"The... the dungeon?" Ayla asked timidly.
"Yes." Reuben nodded.
"But you said you were the Emperor's friend! How could he—"
"I was a favored vassal. That is by no means the same thing as a friend. But you're right, he probably wouldn't have thrown me into the dungeon." The corner of Reuben's mouth quirked up in a humorless smile. "He would have had me examined by a team of scholars from Arabia to find out how I had become what I was and, more importantly, how one could duplicate the effect. But the Emperor wasn't in the city at that time, and the local bishop had other plans for me."
"What did the bishop have to do with it?"
"After hearing what had happened in the tent, and questioning the witnesses, he got it into his head that I was possessed by the devil." Reuben threw Burchard a meaningful look, and to Ayla's amusement the hairy steward turned red and looked away. Her amusement was brief though.
"What was it like? In the dungeon, I mean?"
Reuben's gaze was level as he met her eyes. "Do you remember I once told you I had to eat rats to survive?"
"Y-yes."
"That was in the dungeon under Palermo."
"Oh."
Ayla didn't know what to say or do. She wanted to rush forward, kiss him, hug him, comfort him in any way she could—but she didn't, for two reasons. Firstly, because hugging him as tightly as she wanted to would surely reopen the wounds on his back. Secondly, because Burchard had only jus stopped demanding Reuben's immediate execution, and she wasn't about to kiss Reuben in front of him. That would be a sure way to renew the demands for execution. Maybe her father's old friend would even demand a few more tortures before he saw to it that Reuben was burned alive.
"It was cold and damp," Reuben continued. "There were a lot of rats, but I ought not to complain about them. They were the only thing I ever got to eat. Someone had bandaged my wounds, but no one ever came to check if they festered. There weren't any other prisoners in the cell with me. They probably thought I'd instruct them in my satanic ways. The Bishop let me stew down there for a while. Why exactly, I don't know. To give me time to contemplate my soul, maybe? I certainly did some thinking, and realized how hollow the things were I had built my life on. Honor, knighthood, faith..."
He spat on the ground. When he saw Ayla's stare, he quickly extended a foot and wiped the spittle away with the heel of his boot.
"All I wanted was out," he told her, and the iron determination in his voice left her feeling sorry for the ones who might have been standing in his way. "Out of that cell. Out of Palermo. Out of my life as it had been. I tried to brake the dungeon door, but after three days of beating my knuckles bloody, I gave up. I shouted for someone to let me out, but I might as well have shouted at the sea to not be wet. They came for me, in the end, and it was clear what they wanted."
"Torture." The whispered word out of Ayla's mouth wasn't a question. She knew all too well what happened to people suspected of witchcraft and devil worship.
Reuben nodded, silently.
"Really? Why don't you have a foot or an arm missing, then? Why aren't your fingers crushed to pulp, and your arms covered with scars?" Burchard wanted to know. "From what I've heard, churchmen aren't squeamish when they're questioning a suspected warlock or witch."
"They aren't, as a general rule. But they are, when that suspected warlock has dined with the Emperor, who happens not to be all that fond of witch trials. I overheard the bishop talking to one of his underlings about it. 'Don't mangle him,' he said. 'Get a confession out of him, but I want him to stay presentable, just in case the Emperor comes back earlier than expected.' So they went for my armpits, my toes, the soles of my feet—anything that isn't clearly visible with clothes on."
Ayla couldn't help it. She rushed forward and clutched Reuben's hands, feeling moisture build up at the corners of her eyes.
"Oh my God, Reuben, I'm so sorry. You don't need to talk about it. Not if you don't want to."
"Are you mad?" he looked up at her, that devilish smile that she loved so much dancing on his lips. "Now comes the best part!"
"The best part? You're about to be tortured!"
"Exactly! It's the only part of this story I enjoy telling. So shut up and listen, will you?"
Ayla opened her mouth to reply—then realized that she didn't know what to reply. So she sat down and closed her mouth again.
"They brought me to another dungeon and there showed me the oddest assortment of metal implements I had ever seen. From all the sharp spikes and hooks it wasn't hard to guess that they weren't meant for grinding grain or ship navigation. 'Look Well,' the bishop said. 'For these are the instruments of truth. Will you confess now, and save your soul, before the pain of hell consumes you?'"
Reuben smiled, nostalgically. "Do you want to know what I said to the Bishop in return?"
"Does it involve any polite words?"
"Not a single one, Milady."
"Then I'll pass, thank you."
Reuben sighed, and the pouty look on his face was so adorable, Ayla could almost forget everything he had just told her. She nearly leaned forward to kiss him.
"I clearly see my bravery in the face of torture is not appreciated."
"Your bravery is," she assured him. "Just not the way you express it."
"Oh well. The Bishop didn't seem to like it either. He told his men to strap me down and make me pay for my Satanism. Then he stayed to watch. Oh, how glad I am to this day that he stayed and watched. I shall not forget the expression on his or his face till the day I die."
He laughed, and his laugh was full of cold, fiery glee. "Can you imagine the look on his face when the torturers poked me, and prodded me, and did everything their puny little minds could think of to torment me, and none of it had the slightest effect? Can you imagine the look on his face when he was waiting for screams of agony, and was met with laughter instead?"
Ayla thought of the face of Jürgen, the Margrave's torturer, while he was frantically lashing down the whip on Reuben's bloody, invulnerable back.
"Yes," she said softly. "I think I can."
Raising his hand, which was still clutched in hers, he trailed it down her hair in a gentle caress. "Yes, you probably can."
"I'd guess he didn't react well."
"Oh no, not at all. Neither did his torturers. It was the first time in my life that I have seen men too afraid of their victim to torture him. And it was a wondrous sight, I can tell you."
Brushing a lock of her hair of his face, he breathed in deeply.
"Something had changed inside me. A few days earlier, I would not have soiled myself by going near a torturer. They and their victims were anathema to me. Now, I could smell their fear, and it was the most delicious scent I had ever encountered. I screamed at them to torture me more, to do their worst, to give it to me, and I could see my words hitting them like blows. It didn't take long for them to flee the dungeon. The bishop was long gone already."
"Good God in Heaven." Burchard's low voice was somewhere between awed and aghast. "I don't know whether you're a warlock or demon, but one thing's for sure: you're a guts-griping bastard!"
"Thank you."
"That wasn't supposed be a compliment!"
"Oh, I know." Reuben smirked up at him. "But you'll have to work a lot harder to find an insult that'll bother me."
"You can trust him on that," Ayla confirmed, sighing. "Believe me."
Reuben gave a mocking little bow. "Thank you, Milady."
"So what next?" Burchard wanted to know. "How did you get out of there?"
"Well, at first they threw me back into my old rathole. Nobody came to visit or drag me out of the dungeon again for a long time. They apparently didn't like me around."
"What a surprise."
"Then, one day, they dragged me outside again. From what I could gather, another torturer had arrived back in the city, after a little trip to a noble's castle in the vicinity where he had been sent to deal with a few rebels. He apparently was an expert in his field and didn't believe the strange tales of a demon in Palermo's dungeons. He thought he could please the bishop by braking me."
Ayla already knew Reuben was the man of her dreams. But the nightmarish smile he was smiling now made her realize he was the man of all her dreams—nightmares included. Still, even when he frightened her, it was in a delicious way.
"He believed before the end," Reuben whispered. "I made sure of that."
There was a pause.
"Before the end?" she inquired, when he wouldn't elaborate. "What do you mean?"
He shrugged. "I broke free of my bonds when he got scared and forced him into a head crusher. Then I killed him." He pondered for a moment, and then added: "By crushing his head."
"Th-thanks," Ayla managed. Her stomach was feeling queasy, and she didn't think it had anything to do with the grain for her porridge being moldy. "I'd probably have guessed that last part on my own."
"After that, it wasn't really difficult. I just walked out. Nobody dared to stand in my way. I caused quite a nice panic when I came out of the royal palace, half-naked, covered in blood, and madness dancing in my eyes. I went down to the market, grabbed the first black stallion I could lay my hands on, and rode out of the city."
Reuben took a deep breath. Ayla could sense he was coming to the end of his story.
"You didn't have anything? No money? No clothes? How did you survive?" she asked, softly.
"How do you think?" He smirked at her, and memories of their first meeting, during which he had promptly and efficiently relieved her of all her money and belongings, flashed through her mind.
"I took whatever came across my path," he continued. "Money, jewels, lives, women, whatever I saw, whatever I wanted, was mine. There was no stopping me, and the few who tried died quickly. I donned red so all would know me for who I am: the one who kills, the one who spills everyone's blood. I could tell you stories of a hundred battles and wars I've fought and won, in this country, and a dozen others, on land and on sea. But that is not important. Those battles hardened me, but they didn't make me who I am today. What changed me happened a long time ago, in the moment when I was hurled from my horse, and a cruel accident of fate turned me from a human into something... other."
He raised his eyes to meet Ayla's. There was no devilish grin on his face now, no flames dancing in his gray eyes. His expression was open, almost vulnerable, and deadly serious.
"You ask me what I am, and the answer is: I do not know. Devil? Angel? Warlock? Something humanity hasn't even conceived of? I cannot tell. I have told you everything I know, Milady. Make of it what you will."
"Tell me this," Ayla began, and her voice was very soft. She raised her hand to cup his stubbly cheek, and prayed for the right answer. "Have you ever worshipped Satan? And I don't mean your obnoxious horse!"
A second of tense silence went by. Then another.
"No, I have not." His eyes narrowed. "And he's not obnoxious!"
Ayla was just about to argue the point, but Burchard was faster.
"So you're saying you're no warlock?" he demanded, gruffly.
"Not that I'm aware of, no. If the Devil decided on a whim to give me mystical magical powers, he didn't send a herald to tell me about it."
Burchard's eyes narrowed, and he stroked his mustache, thoughtfully. Ayla could tell he was weighing up the pros of having a incredibly powerful, nearly indestructible and awe-inspiring warrior on their side, against the cons of said warrior being an insolent lout, and possibly a minion of hell.
"And your loyalties? Where do they lie?" he asked.
"With her," Reuben replied unequivocally, jotting his chin out towards Ayla.
Burchard's eyes travelled from Ayla to Reuben, and back again. Ayla felt herself blush under his gaze, suddenly very conscious of the fact that one of her hands was still clutched in Reuben's.
"Yes," the old steward growled. "I can see that."
His tone left little doubt that later on, when he was alone with Ayla, they'd be having a lengthy discussion on the subject.
She hoped it would still be some time to that discussion. Already she felt winded enough from listening to Reuben's tale. The Emperor, Palermo, the dungeon, cruel tortures beyond her imagination...
All that was so far away from her own life she couldn't even begin to imagine it.
And then, of course, there was she. Salvatrice. Now there was a subject she didn't even want to imagine.
Another girl in Reuben's life. Another love. For it was clear that he had loved her, and maybe loved her still, in spite of the hate burning in his eyes when her name crossed his lips. To hate someone that much you had to be deeply hurt, and you could only be hurt that much by someone you truly loved. She knew that all too well. She still remembered how much she had hated Reuben when she had first found out he had deceived her.
A knock from the door tore Ayla from her thoughts. She looked up, and reflexively said: "Come in."
The door swung open and Sir Gregor entered, looking as thoughtful and friendly as ever.
"Milady, I–"
He was just about to start bowing when Ayla heard a curse out of Reuben's direction. His hand abruptly let go of hers, and a chair scraped over the stone floor as it was thrust back. A ring of metal announced Reuben's sword clearing its scabbard.
Only then did Ayla realize that she had not exactly informed Reuben yet about the fact the former occupents of her dungeon were now her loyal vassals. Before she could even think of forming words, Reuben charged at Sir Gregor, sword raised. The blade came down in a deadly ark.
"No, Reuben!" she cried. "Don't!"
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Dear Lords and Ladies,
I read your feedback in the last chapter with interest. The overwhelming majority encouraged me to post the 'Special Edition' chapters of the Robber Knight on Wattpad. I would love to make all of them available for free, just like the main storyline - however, those special edition chapters are my only way to earning a little coin and becoming a professional writer. From this all my wattpad readers will benefit too, because I will have more time to write in general, and will produce more stories :)
I will do my best to make the special edition available in some downloadable app in small, affordable bites! That much I can promise. I hope you understand. Even a knight in shining armor such as myself has to pay to keep his castle from crumbling ;-)
Yours Truly
Sir Rob
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GLOSSARY:
Head Crusher: A medieval instrument of torture, whose purpose I believe is rather self-explanatory ;-)