Ayla changed Reuben's cataplasms again and gave him some more water, then left reluctantly, not able to think of another excuse to stay and enjoy his company.
She had just returned to her own room when she realized what she had done. Terrified, she slapped her hands over her mouth and sank against the wall, groaning. “Oh God, no!”
Heilswinda, another one of her maids, though not as close a confidante as Dilli, was just folding linen in a corner of the room. Leaving her work immediately, she came hurrying over to support her mistress. “Milady? Are you alright? Are you ill?”
“No, it's not that. I... I...”
“What then?”
“What have I done?” Ayla moaned.
Heilswinda's young and kind but simple face wrinkled in confusion. “Well, I don't know. You should know that best yourself, shouldn't you?”
“I do!”
“Then what are you asking me for, Milady?”
“I... oh, forget it!”
There was a moment of silence while Ayla contemplated her shame.
“Well, what was it?” Heilswinda asked, face alight with curiosity.
“What was what?”
“What did you do?”
Ayla hesitated. But although she was curious, Heilswinda wasn't one to gossip. And it would be good to confess to someone.
“I kissed Reuben,” she admitted, shame-faced.
The curiosity in Heilswinda's face increased tenfold. “And?” she demanded. “Was he good?”
“Was he... Heilswinda!” Ayla's face turned a brilliant shade of scarlet.
“Sorry, Milady.”
“It wasn't like that. I kissed him on the forehead.”
“Oh.” The maid seemed severely disappointed. And Ayla had to admit, part of her felt the same.
However, she didn't have much time to dwell on this improper feeling. Just then, there came three knocks from the closed door, and Isenbard called: “Milady? I need you. Urgently.”
Quickly, or at least as quickly as possible, Ayla banished thoughts of Reuben from her mind. When Isenbard said things were urgent, they were.
“You say nothing about this to anyone, understand?” she whispered to Heilswinda.
The maid giggled and nodded. “Mum's the word, Milady.”
Ayla opened the door and met the eyes of her father's old friend apprehensively. She was sure that her shameless action would be written on her forehead, plain for all to see, or at least that the blush in her cheeks would give her away. But Isenbard didn't seem to notice.
“Follow me, Milady. The enemy is flying a white flag.”
Ayla's eyes widened. “They want to surrender?”
For a split second, she could have sworn the corner of the knight's mouth twitched. But probably she was mistaken.
“No. A white flag is not only used to surrender, but also to signal a parley. They want to talk.”
That made Ayla's eyes only widen further. “Talk to whom?” she asked, though she thought she already knew.
“The liege lord must lead such negotiations, Milady.”
Ayla knew what that meant. She knew because her father hadn't left his bed for years. She knew because Isenbard called her “Milady” in that special, deferential tone. He only did that when official business was at hand.
“They wish to talk to the liege lord?” She straightened and swept her long, golden hair back. “Then they shall. Lead the way, Sir Isenbard.”
He bowed. “Milady.”
Just as before, they took a single horse down to the barricade. Ayla still couldn't find it in her heart to find a replacement for Eleanor. She felt like, if she did that, she would banish her dear friend from her heart, making sure that she would never see her again.
It was silly, and she knew it, but she just couldn't let go. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
As they rode out of the gates and Ayla turned, looking back up at the castle, she remembered something that thankfully drove Eleanor from her thoughts.
“Isenbard?” she asked.
“Yes, Milady?”
“What's a murder hole?”
There were a few moments of silence. Then Isenbard answered in a careful tone: “A contraption used in the building of the most modern castles, Milady. At the very top of the wall, there are constructed platforms with holes in them. On these platforms men stand and drop things on the enemy.”
The way he said the word “things” made Ayla suspicious. “What kind of things?”
“Rocks. Pitch. Boiling oil. Things like that. The holes through which these things are thrown are called murder holes for a good reason.”
“I see.”
“It is one of the more devious and highly effective methods of siege warfare—and not commonly known. If I may ask you, Milady, where did you hear this term?”
“Reuben mentioned it.”
“Is that so?” Isenbard scratched his beard, thoughtfully. “Interesting fellow, your Reuben. I'd like to meet him.”
“He isn't my Reuben.”
“Of course not, Milady.”
“Isenbard? Why do you sound as if you are placating me?”
“Placating, Milady? I sound as I always do.”
“That's exactly the problem. You manage to sound placating while at the same time sounding just as you always do.”
“Milady?”
Ayla was just about to tell him what was going to happen to him if he said “Milady” one more time in this stupid, innocent way, when about a hundred yards in front of her, the barricade appeared from behind a gently rising hill. Behind the barricade, she could see dozens of enemy banners fluttering in the breeze. In contrast, the four small banners mounted atop the barricade, showing the brown bear, the star, the gray wolf, and the white lily, seemed to hang sad and limply.
A horn sounded from beyond the barricade. Ayla knew that it was not one of hers. It was the enemy, announcing his approach. Isenbard reined back his horse in front of the barricade, climbed down, and offered Ayla a hand.
She slid down on the other side.
From behind the horse, she heard something like a chuckle. But that couldn’t be, could it? After all, it was Sir Isenbard who stood there.
She rounded the horse, and indeed there he stood, just as solemn and dignified as ever.
The horn sounded again.
“If you want me to come up on the barricade with you...” he offered, but she interrupted him: “No, Uncle Ironbeard. This is something I need to do alone.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sir Isenbard, I just gave you an order, didn't I?”
“Yes you did, Milady. How could I have overlooked that?”
He stood aside and let her climb the barricade.
“If one of them decides your head is worth more than his honor and shoots at you, duck quickly!” he shouted after her.
With those encouraging words, Ayla climbed the ladder leading up to the guard walk. The wood felt rough through the thin leather of her shoes. Not nearly as rough, however, as what was awaiting her beyond the barricade.
For one moment, just one moment, she hesitated.
No, she couldn't turn back now. She had a responsibility towards her people. She was their liege lord, and she had to act like it. So she made herself climb up farther and farther. Finally, she stood atop the finished barricade for the first time, looking out over the enemy camp.
To say that it was an impressive sight would have been a lie.
It was a terrifying sight.
Rows upon rows of tents, a sea of tents, stretched as far as the eye could see, with the subtle hint of bloodthirsty sharks moving everywhere under the waves of canvas. Armor rattled and hammers fell heavy on metal. It was the sound of a giant pack of beasts preparing for attack.
Yet nothing was as frightening as when all these noises suddenly cut off.
The horn rang out one more time. A white flag appeared between the tents, slowly moving forward.
Ayla stood straight atop the barricade, taking a deep breath. She was about to come face to face with the man who was preparing to attack her castle and her people. She vowed to herself not to be intimidated by the Margrave's chief killer, whoever he might be, whatever he might look like. If he were a giant Norseman, she would not be afraid. If he were a ruthless, scarred mercenary, she would not be afraid. Even if the Margrave himself were to ride out to meet her, she would not be afraid. She was the Lady Ayla von Luntberg, and she would let nothing and no one intimidate her.
An enormous mounted figure approached through the enemy camp. Even from this far off and with the tents blocking most of her view, Ayla could catch glimpses of the massive rider. She caught a glimpse of red.
Her heart beat faster, threatening to burst out of her chest. No, she feared nothing and no one.
Except, perhaps...
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Greetings, Milords and Ladies!
This chapter is dedicated to my dentist, to whom I am very grateful right now. As you may know, in the middle ages, there were no dentists. It was the barber's job to pull people's teeth with huge iron tongs, and the word 'sedation' had not even been invented yet. That makes one really appreciate the advantages of modern times, and this is why this chapter is dedicated to my dentist, who extracted a nasty tooth with a minimum of pain involved ;)
Three cheers for dentists! :)
I hope you enjoyed the chapter? :)
Your dedicated medieval storyteller,
Sir Rob