
Slowly, Reuben stepped from her side. She wanted to clutch at him, to hold him close, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he stepped around the chair until he faced her. Although the chair stood on a raised platform, he was still slightly taller standing than she was sitting. He regarded her, and in his gray eyes, she saw no fear, no despair. Only a fierce, steely glint. And beneath them gleamed his familiar smile, more beautiful and deadly than ever.
“How could you have a chance, Milady?” he repeated. “Well, I'll tell you how. You have a chance because you have two things at your disposal which you did not have the last time the Margrave issued a challenge.”
“And these would be?” Burchard asked, suspiciously.
“The first is time to prepare,” Reuben replied, still only looking at Ayla. Her tears had somehow, miraculously, stopped flowing. The fire in his eyes seeped into her, warming her. “To assemble his banners, the Margrave needs time. We can use that time to our advantage.”
“Time alone won't win us battles,” Burchard said scornfully.
Reuben gave a thoughtful nod, as if he had truly considered this and found it a valid argument. “True. That is where the second thing comes in.”
“And that is?” Ayla asked, in a low but steady voice. “What is this thing of breathtaking power that will win us battles against impossible odds?”
Reuben raised his hands, laced his fingers, and slowly began to crack his knuckles. The noise made Burchard flinch and echoed throughout the hall.
“Why, Milady,” he said, his devilish smile as wide as it could get. “Me, of course.”
THE END
of
THE ROBBER KNIGHT’S LOVE
The adventures of Reuben and Ayla will continue in the third volume of the Robber Knight Saga, The Robber Knight’s Secret.
Now follows an insight into Reuben’s mysterious past.
THE FALL OF SIR REUBEN, PART TWO
Part one is available in the special edition of the first volume of the Robber Knight Saga, The Robber Knight.
Old Bottoms and Fresh Faces
The four towers of the Royal Palace of Palermo loomed high above Reuben as he approached the stairs to the entrance. The doorway stood open, and laughter and music could be heard from inside—strange, foreign tones, which, to Reuben's ears, sounded discordant and yet sweet, like the whistling of the wind which plays no melody yet still seems to call to you.
A page bearing the crest of the House of Hohenstaufen awaited Reuben at the foot of the stairs. The boy had long blond locks and an angel’s face and smiled broadly as he bowed to Reuben.
“I'm awaited at the feast,” Reuben began. “My name is—”
“Oh, I know your name, Sir Reuben,” the boy interrupted him eagerly. “I saw you fighting at the tournament. May I say what an honor it is to meet you?”
Reuben grinned. “Yes, you definitely may.”
“Beg your pardon.” The boy put his hand in front of his mouth. “I shouldn't have interrupted you, I'm so sorry. My knight master is always telling me not to interrupt people, but I couldn’t help myself. It was simply unbelievable how you unhorsed Sir Tomasso! Sir Tomasso, who has never been beaten in his life! How did you do it? Can you teach me how to do it? I so wish I could fight as well as you. All the castle is talking about the victory and how nobody has ever heard anything about you before, and people think the Emperor holds you in high esteem, and that makes them talk only more.”
Hurriedly, he put his hand in front of his mouth again. “Oh…um, I think I've talked too much again, haven't I, Sir?”
“A bit,” Reuben said amiably, “but not a lot. I'm in no real hurry.”
The page looked relieved and bowed again. “Well, thank you, Sir. If you'd follow me, I'll lead you to the feast.”
“Excellent. Lead on.”
The page led Reuben up the stairs, never taking his big blue eyes off the knight's towering figure.
“Do you give lessons in sword-play?” the boy asked, yearning in his voice.
“I'm afraid not, no.”
“Oh.”
“So people are talking about me?” Reuben asked, out of interest and because he wanted to wipe the expression of disappointment from the little fellow's face.
It worked. The boy immediately brightened. “Yes, Sir. The gamblers talk because they lost their bets on Sir Tomasso, the knights talk because they're itching to see your sword-play in the melee tomorrow, and the women…” The boy frowned. “Well, I don't really know why the women talk. They giggle and flutter their eyelashes and smile in a funny way, and they talk a lot about you, but I don't know why. After all, they can't be interested in seeing your sword-play, can they?”
“Who knows?” Reuben's grin widened. “Maybe they'd like a private demonstration.”
The boy's frown deepened. “Why? They're ladies. What would they want with a sword?”
“Oh, trust me, they like it if you know how to use it well.”
“I'm afraid I don't understand, Sir.”
“You will, one day, trust me. Just give it a couple of years.”
“As you say, Sir.”
They had reached the door by now. The page bowed and stood aside to let R
euben enter first.
“Welcome to the Royal Palace of Palermo, Sir.”
Fortunately, the muscles in Reuben's jaw were as well-developed as in the rest of his body. Had they not been, he would hardly have been able to prevent his jaw from dropping.
He was used to grand castles. He had grown up in one. But what he saw as grand were buildings made of giant blocks of stones, the walls bare, except for the occasional tapestry or weapons on hooks. The Royal Palace of Palermo had moderately resembled such places from the outside, but on the inside, it was a different world alltogether. Reuben felt as if he had been transplanted from Europe to the court of the eastern Roman Empire, or maybe even further, to Kairo or Baghdad.
The walls here were not bare. They were painted in bright colors—blue, red, green, even gold—in such quantities that it dazzled Reuben's eyes. In some places, he saw resplendent pictures of trees and birds with fantastic plumage, in others, there were dazzlingly complicated abstract patterns he had never laid eyes on before.
The page, noticing his stare, said, “The patterns were left behind by the heathens, from when they ruled this place. I have asked my knight master why they didn't paint pictures. He said it was because their laws forbid any artificial picture of any living thing.”
“Does that mean they have to get by without mirrors?” Reuben asked, grasping for the first thing that came into his stunned mind.
“I don't know, Sir.”
“It would explain why they all have such long beards.”
Reuben hardly heard himself speak. His mind was still fully engaged with the splendor around him as the page led him through the rooms and corridors of the palace. Even in the reddish torchlight that was the night's only illumination, the gold on the wall shone as bright as the sun. It was a scene right out of a fairytale. All that was missing, Reuben thought as he passed under a pointed archway, was a beautiful lady. Or maybe two, or three.
They had entered another corridor, and at its end, a door stood open, spilling out bright light over the relatively gloomy floor outside. Women's laughter could be heard from inside the room, interspersed with excited whispering.
