The Robber Knight's Love Page 5

  Well, Reuben thought wryly, he would understand soon enough.

  “No,” replied the other guard. “Not that one. Sir Isenbard. Lady Ayla is very desirous of speaking with him.”

  Relief flooded Reuben's body, and he let the candlestick fall. They hadn't come for him! Not yet, anyway.

  “Here I am, my good men,” Isenbard called, apparently all too eager to leave the company of his strange roommate.

  One of the guards opened the door, and the soldiers filed in one by one. Reuben retreated into a corner, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. Not an easy task for a man six feet, seven inches tall and with a curved scar on his forehead, but still, he thought it best to do all he could to not attract the attention of the guards. If they didn't pay attention to him, they would not try to kill him. If they did not try to kill him, he would not have to kill them, which would be a good thing. Killing her guards was definitely not the right thing to do to regain Ayla's affections, and Reuben was determined to do exactly that.

  At first, he had despaired. At first, he had thought she would make good her promise and he would hang before daybreak. But the night had dragged on, and no soldiers had come to drag him to the gallows.

  As the old saying went: while there was life, there was hope.

  So Reuben sat in the corner and watched while the guards loaded the old knight onto the stretcher they had brought with them, all the time quelling the urge to cut through them and get out of here—the most logical course of action, according to his survival instincts. It would be so easy. So terribly easy. Reuben didn't have a sword, but they each had one. He just needed to take one of theirs away, and he could turn the men into mincemeat within seconds…

  No! Reuben shook himself. No killing. Well, at least no killing of Ayla's guards. That would create a bad impression.

  Gloomily, he stared after the guards as they carried the old knight out of the room. The door they shut behind them seemed like the door shutting on his hopes. No, killing Ayla's guards would not be a good idea. But what else could he do other than kill or be killed?

  If only he could get out of this room! But there still were guards posted outside. Ayla was sure to have told them who he really was, and they would grab him and kill him as soon as he set a foot outside—in which case he would be dead, meaning that he could not do anything to win back Ayla's heart. Corpses were not very good at romance.

  The only alternative was to go out and kill the guards to get past them—in which case Ayla would be angry at him, meaning that he also could not win back her heart. This was so infuriating! Wasn't there at least someone around he could beat into a pulp to vent his anger?

  *~*~**~*~*

  Ayla could hardly believe her eyes when Sir Isenbard was carried into the main hall on a stretcher and the old knight lifted one hand to greet her.

  “Greetings, Milady.”

  “Uncle Ironbeard!” She threw herself at the old knight and hugged him with as much force as she could muster. “I've missed you so much! I'm so happy you're finally awake.”

  “Milady,” he growled into her ear. “People are watching!”

  And, indeed, the entire hall was full of villagers witnessing the scene. Some of them were turning slightly away, others were busying themselves with their work, but all were smiling and looking at the two out of the corner of their eyes.

  “And?” Ayla demanded.

  “What about proper decorum?”

  “The crows can eat decorum for all I care!”

  “Milady!”

  “Oh, uncle.” She retreated a little bit, grasping his shoulders and shaking her head. Tears were shining in her eyes, but this time, they weren't tears of sadness. “Don't you understand? They want to see you well again as much as I do. I wouldn't want to begrudge them that.”

  “There was nothing really wrong with me,” he muttered, embarrassed. “I was only asleep.”

  “For over a week!”

  “Well, I'm not as young as I used to be. Old people need their rest.”

  Ayla raised a threatening finger at him. “You had a bruise on your head as big as a melon. If I were “asleep” like that, I doubt I would ever wake again. Now, stop trying to downplay your injuries. That is an order.”

  “Yes, Milady.”

  “Good.” Ayla let go of him, and immediately, Isenbard tried to rise.

  “What do you think you are doing?” exclaimed Ayla and gripped him by the shoulders again, pushing him down.

  “Getting up, of course, Milady.”

  “You are not to get up! Not for a few days yet. You've been seriously injured and still need time to recuperate.”

  “But—”

  “That is an order, too!”

  Reluctantly, the old knight sank back onto the stretcher.

  “As you wish, Milady,” he said stiffly. “I thought that, perhaps, you might require my help with the defense of the bridge, but apparently, I am not needed.”

  Ayla glanced around uneasily at the gathered crowd.

  “Now that everyone has seen that Sir Isenbard is on the mend, could you please leave us alone for a few minutes?” she asked the villagers. “He and I have some private matters to discuss.”

  The villagers bowed, and with muttered “Of course, Milady”s and “As you wish, Milady”s, they left the hall.

  When they were alone, Ayla took a deep breath, fixed her eyes on the angled, lined, white-bearded face of the man on the stretcher, and said, “The bridge has fallen.”

  Isenbard showed no emotion except for a slight tightening of his jaw. “How?”

  “There was a nocturnal attack. It was fended off, but it was nothing more than a ruse—a distraction. While all our soldiers were fighting to protect the enemy from crossing the bridge, more of Falkenstein's men crossed the river with boats. The night was pitch-black, and we didn't see them. They could have taken us totally by surprise and massacred every last one of us.”

  Confused, Isenbard’s gaze wandered from the door through which the obviously unmassacred villagers had just left to Ayla, and from Ayla back to the door.

  “But then…how come that all of you are still very much alive?”

  Pain shot through Ayla's heart at the memory.

  No! she told herself. He didn't do it because he has feelings for me! He did it out of selfishness, out of self-preservation. He would have died along with the rest of us if Falkenstein had succeeded.

  “Reuben warned me,” she whispered.

  The old knight's eyebrows shot up. “Reuben? That fellow I shared a room with until recently?”

  “The very same.” Ayla hesitated for a second, then added hastily, “He's been giving me military advice.”

  “I thought,” Isenbard continued, a frown creeping on his wrinkled forehead, “that he said he was a merchant.”

  Ayla suddenly felt as if she was being pulled into two directions. She realized that now the time of decision had come. Would she give up Reuben's secret? If ever she had trusted someone, relied on someone, it was Isenbard. He was her father's oldest and most trusted friend, her loyal mentor and defender. He had fought for her, bled for her, and if the time came, she did not doubt that he would die for her.

  Surely she could trust him?

  Of course, there was the point to consider that, if he knew the truth, Isenbard would, as soon as he was better, maybe before, jump up from this litter, get himself a sword, and challenge Reuben the robber knight to a duel to the death.

  But wasn't that what should happen? Shouldn't Reuben be punished for his crimes? And this way, it occurred to her, she wouldn't even have to give the order to hang him. It would all happen by itself. Slowly, she opened her mouth and wet her dry lips.

  *~*~**~*~*

  Since there was nobody around who could act as a punching bag, Reuben pounded the wall instead, yet that didn't bring the same kind of relief.

  The guards were the problem. The guards, and thus his confinement to this infernal room. For the foreseea
ble future, he would be stuck in here, within thirty square feet of space. And that wasn't what he wanted at all. Reuben was sure that to win the heart of a lady a radius of movement of a hundred feet was an absolute minimum.

  What could a prisoner do?

  Again, Reuben struck out at the wall blindly and cursed in surprise when his fist, instead of hitting the stone wall, hit the rough wood of the garderobe.[4]

  He stared at the wooden wardrobe for a moment—a wardrobe built into the outside wall of the keep. A wardrobe with no floor.

  Slowly, a devilish grin spread over his face. There was always one thing a prisoner could do: escape!

  Surrounded

  “Yes.” The words tumbled out of Ayla’s mouth almost against her own volition. “He is a merchant. A merchant dealing in arms. That is why he knows some things about war, I suppose.”

  “I see.” Isenbard still didn't look convinced. “I could swear I saw him before he arrived here, though! And most certainly not behind a stall, selling daggers and knives.”

  “Oh, really?” Ayla tried to laugh, but it didn't seem quite natural. “Well, he has a very common face, the kind of face you see everywhere.”

  “Common?”

  “Oh yes. And ugly. Very ugly.”

  Confusion wrinkled Isenbard's brow. “Well…he has a scar, to be sure, but I wouldn't call him ugly.”

  “I would. Ugly and unpleasant,” Ayla prattled on. Silently, she cursed herself and cursed Reuben ten times more. What was she thinking? What was she saying? She had concealed Reuben's true identity from Isenbard. She had concealed the fact that she was harboring a thief and a traitor from her most trustworthy defender! Was she insane?

  And now, fearing that Isenbard had somehow seen Reuben before, she was trying to distract him with the most inane babbling ever heard in the walls of Luntberg Castle. What was the matter with her?

  Isenbard regarded her sternly. “Well, I thought he wasn't very well-behaved. But I thought you liked him.”

  “I? Certainly not. Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “Probably the way you cried your eyes out when he fell down the stairs and almost broke his neck the other day?”

  Ayla flinched as he reminded her of that. “No, no. It's just the stress that has been getting to me,” she maintained.

  Isenbard didn't swallow her excuse as easily as Burchard had. His eyes narrowed in suspicion for a moment—but then he let it go.

  “We have more important matters to discuss right now. How goes the defense, Milady?”

  “Well, that kind of depends on how you look at it.”

  “How do you look at it?”

  Isenbard never had been one to ask easy questions. Ayla forced herself to remain calm. He needed to know this.

  “Well, on the one hand, everybody is safe behind the castle walls. You know Luntberg Castle. You know that it will not be easily stormed.”

  She paused, knowing that this had been the easy part of her assessment.

  “But?” Isenbard probed.

  “But, on the other hand, everybody is safe within the castle walls—and by everybody, I mean hundreds of people. The entire village has sought refuge here. With that many people, we cannot hold out long if that villain, Sir Luca, should decide to starve us out.”

  Silence loomed between them, filling the emptiness of the great hall. An ominous and somber atmosphere lay over the scene: the cold light of the moon shining in through the windows, illuminating the slight figure of the kneeling girl in her white dress and the old but still formidable knight lying on his back, slowly stroking his beard in contemplation.

  “Do you think they will attack?” Ayla finally broke the silence, her voice almost hopeful. She did not relish the thought of a battle, but she knew that, in a fight, a castle with its thick walls and solid battlements was as good as hundreds of armed men to the defenders. It would be the only way to right the imbalance between Falkenstein's huge army and her little company of steadfast vassals. And at least everything would be over quickly and she would know her fate, be it salvation or doom.

  Isenbard snorted. “Attack? Not in a thousand years! Why should they? They have us exactly where they want us. Now, all they need to do is wait until we surrender or until we collapse from hunger so they can climb over our walls at their leisure.”

  That was pretty much what Ayla had feared, but she didn't give up hope yet.

  “What if we were to taunt the commander? We could shout rude words at him and insult his honor. He might be angered enough to attack out of rage.”

  The old knight's lips twitched. “Learning battle tactics, are we? Well, that might work—if we had a true knight as our enemy. But you forget that this Sir Luca is a mercenary, meaning that he has no honor to insult.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “Besides, I would not even know which words to use.” Isenbard smiled grimly. “My father did not teach me the art of insulting, I'm afraid. He probably did not consider it part of what a knight should be taught, so I lack vocabulary in that area. Are you any more knowledgeable when it comes to insults?”

  “No, but I know someone who is,” Ayla muttered quietly, almost to herself.

  “What was that?”

  “Oh, nothing. So what do we do now?”

  Isenbard shrugged.

  “Stay where we are and pray, for now. There may yet occur something unforeseen which will save us. The fortunes of war are fickle; they easily change sides. Of course, I could tell you more if I actually were able to see the state of our defense with my own eyes, if I could walk around, bare a sword, and…”

  “No chance! No, no, no chance at all!” Ayla started wagging her finger at him again. “I said you would remain on this stretcher until you are fully recovered, and remain there you will, or I will have you tied down, understand?”

  Isenbard made a face. “Yes, Milady.”

  “Now I'm going to get you a cold cataplasm for your head. And woe betide you if you're not still lying down when I return.”

  “As you wish, Milady.”

  *~*~**~*~*

  During her ministrations, Isenbard pestered Ayla with repeated entreaties to be allowed to get up and take command of his men again. However, Ayla rebuffed each and every one of them, and, having finished with caring for the old knight, charged some of the villagers’ wives, who had by now returned to the great hall, with holding the old knight down and alerting her should he attempt to rise. She made sure that Isenbard saw and heard her do this and that the women she asked were sensible, reliable, and moreover as beefy as cart oxen.

  As she left and threw a look back, she saw the old knight eying his guards apprehensively and smiled to herself. He was in good hands.

  Outside of the keep, Captain Linhart, the man to whom, in Isenbard's absence, she had entrusted the defense of the castle, was waiting for her.

  “Greetings, Captain,” she greeted him. “How goes the defense?”

  “I don't know that there's much to defend yet, Milady. But there's something going on out there. Come, you should see this.”

  Curious, she followed him through the inner gate of the castle and to the outer wall. There, he held one of the tower doors open for her and let her ascend the spiral staircase inside before him, following with one of the torches he had taken from the wall.

  Up on the battlements, the cold night wind greeted them. Ayla shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. Down in the castle, she always felt so sheltered. Up here, she was exposed to the elements—and worse things.

  “I beg your pardon, Milady,” Captain Linhart said, abashed. “I forgot how cold it is up here. Should I lend you my coat?”

  Ayla shook her head, giving the captain a weak smile. “No, thank you, Captain. It isn't only the cold that makes me shiver.” Her gaze strayed down into her valley. Her valley, which was no longer hers.

  With a grim expression on his face, Linhart stepped up beside her and pointed down. But Ayla had already seen it.

  “What is
that?” she gasped.

  Hundreds of bright, reddish dots surrounded the castle, flitting from one place to another, growing brighter, then darker, then brighter again, like hungry fireflies. And there was more: if Ayla concentrated very hard, she could just make out the faint outline of something enormous—a dark ring of gigantic proportions surrounding the entire hill on which Luntberg Castle stood.

  “My guess is that these are our enemies, building siege fortifications,” said Captain Linhart grimly. “Ditches, barricades, towers, everything. Look.” He pointed to one place, where dozens of the fireflies had converged into a large swarm. No, not fireflies—enemy soldiers with torches! They were scurrying up and down a large construction, hammering on it, adding to it. Before Ayla's incredulous eyes rose a tower, probably made of wood and already more than a dozen feet in height.

  “They must have a master builder in their army, Milady.”

  “But why? Why are they building this? Do they think we will attack them?”

  “No.” Linhart shook his head. “More likely they want to stop us from escaping.”

  Ayla's throat constricted as she understood. This was the noose of the rope—and it was tightening.

  *~*~**~*~*

  Over the next few days, Ayla saw to it that every last person in the castle was clothed, fed, and sheltered. As it turned out, Burchard need not have worried about the unseemly possibility that other people would be sharing her bedchamber: Ayla was so busy that she didn't get to sleep much anyway. And if she did, it wasn't in her own chamber but in some corner when she was just too tired to continue and simply sat down before she collapsed.

  One ray of sunshine, however, pierced these gloomy clouds of misery: Isenbard was recovering at a prodigious rate. After only a day, Ayla judged he was fit enough to sit up. With her unceasing ministrations, the remnants of the yellowish bruise on his head had soon shrunk to the size of a hazelnut and faded into violet. Not long after, it was completely gone. Finally, after another day of rest, Ayla granted the old knight the right to stand on his own two feet again.