“Reuben! Hold out your hand, now!”
“Yes, Milady, of course, Milady.”
Wisely saying not another word, he held his hand out towards her. Ayla gasped. The entire hand was an angry, aggressive red, as if it had been held into boiling water. In some places, the skin had blistered.
“You call this 'fine'?” she demanded. “You should have told me how bad it was! I would have come sooner.”
“I promise you,” he said in absolute earnesty, “it doesn't hurt at all.”
And that Ayla believed. She could feel the unanswered questions bubbling up inside her, fighting to get out. She opened her mouth to ask—and changed her mind.
I’m such a coward!
“It doesn't matter whether it hurts or not,” she said aloud. “It needs to be treated. I've brought a salve with me…”
Reuben snatched back his hand quicker than the eye could see and slid away from her as far as the bed would allow. “Oh no! No, no, no! No more of your salves! My nose still itches from the last time you smeared that foul-smelling substance somewhere on me. I'm not ever going to let you do that again!”
At first, Ayla wanted to snap at him—but then she got a better idea.
“Why, Sir Knight,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes, “one could almost think you are afraid.”
His mouth dropped open. “I? Afraid?”
“Yes. You appear to flee from a mere, helpless maiden. Poor, poor Sir Knight. If you’re frightened, I could comfort you.”
His mouth opened a bit wider. “I'm not afraid! Take that back now!”
“Why should I?”
“Because if you don't, I'll…I'll…”
She smiled innocently at him. “You'll what? Get your sword to defend yourself? Are you that afraid of me and my salve?”
His face twitched. “You can be quite devious, do you know that?”
“I? Devious? Whyever that? I only wish to help you.”
“Yes. That's what I mean.” With an adorably grumpy expression on his face, he slid back over to her and held his hand out proudly. “I am no coward!”
“No, you're certainly not,” she said, tenderly caressing the scorched skin. Feeling how his skin was burned drove all the humor from her face and voice. She worked quickly and quietly, working the salve into the skin deeply. She wished she was ten times a better healer, or better yet, that she possessed miraculous powers like the saints of old and could just make his injury disappear. It pained her, as a visual reminder that he had put his life at risk for her—and that he was probably going to have to do it again.
Having finished her ministrations, she bandaged his hand and let go of it. “There. Soon it will be as good as new.”
“Thank you,” he said a little grudgingly.
“Do you want to stay in here for a few days and recuperate?” she asked hopefully.
Please say yes. Please don’t put yourself in danger so soon again.
Grim-faced, he shook his head and laid his uninjured sword-hand on the hilt of his weapon. “No. For what I'm going to do, I don't need my left hand—only my right one.”
She didn't quite know what to say to that, so she didn't say anything. He watched her for a moment, then smirked at her.
“Oh, by the way, have you thought of a creative way of punishing me for my insolence yet?” He was obviously trying to lighten the mood. “You are welcome to use any of the torture methods I have outlined. However, they are often fatal. You could have me branded with hot irons, if you should wish me to live longer than a day.”
Ayla could feel a lump in her throat. Yes, he was trying to lighten the mood—and wasn't doing a very good job of it. Again she thought of the fire consuming his hand. What had he done to become the way he was?
The question burned in her mind hotter than the flame.
*~*~**~*~*
Reuben could see Ayla swallow.
“I would like you to live much longer than a day Reuben,” she said, her voice suddenly trembling. “I would like you to live a long, full, and happy life.”
Her words wiped the smirk right off his face. Slowly, very slowly, he extended his hand towards her. He hadn't really touched her since that fatal night, when she had learned the truth of who he was and how he had lied to her. The few times he had seen her since, he had not dared to. That did not mean that he had not thought of it constantly.
Inch by inch, his hands neared her face. As they did, he could hear her breathing quicken, and his own matched her rhythm. Carefully and tenderly, he stroked the backs of his knuckles against her cheek, than hastily withdrew. In parting, he could feel the moisture of her breath on his fingers.
“That is what I wish for you, too, Ayla,” he said in a tone so serious he hardly recognized his own voice. “More than anything in the world.”
She didn't say a word, just gave a little, shaky nod and got to her feet. Reuben knew she had gone as far as she was going to go today—as far as her honor and her fragile, broken heart would allow her to go. He let her leave without protest. At the door, she stopped once more and, without turning, said, “Sir Reuben?”
“Yes, Milady?”
“Now that your imprisonment is ended, you can walk abroad again.”
“Indeed I can.”
“I should be happy to see you up on the wall now and again. We face a mighty and perfidious foe, and I would be glad of any advice or help you could give me, if you are so inclined.”
Reuben's voice was as hard as steel and as honest as stone as he replied, “My sword is yours, Milady.”
He could hear Ayla let out a breath she had been holding.
“That,” she said in a soft voice, “is what I had been hoping to hear.”
Then she left the room, leaving behind a dazzled robber knight who had to deal with the traumatic experience of having, for the first time in his life, agreed to fight a war without getting any ravishing or plunder out of it.
Coming Out
Reuben lay quietly on his bed for a while after Ayla had left. The maid came in and brought him his breakfast. He ate the breakfast. Then he lay quietly on his bed some more.
The sun slowly rose, and he continued to lie quietly on his bed. He watched the color of its light change on the wall. When it had changed from a faint rose to the golden color of glorious morning, he rose and began to prepare himself, putting on not only his clothes and mail, but his plate armor as well. This was no time to do things halfway. This was a time of war.
Finally, he threw over a long black cloak he found hanging in the garderobe. He wasn't exactly sure how forthcoming Ayla had been about his true identity to the other inmates of the castle. True, after his entrance the other day, there was hardly any doubt for those who had a copper's worth of brains in their heads. But still…he felt slightly apprehensive.
This was the first time he would be leaving his room. Really leaving his room. Not sneaking out in the middle of the night or forcing his way past his guards, but walking through Ayla's castle as a free man.
As her defender, though the others didn't know that yet.
His dark coat swirling behind him, he marched to the door and threw it open.
The corridor was empty of guards. She had spoken the truth. Despite her words, she apparently trusted him.
As he strode down the corridor towards the stairs, Reuben, for the first time since that dark night when she and her whole village had to flee behind the castle walls, that dark night when she had discovered his true identity, allowed himself to ponder what her feelings were. Before, he thought with a smirk, there had been no doubt. Her feelings had been quite evident from the way she hit him in the face and called him all the names her innocent little mind could think of.
Now, though…
She trusted him. But did she love him?
Had she ever loved him? She had never said so. But then, he had never asked.
Reuben snorted. Well, if she didn't, he was going to put himself to an awful lot of trouble for no good reason
. He couldn't believe he had practically agreed to fight for her for—he shuddered at the very thought—for free! He hadn't fought for free in years! He had stolen and ravished and plundered and killed, and it had always been as it should be: purely for personal gain.
What he was about to do now felt so disgustingly honorable! It almost reminded him of the old days when he had been so stupid as to fight for foolish phantasms like glory, duty, or honor.
Plus, he would have to defend people. Peasants who couldn't fight for themselves! He had never even considered defending anyone or anything, let alone someone who couldn't help in a fight. Why carry dead weight, why waste food on commoners? In any of the sieges he had previously been in, he would have advised the Lady of the castle to chuck all of the peasants out of the stronghold, or, to save time, to simply cut their throats. However, he doubted such a suggestion would go over well with Ayla.
A different strategy would have to be devised to get them out of the situation they were in. And the first thing he needed to do was to assess that situation.
Reuben went down the stairs, then stepped out of the keep door into the morning. The sun was just rising over the wall and bathed him in her glorious light. He stretched and gazed around.
What a wonderful feeling to be free again. Really free. He had no guards on his tail, he had no mistrust to fear, and he could go out and kill whomever he liked. Provided, of course, it was a member of the enemy army. He would have to remember that annoying restriction.
At a brisk pace, he proceeded to the outer wall. As the first line of defense, it deserved to be the first object of his attention. There was a guard stationed at the bottom of the tower which granted entrance to the walkway. He put himself in front of the door as Reuben approached.
“Nobody comes through here. It is forbidden…to…go up…” His voice faded as his eyes widened in delayed recognition.
“Ah.” Reuben nodded. “I see you remember me from last night.”
“Yessir.” The guard's voice was hardly more than a whisper.
“And you are here to guard the wall against your enemies?”
“Yessir.”
“And—think very carefully before answering this question—would you like to include me in your definition of 'enemies'?”
Even through the leather gorget he was wearing, Reuben could see the guard's Adam’s apple bobbing in terror.
“No sir!”
“Very well then. What will you do now?”
Without hesitation, the guard stepped aside and opened the door for him. “I wish you a pleasant walk up there, Sir.”
“Congratulations. You are a bright young man who I'm sure will go far.”
Reuben stepped into the tower and began to climb the spiral staircase. As he stepped out onto the walkway, several guards turned to him. One or two faces paled as they recognized him, and several of the guards scurried out of the way as he approached. They looked at him as if he were one of the devil's disciples.
Reuben smiled to himself. Soon, they would know better. Once they saw him in action, they would look at him as if he were the devil himself.
Behind him, he could hear the excited whispers of guards—those who had been up and fighting last night—telling their companions all that they had witnessed. Putting on the black cloak seemed kind of redundant now, Reuben mused. The tale would soon be spread all over the castle, and the rumors would get ten times wilder in the telling.
He strode along the entire length of the wall, inspecting all its strengths and weaknesses. He measured the thickness of the wall, the hardness of the stone, the height of the towers, the form of the crenels, the outlay of the gatehouse—but, most important, he measured the height of the wall itself with his astute eye and, in so doing, confirmed his suspicions. He would have to take a look at that grappling hook sometime soon.
“You there!” he barked.
There were two guards standing around, whispering. Both of them turned as if hit with a burning whip. Reuben waved one of them off and then marched towards the other, who looked up at him anxiously. The man was more than a head smaller than Reuben.
“How do you patrol the walls?” he asked, without preamble.
The two looked at each other hesitantly.
“Err…on our feet?” the man suggested. It sounded more like a question.
“I mean,” Reuben repeated, trying not to let his annoyance show, “in groups of how many men do you patrol the wall?”
“Oh. Two, Sir. We go in groups of two, or alone sometimes.”
“Change it to groups of three from now on,” he commanded. That should prevent any further occurrences like the recent attack, if he was right in thinking what he was thinking.
“Err…” The guard exchanged an anxious glance with his comrade, who was waiting farther down the walkway. “I'm not sure what Sir Isenbard would say to that, Sir.”
Slowly, Reuben took a step towards him and gave him a good, long look.
“And is Sir Isenbard here?”
“No, Sir! Three guards, Sir! It shall be as you command, Sir!”
“Yes, it shall.”
Without another word, he turned and went away.
Satisfied that he knew everything there was to know about the outer defenses, he climbed down the spiral staircase again and repeated the same procedure at the inner wall. There, too, some of the guards threw him fearful looks. Reuben ignored them and continued with his task.
*~*~**~*~*
Sir Luca DeLombardi listened to the tale of Jos the lookout into the early hours of the morning. Then he called three men and ordered them to take Jos and dunk him into a barrel of water until he was sober enough to tell the truth.
“Fiamme dell'inferno,” he cursed as the protesting Jos was dragged off and Conrad entered the tents. “Where do you find those fools, Conrad?”
“Jos is many things, Sir,” Conrad said without letting his feelings show, “but a fool he is not.”
“Indeed? Then how do you explain his fairytale? According to him, there seems to be some kind of demon in that castle!”
“I don't know how to explain it, Sir. I have never met a demon. I do not know whether such things exist, but…”
He broke off.
“But? But? You were going to say something more, Conrad?”
“No, Sir.”
“Good.” Sir Luca crossed the space between them and placed himself directly before Conrad, peering at him with his small, beady eyes.
“You say you do not know whether demons exist, Conrad. But do you believe that they do?”
The mercenary hesitated for a moment—then shook his head. “No, Sir.”
“Very good. See that it stays that way. Still, we have a problem. Do you know what it is?”
“What, Sir?”
Sir Luca spat on the ground. “The men believe they exist. They will soak up that fellow's tale like a dried-up old sponge. See to it that your man is kept away from the others for the time being. And, if he has not changed his tune by tomorrow evening and told us what really happened up there on the wall, have his throat cut quietly, understand?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Sir Luca stepped back from the mercenary and turned to the darkest corner of the tent. He stood like this for a while, obviously brooding, until Conrad dared to ask,“What now, Sir?”
“What now?” The voice of his commander sent a shiver down Conrad's back. “That depends greatly on your influence over a certain individual in the castle, as you well know.”
Conrad shifted. “That influence doesn't look too good at the moment. Perhaps we should just wait. We could sit out the siege and wait until they have to…”
“No!” Sir Luca's voice was like the hiss of a snake. “I shall not be threatened and cowed! Not by whores, demons, or phantasms of a fool’s mind!” He whirled around, his eyes glittering with lust for violence. “Our enemies will learn to fear me yet! I do not believe there are demons in this world, certainly not fighting for that little girl.
But if there are—let us beat them with their own methods! Call your most trusted men! We are going to do a little sacrilege and desecration!”
*~*~**~*~*
It didn’t take long for Reuben to see all he needed to see. Climbing down the tower, he thought on what he ought to do next. Go to Ayla, he supposed. He needed to discuss the defense of the castle with her. Granted, it was not likely that the enemy would attack. Why should they, when they could just sit tight and wait till their opponents starved to death? That was no reason, however, not to be prepared.
Reuben resolved to go to the keep and look for Ayla. It was the right thing to do.
Yet as he stepped out of the tower and started to cross the courtyard, he found his way blocked by an unexpected obstacle standing in the middle of the free space between him and the keep: a familiar old man with a hard face and an iron-gray beard.
Sir Isenbard stood tall and unmoving. He was dressed in full armor. One sword he wore at his belt, another he held in his left hand. He wore a great helmet, emblazoned with his crest, the gray wolf, such as a knight would only wear for two specific purposes: a battle or a duel. A dark sense of foreboding fell over Reuben.
“Good day, Sir,” Isenbard said and regarded Reuben through narrowed eyes. “I have business with you.”
The Duel
“What business can you have with me, Sir?” Reuben asked warily.
“You do not know?”
“No, indeed, Sir.”
Isenbard's narrow mouth twitched. “Why, you can actually be polite. What a surprise. Don’t worry—I shall enlighten you soon enough. Are you finished with your inspection? I wouldn't want to interrupt you.”
“Inspection?” Reuben’s face hardened. The old knight knew. “I don't know what you mean, Sir.”
“Of course you don't.”
Reuben flexed his fingers. He knew there was something coming. Better to cut right to the chase.
“I repeat, what do you want, Sir?” his voice laced with threat.
Isenbard raised an eyebrow. “To see how practiced you are with a blade, of course.”
“Indeed?” Reuben's hand slowly slid down towards the hilt of his sword, concealed under the cloak. “What makes you think I'm practiced at all? I am nothing but a simple merchant.”