by Robert Thier
To Ayla's surprise, a few tents had been erected on their side of the bridge, on a small meadow. She inquired what these might be.
“Our tents,” the knight replied, urging his horse forward to keep up with her.
“What do you mean, 'our tents'?” she persisted, glancing at the knight riding beside her with slight disapproval. This was no time for Isenbard's usual terseness.
“I made the men put them up. One for me, one for you, and one command tent.”
“A tent for me? Do you think I intend on sleeping out here, then?”
“It's not for sleeping. It's for treating the wounded.”
“Really?” She raised an eyebrow. “Didn't you hear me promise the Count that I would steer clear of the battlefield?”
“I also heard that in the Orient, fish can fly and men can breathe fire. Doesn't mean I believe it.”
“Ha!”
Only a few yards away from the tents, Ayla brought her horse to a halt and slid off its back, glad to be on her own two feet again. “And what do you need a tent for?”
“I need some place to put on my armor.”
The lady of Luntberg appraised her knight as he dismounted. From head to toe he was covered in glittering metal. “Don't you have armor on now?”
Isenbard shook his head.
“Then what is that you're wearing?”
“Chain mail.”
“That's armor too, isn't it?”
“No.” The face of the knight was unusually grim as he said this. Apart from the fact that it was what knights wore while fighting each other, Ayla knew next to nothing about armor. But Isenbard's hardened face made her wary.
“How so?” she asked with mounting trepidation. “It looks like armor to me.”
“Not for a battle it isn't. Imagine... how can I explain it?” He looked away. For some reason he didn't want to meet her eye.
“Isenbard?”
“Imagine going to a ball, Ayla. This is what you have been trained for your whole life as a lady. Imagine entering the ballroom, imagine all eyes are fixed upon you.”
Ayla had no trouble conjuring the image. She had dreamed of attending a big ball pretty much all her life. There was always a tall and dark stranger in her fantasies, whose attention she immediately attracted. Lately, this stranger had started to look more and more like Reuben.
“Can you imagine it?” Isenbard asked.
“Oh yes.”
“Good. And now imagine that scene with you wearing no dress.”
Blood flooded Ayla's face. Why the heck did she have to bring Reuben into the picture! Now he wouldn't disappear.
“Uncle!”
“I'm trying to teach you something, Ayla.” Isenbard's voice was cold and hard as stone. Still he wasn't looking at her. “Entering a battlefield while wearing nothing but chain mail is like entering a ballroom in your... um... underthings. It leaves you vulnerable. The difference is, while as a lady in a ballroom you might earn disdain for appearing thus, I might earn death instead. What a ballroom gown is to a lady, plate armor[45] is to the knight. I am about to don my gown for the field. And I am not sure whether my shoulders can still bear the weight, Milady. Come, and I will show you.”
She followed him without question. He led her into his tent, where a young man waited for them, beside something very bulky covered by a large cloth.
“My squire, Theoderich.” Isenbard nodded to the youth. “Lad, make your bow to Lady Ayla von Luntberg.”
The squire bowed perfectly and immediately, clearly demonstrating the rigors of Isenbard's regime.
“Show the Lady Ayla my armor, lad.”
The squire gripped the large cloth with both hands and pulled. It came away, revealing a metal monstrosity.
Ayla had often seen suits of armor before, but never had she been so close to one, or had had a reason to contemplate its purpose. The armor was a head taller than her, and made out of large steel plates that were welded together in some places, layered in others. It only seemed to be designed to protect the upper body, lacking metal plates to protect the legs and feet, as it hung there on a wooden construct. Ayla supposed she should be glad it didn't encase the whole body, because this would make it easier to move in. But somehow, the fact that it had no legs made the armor look even more frightening, like a man cut in half. And that half metal man looked more than heavy enough to bring you down. Ayla didn't see how anyone stuck inside there could move an inch.
The empty visor stared at her accusingly.
“And... knights walk around in these things?” she asked in a tentative voice.
“Most don't.” Isenbard's voice was totally neutral. “Most can't walk two steps after putting it on. They have to be heaved onto their horses with cranes before any battle or tournament. If they fall from their horses, they are lost. They lie on the ground, helpless as an overturned tortoise.”
“But you don't. You can walk around with it?” she demanded to know. Please say yes. Please.
“I used to.” The old knight met her eye. “Yet I haven't worn one of these for over fifteen years.”
Carefully, he grasped her hand and guided it towards one of the metal arms.
“Lift it,” he said.
“I don't think that is such a good idea. I...”
“Lift it!” It was no request. She put her hand under the metal and heaved.
The steel stayed where it was.
“I can't, Isenbard. I can't lift it.”
“I know.” His voice was suddenly gentle, like she had heard it only on the rarest occasions.
“Why are you showing me this?” Panic welled up inside Ayla. She didn't like where this was going. She didn't like it at all. “Why me?”
“Because you need to know,” he said, his voice returning to his usual terseness. “You are the lady of the castle. You need to know what our situation is.”
“Why? What am I supposed to do?”
He scratched his beard thoughtfully. His gaze seemed to reach far off into the distance. “Lead your people,” he finally replied. “And pray that the Lord sends you a knight who is still worthy of the title.”
She gave him a weak smile. “That would be a miracle, Isenbard. They only happen for prophets and saints, not for normal people like me.”
He patted her shoulder awkwardly. “Well, they have been known to happen now and again, girl, even for normal folk. Now leave me. I must prepare for battle.”
As she left the tent, Ayla turned one last time and saw the squire fastening the central part of the armor around Sir Isenbard's torso. His shoulders sagged under the weight, and suddenly his face looked very old.
Ayla stepped out into the dawn to face a sun glowing the color of blood, and prayed that it might not be an omen. And for some silly reason, she also prayed for a knight to come save her. How incredibly stupid. Her castle was under siege. She was beyond anyone's reach. And who would want to save her, in any case?
Battle of the Bridge
Ayla's tent was situated about three hundred yards away from the barricade, far enough back so as not to be hit by any arrows from the battle, as long as the barricade wasn't breached. It was also situated to the side, so that Ayla could see past their defensive line to whatever lay beyond. She was both grateful and frightened that Isenbard had placed it thus.
Grateful because it showed her he trusted in her ability to handle what she saw.
Frightened because it left her no choice but to see.
She saw beyond the barricade. And at that moment, seeing beyond the barricade meant that she could see the enemy approaching in full force.
So, apparently, could Sir Rudolfus and Sir Waldar, who had joined her on the meadow behind the barricade. They hurried over to her.
“Milady! Milady, do you see this?” With a shaking finger, Sir Rudolfus pointed towards the opposite bank.
Ayla studied the hundreds of pikemen and archers approaching the barricade. The sun glittered on the tips of a forest of spears.
; “I would say they are rather hard to miss,” she pointed out.
“We must surrender immediately!”
“Must we?” She raised an eyebrow. “I was under the impression that I am the one in charge here.”
“Now look here, girl,” Waldar chuckled nervously. “You can't honestly expect us to fight this many men. Quit this silly game and tell this Sir Luca you're surrendering.”
Behind the two men, Ayla could see a massive iron-clad figure leaving Isenbard's tent. He moved slowly, but held himself perfectly erect. Thank the Lord!
Returning her attention to her other two vassals, she fixed them with a death-stare. “I do not consider protecting the lives of my subjects a silly game, Sir Waldar,” she said. “And when conversing with me, you will kindly use the proper form of address. Listen closely now. I have no intention of surrendering my land and my people to some villainous invader! I have commanded you to defend those lands, and you are sworn to defend me. If you choose to break that vow, then you had better go to the castle dungeons and lock yourselves in, traitors that you are. I have not the men to spare to do it for you!”
She let her gaze wander from one to the other. Behind them, the iron-clad figure of the knight took up his position and gripped his sword. “Now are you two going to follow my orders, yes or no?”
Sir Rudolfus swallowed, hard. “I will do my duty, as you command, Milady. Though I do not know what use I will be in battle.”
“That we will have to see. Sir Waldar?”
The fat man's three chins worked for a moment. And for a moment longer. And longer. A deep sound came out of his throat. It took Ayla a moment to realize it was laughter, getting louder and louder.
“Ha!” the fat man boomed. “Haaahahaha! You're a good one! All right, Milady! I've never avoided a drunken brawl, maybe it's time I get into one while I'm sober! Let's go show these sons of bitches what stuff we're made of!”
Ayla breathed out in relief. “An admirable attitude, Sir Waldar. Though I would appreciate it if you could moderate your language. Then we are decided?”
The two men nodded.
“Very well. Sir Isenbard?”
Both Sir Waldar and Sir Rudolfus whirled around, and then flinched at the sight of the imposing knight, his hand on his sword. Neither of them, so it seemed, had been aware that he had been standing behind them the whole time.
“Yes, Milady?” A deep and strangely unfamiliar metallic voice came from behind the visor.
“I hereby appoint you supreme commander of all our armed forces. Defend us as you see fit. All our lives are in your hands, all my vassals at your command.” She threw a significant look at Sir Waldar and Sir Rudolfus. They understood.
Sir Isenbard bowed. “As you wish, Milady. Sir Waldar? Sir Rudolfus? Please call your men and follow me.”
She watched them march down towards the barricade. Under Sir Isenbard's orders, the force of about fifty men, consisting of the three knights' warriors and her own castle guards, positioned themselves behind the barricade. At a beckon of Isenbard's armored fist, five of his own men climbed onto the guard walk, stationing themselves atop the barricade shoulder to shoulder. With a shiver, Ayla realized that they would have to deal with the brunt of the attack.
Across the river, the horn blew again, drawing her eyes.
There he was. The red robber knight, in full armor. Now that Isenbard had shown her, she knew what wearing full armor meant. And now that she wasn't looking down on him from atop a barricade, she could fully appreciate the monstrous thing he was wearing. In the light of the morning sun, his armor glinted, as evil and impenetrable as the scales of a dragon.
Suddenly, she heard footsteps approaching and whirled around, gripping one of the surgical knives she had brought with her. But it was only Dilli. Relieved, Ayla clutched at her heart.
“Mary Mother of God, Dilli, you scared the wits out of me! I thought you were an attack from the rear! What on earth are you doing out here?”
The maid eyed the knife in her mistress' hand apprehensively. Quickly, Ayla put it away and repeated her question: “What are you doing here?”
“I have a favor to ask, Milady.”
Ayla looked back to the red knight.
“Men!” he shouted, his deep, strangely accented voice carrying all the way over the river and to the two women beside the tents. “Today we will win a great victory! We will triumph over this nanny who calls himself a knight and does a woman's bidding!”
A roar went up from the assembled soldiers as they raised their spears and axes.
“Err... I'm happy to help you any way I can, Dilli,” Ayla replied, not letting Sir Luca out of her sight. “Only not just now, maybe? As you see, I'm a little bit busy.”
“Forward,” the red fiend shouted. “Forward to honor and victory!”
“Oh yes,” Ayla mumbled. “Honor. I'm sure there's a lot of honor in attacking innocent people and threatening to burn their homes to the ground. Blackguard!”
She felt Dilli tug at her sleeve, but at the moment she had eyes only for her foe and his forces, slowly approaching the bridge.
Again, Dilli tugged at her sleeve. “I can't go back, Milady. I... c-came to help. Please... let me help with the wounded.”
That got Ayla's attention. She turned to stare at her maid and friend. “But you're terrified of anything that bleeds, Dilli. Once, you walked by farmer Albert's house when he was beheading a chicken, and you almost fainted. You came running back to the castle in tears.”
Dilli squared her tiny shoulders and nodded, her brown curls bobbing up and down with the motion. “I know. But I still want to help.”
“Err... I'm touched, Dilli. But your place isn't here on the battlefield.”
“My place is by your side, Milady, wherever that is.” The smaller Dilli looked up at Ayla with big, begging, doe eyes. “This is my only chance to help you. Please, Milady, let me stay.”
Across the river, the men who had been marching so far broke into a run. A fearsome battlecry rose up from hundreds of bloodthirsty throats. The red robber knight urged his stallion into a gallop.
To her surprise, Ayla found herself grinning at Dilli. But was it really that surprising? In all probability, every last one of them was going to die. Why not meet death with a smile on your lips and a friend at your side?
“Do you promise not to puke all over me?” she inquired.
Dilli returned her smile, weakly. “I promise to try.”
“Fair enough. Go into the tent and start unrolling the bandages that are stacked there, will you. We're going to need them.”
The maid nodded and hurried into the tent. Ayla thanked the Lord for her friend's innocent mind. It prevented her from guessing the true motive behind Ayla sending her into the tent. The enemy army, still gathering speed, had now come within range. Dilli would see enough blood today. But she didn't need to see this. The hammer of attack was about to strike the anvil of defense, forging war.
On the barricade, the strange iron figure she had still trouble thinking of as Isenbard, raised an arm.
“Nock! Mark! Draw!”
Ayla shuddered, knowing what would come next.
“Hold... hold... loose!”
If Ayla had expected the arrows to have the same devastating effect as last time, she was bitterly disappointed. Where last time the arrows had been as bolts of lightning striking down impudent mortals, this time they were like the sting of a fly to a hydra. The many-headed monster of Sir Luca's army moved on, trampling the few who had fallen under its feet. They reached the barricade in a matter of minutes. Stones with ropes attached flew through the air, ladders were thrust upwards. The defenders hacked furiously at the ropes, tried to push back the ladders. Still, a few remained long enough for men to scramble onto the guard walk. Most were cut down immediately, falling under a storm of blows. But some remained upright, fought, and stood long enough for a second and a third man to follow them.
What was most terrible and most surprising thoug
h, in all the mayhem, was the absence of blood.
Ayla had expected fountains of blood to spew forth, but no such thing happened. The thick mail and leather armor the soldiers wore seemed to protect both sides from the sharp edges of the enemy's blades. It did not, however, protect them from the strength of the blows.
Ayla winced every time she heard it: the sickening crunch of breaking bones. Never in her life had she imagined a battle to be like this. Not a glorious duel to the death, but a violent brawl where you just hit hard enough to break your enemy’s bones and trod him down into the dirt, not caring whether he was still alive, because he was in too much pain to harm you anymore.
Concerned, Ayla looked for Isenbard in the clamor. Finally she found him, fending off three enemy mercenaries at once. She had not seen much swordplay in her life, but from the very fact that he was fighting three enemies and was still alive, she deduced that his had to be extraordinary. It looked extraordinary, too: Somehow, his sword, a graceful silver bringer of death, kept all three enemies at bay, dealing blow after blow, until two finally collapsed. The third he gripped by the throat and threw off the barricade, accompanied by cheers from his men.
“I-is it over yet?” came Dilli's timid voice from inside the tent.
Ayla didn't know whether to laugh or cry. “They haven't even brought us the first wounded man yet, Dilli. This is a battle. What do you think?”
“I was just asking.”
Ayla's concern grew. Yes, Isenbard was holding his own. But he was tiring, it was obvious. As the fight wore on, his movements became slower, his blows weaker. Once, an enemy struck him on the ribs, another time in the stomach, which caused the old knight to bellow in pain.
If Ayla hadn't been three hundred yards away, she would have used her surgical knife there and then on that miserable mercenary—and not to perform surgery.
At the foot of the barricade, a few men were lying in a tangled mess. Other men hastened to help them, grasped their arms and legs and started to carry them towards Ayla. She tensed, knowing why they were approaching.
