I was only checking on his health. That's all. I was only checking on his health. My hand slipped from his forehead by pure accident. That became Ayla's mantra the next morning, directly after waking up. She was more than a little disturbed by what she had done, what she had felt, when she had suddenly been so close to Reuben, and alone with him in the dark. That her dreams that night had reflected those feelings hadn't helped matters much. Just to think of them made Ayla blush.

She couldn't allow herself to think of him in that way. For God's sake, the man was a commoner, and an arrogant piece of horse manure to boot!

“Milady?”

Ayla's head jerked up. Dilli was standing in front of her, a steaming bowl of soup in her hands.

“Oh, Dilli, it's you. Why didn't you knock?”

“I did, Milady. Three times, in fact. You seemed to be... preoccupied.”

“Sorry, Dilli. I was just thinking... about the siege. Yes, that's what I was thinking about.” She eyed the bowl in Dilli's hand suspiciously. “What's that?”

“You had a tiring day, yesterday. I thought you might appreciate breakfast in bed.”

“Thanks, Dilli. That's so nice of you.”

With a smile, Ayla took the bowl from the maid and began to spoon the soup into her mouth. It was so hot that it almost burned her throat, but it helped to revive her and get her thoughts back to where they were supposed to be.

“How are things with the castle servants, Dilli?” she asked. “What do they think about this business?”

Dilli gnawed on her lower lip. “Well, everybody is anxious of course, and there's been a bit of rumbling about the rationing, when no one has even seen so much as one of Falkenstein's banners yet. But nothing serious.”

“So they...” Ayla hesitated, then plowed on in a rush: “So they don't think I'm an incompetent little girl who is dooming them all to death and destruction?”

Dilli looked truly shocked. “No, of course not, Milady! Whoever could think such a thing?”

“Err... well, never mind,” Ayla muttered and returned her attention to her soup, her face reddening.

Dilli didn't leave, eying her mistress with concern.

“Dilli?”

“Yes?”

“Did you wander through the castle last night?”

“During the night? No, Milady.”

“And any of the other maids or servants?”

“Not to my knowledge, Milady.”

“Thanks, Dilli.”

Ayla fell into silence again and continued eating. She had almost finished her meal when, from outside the castle, there came a faint sound, long and deep.

Ayla's hand froze halfway to her mouth. “Did you hear that?”

“What, Milady?”

Again, the sound rang out, louder this time, unmistakable.

“That!” Ayla shouted and sprang up, delight shining on her face.

When she looked at Dilli, the maid's features were similarly glowing with relief and happiness. Of course! Everybody in the castle knew that sound, had known it ever since they were little: the horn of Sir Isenbard.

“He has come!” Ayla cried. “Dilli, he has come! My things, quickly! I have to get down there! We haven't got a moment to lose!”

“Sir Isenbard is here,” Dilli sighed, as she helped her mistress into her clothing. “Now we are safe.”

So much for her believing I could handle things—the thought shot through Ayla's mind. But she immediately pushed it aside. There were more important things at hand than battling her own silly insecurities. They needed to get that barricade up before the Margrave's troops arrived. Plus, being busy would help get her thoughts off Reuben.

She ran towards the door, hesitating there and turning back. “Dilli?”

“Yes, Milady?”

“Go to the captain of the guards and tell him to post a man in front of the kitchen at night, will you?”

“The kitchen?” Dilli looked confused, but nodded. “As you wish, Milady.”

Ayla turned to the door again and rushed out. It couldn't have been Reuben last night. No, it couldn't have been—but better to be safe all the same.

*~*~**~*~*

Reuben lay in his room staring at the ceiling, once again. The view hadn't improved much in comparison with yesterday. A spider had expanded its web in the upper left corner a bit, and the morning light threw different shadows on the uneven stone—other than that, he supposed it looked quite the same. Yet he didn't really notice or care. His thoughts were on something completely different. Or rather somebody.

Slowly, he reached up and touched his cheek. His battle-hardened hand was almost as rough as the stubble on his face. Her touch had felt completely different. Soft, and warm, and gentle, and tender...

Tender? Aye, fat chance! She was just a crazy minx; that was all.

Get a hold of yourself, Reuben, he told himself. What's the matter with you? She probably touched you for the same reason that made her ride around with a horseshoe and a leather puppet in her saddlebags: because she's weird in the head!

Taking a bite of his black pudding, he tried in vain to think of something else. The girl was so infuriating!

Come on, whispered a little voice in the back of his mind. We know that you're not really angry at her—you're angry at yourself, for what you did last night, or rather for what you didn't do last night.

Reuben knew it was true, though he hated to admit it. Last night, he should have killed the girl. He thought she was coming to kill him, and he should have killed her first. As it turned out, he had been wrong, but that didn't change the fact that he hadn't acted when he should have. In essence, he had risked his own life to preserve another's. He hadn't done something so stupid since... since... well, not for a very long time.

Her bewitching eyes had been the problem! Bewitching in the real sense of the word, sparkling like sapphires. And that wasn't just any old metaphor. He had stolen enough sapphires to know how they sparkled. Through her eyes, he was sure, she had laid some kind of spell on him. She must have! She must really be a witch—there was no other explanation for his foolishness!

Angrily, he jumped to his feet and started pacing up and down. Dammit! If he didn't need to recuperate, he would already be on his way out of here. He should get as far away from Ayla as possible. He was furious that he couldn't leave, and even more furious that some part of him was glad he couldn't. Why should he want to stay here, where his life was in danger? It must be this castle. He hadn't been in a place like this since the old days, a place that felt comfortable and welcoming.

It is all illusion, he reminded himself. This is not and can never be your home. If the people here knew who you are, they'd hang you from the gallows in the blink of an eye!

Voices from outside his room distracted him. Shouts—a girl's voice. No, not a girl. The girl. Ayla. She sounded excited, and Reuben couldn't detect what kind of excitement: the “I just got a wonderful present”-kind or the “I knew I'd heard his voice somewhere! Hang him!”-kind. Quickly, he grabbed a big, metal candle holder from the table and positioned himself behind the door. If she had finally come to take his life, he wouldn't go down without a fight. He would give them a battle to remember!

But the voices rushed past his room.

“He has come,” Reuben heard Ayla's voice from outside. “Burchard! Get your behind down here! He has come!”

With curiosity, and also a twinge of annoyance he didn't quite understand, Reuben asked himself which “he” had managed to elicit the delight that was evident in her voice. Whoever he was, he must be someone special, for her to be bubbling over with joy like that. Perhaps her betrothed?

Reuben realized that he could easily satisfy his curiosity. His room afforded a beautiful view over most of the valley and the only path up the woody mountainside towards the castle. Before he knew it, he was standing at the window, peering down on an impressive sight.

A column of soldiers was approaching the castle from the west: twenty or thirty men at least, marching with the disciplined ease of hardened warriors. At the head rode a tall knight in a surcoat and chain mail, his banner fluttering in the wind behind him: a gray wolf, just as gray as the massive stallion the man was riding. Reuben thought it a bit odd for guests to arrive at Ayla's castle dressed in chain mail, but he had noticed the way the man held himself in his saddle. This was a man that was always ready for battle.

As the rider approached, he pulled off his helmet and put a horn to his lips. A deep tone echoed all around the valley. Cheers broke out inside the castle, and the gate opened to welcome the visitors, yet Reuben didn't notice.

He didn't notice because, even at that distance, he could see that the man was old—very old indeed. His angular features were unmoving, his skin crinkly and tough like old leather. He had to be at least sixty, maybe seventy years of age. And this was to be Ayla's husband? That could hardly be the case. Reuben knew, of course, that young girls were often married to elderly men. It was an established custom among the nobility. Nevertheless, he found the idea of Ayla having to marry such an old man simply repugnant!

Surely, she would too? The visitor must be somebody else—perhaps a family member, a favorite uncle arriving for the planned festivities, to which he had still not been invited.

Then it occurred to him the preparations he had seen might very well be for a wedding feast.

“Satan's hairy ass!” he growled. “If I only knew what's going on down there!”

From his observation point he could see Ayla running out of the castle towards the new arrivals and for a moment, just for a moment, he thought he felt a twinge in his chest.

*~*~**~*~*

“Sir Isenbard! Sir Isenbard is here!”

The shouts echoed all around Ayla as she marched down the road towards the gray-haired rider. For a moment, Ayla felt pain at the thought that, normally, she would be riding on Eleanor to meet her father's old friend. She missed her horse terribly, and the thought of Eleanor wandering through the forest alone, or worse, in the hands of the Margrave's men, sent shivers down her back.

But the joy of her people and her own relief at seeing Sir Isenbard soon drove away those feelings. He was old, yes, but he had brought thirty men with him, and the way he held himself, stiff and unbendable like a stubborn old oak, made one thing clear: this was still very much a man to be reckoned with.

She went up to him and took the reins of his horse.

“Uncle Ironbeard,” she said, looking up at him and smiling at the use of her childhood nickname for the old man. “I'm terribly glad you're here!” She hugged his iron-clad leg, only just managing to keep her voice steady. “You don't know how glad. We need you.”

“Greetings, Milady.” Isenbard nodded. If one looked very closely, one could see the left corner of his mouth lifting slightly—Sir Isenbard's equivalent of a hug lasting three full minutes and tears of joy at a reunion of friends. “What's the matter? Your man said only to come quickly. Other than that, the fellow wasn't very coherent. You should get a man with more sense.”

“That's why I sent for you, Uncle,” she said, still smiling, though she could feel her eyes beginning to water.

“Watch what you're doing, girl! No crying, you'll get my armor rusty!” Sir Isenbard growled in what was probably an affectionate way.

“We wouldn't want that now, would we?” Ayla stepped back, sadness seeping into her voice. “Seeing as you're going to need it.”

Though it hardly seemed possible, suddenly the old man's face was ten times as hard as before.

“Need my armor? What for?”

“For defending your liege lord,” Ayla said, drawing herself up to her full height and meeting Isenbard's searching gaze. “Sir Isenbard, I call upon you to fulfill your oath of fealty.”

Understanding flashed back and forth between them. Now she was no longer the girl he considered the closest thing he had to a daughter. Now she was his mistress, with her people gathering behind her, watching. And she needed him to speak.

With astounding grace for a man of his age, Isenbard slid out of the saddle. Then he knelt in the dirt before Ayla and said, in a deep voice that carried all the way up to the castle and beyond: “As I have pledged, so I hold. My sword and my life, all that I am and will ever be, is yours!”

As the people behind her cheered, Ayla smiled.

*~*~**~*~*

So he was her betrothed! Grimly, Reuben stared down at the smiling Ayla. Even up here at the castle window, he had heard every word the old knight had spoken. And she was smiling, as that grandfather pledged himself to her! What kind of woman could be happy to give herself to a man thrice her age? He probably was a powerful noble, and she lusted for men with power and influence, like all the other women he had ever known—greedy, worthless creatures! The quicker he was out of here and on the road again, the better!

Though, for some reason, he suddenly felt the urge to test his dueling skills against that stone-faced, old pervert...