The Robber Knight

by Robert Thier

  “Of course not. Just humor me, will you?” she said, smiling at him, stroking the back of his neck with her thumb.

  He opened his mouth—and no protest came. “All right, get on with it,” he sighed. “If only this were honey wine,[42] then it would be worth all this trouble.”

  “Oh, water can be sweet too, after you get used to it.”

  “Which I hope never to accomplish.”

  “Drink already, will you? I haven't got all day.”

  He did as she asked, and she grinned down at him, triumphantly. “Sweet enough for you?” she asked.

  Instead of answering with one of his usual sarcastic remarks, Reuben fixed her with a gaze that felt as though it would make her melt inside. Quickly, so quickly she wasn't even sure it happened, he raised a hand and stroked a strand of her hair that was hanging into his face. “Yes, sweet enough,” he said. “Without a doubt.”

  She flinched, and his head slipped from her grasp, thudding onto the bedpost.

  “Oh my God, I'm so sorry!” Hurriedly, she put the pitcher away and bent forward to examine his head.

  Reuben let out a theatrical, pained groan. “You really are?” he wanted to know.

  “Yes, of course I am!”

  “Well, in that case... I guess you can get rid of that water and get my wine now.”

  She stopped examining his head. He couldn't be hurt too badly. Everything seemed to be working just as before.

  “I was talking about letting go of your head, not about the water!”

  “Oh, that's a shame.”

  “I don't think so.”

  “Why won't you get me some honey wine? I heard from a healer once that a bit of alcohol now and then is very healthy.”

  “It is,” Ayla said, raising an eyebrow. “For the digestion. So I'll get you your honey wine when you've got the runs. At the moment, water is better. A lot of water—and fennel soup.”

  He scowled and she scowled back. How could anybody be so obstinate? More to the point, how could anyone be so obstinate and so endearing at the same time?

  “I'm not going to lie about what I've learned,” she told him. “Those are the things that will make you better, and you're going to have to stomach them, whether you like it or not!”

  Slowly, his scowl disappeared. What remained was an inscrutable expression that lent a mysterious touch to his ruggedly handsome features. She felt a sudden impulse to reach out and touch his face—without an excuse, this time.

  “How am I?” he asked. “How am I, really? The truth. All of it.”

  Hurriedly, Ayla shook off the strange feeling and replied in a voice that was softer than she intended it to be, “I'm not entirely sure. Last night... I think it was close. You could have... could have...” She couldn't bring herself to continue.

  His face softened and he nodded. “I understand,” he said. “Go on.”

  Grateful, she continued: “It isn't over. The wounds are still infected, the fever is still there. I must regularly change your cold cataplasms.”

  “My cold what?” Reuben looked confused, as if he hadn't known he had such a strange body part.

  Ayla simply had to laugh at his facial expression. “Cold wraps around your legs. Don't you feel them?”

  “Now that you mention it, something has been itching down there.”

  Ayla tried hard not to let the thought of “down there” distract her. “Um, yes, well. Those are called cold cataplasms, or cold wraps. But I think I already mentioned that, didn't I?”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Um, very well. I'll have to change those regularly. They help to keep the fever down, and that's the most important thing at the moment. There's various other things I can do to help.” Ayla's voice became steadier again as she returned to familiar ground. “I won't lie to you, Reuben, it still looks grim. But I swear to you, I will do the best I can.”

  He nodded. “I know you will.”

  Ayla smiled. His trust in her warmed her heart like nothing else had ever done before. “Thanks, Reuben.”

  “I've got just one question.”

  “Yes?”

  “In my current condition...”

  “Yes?”

  “Can I leave?”

  “No!”

  *~*~**~*~*

  “No!”

  Was it only his own imagination that turned the word into an anguished outcry?

  Ayla leaned towards him, her face fierce. “You wouldn't get a hundred feet,” she said, urgently. “Reuben, you couldn't even get up on a horse. And even if you could, even if you could get away, the effort would kill you.”

  He knew it was true. He could feel the sickness eating away at him. He needed to stay here. He needed her.

  Well, now you've got your answer, he thought sarcastically. The answer you know you should be devastated about. The answer you secretly hoped for.

  He stared up into Ayla's sapphire eyes, which were peering down at him with an anxious expression. It was clear that she remembered his earlier outburst, his fit of rage at learning about the siege. Only now he realized why he had really been angry that day. Not because of the siege, no. Why would he, Sir Reuben Rachwild, who had been in more battles than one could count on all the fingers of the people in this little castle, fear one paltry siege? No. What had truly enraged him was that learning the truth had robbed him of his only excuse to stay, to enjoy the sparkle of those two sapphires, which were becoming more precious with every passing moment, for a few more days. How could he justify staying when every bit of sense in his brain told him to go?

  Sense had served him well in the past. It had helped him stay alive.

  Now he had his excuse back—and she was anxious that he would be angry now! He almost laughed.

  “Good,” he said, grinning. “We can spend the time discussing my compensation.”

  Her voice was stern, but she couldn't keep the corners of her small mouth from turning up. “What's there to discuss? The window is over there.”

  Opposing Forces

  When Ayla left the room a little later, having changed Reuben's cataplasms while trying not to think about what parts of him she was seeing and touching, she had a little smile on her face. In the corridor, she met Isenbard.

  “He's better, isn't he?” the knight asked, studying her face.

  “How did you know?” Ayla inquired, perplexed.

  Isenbard shrugged. “Just guessed.” He raised his hand to scratch his beard—on the back of his armored glove, Ayla could see dried smears of blood. Guilt welled up in her, and fearful of what might be hidden behind the usual stoic expression of the old knight, she rushed towards him.

  “Oh God, Isenbard, I... I'm so sorry. I totally forgot about Falkenstein's approach! Has there been another battle? There has, hasn't there...? Oh, I'm so terribly sorry. It's just, if I hadn't been there all night, I'm sure he would have died, and I couldn’t...”

  He interrupted her with a wave of his hand. “No.”

  “No? What do you mean, no?”

  “There's been no battle. I just don't clean my mail very often.”

  Ayla let out a sigh of relief—but the relief was short-lived. As she pondered Isenbard’s words, a frown spread over her face. “But why haven't they attacked? They're all here by now, surely? What are they waiting for?”

  “Their commander.” Isenbard's face darkened. Not that any of his features actually moved, no. Rather, the shadows in his wrinkles seemed to get more distinct. “He's a careful one. Waits until all is secure. His soldiers are searching the forest as we speak.”

  “Searching the forest? For what?”

  “Traps. Ambushes. Mercenaries expect everybody to fight as dirty as they do.”

  The words carried the unspoken message that he would never act in such a dastardly way. Ayla thought that was rather silly. If she had thought of an ambush and it could help her people, she would have tried it immediately. But since she also thought it rather sweet, and couldn't imagine Isenbard without his un
impeachable sense of honor, she said nothing.

  That moment, a terrible thought came to her.

  “Isenbard,” she asked, her voice trembling, “the commander... it's not going to be Falkenstein, is it? Please, tell me it won't be him.”

  He shook his head. “I doubt it. Falkenstein has hounds to do his hunting for him.”

  Relief flooded through Ayla like sweet nectar. She had been terrified of having to face the man who had so callously demanded her surrender ever since that day the herald had presented that golden ring to her. It wouldn't be so bad if the Margrave desired only her lands, as he had done with all the other nobles whom he had fought. But this was different. The herald had made it quite clear that the Margrave didn't only want land. He wanted her—body, mind, and soul.

  Well, probably mostly body.

  As if this awarded her any protection, she crossed her arms in front of her. The thought alone of that man looking at her, leering at her, was enough to make her blood run cold.

  “Ayla? Did you hear what I said?”

  She blinked at Isenbard. “What?”

  “Something wrong? You looked worried.”

  If Isenbard of all people had noticed, she must have looked scared out of her wits. Ayla made a mental note not to show her feelings on this matter to anyone. She was the mistress of the castle. She needed to be strong. For everyone.

  She gave a small, shaky laugh. “Well, no, apart from the whole being besieged bit, I'm perfectly fine, thank you very much.”

  Isenbard studied her for a moment and then shrugged, apparently deciding to categorize her expression in the wide and mysterious category “strange things women do for some reason.”

  “The enemy has taken up position on the other side of the river, out of the range of our bows, and begun to build a camp,” he reported. “They do not seem to plan another attack until their base is established.”

  “Take me down there, will you?”

  The old knight shifted uncomfortably. “Girl, you have been up most of the night. You need to rest.”

  Ayla squared her shoulders. “Take me down there, Sir Isenbard. I wish to see our enemy.”

  The knight bowed, recognizing the tone of command. “Yes, Milady.”

  *~*~**~*~*

  Reuben lay on his bed staring up at the ceiling. If a week ago somebody had told him it could be a pleasant experience to have ice-cold cloths wrapped around one's calves, he would have shown that somebody the indecent finger.[43] Now he was already wondering how long it was going to take for these damn things to heat up and be replaced. Couldn't his fever manage to be a bit higher?

  Ayla had been very careful to touch him as little as possible. It had almost been funny to watch her carefully roll up the legs of his trousers and attempt to wind the cool cloth around his calves without lifting them, as if his skin were poisonous. But it had only almost been funny, not quite, because the whole time he had been wondering why she didn't want to touch him.

  Was she disgusted by the idea? Did she find him repellant?

  He might have been certain of that if he hadn't seen her blush whenever their eyes met. Perhaps it was just her shyness. Although he had to admit, chuckling as he thought of it, she hadn't been very shy with her retorts. Quite the contrary.

  There was one possibility left.

  Maybe, just maybe, she was being shy because she felt attracted to him. And why not? Back in his days at the court, women had flocked around him like flies around a pot of extra-delicious honey. It was only natural. One of the few firm principles Reuben had left was that he was the strongest and best-looking man in the world, and he hadn't yet met anybody who dared disagree with him.

  Surely, she wouldn't be the first.

  Of course, he had never met a girl with eyes that blue, hair that golden, and a temper that easily inflammable. He had also never met a girl who was crazy enough to ride around with a rusty horseshoe and an old leather doll in her saddlebags. She was different.

  And that was why he wanted her.

  Would she be the first to reject him? No, Reuben calmed himself. His charms had never proven ineffective before. Not once. Why should they now?

  Of course, there was that little matter of her having sworn to see him hanged. But he could overlook that for now.

  From outside, he heard the shouts of men and the clatter of armor. His jaw tightened. The siege, no doubt. Now there was a thing he did not plan to overlook.

  His right hand traveled down to his waist, wishing a sword hung there.

  *~*~**~*~*

  Ayla sat on her horse, overlooking the enemy camp, trying not to let her fear take over.

  So many, she thought desperately as her eyes traveled over the endless lines of tents.

  Swallowing, she asked: “How many?”

  Isenbard's face—unsurprisingly—showed no emotion. “At least six hundred. More are still arriving.”

  “Six hundred,” she mouthed, aghast. “That has us outnumbered at least... at least...” She bit her lip. She had been an exemplary student at the convent her father had sent her to in almost every subject—arithmetic being the reason for the “almost.”

  “At least ten to one,” Isenbard said.

  “Mary Mother of God,” Ayla breathed. “How are we to stand against such numbers?”

  “With courage,” was the old knight's simple reply. Ayla would have preferred he’d said something like “with better weapons” or “with a lot of reinforcements.” But she appreciated the unswerving loyalty of the stoic, stone-faced old warrior so much that she didn't make a corresponding remark.

  “What do you think?” she wanted to know. “When will they attack?”

  He shrugged. “Only God can tell. We can only be vigilant.”

  There was a pause.

  “Milady?”

  “Yes, Uncle?” His tone had been as quietly unemotional as always. But she had known him long enough to detect the hint of apprehension in his voice. It made her nervous.

  “I have to tell you something else.”

  “What?”

  “An hour ago, I received a message. The other two riders have returned. They bear word that your two remaining vassals, Sir Waldar and Sir Rudolfus, will be arriving within the hour.”

  “How wonderful!” A broad smile started to spread over Ayla's face—until she saw Isenbard's expression. “It is wonderful, isn't it? You just said it yourself; we haven't got nearly enough men. There's nothing bad about reinforcements, surely.”

  “If you say so, Milady.”

  Once again, she heard more than he said.

  “Isenbard? Is there something bad about reinforcements?”

  “That depends on who recruits, trains, and commands them, Milady.”

  Just then, shouts went up from the scouts stationed on the other side of the village, whose job it was to look out for the approach of Ayla's remaining vassals. They both turned and, looking towards the west, saw two groups of men approaching. Groups, not columns. It was obvious, even to Ayla's untrained eye, that these men, unlike Isenbard's soldiers, were not marching, but simply walking.

  “It's a long time since Sir Waldar and Sir Rudolfus have been on a visit here,” she said, timidly. “I don't really know them at all. Are they... err... very capable commanders?”

  Isenbard didn't reply.

  Vacillating Vassals

  It was about an hour later that the door to Reuben's room swung open and Ayla staggered in, one hand covering her eyes.

  “You don't mind if I sit here and contemplate our doom for a while, do you?” she asked, slumping down at the foot of his bed without waiting for a reply, and without removing her hand from her face.

  “Err... no, not at all.”

  “Good. Oh, and by the way, you were right. We are all going to be slaughtered.”

  Reuben had spent a lot of time in female company, and had perfected the art of reading their moods and outbursts. He might be wrong, but something told him that something had transpired, someth
ing which wasn't very encouraging and promising.

  “What has happened to you, Ayla?” He reached out and tried to pull her hand away from her face—in vain. He couldn't have lifted a leaf from the ground, he was so weak. Damn! “Ayla, talk to me! What happened? Did you have an encounter with the enemy?”

  “Worse,” she groaned. “I just met our allies.”

  Reuben relaxed, rolled his eyes, and let his hand sink back onto the bed. “So that's it. You're simply overreacting.”

  “You haven't met Sir Rudolfus and Sir Waldar before, have you?”

  “I must admit that I haven't had the pleasure, no.”

  “Then do me a favor and don't speak of things you don't understand.”

  “Come on. It can't have been that bad.”

  Ayla turned around and lowered her hand. For the first time since she'd entered the room, Reuben could see her expression—and flinched at the sight.

  “That bad?” he asked with trepidation.

  *~*~**~*~*

  Ayla watched nervously as the knight leading the first group approached. At least she hoped he was a knight. He wore no mail, preferring instead baggy robes that made him look more like a scholar than a warrior. Yet he was the only one among the men riding on a horse, so who else could he be but their lord?

  About ten paces away from her, the horse came to a halt. The gangly youth on its back tried to dismount, but somehow managed to get his foot stuck in his riding gear. It took a while for him to disentangle himself.

  When he had finally managed, he approached Ayla on his over-long legs and gave an awkward bow, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I... err... hear that you are having some slight difficulty with one of your neighbors, Milady, and require my assistance?”

  “Slight difficulty? Yes, you could say that.” Ayla pointed across the river to the sea of enemy tents behind her. “That's my slight difficulty.”

  The young man's eyes went even wider than they already had been. “Dear me. Those are a lot of tents. Why would all those people be camping in front of the bridge like that?”

  “I guess it's because they want to conquer and kill us.”