by Robert Thier
She gently pressed her boots into the horse's sides. Eleanor understood. She had never needed more than a small indication to know exactly what Ayla wanted. Her hoofs turning into a blur, she galloped through the first set of castle gates and along the steep path that snaked down the side of the mountain towards the larger outer gate with its iron portcullis.[10]
Luntberg Castle truly was an impressive bulwark. Built in Ayla's father's youth, when the land had still been free of those accursed robber knights and a series of rich harvests had filled her father's coffers with enough money for this project, it was a massive complex of impenetrable stone walls and high pinnacles. Two walls, the outer lower than the inner one, surrounded the central keep where Count Luntberg and his only daughter lived. Within the first courtyard, there were only the most essential buildings: the armory, the bakery, and a well that led down deep into the mountain, supplying the castle with fresh water.
The second courtyard held a few more buildings, but was essentially there for the purpose of keeping any enemy forces far away from the central keep. Count Thomas von Luntberg, in his youth a man of both foresight and vigor, had built this stronghold on the top of the mountain that bore his name to provide a safe haven for himself and his family if ever there came a time when the clouds of war gathered on the horizon.
Now, it seemed, the castle walls were all that stood between them and certain doom. Suddenly, they did not seem as impenetrable as Ayla had always thought them to be.
No, she chastised herself, slowing down her horse as she approached the outer gate. What about the village? Will I let the people there be driven out of their homes? I will not act like a coward and retreat into my stronghold, leaving them to face the consequences of my actions. I will meet our enemy head on!
She greeted the man on watch at the gate, who bowed in return.
“When I've gone,” she said, “close the gate behind me and let the portcullis down. The time for open doors has passed.”
He swallowed. “Then is it true what they are saying, Milady? Has the Margrave declared a feud?”
“He has,” was her only answer. Then she urged her horse out of the gate and down the mountain path towards the valley.
*~*~**~*~*
When she reached the bridge, Burchard had already assembled a great number of men and horses. Stacks of wood were piled against the stone bridge's railing.
Burchard greeted her with a bow. “Now are you going to tell me what all this wood is for?” he asked.
“Simple.” Ayla pointed over the massive bridge spanning the river in two graceful arches to the eastern, lower parts of the valley. “Beyond the bridge, there are only scattered farms. Falkenstein's land lies to the east, beyond the river. The waters flow fast and strong; there are no other crossings for dozens of miles in either direction.” She fixed her steward with an iron stare. “We are going to head the Margrave von Falkenstein off and erect our first line of defense here—at the bridge.”
“What?” The old steward's eyes bulged. “You are intending to face him before he reaches the castle? Milady, when I urged you not to give up hope, I didn't mean for you to give up your strongest defensive position instead! This is madness!”
“Is it madness to want to stop the Margrave before he reaches the village?” she asked, looking around. All the men Burchard had gathered were watching intently. All men from the village.
“Your concern for your people is admirable,” Burchard managed to say through clenched teeth. “But...”
“No buts, Burchard.” She leaned closer and said under her breath so that no one else would hear: “I overheard my father and Sir Isenbard talking once about what happens when an army moves through country where only peaceful peasants live. They do something called “foraging”, I believe. What does that word mean, Burchard?”
“Milady, I never...”
“What does it mean, Burchard?”
Burchard took a deep breath. “It means that the soldiers range out up to sixty miles on either side of their route, pillaging, plundering, and killing at will. Commanders don't provide food for their soldiers, so the soldiers have to get it themselves or starve. Soldiers don't like to starve.”
“I thought so.”
The steward hadn't given up yet, though. “That doesn't change the fact that your plan is insane! I must repeat that from a military standpoint...”
“Plus,” she added, fixing him with her clear blue eyes again, “we simply do not have the supplies to feed everyone in the castle over a prolonged period of time. Cut off from any supply chains, there will be hunger. Disease will spread with so many people packed so closely together. Should our stand here fail, we can always retreat into Castle Luntberg or do something different. If we lock ourselves up in the castle, we will be out of options. The Margrave will surround us, and all we can do is pray for a miracle. Do you want to risk that?”
Burchard growled something indistinguishable.
“And besides,” she said, “I kind of think I should at least try to protect my people.” She smiled at him. “Someone told me once that is what a liege lord is supposed to do.”
“Sometimes I wish you weren't so much like your father,” the old steward growled and gave her her favorite scowl.
Blushing with joy at the compliment, Ayla climbed on one of the stacks of wood and called out to the men who surrounded her: “You all heard me! You all know what to do. Now I need all those who can ride a horse and brought one with them to step forward!”
Several of the villagers and a few castle guards that Burchard had assembled stepped out of the crowd and bent their knees before her.
Ayla did a quick count. “One, two, three, four, five, six... hm, yes, enough. There are seven farms on the eastern bank of the river, aren't there?”
The peasants nodded eagerly.
“We're going to have to warn them,” she declared. “It will be impossible to protect the eastern half of the valley. They are going to have to come here and live in the village for a time. Each of you,” she pointed towards the riders, “will take one of the farms, warn their owners and help them bring whatever is most precious to them back here.”
She started pointing at the men, one after another. “You will go to Walding's farm. You to Albrecht's, you to Menning's, you to Horst's, you to Otto's, you to Autgar's!”
One of the more intellectual castle guards who had apparently learned to count to seven, raised a hand. “But, Milady, we are only six. How shall we warn the last family? Shall one of us visit two farms?”
Ayla shook her head. “No. Falkenstein's forces are already on the move. Who knows, he might already have sentries posted throughout the eastern valley. With no border patrols, how are we to know? It's too dangerous for anybody to stay out there long. Besides, there's no need to. There are seven farms and,” she called her horse with a whistle and swung herself back into the saddle, “there are seven riders.”
“Milady!” If Burchard's expression had been furious before, it was nothing to what his face looked like now. “You aren't seriously considering...”
“I'm not considering anything,” she cut him off, turning her horse to face the bridge. “I'm riding to Gelther's farm.”
Burchard strode towards her, a determined look in his eyes. “But you said yourself how it was dangerous for anyone to be out there. We have no idea who or what may lie in wait!”
“Exactly—which is why I have no time to waste.” She pressed her boots into Eleanor's sides. “Run girl! Run like the wind!”
Burchard jumped forward, but too late. Before he could manage to grab the reins of her horse, she was already speeding towards the bridge.
“Milady!” he shouted. “Come back!”
Ignoring him, she raced across the bridge in full gallop. Just before she reached the other end, she looked back, shouting at the stunned crowd: “And woe betide you if I don't see a solid barricade when I return!”
Then she turned east again.
Burchard
remained standing at the bridge, looking after her, worry and anger etched into his wrinkled face. Only if you looked closely could you see the tiniest hint of a grudgingly proud smile, as his eyes followed the girl riding fast towards the enemy, blond hair flying behind her.
Sir Reuben and the Doll
Sir Reuben sat on his horse counting money. It was one of his favorite activities—the counting of money, not the sitting on the back of a horse. Not that he didn't like to ride. There was just the fact that if you did it long enough, it gave you a sore ass, which never happened from counting money.
“...twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two.”
He closed the purse contentedly and let it hang loosely from his hand. There was nothing better than the tinkling of gold, except of course the tinkling of stolen gold.
Reuben smiled to himself.
The merchant had really been an amusing fellow. He honestly believed he had a right to keep the money he had earned. Well, maybe he had, in a strictly judicial sense. But Reuben's sword tickling his chubby cheeks had soon convinced him otherwise.
The knight was so lost in his happy reminiscences that he almost missed the hoof prints. Almost, for he was Sir Reuben Rachwild. While one eye always looked at what he wanted to see, the other kept a close look on what he needed to see. It was a talent that had kept him alive these past six years.
The hoof prints were not deep. They were also very far apart, which indicated speed. A light, nimble animal whose rider was in a great hurry. It had to be a Palfrey or a Jennet. Knights’ chargers, carthorses, and plowhorses were big, heavy animals that didn't move fast and whose hoofs left deep impressions in the dirt. Palfreys and Jennets were the only kinds of light horses. He would have given the matter no further thought, had he not suddenly reached a fork in the forest path he was riding on.
The hoof prints led down to the left.
Sir Reuben stopped his horse.
He had seen what was down there earlier, when he had come riding into this valley: nothing but a few farms and a lot of forest. It was a dead end. What would any rider be doing down there? Especially someone who rode such a light, nimble, and surely expensive horse?
Maybe it was a priest visiting his parishioners?
But then Reuben noticed a strange mark left in the dirt, inside the hoof print. Swiftly, he jumped to the ground and examined the dirt more closely. As part of the hoof print, there was the tiny print of a symbol left in the mud: a crest such as only nobles used to mark their precious horses.
Hm... no knight on his charger, that much had already been established. So it had to be a noblewoman. And for some reason she was riding to these farms, and from what he knew of noblewomen, probably not to spend the night there. She would come back soon, eager to return to her warm chamber and comfortable bed...
A grin spread over Sir Reuben's face.
This day just kept getting better and better. If there was one thing he enjoyed more than robbing people, it was robbing stuck-up, stinking rich noble people!
*~*~**~*~*
To say that Gelther the peasant was surprised when his mistress[11] rode up to his house in full gallop would be something of an understatement. He actually dropped the ax he was holding, and it was only sheer luck that he didn't slice off his toes.
“L-lady Ayla,” he stammered, rushing forward to bow. “We are honored by your presence. Please, let me help you down.”
But Ayla had already slid off Eleanor's back. She saw Gelther's wife peering out of the farmhouse door and swallowed. This was not going to be easy.
“We don't have time for pleasantries, Gelther,” she said, her tone much more gentle than her words. “I come bearing black tidings.”
She explained how Falkenstein had declared a feud, omitting only the marriage option. She was not sure how they would take the news that she had essentially refused peace. Although she knew Burchard was right and a feud against Falkenstein was infinitely preferable to peace united with him, she could not totally silence the small voice in the back of her mind that told her she had not done her duty to her people.
As she told her story, she could see the reality slowly sinking in: with every word she spoke, the expression of the husband grew grimmer, that of the wife more horrified. Finally, she was at the end.
“And you came all this way to warn us, Milady?” Gelther's wife Margret whispered.
“Well, thank you,” her husband said, still grim-faced. “We will find a spot in the forest to hide. Maybe Falkenstein's men will not find us. Margret, get the children. We're leaving.”
“What? Now?”
“Of course now!”
“What shall I pack? Where are we going? How...?”
“Just pack some food,” he interrupted her. “We're leaving immediately, Margret. And I don't know where we're going yet.”
Ayla could see it in the farmer's eyes: he had seen death before—unlike his wife. With a short bow to her, he wanted to turn and head into the house, but Ayla stepped forward and grabbed his arm. He looked back at her and saw the determined expression on her face.
“I did not just come to warn you. I came to offer you sanctuary. My men are erecting a barrier at the dale bridge as we speak. There we will brave the threat, and you are welcome to seek refuge in the village for as long as the feud lasts.”
The farmer inhaled sharply. “Do you mean that, Milady?”
“Of course. Now get your things together! Everything you can carry. I will take as much as I can back with me on Eleanor, so don't hesitate to pack everything that is precious to you.”
The farmer made no answer. He just dropped to his knees and bowed his head for a second. Then he was on his feet again and inside the house within a second, while his wife rushed towards Ayla and showered her with thanks.
This caused Ayla to blush furiously. The effusions of the peasant's wife were a testament to the poor conception many noblemen and -women had of their duties as liege lord and protector. These two people felt themselves infinitely indebted to her for what should have been their natural right: protection for themselves and their family.
After some time, Margret was called away by her husband into the house. Ayla, feeling guilty for having to drive them out of their home, did not follow and intrude on their last private moments there. Instead, she wandered around to the back of the house, from which she could see the road leading down into the valley from the east, between the lush green vegetation.
The road was still empty—at the moment. But soon troops would be marching down that road, troops emblazoned with the escutcheon[12] of the Margrave von Falkenstein: a sinister falcon on argent, separated by a bend[13] from black cross.
Ayla could not suppress a bitter smile. Somehow it was very fitting that Margrave Falkenstein's falcon should be sinister. While, in theory, sinister was only a heraldic term for the left side of a coat of arms, it served as fair warning to all those who saw it: Here comes a man to fear, the hawk said. He will grab you with his claws and never let go again.
“Milady?”
She turned and saw Margret holding a small pile of objects in her arms.
“These things we would like you to take, if it is not too much for you...”
“No, no,” Ayla said hurriedly. “Come, I'll help you stow them away.”
She led the woman to Eleanor and opened the saddlebags.
Margret had been very restrained: after everything was stowed away, only half of the available space was taken. Ayla told the woman to get more, and after a short argument, protesting that it would be too much for the lady's fine horse, Margret did as requested.
Ayla returned to the back of the house. When Falkenstein's troops approached, she did not want to be caught off guard.
However, instead of an enemy soldier, she found a small girl at the back of the house, her hands behind her back, staring up at the lady garbed in fine clothes with eyes as big as saucers. This had to be one of Gelther and Margret's daughters.
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“Hello.” Ayla bent down and smiled at the little girl. “What's your name?”
The girl gave a frightened squeak and ran to hide behind a pile of firewood that was stacked against the side of the house.
“You know, I'm not in the habit of eating children,” Ayla said to the empty air. “It's not something I generally do.”
No reaction.
“And even if I did,” she added, “I do it only on Mondays and Saturdays. Today's Wednesday, so you can come out.”
For a few more seconds, there was silence.
Then a big eye, topped by a tangle of black hair, peeked around the corner. “Really? Only on Mondays and Saturdays? Promise?”
“Promise,” Ayla said with a solemn expression, holding up her hand as if she were swearing an oath. “On my honor as a maiden.”
For some reason, that made the girl come out at once, which made Ayla wonder whether she looked that innocent that everybody believed her immediately when she said she was a virgin. That thought annoyed her, so she tried to push it away and bent down to the girl, who only reached up to her waist and couldn't be more than five years old.
“Are you really Lady Ayla from the castle?” the girl asked. She was a bit hard to understand because she kept biting down on a fold of the old dress she wore, probably still slightly afraid that this strange, colorful creature would eat her. “I've never seen a real Lady before.”
“Well, you have now. But it's nothing too special. I see myself every day in the mirror, and I'm none too pleased about it.”
“Why? You're very pretty.”
“Um... thanks.”
I'm blushing, Ayla thought furiously. A five-year-old just told me I'm pretty and I'm blushing. Can you get any more pathetic?
“Have you come to take Mommy and Daddy and Andris and me away?” the girl accused.
God, this was becoming uncomfortable! And Ayla used to think she was good with children! When this little thing grew up, she should join the Inquisition.
“Err... yes. But it's not like you think...”
