When Ayla left the room a little later, having changed Reuben's cataplasms while trying not to think about what parts of him she was seeing and touching, she had a little smile on her face. In the corridor, she met Isenbard.
“He's better, isn't he?” the knight asked, studying her face.
“How did you know?” Ayla inquired, perplexed.
Isenbard shrugged. “Just guessed.” He raised his hand to scratch his beard—on the back of his armored glove, Ayla could see dried smears of blood. Guilt welled up in her, and fearful of what might be hidden behind the usual stoic expression of the old knight, she rushed towards him.
“Oh God, Isenbard, I... I'm so sorry. I totally forgot about Falkenstein's approach! Has there been another battle? There has, hasn't there...? Oh, I'm so terribly sorry. It's just, if I hadn't been there all night, I'm sure he would have died, and I couldn’t...”
He interrupted her with a wave of his hand. “No.”
“No? What do you mean, no?”
“There's been no battle. I just don't clean my mail very often.”
Ayla let out a sigh of relief—but the relief was short-lived. As she pondered Isenbard’s words, a frown spread over her face. “But why haven't they attacked? They're all here by now, surely? What are they waiting for?”
“Their commander.” Isenbard's face darkened. Not that any of his features actually moved, no. Rather, the shadows in his wrinkles seemed to get more distinct. “He's a careful one. Waits until all is secure. His soldiers are searching the forest as we speak.”
“Searching the forest? For what?”
“Traps. Ambushes. Mercenaries expect everybody to fight as dirty as they do.”
The words carried the unspoken message that he would never act in such a dastardly way. Ayla thought that was rather silly. If she had thought of an ambush and it could help her people, she would have tried it immediately. But since she also thought it rather sweet, and couldn't imagine Isenbard without his unimpeachable sense of honor, she said nothing.
That moment, a terrible thought came to her.
“Isenbard,” she asked, her voice trembling, “the commander... it's not going to be Falkenstein, is it? Please, tell me it won't be him.”
He shook his head. “I doubt it. Falkenstein has hounds to do his hunting for him.”
Relief flooded through Ayla like sweet nectar. She had been terrified of having to face the man who had so callously demanded her surrender ever since that day the herald had presented that golden ring to her. It wouldn't be so bad if the Margrave desired only her lands, as he had done with all the other nobles whom he had fought. But this was different. The herald had made it quite clear that the Margrave didn't only want land. He wanted her—body, mind, and soul.
Well, probably mostly body.
As if this awarded her any protection, she crossed her arms in front of her. The thought alone of that man looking at her, leering at her, was enough to make her blood run cold.
“Ayla? Did you hear what I said?”
She blinked at Isenbard. “What?”
“Something wrong? You looked worried.”
If Isenbard of all people had noticed, she must have looked scared out of her wits. Ayla made a mental note not to show her feelings on this matter to anyone. She was the mistress of the castle. She needed to be strong. For everyone.
She gave a small, shaky laugh. “Well, no, apart from the whole being besieged bit, I'm perfectly fine, thank you very much.”
Isenbard studied her for a moment and then shrugged, apparently deciding to categorize her expression in the wide and mysterious category “strange things women do for some reason.”
“The enemy has taken up position on the other side of the river, out of the range of our bows, and begun to build a camp,” he reported. “They do not seem to plan another attack until their base is established.”
“Take me down there, will you?”
The old knight shifted uncomfortably. “Girl, you have been up most of the night. You need to rest.”
Ayla squared her shoulders. “Take me down there, Sir Isenbard. I wish to see our enemy.”
The knight bowed, recognizing the tone of command. “Yes, Milady.”
*~*~**~*~*
Reuben lay on his bed staring up at the ceiling. If a week ago somebody had told him it could be a pleasant experience to have ice-cold cloths wrapped around one's calves, he would have shown that somebody the indecent finger. Now he was already wondering how long it was going to take for these damn things to heat up and be replaced. Couldn't his fever manage to be a bit higher?
Ayla had been very careful to touch him as little as possible. It had almost been funny to watch her carefully roll up the legs of his trousers and attempt to wind the cool cloth around his calves without lifting them, as if his skin were poisonous. But it had only almost been funny, not quite, because the whole time he had been wondering why she didn't want to touch him.
Was she disgusted by the idea? Did she find him repellant?
He might have been certain of that if he hadn't seen her blush whenever their eyes met. Perhaps it was just her shyness. Although he had to admit, chuckling as he thought of it, she hadn't been very shy with her retorts. Quite the contrary.
There was one possibility left.
Maybe, just maybe, she was being shy because she felt attracted to him. And why not? Back in his days at the court, women had flocked around him like flies around a pot of extra-delicious honey. It was only natural. One of the few firm principles Reuben had left was that he was the strongest and best-looking man in the world, and he hadn't yet met anybody who dared disagree with him.
Surely, she wouldn't be the first.
Of course, he had never met a girl with eyes that blue, hair that golden, and a temper that easily inflammable. He had also never met a girl who was crazy enough to ride around with a rusty horseshoe and an old leather doll in her saddlebags. She was different.
And that was why he wanted her.
Would she be the first to reject him? No, Reuben calmed himself. His charms had never proven ineffective before. Not once. Why should they now?
Of course, there was that little matter of her having sworn to see him hanged. But he could overlook that for now.
From outside, he heard the shouts of men and the clatter of armor. His jaw tightened. The siege, no doubt. Now there was a thing he did not plan to overlook.
His right hand traveled down to his waist, wishing a sword hung there.
*~*~**~*~*
Ayla sat on her horse, overlooking the enemy camp, trying not to let her fear take over.
So many, she thought desperately as her eyes traveled over the endless lines of tents.
Swallowing, she asked: “How many?”
Isenbard's face—unsurprisingly—showed no emotion. “At least six hundred. More are still arriving.”
“Six hundred,” she mouthed, aghast. “That has us outnumbered at least... at least...” She bit her lip. She had been an exemplary student at the convent her father had sent her to in almost every subject—arithmetic being the reason for the “almost.”
“At least ten to one,” Isenbard said.
“Mary Mother of God,” Ayla breathed. “How are we to stand against such numbers?”
“With courage,” was the old knight's simple reply. Ayla would have preferred he’d said something like “with better weapons” or “with a lot of reinforcements.” But she appreciated the unswerving loyalty of the stoic, stone-faced old warrior so much that she didn't make a corresponding remark.
“What do you think?” she wanted to know. “When will they attack?”
He shrugged. “Only God can tell. We can only be vigilant.”
There was a pause.
“Milady?”
“Yes, Uncle?” His tone had been as quietly unemotional as always. But she had known him long enough to detect the hint of apprehension in his voice. It made her nervous.
“I have to tell you something else.”
“What?”
“An hour ago, I received a message. The other two riders have returned. They bear word that your two remaining vassals, Sir Waldar and Sir Rudolfus, will be arriving within the hour.”
“How wonderful!” A broad smile started to spread over Ayla's face—until she saw Isenbard's expression. “It is wonderful, isn't it? You just said it yourself; we haven't got nearly enough men. There's nothing bad about reinforcements, surely.”
“If you say so, Milady.”
Once again, she heard more than he said.
“Isenbard? Is there something bad about reinforcements?”
“That depends on who recruits, trains, and commands them, Milady.”
Just then, shouts went up from the scouts stationed on the other side of the village, whose job it was to look out for the approach of Ayla's remaining vassals. They both turned and, looking towards the west, saw two groups of men approaching. Groups, not columns. It was obvious, even to Ayla's untrained eye, that these men, unlike Isenbard's soldiers, were not marching, but simply walking.
“It's a long time since Sir Waldar and Sir Rudolfus have been on a visit here,” she said, timidly. “I don't really know them at all. Are they... err... very capable commanders?”
Isenbard didn't reply.
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Greetings Milords and Ladies,
So the rest of Ayla's army is approaching. Do I have any volunteers among you? Who wishes to join Ayla's army in her fight for survival? Please name your noble title, level of expertise and favorite weapon! :) I would love some feedback on what kind of fighting you enjoy! :)
Your faithful medieval story-teller, calling you to arms! :)
Sir Rob
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GLOSSARY:
The indecent finger: By this, as you surely will have guessed, is meant the middle finger. This particular gesture is no modern invention: on the contrary, it has been around since antiquity and was very popular in the Middle Ages. So popular, in fact, that knights had their own variation. Since they could not raise their middle finger wearing armored gloves, they raised their lances instead. The height of courtly manners, wouldn’t you say?