The Robber Knight Read online

  THE

  ROBBER KNIGHT

  Special Edition

  By Robert Thier

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2014 Robert Thier

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

  Table of Contents

  Feud

  Her Plan

  Sir Reuben and the Doll

  The Red Robber Knight

  Clash of Arms

  Listening In

  A Stranger among the Carrion

  The Living Nightmare

  Push and Pull

  Among Enemies

  A Pot Full of Devil

  Wobbling Bulwark

  Sewing Survival Tactics

  Feast, Feud, and Fennel

  Stolen Youth and Black Pudding

  Sir Isenbard

  Worse than the Village Scarecrow

  The Enemy

  Hot Dispute

  Flying Death

  Welcome Weakness

  Admonishments by a Frightened Bunny

  The Sweetness of Water

  Opposing Forces

  Vacillating Vassals

  Know Thyself

  Know Thy Enemy

  Red Dawn

  Battle of the Bridge

  Fallen

  Brave Defender of the Dirt Pile

  Garden of Blossoms

  The Lady and Her Lances

  Cupid's Arrows

  Hypothetical Arrows

  Flaming Arrows

  Misused Candlesticks

  To Kill or Not to Kill

  Rising Darkness

  Enemy Ascending

  Confession

  High Road Up

  Hard Fall Down

  Friend and Foe

  Sins of the Son

  Money of Tomorrow

  The First Challenge--

  The Marvel of the World

  The Dressing of the World

  The Smashing of the World

  Glory

  The Chivalry of Knights and Black Eyes of Squires

  About the Author

  Other Books by Robert Thier

  Acknowledgements

  Feud

  Anno Domini[1] 1234

  Lady Ayla stared down at the gauntlet.[2] Such a simple piece of clothing: five-fingered, made of leather, without any embellishment or embroidery. A glove. Such a simple thing. Just a glove. It meant the end of the world for her.

  She looked up at the herald[3] who had brought the gauntlet and managed a sarcastic smile.

  “So nice of the Margrave[4] to be concerned about my well-being. But please tell him from me that the castle is well-heated, and if I need to put on a glove, I have dozens of my own. Oh yes, and tell him next time he wishes to send me a gift, to send a pair of gloves. Gives a much better impression.”

  The herald more than matched her smile. And why not? He had all the reasons in the world to smile—while she most certainly had none.

  “You know very well that this is not a gift, Lady Ayla,” he said, his voice sounding superior and insolent. “The gauntlet is not for you. It is for your father, Count Thomas. The Margrave von Falkenstein hereby throws down the gauntlet and declares a feud[5] against him and all those he harbors within his walls.”

  Lady Ayla stood up. Sitting, she had been on about equal level with the narrow eyes of the little man who had come to declare the end of what had hitherto been her life. Now, standing on the raised platform at the end of the great hall where her father's chair stood, she towered over him. It made her feel slightly better, but only slightly, because she knew it was all a pretense. The man was in control here. Though he was alone, and they were in her home, her father's castle, surrounded by her father's servants, he was in control. Or rather, his master was.

  “Will you be so good as to have your father fetched, Milady?” the herald asked. “So that he can pick up the gauntlet, as is the custom?”

  “You know very well,” Ayla said in a dangerously steady voice, “that my father is a sick old man who cannot even walk on his own legs anymore, let alone fight battles.”

  The herald sighed. “Oh, very well. It is just a formality, after all. Here is the legally binding document.”

  He held up a roll of parchment. At one end, Ayla could see the Margrave's seal in shining red wax. She knew what it was immediately: the letter of feud declaration. The herald thrust the parchment at one of her servants, who caught it with a yelp and stumbled back.

  Ayla didn't give it a second glance. It would contain many pretty words, but they would not be enough to conceal the real content, the same ugly message sent by the gauntlet on the stone floor in front of her: I want what is yours, and I will take it by force.

  “On what grounds does your master declare this feud?” she demanded, her voice trembling now. With rage? Fear? She wasn't quite sure herself. “What ill have we ever done him? What justification does he have for his actions?”

  “Justification?” Hiding a smirk, the herald shrugged. “I'm sure one can be found—after he has burned your castle to the ground and made your lands his own. He is in no hurry.”

  That dastardly comment would have left Lady Ayla speechless, or more likely disbelieving, had she not known the man behind the words. Falkenstein was not a man to make idle threats; he enjoyed making real ones far too much.

  “But,” the herald continued, “there might be a way to avoid unpleasantness and spare your people the hardships of the feud to come.”

  Ayla frowned. “Is the Margrave von Falkenstein getting soft in his old days? He has declared five feuds over the last three years, and in none of those cases did he have a shred of mercy for his victims.”

  “Ah, yes,” the herald concurred merrily. “But, you see, in none of those cases did his adversary have a fair maiden for a daughter who is renowned for her beauty far beyond the borders of her father's lands.”

  A cold shiver ran down Ayla's spine. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “That,” the man said, flourishing his white herald's staff, “is supposed to mean that my master did not just send me here to bring you this gauntlet. He sent me here to bring you two things. Two different accessories, you could say, from which you must choose. Either,” he pointed to the floor where the gauntlet still lay, “you pick up this, or,” he reached into his pocket and held up something small and shiny, “you put this on your ring-finger.”

  Ayla gazed at the golden ring in the herald's hand, horror-struck. And she had believed her situation couldn't get any worse.

  “I see,” she said, around the lump in her throat.

  The herald smiled at her again, this time suggestively. “The Margrave has heard much of your manifold attractions, Milady.” His gaze traveled up and down her body in an insolent manner. “Golden hair, a maidenly figure, stunning blue eyes—all the bards[6] sing of you as beautiful and amiable.”

  Ayla could feel her face growing hot and her small fists clenching.

  “Personally,” the herald continued with a derisive smirk, “I must admit that I can't quite agree with the bards on the latter point. I prefer ladies who are a little more docile. Yet the Margrave will have no difficulty in dealing with you, I'm sure.”

  “Indeed?”

  Ayla wasn't sure whether her eyes could be described as “stunning”, but a
t that moment she wished she really could stun with just a look, or maim or incinerate perhaps? That would take care of the impudent cur in front of her. She glared at the herald with fiery intensity.

  “Yes, indeed. And, in spite of your faults, he would be more than willing to enter into an alliance with you and unite your lands into one,” the herald continued.

  “I'm sure he would.”

  “You should recognize the generosity of his offer and do as he wishes.”

  “Oh yes. Very generous—to ask a maiden for her hand and threaten violence if she does not comply!”

  The derisive smile was back on the herald's face. “Would the Margrave as a husband really be so unwelcome? You are already seventeen years of age, quite an old maiden. You should have been married three or four years ago.”

  “If and when I marry is none of your concern, and certainly not the Margrave's!”

  “Indeed? By all accounts, you need a strong man to take care of things for you in any case. There have been tales flying around the country about robber knights[7] infesting your father's lands ever since he was taken ill. I myself met with a merchant from Cologne on my way here who had been robbed by a devil of a robber knight in crimson armor.”

  Ayla gritted her teeth. She had heard reports of the red knight before, but to be reminded of him by this harbinger of doom, to be practically accused of dereliction of duty to her people... It was almost more than she could bear.

  “He will be taken care of,” she hissed. “And his crimes are nothing in comparison to what your master is contemplating.”

  The herald looked from her to the ring in his outstretched hand and back again. “Is that your answer?” he asked.

  “No. You shall have my answer. Ulrich!”

  The servant hurried to Ayla's side. “Yes, Milady?”

  “Go and fetch the... accessory for fingers from the old room behind the dungeons,” she commanded.

  The servant looked nonplussed for a moment. Then a horrified expression spread over his face.

  “B-but Milady,” he stammered, “you commanded us never to open or enter that room again!”

  “And now I command otherwise,” she said, her eyes still resting on the herald. “Go!”

  “The... finger accessory, Milady?”

  “Yes. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I think so, Milady.”

  “Then, as I said, go.”

  Without a further word, the servant departed.

  It was only a couple of minutes before he returned, carrying something wrapped in a piece of leather. While he had been gone, neither Ayla nor the herald had spoken a word. Neither had broken eye contact.

  Normally, the main hall of Luntberg Castle was a quiet, comfortable place: a huge fireplace with a warm fire, pelts lying on the floor, the colorful tapestries on the wall given a golden tinge by the light streaming in through the horn window panes covering the narrow windows. Yet while Ayla and the herald eyed each other, the atmosphere became uncomfortably charged, and the fire, which normally crackled so cozily, now seemed to foreshadow a much larger conflagration, a firestorm that would swallow up Ayla's home and leave it devastated by war. Like birds of prey, the two sized each other up, each wondering how much fight the other would put up.

  It took Ayla a few seconds to realize that Ulrich had returned and was standing beside her, holding something in his hand. When she finally noticed his presence, she took the leather-wrapped object he had been sent to fetch and handed it to the herald with a defiant expression on her face.

  The herald pulled away the leather to reveal an old, rusted, iron thumbscrew.[8]

  “Take it to your master and tell him,” Ayla said, her voice calm again, pointing to the rusty, old instrument of torture, “that I would rather put this on my finger than the golden thumbscrew he has offered me.”

  She stepped down from the raised platform and bent forward to pick up the gauntlet.

  “I accept the feud.”

  Her Plan

  “You will regret this. The Margrave has ways of persuading people. The first of his men will be arriving in a few days. More will follow. Then you will see what you have done!”

  Those had been the herald's last words before he had departed. And, indeed, Ayla was already regretting her choice. Not for herself, no. Never for herself. She would rather have died than become the wife of a man like Falkenstein.

  Most women would have jumped at the chance to marry the Margrave: by all accounts, he was young, quite handsome, and the best jouster between Cologne and Magdeburg. But he was also power-hungry, fanatical, and cruel, continuously extending his dominion by waging war on his neighbors.

  As he now planned to wage war on her.

  No, if it was only herself she had to think about, the herald's words wouldn't have given her a moment's concern. But she had to think of much more.

  Slowly, Ayla walked to the window and thrust it open. From the main hall of Luntberg Castle, one had a wonderful view over the Lunt Valley: a peaceful dale, divided by a river spanned by a single picturesque bridge. The water glittered in the morning sunlight, and even up here, high up on the Luntberg, she thought she could hear the birds singing in the trees.

  Soon, the sight from up here would not be so peaceful anymore. Soon, there would be soldiers marching up the valley, burning and looting as they went. All because she, in a moment of anger, had put her own needs over those of her people.

  If she agreed to marry the Margrave von Falkenstein, however, maybe things would be different. Maybe she could...

  Ayla felt something wet on her cheek. When she reached up and touched it, she realized that it was a tear.

  “Milady?”

  Quickly, she wiped the tears away with her sleeve and turned to see Burchard, her father's old steward,[9] who had been waiting at the door during her talk with the herald and had just now entered the hall. When he saw her expression, his own darkened, and he was in front of her with five quick steps. “Milady, you aren't honestly thinking of giving in to that blaggard?”

  “But what will happen if I don't?” she said, and was angry at herself because her voice sounded like a sniffle. “The Margrave will wage war on us, and the people will have to suffer for my selfishness.”

  “Stop trying to be a martyr,” Burchard growled, knitting his eyebrows as only Burchard could. He had very impressive bushy, black eyebrows, just perfect for knitting. “Use your head for just one minute, will you? If you think the people will suffer at the hands of the Margrave von Falkenstein because of a few weeks of feuding, how much more do you think they'll suffer from a few decades of his rule? Do you really want to subject your people to that? Are you such a coward, little girl?”

  Ayla immediately stopped crying and turned red with anger—which was, as she later admitted to herself, probably exactly what the old steward had been aiming to achieve. It was a terrible affliction, having someone as a servant who had known you right from the cradle.

  “I'm not a little girl,” she snapped.

  “Aren't you?” Burchard raised one of his eyebrows. When he raised his eyebrows, it was just as impressive as when he knit them. His wrinkled forehead and big, black beard complemented the effect. “At the moment, you seem to be acting like one. On the other hand, I saw a young woman in here a couple of minutes ago. A young woman who wasn't afraid to stand up for herself and her people to the impudent demands of a man twice her age with a reputation that would make a battle-hardened warrior blanch. Maybe she's still around.”

  Ayla took a deep breath, stood straight, and nodded. “She is.”

  “Good,” Burchard said. “Because we desperately need her right now.” He went to one knee. “What are Milady's orders?”

  Thoughts racing, Ayla turned to the window again. She could not hope to stand a chance against the Margrave von Falkenstein on equal ground. The man was an experienced fighter, commander, and conqueror. Since her father had been taken ill, the soldiers in Luntberg Castle had been without a l
eader. Oh, Ayla could direct them to go to this village, protect that place from brigands, but lead them into battle? No.

  What they needed was an experienced military leader who was still young and strong enough to be a good fighter. Someone who could make people believe they stood a fighting chance. Unfortunately, no such person was available. So Ayla would just have to think of something else.

  She had to protect her people.

  All her people.

  “Gather all the men who can ride,” she said, still staring out of the window, down into the valley. “They don't have to be soldiers, they just have to know how to ride quickly. Also, gather all the wood you can find, and get me the carpenter from the village.”

  Burchard stood up, his old eyes gleaming. “You have a plan, Milady?”

  “Would I be giving you orders if I hadn't?”

  “No, Milady.”

  “Well, what are you waiting for? Get to work!”

  Burchard nodded and headed for the door. He was just about to leave the hall when he turned and asked: “And what should I do with all these things and men, when I have them, Milady? Where shall I bring them?”

  “You will bring them to the bridge,” Ayla said, also heading for the door. “And as for what to do, we'll get to that once we've arrived. I'm coming with you. Tell them to saddle Eleanor.”

  *~*~**~*~*

  Her horse was waiting for her when she reached the courtyard. Burchard might be annoying sometimes, but he was also good at his job. None of her servants bothered to help her into the saddle. They all had known her almost as long as the steward.

  Ayla took a moment to stroke Eleanor's glossy brown coat.

  “How have you been, my girl?” she asked in a soft voice.

  Eleanor whinnied, leaning into Ayla's touch.

  Ayla laughed softly and hugged the mare around the neck. “Yes, I love you too. But we haven't got time for that now.”

  The mare regarded her with large, intelligent, brown eyes, seeming to ask why exactly they didn't have time for a bit of tender loving care.

  “We have to hurry. People are in danger, and we have to help.” With a last pat on Eleanor's side, Ayla swung herself into the saddle. “Run my girl! Run!”