Lady Ayla stared down at the gauntlet. 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 who had brought the gauntlet and managed a sarcastic smile.
"So nice of the Margrave 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 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 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 at 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 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.
"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."
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Doesn't that just scream for a knight in shining armour? ;) So, how do you like the first chapter? I'm grateful for any feedback!
Ever at your service, your medieval writer
Robert
P.S: On the right there's a trailer for the story. Enjoy! :) News about my books on my facebook page, to be reached via the external link :)
P.P.S: Dedicated to RedDelicious, for making me aware that not everybody has my complete knowledge of obscure medieval torture devices and I should indicate in the text what a thumbscrew is :)
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GLOSSARY:
For all of you who aren't familiar with some medieval terms and would like some additional info, I thought I'd include a glossary! Tell me what you think of the idea please :)
Anno Domini: A latin expression meaning 'in the year of our Lord' (meaning Jesus Christ). It was commonly used in medieval Europe before years were given. Where we would say 'in 2013', a medieval person from Christian Europe would say 'Anno Domini 2013'.
Bard: A singer, who toured the country, singing at inns and castles. They sang love ballads and tales about knights' adventures.
Feud: A private war between two nobles. In the Middle Ages, within the Holy Roman Empire of German Nation, any of the hundreds of nobles could declare a feud against another noble. Small wars were always raging within the empire, even within official times of peace.
Gauntlet: The Gauntlet was a steel glove, part of a knight's armor. It was symbolic of the feud. When a noble threw down the gauntlet, this officially started a feud.
Herald: A person who delivered important messages for nobles.
Margrave: This is not a name but a title. It is derived from the German Markgraf (Earl of the Mark). A Mark was a border region of the Empire. Because control over the border regions was particularly important for succesful rule, Margraves, other than normal earls and counts, held great power and were direct subordinates of the Holy Roman Emperor.
Thumbscrew: A medieval instrument of torture, used on the thumb of the victim. I won't describe exactly how it worked here, because I don't want this book to be rated R ;-)
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Copyright © 2013 Robert Thier. All rights reserved.
Cover made by Robert Thier, using image of Albion_Chieftain_Medieval_Sword_10 by Albion Europe ApS posted under the Creative Commons Attribution License on flickr