Surprise and anger flitted across the man's face, before he could suppress the emotions. One could see his jaw working, as he knelt, and said: “As you wish, Milady.”
He rose and began to turn, but Ayla said: “Stop.”
The man turned back, looking even more resentful. Ayla could feel the stares of the other villagers on her. They didn't seem much happier about her order.
“Do you understand why I am giving you this order?” she asked in a soft voice.
“I think I do, Milady.”
She shook her head. “No, I don't think so. What's your name? Wait, I think I recognize you. Aren't you Berthar? Your sister is married to one of the castle guards.”
“Yes, Milady. I come to visit her sometimes.”
“So, Berthar. Why did I give you that order?”
The man looked down, avoiding her eyes. “I couldn't say, Milady.”
A smile tucked at the corners of Ayla's lips. This was a clever man. He knew how to use words. “You mean you literally cannot say—because you're afraid of offending your mistress. Don't be afraid, Berthar. I'm not having all the food brought to the castle because I plan to leave you stranded out here alone, at the mercy of the mercenaries.”
The man's head snapped up with evident surprise. “You're not? But I thought...” And then, realizing what he had said, he clamped his mouth shut quickly and looked down again. “Beg your pardon, Milady.”
“There's nothing you need to apologize for.” She took a step closer. “Berthar, look at me.”
He did as she had commanded. There was uncertainty and fear in his round, stubbly face.
“I'm going to do my utmost to keep you all safe,” Ayla said, trying to infuse the words with every ounce of earnestness in her heart. “I'm going to fight for you, your homes, and your families. But I'm not the warrior my father was. I'm young, inexperienced, and far less powerful than the Margrave von Falkenstein. There may come a time when we cannot hold out here any longer and must retreat into the castle.”
Berthar nodded. “I understand, Milady.”
“Do you?” She raised an eyebrow. “I said we.”
Berthar was quick. His eyes flew open in astonishment.
A few moments later, she heard gasps of surprise all around her, as the others understood.
“Do you mean...? You can't mean...”
“I mean,” Ayla said, her small, feminine voice easily silencing that of the man before her, “that if the worst comes to the worst, I will not flee alone and leave behind those to whom I have pledged my protection. I will take everyone along with me into the castle.”
Burchard gripped her arm and hissed into her ear: “What are you saying? You know we can't...”
She silenced him with a single look. He let go of her arm.
“As we live together so we stand together,” she told Berthar. “As we live together, so we fall together. Do you understand, Berthar?”
There was a fierce gleam in the peasant's eyes. “Aye, Milady!”
“Well? What are you waiting for? I would imagine gathering enough supplies for an entire village takes some time, so get to it!”
He fell to his knees, and all the other villagers around her followed suit. They stayed like that for three immeasurable seconds, then sprang up again and began to disperse, conversing eagerly about what needed to be done.
As soon as they were far enough away, Burchard grasped her arm again and pulled her towards him. “You foolish young girl!” he growled into her ear. “Have you any idea how quickly our supplies will be used up with the entire village quartered in the castle? You've just ruined our only chance of sitting out this siege!”
Ayla didn't reply; she just waited.
“You also,” Burchard added grudgingly, as he observed the feverish activity among the peasants, “have just gained your men's undying loyalty. Well done.”
“Thank you.”
“I only hope you didn't pay too high a price.”
Ayla threw her father's trusted old friend a sideways glance. “The price for rectitude can never be too high.”
“Bah!” Burchard spat out. “Did your father teach you that fine saying?”
Ayla grinned, proudly. “No, I came up with that all by myself.”
“Figures.”
He let go of her, and Ayla turned towards the east again. In the light of the setting sun, she could see a few figures approaching. One of them was significantly smaller than the others, but seemed to be running faster. The Lady of Luntberg Castle took a deep, steadying breath. Finally. Her challenge was approaching.
“Dilli?”
The maid, who had followed Ayla out of the castle and watched the proceedings from a distance, hurried closer. “Yes, Milady?”
“I have a task for you, too. In fact it is the most important task of all.”
Everybody still in the vicinity—Burchard, a few peasants, and some castle guards—looked up and listened intently.
Dilli swallowed. “Yes, Milady. I will do my best.”
“Good. I'll need you to make me a doll.”
Everyone, including Dilli, stared at Ayla with blank expressions on their faces.
“Err... Milady?” Dilli looked at her pleadingly. “A what?”
“A doll. You know what a doll is, don't you? The sort of thing little girls play with.”
“Um... yes, Milady.”
“You can sew, can't you?”
The maid nodded, still looking nonplussed.
“Are you good?”
“Yes, Milady, I think so.”
“And quick?”
“I believe so.”
“Then make me a doll out of leather. Paint a face on her and put her in a dress. Can you do that in, say...” Ayla gauged the remaining distance between the travelers and the bridge, “...half an hour?”
“If I have help, Milady, yes.”
“Then get to it. And hurry, we don't have much time!”
As the maid hurried off, Burchard leant over to Ayla and asked in a low voice: “Forgive my ignorance, but how exactly will this help us win the fighting?”
Ayla smiled an apprehensive smile. “It won't. But it might help me stay alive long enough to actually see anything of the fighting.”
*~*~**~*~*
Possibly her deadliest foe ever was approaching from the opposite side of the bridge. Ayla, however, didn't turn and run. Like a true Luntberg, she stood her ground and awaited the approach of the mighty one who would spell wreck and ruin if she did not give them what they wanted.
When the little girl had reached her, Ayla bent down, smiling, and said, without letting her fear show: “Hello there! Did you have a nice trip?”
“Where's my doll?” the girl demanded. “Where's my Agnes?”
Ayla winced. Right to the point. She had hoped to draw this out a little bit. Apparently, there was to be no mercy. Now, everything depended on Dilli's handiwork. If she ever got her hands on the crimson-clad fiend who had made her endure this...
“Look,” she began in a nervous voice, “there's something I have to tell you...”
“Where's my doll?”
Persistent, too. May the crows and the pestilence chase that crimson cad.
“Your Agnes may be a little bit different than you remember,” Ayla said, and she tried another smile. It ended up as more of a grimace.
The little girl's eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Different? How different? You didn't let a baddy get to her and lock her in a tower, did you? I told you...”
“No, no,” Ayla assured her hurriedly. “It's just that she met this other lady doll in my saddlebag, a very fine lady doll from the... um... the Emperor's Court, and this lady doll insisted on giving your Agnes a new dress and helping her look less like a wolfhou— um... even more fine than before. So, here she is.”
Ayla removed her hand from behind her back and held out a leather doll in a fine silk dress, with a smiling face and sparkling stones for eyes.
For a few moments that la
sted for an eternity, the little girl stared at the doll with an expressionless face. Ayla held her breath, awaiting her sentence.
Then, the girl snatched up the doll and threw her arms around Ayla's waist. “Thank you! Oh thank you, thank you! You've made Agnes look so much finer! She's a real lady now!”
“That she is,” Ayla said, sighing with relief. “That she certainly is.”
“Thank you so much, Lady Ayla! I gotta go show this to my mummy and daddy, yes? May I show them, please, please?”
“Yes, of course. Go on,” Ayla laughed.
The little girl ran away with her new treasure pressed against her chest, her hair flying wildly behind her.
Ayla sighed again and wiped a few drops of sweat off her forehead. “Now for the easy part,” she mumbled. “The siege.”
Feast, Feud, and Fennel
Reuben was bored. It had now been several hours since the mad girl who styled herself the lady of this castle had disappeared, and since then, nobody had come to see him. He had neither seen nor heard anything to arouse his interest. Did nothing ever happen in this dump?
There was a knock at the door. A nervous knock, a servant's knock. Reuben remembered what they sounded like all too well from the old days.
“Come in,” he called. Anything to bring a bit of diversion.
The silly, screeching maid from earlier entered the room, holding a tray in her trembling hands, on which stood a steaming wooden bowl. She looked like a frightened bunny condemned to bring a wolf his food, hoping he wouldn't eat her instead of what she was carrying.
“Your s-supper, Sir,” she stammered.
“Ah!” Reuben rubbed his hands together. He was almost as hungry as he was bored, and was looking forward to a hearty meal. “What do you have for me? Tell, tell.”
“F-fennel soup, Sir.”
Reuben's face went blank. “What?”
Trying to stay as far away from him as possible, the maid knelt and placed the tray in front of him. The bowl on it contained a greenish fluid which Reuben at a glance would have identified as stagnant pondwater.
“We have prepared a special diet for you, according to the teachings of the great abbess and healer Hildegard von Bingen,” she explained, timidly. “She recommends that any who suffer from illness or wounds take only liquid food, and she places great emphasis on the healing effects of fennel.”
“She does, does she?” Reuben growled. “And do all of your sick receive this affectionate treatment?”
“No, Sir,” Dilli said hurriedly. “We would never dare! Lady Ayla gave me instructions to prepare this specially for you. I made the soup with e-extra f-fennel!”
“How... nice of you.” Reuben's gray eyes glowed with the promise of steel and death. “Remind me to thank your mistress for this later, will you?”
Dilli nodded eagerly, obviously relieved beyond measure that he was pleased with the special care they took of him. “Yes, Sir.”
The maid started to rise, but Reuben grabbed her arm. “Tell me—what is the Lady Ayla having for dinner?”
The girl hesitated for a moment, seeming to struggle with herself and as well as with the possibility of fainting from the fact that a mad monster, who was probably one of the undead, was clutching her arm in an iron grip.
“Ch-chicken p-pie with Lord's Sauce and honey wine, I heard, Sir.”
Reuben's eyes almost sprang out of his head from anger, but he managed to smile at the silly girl. “Indeed?”
“As the first course of five. She's practically feasting.”
“Ah. Thank you for telling me. Now I really look forward to my next meeting with your mistress.”
That arrogant little minx! Reuben gnashed his teeth in anger. He would... well, he didn't know yet what he would do to exact his revenge on Ayla, but it would be something inventive.
He let go of the maid's arm and picked up the wooden spoon in the bowl as if he were about to start eating the ghastly substance.
Smiling happily, though apprehensively, she curtsied and left the room. Reuben had to mightily resist the urge to just throw the bowl at the closed door. No, that would not be wise. His host was obviously fond of her servant, and it wouldn't do to alienate his host. Carefully, he sniffed the bowl again. Perhaps he could just throw it out of the window? No, it would be found. He had to act inconspicuously. He couldn't afford to draw Ayla's attention and maybe make her realize who he really was.
So be charming, he told himself. You know how to. You once had all the ladies of the Imperial Court at your feet.
Yes, he had. He had also been a bloody fool back then. But that didn't mean he couldn't use his old skills to his advantage now. He smiled. The first rule of chivalry: whatever a lady gives you, accept it with grace and thanks, even if it stinks.
He stood up and grabbed the bowl. A movement that would have brought any other man with this kind of wounds to his knees howling in pain—but not him of course. With the bowl in hand, he went to the back of the room to what looked like the doors of a wardrobe, behind which, he hoped, lay the answer to his dilemma. He opened the doors and grinned in satisfaction.
He had found what he was looking for: a garderobe, a small wardrobe for precious clothes. It was attached to the outer wall of the keep, directly over the dungheap, and was open at the bottom. The stench wafting up was supposed to keep moths away. Reuben had always thought it quite an ingenious idea. If he were a moth, he'd certainly keep his distance.
He turned the bowl upside down and emptied its contents onto the dungheap. The second rule of chivalry: if the thing your lady gives you stinks, get rid of it in an inconspicuous manner.
Reuben supposed he would have to sneak down to the kitchen tonight and steal some real food. For now, though, that would have to wait. Still hungry and still bored, he went to the window, where at least the view might be mildly more interesting than when he lay on his back on the bed, staring at the stone ceiling.
In the red light of the setting sun, his experienced eye scanned the castle below, finding its strengths and weaknesses. There were not many of the latter. Whoever had built this place, he’d had more brains than the girl, Ayla. This was a mighty stronghold, standing in the midst of, he noticed as his eye skimmed over the landscape in the distance, a truly beautiful valley with lush green meadows and mighty forests.
An odd kind of longing tugged at Reuben's heart at the sight. What was it? Nostalgia? It had been a very long time since he had stood in a place like this. Slowly, his eyes slid shut and his fingers gripped the stone windowsill in a death grip. He could see it, feel it. See the countless other views from castle windows he had seen, feel the wind touching his face, the armor on his body, the blood-red cape with his escutcheon tugging at his neck. Most of all, he could feel the sword in his hand—the weapon of a knight. Of a man who sought honor and glory.
His eyes snapped open—there was the gathering dark.
A man who sought honor and glory? Bah! That man was a dead man. That man no longer existed. He had died from his wounds a long time ago, wounds severe enough to kill any mortal man. Nothing would ever bring him back again. And that was how it should be—that man had been a bloody fool.
Reuben's eyes zeroed in on a group of people in front of the stone bridge that spanned the river separating the valley into two halves. They were building something. Looked like they were erecting poles. For tents, perhaps? Yes! They were planning some kind of feast! That was why no one had come to see him. They were planning to make merry without inviting him! Abominable villains!
In a few strides, he was away from the window and over at the door. He would show them what it meant to slight Sir Reuben Rachwild!
His hand hesitated on the door.
He couldn't show them. Not yet. That blasted girl who fancied herself a great lady was sure to be there, feasting along with the rest of them, while he was supposed to be stuck here forcing down fennel soup. More importantly, her guards would also be there. If he so much as uttered the word “knight??
? in her presence, she would realize who he really was, and she would have his head on a pike.
Reuben felt his back and chest. There was no pain, naturally, but he could feel it in his bones: he wasn't ready to face them yet. He would have to endure this humiliation for a couple of days longer, until he was fully restored. Then he would reveal himself, and they would all cower before him! That he swore to himself, then marched back to his bedstead. He would have his revenge.
But the girl he would leave alive. Yes. Not out of compassion, of course. He was beyond that. No, it would be amusing to leave her alive and let her see his triumph. She was actually funny to have around, if she wasn't busy acting crazy. And he would love to see how she liked fennel soup.
*~*~**~*~*
Ayla had just finished her supper and was crossing the entry hall when she almost bumped into Dilli who was coming out of the corridor that led to Reuben's chamber.
“Milady! I didn't expect to see you here. Are you on your way to see our guest?”
That was exactly what Ayla had been about to do, but she answered in a haughty tone: “Him? I'm not going to waste my time on the likes of him. No, I'm on my way to see my father.”
Her face darkened, for it was no mere excuse. She had put the encounter off all day, telling herself that it was her duty to make all the necessary preparations first. But now that the watch was organized, the riders were dispatched, and everything else was taken care of, she had no choice but to go and tell her father that she, his only daughter, was the reason why hundreds of enemy soldiers would soon be marching into this peaceful valley.
“It is time someone told him his castle is about to be attacked.”
Dilli hesitated. “Is that... wise, Milady? In his state of health?”
Ayla pulled a face. “Better he finds out now than when the arrows start raining down on us.”
Dilli had to agree. “But do you have to tell him yourself, Milady?” The maid could see how much her young mistress dreaded the coming encounter and wanted to spare her this pain. “Surely, Burchard or one of the servants...”
“Did Burchard or the servants get us into this mess? No.”