For an entire day, Sir Isenbard lay in front of the altar in the small chapel of Luntberg castle, while Ayla held vigil at his side. Even so, she felt that it was not enough. If things had been different, she would have staged a great event in the old knight's honor, invited nobles from across the land, and have monks hold vigil at his deathbed for days on end, saying prayers for his noble soul. If things had been different she would never have put him to rest here, but conveyed him back to his own estate where he could be interred beside his beloved wife Irene, who had died before Ayla had even been born.
If things had been different…
But the army of the Margrave was still outside the gates, still threatening everybody's lives, now more than ever. So, one day was all the time she had allowed the men to dig a grave, all the time she had allowed herself to grieve. She sat beside Sir Isenbard while his face grew pale and his lips turned blue. She sat beside him as the sun rose and sank again, slowly moving towards the horizon.
Nobody disturbed her. Not one of the villagers Isenbard had died to protect came into the chapel. Not one of the guards he had fought with showed their face. Even Reuben was gone to God only knew where. She was alone, totally alone.
“Tell me,” Ayla whispered, clutching her hands together. “What should I do now?”
Sir Isenbard's cold lips did not give an answer.
There came a soft knock from the door.
“Y-yes?”
Looking over her shoulder, Ayla saw one of the castle servants showing his pale face in a crack between the door and the wall.
“Um... Milady? Everything is ready, as you commanded.”
“Already? But it is...” Only then did Ayla notice that the light of the sun was almost gone. Stars now glittered through the stained glass of the chapel window, and Sir Isenbard's face appeared even more lifeless in the harsh light of the moon.
Her day with him was gone.
“It is time, isn't it?” she asked, her voice wavering.
“Yes, Milady.”
With strength she didn't know she possessed, Ayla rose to her feet. “Then there's no sense in delaying any longer. Let us proceed.”
The words felt as hollow as she herself did. Two guards entered, their eyes downcast, not daring to look at her. One stopped beside her for a moment.
“Milady? Are you all right?”
She blinked her tears away.
“Hans, isn't it?”
“Yes, Milady.” The guard nodded, an unreadable emotion on his face.
“Well, Hans... If I'd say I'm all right, I would be lying.”
He swallowed.
“I'm sorry, Milady.”
“Why? It's not your fault.”
He seemed to want to say something more, but then hurriedly turned and went to where his comrade was waiting.
They picked up Sir Isenbard's litter—no, his bier, for that's what it was now—towards the door. The servant hurried in front, opening doors, while Ayla wandered behind, caught in an endless nightmare. Still, she was not thinking Isenbard is dead. That thought was too horrible to contemplate. No, instead, a thought almost as painful wouldn’t leave her mind: Nobody came to say good-bye. Nobody.
They reached the door of the keep. As before, the servant hurried out first, holding the doors open. There was a strange sound from outside, like the rustling of leaves, but Ayla didn't bother. What did it matter? She was alone.
The two guards bearing the bier stepped outside. She followed them—and stopped in her tracks.
There they were.
Everyone.
Everywhere.
They stood in the courtyard. They stood at the windows of the castle. They stood on the walls. They stood even on the roof of the stable. The entire inner courtyard was packed with people. All three-hundred villagers were there. It would not even have been fair to say “to a man”, because they were not only men. The women were all there, as were boys and girls and even babies. None of them was crying. They didn't have to. The expression on their faces said enough.
“Guards!” Linhart's voice rang out over the courtyard. Looking up, Ayla saw that he was standing high up on top of the wall, facing her. He raised his spear and shield in greeting—but not of her.
“Sir Isenbard!” he shouted.
His spear came down, and then connected with his shield, as did every other soldier's spear in the castle. The thunderous crash seemed to shake the very earth.
“Sir Isenbard!”
A second time the spear came down. Ayla could feel the reverberation of the crash travel up her spine, not into her head, but into her heart.
“Sir Isenbard!”
A third and final time the soldier's spears were raised.
“Sir Isenbard!”
Then there was silence.
Ayla could feel the tears welling up in her eyes. Through the veil of moisture she could dimly make out the figure of Captain Linhart, entering the tower to descend from the wall. It seemed like an eternity, but finally he emerged from the door at the bottom and strode across the courtyard towards her. People parted before him like the sea had done before Moses.
He halted at the bottom of the stairs which led up to the keep door. Ayla looked down at him, and he returned her gaze earnestly. His eyes were a mirror of her tortured soul, as were those of every other man, woman and child in the castle.
“Milady.” He bowed, once, deeply.
“Captain.” She nodded. At the moment, she wasn't capable of more. She was still busy processing what she saw in front of her: the solemn faces, the flickering torches, the fact that they had come. They had all come.
“Shall the two of us carry the bier?” Linhart asked.
The shadow of a frown stole onto Ayla's face. Surely he wasn't expecting her to try and lift the bier? Sir Isenbard was still in full armor. She couldn't possibly carry that kind of weight.
“Do you mean... you and me?”
“No,” came a voice from behind her, and slightly to the side. “He means him and me.”
A gigantic figure in red stepped out from behind the keep's door. Ayla's knees almost buckled beneath her when as she recognized him. He had been there the whole time! Waiting, not disturbing her, keeping watch.
Briefly, their hands touched.
“Would you?” she asked.
“If you want me to, Milady.”
“Yes,” she said, her voice slightly throaty. “Thank you.”
“It is an honor, Milady.”
Reuben stepped forward and took one side of the bier from the guards. Linhart came up the stairs and took the other end. Ayla wished she could express to the both of them what it meant to her, seeing them like this, bearing him, honoring him, but she couldn't. Her voice had failed her, and even if it hadn't, she wouldn't have been able to think of the words to say.
So she just asked: “You know where to go?”
They both nodded, and without further instructions started forward. The crowd parted to let them and Ayla through. As they passed, people reached out to touch Isenbard's armor, his hands, his face. None of them were shrinking from the blood-incrusted wound that disfigured his throat. They just wanted to be close to the man who had been their friend and their shield one last time.
It didn't pass Ayla's notice that quite a few of the villagers touched her hands as she passed in exactly the same manner. She didn't mind. Anything that could give them comfort was fine. She only wished she had someone to hold on to.
Unconsciously, her eyes fixed on Reuben. She couldn't hold him. At least not right now. But she could look at him, follow him, and so she did. Their steps led not to a cemetery, for there was none within the confines of the castle, but to the little orchard at the back of the keep. There, Ayla had chosen a small patch of earth, next to the largest and most beautiful of apple trees.
In a space of ground between two of its large, knotted roots, a hole had been dug in the fertile earth. The hole was not very deep, because not far underground the earth gave way to the hard rock that formed the center of the mountain. But it did not need to be deep. There was only one thing that would ever be buried here.
With a motion of her hand, she directed Reuben and Linhart to place the bier beside the open grave.
*~*~**~*~*
Reuben bent down until the bier touched the ground, then slowly let go and rose again. Around him, the villagers and guards gathered. Even those guards who, for the safety of them all, had to remain on the outer wall, were here in a sense. They were here with their hearts. Reuben could feel it. Grief and love mingled in the air, a bittersweet perfume he had not breathed for so many years, he who had been the cause of so many deaths over the years.
This one felt more real than any of them.
But among all the faces he searched in vain for the one he had expected to see. The one he did not yet know.
As Ayla walked around the bier to stand beside him, over the dark hole, he whispered into her ear:
“Where is your father?”
She shook her head.
“He's not here. And he won't be coming.”
“But... isn't he Sir Isenbard's oldest friend?”
“Exactly.”
Confused, Reuben looked down at her. She just continued to stare fixedly into the dark hole.
“I... don't understand,” he finally admitted.
That was when she looked up at him, her sapphire eyes full of tears. “Reuben I... please, I know he should be here. I know I should have told him. It's just... I couldn't. He's not well, and I'm so afraid. Afraid that if I told him, he...”
The words broke off in a choked sob.
“I... I can't lose him too. Not so soon after...”
Now he understood. He didn't say anything, just brushed his hand against hers, offering. She clasped it firmly, gratefully.
A little man emerged from the silent crowd. From the wooden cross hanging around his neck, Reuben presumed him to be the village priest. Reuben wasn't too fond of priests. They had been too busy trying to convince him of the error of his ways, either with prayers or red hot knives, for him to like their kind much. This one looked different, however. Small and mousy in appearance, he still had a certain bearing. He stepped up to Ayla and took her other hand, pressing it for a moment.
“Be brave, my child.”
“Th-thank you, father.”
Retreating towards the freshly dug grave, the priest took out a small container from under his robes. He swung it from side to side on a small chain, and the sweet smell of incense spread through the little orchard.
“Thou shalt sprinkle me with hyssop, O Lord, and I shall be cleansed: Thou shalt wash me, and I shall be made whiter than snow.”
Bending down to a bowl of holy water on the ground beside him, he sprinkled a few drops over the grave, and continued:
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, we dedicate and consecrate this spot of earth as the final resting place for the body of Sir Isenbard von Riffgarten. May this spot of earth forever be a hollowed place to which his kin might come and remember him, until our Lord's righteous servant rises once more on the day when all the righteous reawaken from the earth to the glory of God. For the house of God is founded on the summit of the mountains, and is exalted over all the hills, and all the people shall come to it. And they shall say: Glory be to thee, O Lord.”
All voices rose up, and in a resounding chorus proclaimed:
“Glory be to thee, O Lord.”
Only Reuben remained silent. He couldn't see what was particularly praiseworthy about a God who let good people die while evil men continued to live. For that matter, he couldn’t see what was praiseworthy about a God who let evil noblemen declare feuds against their peaceful neighbors in the first place.
On the other hand, I’m pretty evil myself, he mused. So maybe I shouldn’t complain that God and his avenging angels seem to be taking a nap right now.
Then he felt Ayla's hand tremble in his, and decided that, yes, he would and should complain. Nobody had the right to make his Ayla suffer like that, not even the creator of all. If he ever went to heaven, which considering his previous life was, admittedly, pretty unlikely, Reuben was going to give God a good talking to!
“Everything is ready, Milady,” the priest said with a slight bow of his head. “The grave is blessed, and we can proceed. Unless someone wishes to say a few words...?”
Reuben felt her tremble again, stronger this time. His alarm bells began to ring. He had known enough ladies to know what they usually did in situations like this. Was she going to fall, or even faint?
But the next thing he knew, she straightened herself. Letting go of his hand, she took a step towards the priest.
“Yes,” she said, and suddenly her voice didn't sound weak, tearful or frightened at all. It sounded like what Reuben imagined an avenging angel would sound like. The kind who didn't take naps. “I would.”
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My deepest, most medieval condolences, Milords and Ladies ;-(
I have done my best doing research into medieval funeral practices, to give our dear departed Hero Sir Isenbard the farewell he deserves. If you would be so kind as to drop me a few tearful lines of feedback, I would very much appreciate it.
Thank you from the bottom of my weeping author's heart
I hope you are as eager as me to hear what Ayla has to say, and how she and Reuben plan to get revenge, and more and more revenge!!
Your medieval scribe (planning sadistic punishment for the evil characters of his story)
Sir Rob