Ayla was sure she had been about to say something very clever and profound about Christian values and the moral duties of a true knight, but as soon as Reuben's lips touched hers, it all flew out through one ear.
God, give me strength, she pleaded. This was by no means the first time that Reuben had assaulted her like this since he first kissed her in the orchard. But no matter now often he did it, every time, the riotous feelings roaring through her were just as strong, just as uncontrollable, as if it were her very first kiss. How could anyone's lips be so soft, and yet so hard? So gentle, and yet so demanding at the same time? It wasn't fair...!
"S-stop," she gasped when he came up for air for a second. "You c-can't do that! It's sinful!"
"What, torturing people to death? I think I already knew that that's sinful." She felt him smile against her mouth. "But it also happens to be fun."
"No! Not the torture, I mean what you're doing right now!"
His lips captured hers again, hungrily. "Well, that's fun too. Even more so than torture."
"It's a sin! Stop right now!"
"Oh really? What exactly do you want me to stop? This?" Taking her lower lip between his teeth, he gently pulled on it, and she felt the sensation all the way down her spine to the very core of her being. A soft moan escaped her. It was as if she were a mare and he was her rider, pulling the reins, directing her whichever way he wanted.
"Or this?" Letting go of her lower lip, he gently moved up the side of her mouth, caressing her all the way and whispering sweet, sinful things against her skin.
"Or this?" He had reached her ear by now. She could feel his warm breath tickling the senstitive skin of her earlobe. Then he suddenly reached around her with one hand and took hold of her mass of golden hair. Before she knew what he was doing, he had buried his face in it, breathing in her scent as if it were the sweetest perfume he had ever smelled. Ayla's knees nearly buckled.
Dear God, she prayed fervently, Help me! Give me the strength to resist!
But apparently, God was busy at the moment.
"You have to tell me what you want me to stop doing," Reuben whispered into her ear. "Otherwise I can't stop doing it, now, can I?" Gently, he kissed her earlobe. Ayla let out a soft mewling noise.
She tried to concentrate, tried to think, but her brain had melted into a puddle the minute he had touched her. What should she tell him? To stop kissing her? That would hardly be enough. What he was doing to her was as far beyond kissing as Luficer, the king of hell, was beyond your average, run-of-the-mill succubus.
"J-just stop doing... sinful things," she pleaded. "Stop doing those things to me that—"
"—make you shiver? Make you tremble with desire? Make you want to tear my clothes off and pull me down to the floor to celebrate our victory together by surrendering to me?"
"Stop! Just stop doing anything that isn't morally accepta—"
She got just that far before his mouth covered hers again, cutting off her words.
"You might as well ask a lion to start eating grass," he muttered against her lips. All she managed in response was a longing sigh.
"You don't really want me to stop, do you?" he asked. It was incredible, but he seemed to be able to kiss and talk at the same time. As if he wasn't dangerous enough already! Maybe she could have resisted his kisses, or his low, demanding voice, but both at the same time? Impossible!
"Y-yes I do!"
"Really, Milady? You want me to stop? Do you swear by God?"
"I..." Ayla hesitated. She had never in her life sworn a false oath before. That was blasphemy. Heavens, which was the bigger sin, lust or blasphemy? It was so hard to decide! Although all her insides screamed that lust couldn't be so bad. "Well, maybe I do... I'm not quite sure..."
He chuckled, darkly. She could feel the reverberation all through her body, and it stirred something inside her. Suddenly, she wanted to kiss him back. She wanted her lips to be the ones on his skin, taking, exploring...
"We weren't talking about kissing!" She forced out, shoving those thoughts to the very back of her mind, into a tightly locked room where she kept all those things she was going to have to confess to a priest one day. "We're supposed to be discussing torture, remember?"
"Ah yes, sweet torture," he sighed, and started kissing her throat, wandering downwards.
"N-not that kind of torture!" Ayla moaned. "Reuben, please... you can't... Aah!"
"Isn't torture wonderful?" he enquired from below.
"Y-yes... I suppose so..."
"You like being tortured like this, don't you?"
"Yes...!"
"Doesn't it feel good?"
"Aaah... y-yes!"
"There's no reason why anybody should object to this, is there?"
"Mmh..."
"So I can torture those knights and soldiers we captured?"
"Y-ye—No!" Ayla almost bit on her tongue. "No, you can't! Never!"
From below, there was a sigh. His breath on her throat almost made her heart stop. "And I thought I had you convinced. Well... I can always do a bit more convincing."
His arms went around her, bending her backwards.
"Reuben, no! I-"
His lips cut off her protest. And then she didn't want to protest anymore.
*~*~**~*~*
About ten minutes later, Ayla tottered out of Reuben's room. When she caught a glimpse of herself in the polished metal shield on the corridor wall, she stopped at once and tried her best to rearrange her hair and dress. It didn't work very well.
She had to get away from here—away from Reuben! Whenever she was near him, her brain ceased working and her mind was assaulted by lascivious thoughts that had no business being in the mind of a virtuous maiden who attended the Mass every Sunday. She had managed to keep just enough of her wits about her to not agree to let Reuben turn the prisoners into mincemeat. But as to what else had happened—she had no idea. She had had her eyes closed for most of the time and had simply felt. And, oh, what she had felt... such heavenly bliss. Somehow she wondered how this could be sinful.
It had been so wonderful to feel Reuben's arms around her, to know that he was safe, and whole, and with her. She might have stayed with him forever, had not the knowledge that there were wounded men to be cared for intruded upon her conscience. It still hadn't been easy to tear herself away from Reuben. It wasn't just that there was an invisible force that seemed to be drawing her towards him—there was a visible one, too: Reuben himself.
"How about you stay with me for just a minute longer?" His deep voice had been so persuasive...
"I can't I have to go and look after..."
"—the wounded, yes, yes. Relax, Ayla." He picked a few new spots to kiss, which made at least her body relax like molten wax, if not her mind. "Nobody is going to die simply because you stay just for a few minutes."
"How do you know that? You can't know—"
"Yes, I can. I saw the wounded when they set out to the castle. There's not one among them with life-threatening injuries."
"Oh. Really?"
"Yes, yes. Relax. One or two might lose an arm or a leg if their wounds fester, but you'll have plenty of time to amputate later. Now relax and—"
"What? Lose an arm or...! Reuben, you soulless bastard! Let go of me!"
"Are you sure? I could..."
"Let me go, Reuben. Now!"
He grinned, and let her go. "I love you, too."
For that, Ayla gently squeezed his hand instead of the slap she had been intending to give him. Then, she hurried out of the room.
Now she was on her way down the stairs to the great hall where most of the wounded had been brought. Hoping desperately that her wild appearance would be put down to her anxiety, she pushed open the door and entered.
Burchard awaited her right inside the door.
"What's the matter with you?" the old steward demanded. "You look as if you just came out of a hurricane!"
So much for hope.
"Well, um..." Ayla cleared her throat. "The wind was blowing strong up on the battlements."
"Really?" Burchard's moustache gave a suspicious twitch.
"Yes. Now will you tell me about the wounded? I haven't come to chat about the state of my hair."
The suspicion immediately vanished from Burchard's moustache, leaving it to hang in a somber manner. "Yes, Milady. Of course. We have a few serious cases. I think you should first see this man over there. His leg doesn't look too good to me."
"His name is Bodenolf, isn't it? He has a wife who works as a washerwoman in the castle, and a little girl?"
"Yes, Milady, that's right."
Ayla nodded and started towards the man. "All right, Burchard. I'll take it from here. Send Dilli to me, and Heilswinda, too, will you?"
"Yes, Milady."
With an encouraging smile, Ayla sat down besides the wounded man-at-arms. "Now then, soldier, how are we feeling?"
"N-not too well, Milady," the man croaked. He tried to smile back at her, although he had to grit his teeth against the pain. The result was a grimace that looked as brave as it looked frightening.
"Well, we'll soon take care of that."
"A-are you going to give me medicine, Milady?"
"The very best. Here." Waving a servant over to her, she took the bottle the man was carrying and handed it to the soldier.
Taking the bottle with shaking hands, he put it to his lip and took a swallow. The pained mask of his face took on an expression of confusion for a minute. "Wine, Milady?"
"Yes. Drink as much as you can, as quickly as you can."
The soldiers face brightened. "Well, that's what I call medicine! Thanks, Milady!"
"You're welcome." Taking two slim knives from the bag she always carried at her belt since the fighting had begun, she leaned over the soldier's injured leg, in which an arrow had embedded itself. "Now drink like the devil, and hold still. You'll be better in no time."
*~*~**~*~*
Riding into the midst of the Margrave's army with the tattered remnants of his vanguard was one of the most unpleasant experiences of Sir Hartung's life. Eyes followed him wherever he went. They weren't hostile, or friendly, or betrayed any emotion but morbid curiosity. Everybody saw the evidence of his defeat. And everybody knew that he would now have to answer for this defeat to the Margrave Markus von Falkenstein.
It took Hartung quite a long while to ride past the endless, slim line of soldiers, stretching out farther than the eye could see on the narrow forest path. By the time he had reached the center of the army, it had stopped to rest for the night. In the light of campfires that sprang up all along the way, Hartung could see the damn men staring at him, the loser, more clearly. With every step he cursed the red knight and wished he had that fiend here now, to throw him at the Margrave's feet.
But all wishes were in vain. By the time he reached the clearing where the Margrave's tent had been erected, he was still alone with his defeat.
He looked around. The bodies of the mercenaries that had littered the clearing earlier had been disposed of. The torn banner that had lain on the ground had been taken up and placed upon the top of the tent. It swayed there in the wind, moving unnaturally sluggish, covered by dried blood as it was. On top of the tent, it was higher than the trees, and surely could be seen from hundreds of yards in any direction, probably even from the castle.
That was the Margrave. He never left any doubt when he wanted to send a message.
In front of the black and silver tent, Hartung dismounted, and nodded to his captains.
"You stay here," he told his escort, who sagged in relief at his words. "It isn't necessary that more than one head rolls for this."
The guards at the entrance to the tent had already crossed their guisarmes to block his way. They knew him, but that made no difference. They would have blocked the way for the Emperor himself until the Margrave was ready to receive him.
"Sir Hartung von Ehrsfeld, to see his Excellency the Margrave von Falkenstein," he told them, raising his massive chin in defiance.
"Wait here," one of the guards told him, and stepped inside. Hartung heard him utter a few words, and there was a reply in a low, silken voice. Moments later, the guard stepped out of the tent again, and nodded.
"You can enter."
Hartung strode past him, and the gloom inside the black tent swallowed him. For a few moments, he had trouble making out his surroundings. Then, slowly, he recognized the shape of a narrow, high-backed chair towards the back of the tent. It was the same one that usually stood in the audience chamber at Falkenstein Castle. And the same tall, dark figure that usually occupied it was sitting in it now.
Slowly, Hartung took two steps forward, then another. That was far enough. He bent his knee, and lowered his head.
"Milord. I am yours to command."
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Greetings, Milords and Ladies!
I dearly hope you enjoyed Sir Reuben's attempt at convincing Ayla of the benefits of torture? ;) Hopefully, he'll have plenty of opportunity to try and convince her in the future.
And next... the first meeting with the Margrave!
Farewell for now
Sir Rob