The Robber Knight

by Robert Thier

  Strong arms gripped the posts of his bedstead and shoved. Soon he was beside the window and could feel a cool breeze on his face. It was quite comforting, reminiscent of Ayla's cool, soothing touch—though nowhere near as exciting.

  “Out,” Ayla commanded everybody when they had finished moving things around. “I need to look after him, and I need to concentrate.”

  “Milady,” Burchard's deep voice growled, “we should discuss our plans. We are in serious trouble without...”

  “Later, Burchard! Now, everybody, out! I won't repeat myself again.”

  They left, albeit grumbling, in Burchard's case.

  For a minute or two, Reuben heard nothing but quiet steps, the clinking of metal, and the swishing of cloth. Opening his eyes a fraction, he risked a look. Ayla was standing at the opposite end of the room, bent over a man in armor. From where he lay, Reuben couldn't see the man's face. Ayla began to turn, and quickly Reuben closed his eyes again.

  Once more, clinking and swishing.

  And then, Reuben heard something much worse: one quiet, heart-breaking sob.

  Ayla was crying.

  Reuben had to use all his strength to stay still. The need to get up and go to her, comfort her, was so strong that he thought it might even have overcome the weakness of the fever. But he stayed where he was, listening closely.

  Not long after, Ayla left the room, and Reuben opened his eyes. There were two other beds in the room. On the first lay a soldier with a blood-soaked bandage around his head. On the other bed in the room lay a knight. His heart suddenly constricting with fear, Reuben stared into the limp, gray-bearded face of Sir Isenbard. Her last protector.

  *~*~**~*~*

  Not wanting to walk into the arms of the many curious people still waiting out front, Ayla left the keep through the back exit. She had done all that was in her power for Isenbard. All that she could now do was wait and see what would happen. Preferably in some quiet place where people wouldn't be pestering her with questions. Questions would only lead her to think of what might happen next. And any thoughts of what might happen next would make her cry.

  As she stepped out into the back courtyard, Ayla saw a little figure sitting in the dirt, playing with two dolls. The figure seemed familiar, somehow. She blinked, for a moment forgetting her distress.

  “Is it you?” she asked.

  Farmer Gelther's daughter turned her head, and a broad grin appeared on her face as she recognized the approaching adult.

  “Lady Ayla!”

  The little girl sprang up, ran up to her, and threw herself at Ayla with such force as to almost make her topple over.

  “Hey there! I'm glad to see you too,” she laughed. “Though I have to admit, I don't even know your name. I've only been introduced to your doll, Agnes.”

  “Lady Agnes,” the girl corrected her admonishingly, proudly holding up her new doll in the fine silk dress.

  Ayla nodded gravely. “Of course. Where have I left my manners—Lady Agnes. I humbly beg your pardon. And what is your name, if I may ask?”

  “Fye. My name is Fye. And you have to call her 'Milady'. That's what you call a lady, you know, when you're talking to her.”

  “Certainly.” Ayla inclined her head towards the doll. “Once again, my most sincere apologies, Milady. It won't happen again.”

  “Thank you, Milady.” Fye made what was probably supposed to be a curtsey and grinned up at Ayla. “Lady Agnes is very pleased. And she knows you're a lady too, so she won't have you whipped for your dis... your discussy...”

  “Discourtesy?”

  “That's it!”

  “Well, I'm very relieved,” Ayla said. She pointed at the other doll. “And who is Lady Agnes' companion? I don't believe I have seen him before.”

  “No, you haven't. That's the knight who has come to rescue Lady Agnes from the evil man who wants to steal her castle.” The girl pointed towards a pile of dirt in the middle of the yard. “It's over there.”

  “I can see why she wouldn't want to lose such a magnificent fortress.” Ayla had to work hard to keep the smile off her face.

  “By the way, have you brought your knights up to scratch yet?” the girl inquired.

  Ayla knelt down beside her. For some reason, thinking of Isenbard just now did not make her want to cry in desperation. How could it be that she couldn't talk to Burchard about the bleak prospects facing them, couldn't even think about it herself, but she could talk about them to this imp of a girl?

  “Not quite,” she admitted. “My only real knight has just been knocked out.”

  “Silly of him,” Fye commented. “He should have been quicker.”

  “Yes, he should. But he's a stubborn old ox. Never knew when it was time to retreat instead of attack.”

  “Oh, he's old, is he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” Fye frowned. “Couldn't you get any young ones?”

  “They're in rather short supply.”

  “Rubbish. You see, Lady Agnes had no problem getting Sir Reuben here.” Fye held up her self-made knight doll.

  Ayla nearly choked. “Sir who?”

  “Sir Reuben. I named him after that man that's lying in that room up in the castle, the one you brought in a couple of days back. He looks like a real knight, strong and handsome.”

  Ayla didn't really know what to say to that, so she didn't say anything. She had enough difficulty with keeping her face from catching fire.

  “Why are you blushing?” Fye inquired, obviously interested in the strange adult reaction.

  “Um... it's nothing, really. But I have to disappoint you. Reuben is no knight. He's just a merchant.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “That's odd.”

  “Why should that be odd?”

  “He was yelling for people to bring him a sword and a horse earlier,” Fye said, frowning. “I heard him, shouting from up there, yelling for people to bring him a sword and horse.” And she pointed up to Reuben's window.

  “Yes, of course he was.” Ayla shook her head, bemused. The things children dreamed up when they played... She leaned closer to inspect the tattered Sir Reuben in Fye's hand, made out of strips of cloth and rusted metal. “He probably really needs them to defend Lady Agnes.”

  “Yes, he does.” Fye nodded. “And do you know why he wants to defend her so badly?”

  Ayla leaned even closer and whispered conspiratorially: “No, I don't. How did she ever manage to get such an ardent defender?”

  Fye whispered, as if sharing a great secret: “He's in love with her.”

  “Oh.” Ayla blushed again and inwardly slapped herself. Where did she pick stuff like that up? she asked herself. She can't be older than four years!

  “It's not surprising, really,” Fye said with a shrug. “She's very beautiful.” She eyed Ayla's slim figure and luscious blond hair speculatively. “You're not so bad yourself. You should be able to get some knight to fall for you, even if he won't be near as good as Sir Reuben.”

  “Oh really?” Ayla rose, trying desperately to think of a diplomatic answer. “Err... that's very generous of you. Well, I'd better go now. I have... things to do. A siege to get rid of, you know.”

  “Of course. You run along, Milady.”

  Dismissed thus, Ayla fled the back yard.

  If I get out of this alive, she told herself, I'd rather become an old maid than marry and have a child, or God forbid, several of them!

  Well yes, a small voice in the back of her mind said. Unless a certain stunning gray-eyed merchant could be prevailed upon to be your groom, hmm?

  Blushing even more furiously than before, she hastened her steps.

  Garden of Blossoms

  Desperate to calm her thoughts and to find a haven where she could think about everything that was happening, Ayla rushed to the small orchard behind the keep. Perhaps “orchard” was too big a word: it was really just a few apple trees and bushes growing in the shade of the monumental ston
e building and snuggling up against it like cubs against their mama bear. The trees were in full bloom now, shining with white and rose apple blossoms. Ayla smiled at the sight.

  This had always been a place of refuge for her when she needed to find some peaceful solitude. She came here almost every day—except for the last few days, she realized. Blushing, the probable reason for this occurred to her: lately she had found refuge somewhere else, or to be more precise, in someone else. Solitude hadn't seemed nearly as appealing as before.

  But now Reuben was asleep, and anyway, she needed to get away from him for a time. She needed to think seriously, and being near him made it difficult to think about anything but him. To stare into his intense gray eyes was more than her concentration could take. She knew, if she were with him, she would lose herself in those eyes, and she would lean closer, aching to touch his face again...

  Stop it! she chastised herself. Isenbard is unconscious; your people are in serious danger! You need to think now, not daydream.

  Wandering through the orchard, she inhaled the sweet smell of the apple blossoms. It helped to bring her back into the here and now. This was her home, which she needed to defend. Slowly, she reached out and plucked one of the apple blossoms from a tree. Holding it to her nose, she smelled it. Ah, how sweet.

  Some part of her mind wondered what Reuben smelled like. The salve she had been using on his wounds had many excellent attributes, but the fact that it stank like a dog's territory mark wasn't one of them. She hadn't been able to smell anything of him. Would he smell... alluring?

  Stop it! she repeated in her head. Even if he did, so what? He's a commoner, and not for you! You can't get involved with a commoner, even if he would want that. And he wouldn't. Would he?

  She inhaled again, trying to find peace in the familiar scent.

  *~*~**~*~*

  Reuben awoke with a start. He couldn’t remember having fallen asleep. The exhaustion of the fever must have claimed its due. Though, he had to admit, the fever wasn't nearly as bad as it had been earlier. These infernal cold caterpillars, or whatever they were called, which Ayla had wrapped around his arms and legs, had to be doing their job. She really did know what she was doing, he had to admit, grudgingly.

  Slowly, his head still feeling a bit dizzy, he looked around. The first thing he noticed was that the soldier who had shared his room was gone. From the copious amounts of dried blood on the sheets of his bedstead, Reuben surmised that the man had not gone back to his family—unless it be wrapped in a shroud.

  Reuben turned his head to look out of the window and to turn his mind from thoughts of blood and death.

  That aim he achieved immediately.

  In a small orchard directly underneath his window stood a slender, white figure with golden hair, clutching a flower in her hand, her nose gently brushing the petals of the blossom. It was the most beautiful picture Reuben had ever beheld, and it made him ache with longing. Ache! Him, the knight who knew no pain.

  He wanted her. And he was going to get her.

  But first, he had to get off this accursed bed!

  *~*~**~*~*

  A strange noise woke Ayla from her reverie. She was thoroughly glad of it. She had been stroking the blossom in her hand, trying hard not to remember how Reuben's skin felt in comparison. She was a virtuous maiden! Or at least she was supposed to be. The thoughts that had accosted her lately were strange, new, and frankly, somewhat disturbing.

  The only problem was that they also happened to be wonderful.

  Thwak! Thwak!

  She frowned. There it was again, that noise: like a woodpecker, only far off and irregular. Ayla wandered through the orchard in search of the origin of the sound, until she came to the edge of her little sanctum. Continuing, she walked till she had reached the inner castle wall. The noise seemed to be coming from beyond. Entering one of the towers, she climbed up the stairs onto the wall and looked out over the valley.

  The noise was coming from beyond, as she had suspected. From beyond the river, out of the forest.

  Staring out towards the distant sea of needles and leaves, towards what was now enemy territory, Ayla saw the first tree fall.

  *~*~**~*~*

  “They're doing what?” Burchard asked in a disbelieving tone.

  “Felling trees,” Ayla told him again.

  The grumpy old steward looked very surprised, his bushy black eyebrows almost disappearing into his mane of hair. Finally, he shrugged. “Well, I say let them. Better that they cut down trees than our men.”

  Ayla shook her head, frowning. “They're not just cutting wood for their campfires. There's something behind this. I don't know what, but I don't like it one bit. I wish,” she added after a pause, “that Isenbard were awake.”

  Burchard grunted. “We all wish that.”

  “We need him.”

  “I know that, Ayla.”

  “They are planning something.”

  The steward sighed heavily. “You are probably right.”

  “Then what are we going to do, Burchard? What am I going to do?” she asked him in tones of rising panic, gesturing to all the people visible through the window of the main hall where they were talking. Some of the people were still milling around the entrance, badgering the guards with questions about Sir Isenbard, others were on the walls, looking towards the east. “What am I going to tell them? What am I going to tell Sir Rudolfus, Sir Waldar, and the soldiers? That I haven't the faintest clue what our enemy is planning, but that they should just lean back and trust that I, a seventeen-year-old girl, can handle it?”

  “Shh. Come here.” Burchard held open his big, beefy arms and Ayla let herself be hugged by him, let herself be hugged like she had when she had been a little girl, here, in this empty room, where none of her people could see her weakness. “I don't know what you should tell them,” Burchard said. “I'm sorry, but you are the Lady of Luntberg—not I.”

  “But you have so much more experience than I!”

  “Experience at planting cherry trees and giving farmers who don't pay their tithes a good kick in the backside, maybe.”

  In spite of the tears now streaming down her face, Ayla had to laugh.

  “I'm sorry, Milady.” Burchard opened his arms again and pushed her slightly away. “Isenbard was the only one among us with any experience in leading men in war. Except, perhaps...” he hesitated.

  “What?” Ayla asked, eagerly.

  “Well... you could always ask your father.”

  She jerked back. “No! Burchard, what are you thinking? He will be out of his mind with worry! I won't allow that, not in his state of health. Don't you dare tell him that we barely survived the first attack, or that Isenbard is unconscious either, understand?”

  Burchard unhappily chewed on his mustache.

  “Do you understand, Burchard?”

  “Yes, Milady,” he growled.

  Wiping the tears from her eyes, Ayla straightened and tried to calm herself. She couldn't go to pieces. She was a lady and had to behave like one.

  “Assemble Sir Waldar, Sir Rudolfus, and the soldiers' captains in this room in one hour. We will discuss our strategy then. Now I have to check how the sick and injured are doing. I'm sure some of them need my attention.”

  “As you wish, Milady.”

  Ayla's steps led her first to Reuben and Isenbard's room. Some part of her wanted to insist that this was mostly because of her concern for the latter, but she knew better. Her thoughts were on Reuben. She wondered at the fact that this arrogant, ruggedly handsome stranger could mean more to her than a man she had known her whole life. For a moment, she asked herself whether she should be appalled by the fact. She wasn't. Instead, she was thrilled she would be seeing him again. In the name of God, she had spoken to him only yesterday! That was surely not long enough a separation to pine for anyone's company. What was the matter with her?

  I am a virtuous maiden, I will not think licentious thoughts, she repeated over and over in her head. I am
a virtuous maiden, and I will not think licentious thoughts.

  It worked fine—until she opened the door to Reuben's room and saw him lying on his bed, turned toward her, his face covered in sweat and the sweetest, most devious grin on his handsome features.

  Dear saints and martyrs!

  “Hello, Reuben,” she said, and for some reason couldn't help it—a smile appeared on her face.

  The Lady and Her Lances

  Reuben looked up at Ayla, who stood in the doorway smiling, and was sure that not all his sweating came from the fever. Christ, she had only said his name and “hello”! What was the matter with him? His name was nothing special. Well, in fact, it was special. After all, it was the name of Sir Reuben Rachwild himself, but still—he had heard it often enough before. Why did it sound so special coming from her lips?

  Appreciatively, his gaze swept over the ivory skin of her face and the maidenly figure concealed by the white dress she was wearing. Now that he thought about it, that could be enough reason for him to start sweating...

  “Greetings, Milady,” he said with a smile so dazzling that it could charm the pants off anybody. And hopefully the skirts, too.

  Ayla didn't lose her skirts, but she did blush and her smile broadened, which gave Reuben immense satisfaction. Never for a moment had he doubted the efficiency of his charms—but the girl, however intriguing she might be, was probably also not quite right in the head. Reuben hadn't forgotten the strange objects in her saddlebags that day he had robbed her in the forest, and he had been concerned whether his charms would affect a creature such as this. Apparently, they worked just as well on crazy girls as on normal people. How gratifying.

  “You know, you don't always have to call me by my title,” Ayla chided him. “Most of the people I looked after at the nunnery where I learned the craft of healing never did, either.” But in spite of her words, Reuben could tell she was pleased by his use of the title. Some girls were like that, they liked respectful and old-fashioned manners. He thought she would be one of those, and he had been absolutely right.