Tired but satisfied, Ayla left Reuben's quarters an hour later. She was fairly sure she had prevented any festering. Just before she left, she had drilled it into him again to move as little as possible. But she knew he wouldn't be able to anyway. Any movement would still cause enough pain to have him writhing on the floor. He would have to stay where he was, and he would get better.

The question was: Why did that knowledge fill her with such overwhelming relief?

Shaking her head, she pushed Reuben to the back of her mind, where he belonged. Crossing the entry hall, she stepped out of the keep and saw Isenbard already waiting at the gates of the inner wall ring, his stallion beside him.

He nodded to her and pointed down towards the bridge, raising an eyebrow a fraction of an inch. This had always been his way: never waste a word you might need later.

“Yes, we're going,” she said.

He climbed his horse. Ayla didn't waste time calling for another horse to be saddled. She felt too sad about the loss of Eleanor to be riding herself anyway. “Could you give me a lift, Uncle?”

He held out a gauntleted hand. She took it and swung herself into the saddle in front of him. He spurred his horse and they galloped out of the gate and down the mountain path. Ayla held on tightly to the arms clasped around her waist so as not to fall off the gigantic animal. She wasn't used to riding a horse this big and powerful.

“Are your men settled in?” she asked, breathlessly.

“Yes.”

“And Burchard told you everything?”

“Everything about the feud, Milady.”

You always had to listen very closely to Isenbard. There was always more to his short sentences than was apparent at first.

“So what didn't he tell you?”

“He wasn't very specific about this robber knight, Milady.”

“Does he matter? He's somewhere on the other side on the river, and he's just one man.”

“Every enemy matters. Tell me.”

Ayla knew it was useless to argue with Isenbard. You could just as well try and persuade a mountain to move. So she told him about the robbery—except the details about where the knight had grabbed her to get her off her horse. No way was she going to admit that to her Uncle Ironbeard! He listened with the intensity of a man who knew how to be silent. However, while paying close attention, he didn't seem very interested in the story—not until she mentioned the knight's red attire.

Immediately, she could feel him stiffen behind her.

“Red?” he asked sharply. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, absolutely. Blood-red. Why do you ask?”

“Not that one,” she heard him mutter under his breath. “Lord, let it be someone else.”

“Uncle?” She tried to twist around to look at his face.

“Sit still, girl! We're galloping down a mountain! Do you want to fall off and break your neck?”

“Sorry!” she whispered, turning to face the path again. “Uncle, what's the matter?”

He sighed. “I guess you wouldn't know, you've never been to a tournament. Red isn't a color that is used in coats of arms within the Holy Roman Empire, generally. It's only used abroad, for example in England. Did the knight sound foreign to you?”

“I don't think so.” Ayla's reply was hesitant. “But then, I've never met an Englishman. He didn't sound foreign to me.”

Isenbard was silent.

“So what do you think?” she probed. “That he was English?”

“No, I don't think that.”

“Then what?”

“There is one knight I heard spoken of, shortly after I had to end my days as a tournament fighter because my bones got too old and brittle.”

She could feel him shudder even through several layers of armor. It was a moment before she could link the feeling to the probable cause. But no, that couldn't be. Her Uncle Ironbeard frightened?

“Mind you, I only heard rumors. But what I did hear... Let's just say I'd rather be facing a hundred Englishmen than that devil of a knight on his own. If it truly was he that robbed you, you're lucky to have got away with your life.”

Ayla frowned. The knight had been arrogant and rude, he'd even threatened her, but somehow, looking back, she didn't believe he would actually have hurt her. Bound her to a tree and made fun of her, yes, but not hurt her.

“He didn't hurt me,” she felt it incumbent upon her to point out, “and he had ample opportunity.”

“Hmm. Well, perhaps it was not the one I have in mind. Let's pray to God it isn't, and that if it is, he's far, far away by now from you and your castle.”

*~*~**~*~*

As soon as Ayla was out of the room, Reuben jumped up and went over to the chest in which he had stored his remaining hoard from his raid on the kitchen last night. He wasn't really that hungry yet, but Ayla had told him that he had to stay in bed, so he naturally wanted to stretch his legs. He snorted as he tore into a chicken leg. Trying to give him orders! The girl had some nerve.

After he had eaten all he could and jogged a few times up and down the room just for the fun of it, he went to the window. Strange—it hadn't been all that warm half an hour ago, but now he had started sweating and felt the need to feel a cool breeze on his face. Leaning out the window, he breathed in deeply, and then let his eyes wander over the beautiful valley.

The first thing he saw was Ayla, clutched tightly in the arms of the old gray-beard, riding down the mountain. Beautiful valley his ass! It shouldn't surprise him, after what he'd heard from her own lips, but it still disgusted and enraged him just to look at the two of them. Suddenly, he felt dizzy. Wiping sweat off his face, he stepped back from the window and sat on his bedstead, staring angrily at the wall opposite him.

*~*~**~*~*

Riding on Isenbard's powerful gray warhorse, Ayla and her vassal reached the bridge within a couple of minutes. He slid off the horse's back and then, as he had done ever since she was five years old, held out his arms to help her down. And she, as she'd done since she'd been five years old, slid down the other side.

He made no comment but turned towards the bridge. His eyes widened. “What was it you said you were trying to build here?” he asked.

“A barricade,” Ayla told him.

“Well.” Scrutinizing the disorderly heap of wood in front of him, he scratched his beard. “I can see why you sent for me.”

“Since when have you been learned in sarcasm, Uncle Ironbeard?”

“I was being perfectly serious.”

Still, a few men were hopelessly trying to arrange the logs in a more barricading order. When they spotted Sir Isenbard, they stopped what they were doing, and Bardo the carpenter came hurrying over to them.

“Sir Isenbard! The Lord be praised, I heard you had come!” He made a bow which, Ayla noticed, was even deeper than the ones he had made to her. It didn't surprise her, really. She would have to gain a lot more experience and self-confidence before she could command people's respect with as much ease as the old Sir Isenbard.

“What do you think?” she asked, pointing to the bridge. “How long will it take to raise a barricade?”

“Give me a day and it shall be done,” the old knight responded, and then, without further ado, he proceeded to issue orders to the surrounding people at lightning speed, demanding more men, wood, nails, shovels, and a host of other things. After only ten minutes, they had dug a hole deep enough for the first pole to be planted in the damp earth.

“Good!” Sir Isenbard shouted, marching through the lines of sweating workers. “But you can do better! You can be quicker! Your families’ lives are on the line here! You there, yes you, the scrawny fellow! Get me ropes! And hides, as many as you can lay your hands on!”

Ayla watched the proceedings, conflicting feelings raging in her. On the one hand, she was terribly anxious for her friends and family. They were all in mortal danger and their lives depended on what arose out of the earth in front of her eyes. On the other, she was also excited. Never had she been to any big tournament, or even a city, or any of the exciting places the minstrels sang of. She had never even ventured beyond the borders of her father's land. Now the outside world would come to her bearing a bloody sword, and a battle the likes of which she had only heard of in tales would be fought on her very doorstep.

“Milady! Sir Isenbard! Look out!”

The shout of the watchman on the other side of the river pulled her abruptly from her thoughts. Her head snapped up, just in time to see a dark figure darting between the trees on the edge of the forest beyond the river.

“Get down!”

Not until Sir Isenbard rammed into her, knocking her to the ground, did Ayla realize that his shouted warning had been meant for her.

“Use your senses, girl,” the knight growled, in his anxiety forgetting her proper title. “That's an enemy scout! He might have bow and arrow!”

“So what?” she protested, struggling to get free. But the heavy, chain mail-clad figure of the old knight pressed her firmly to the ground. “The Margrave wants to marry me, not murder me! Get off me, Isenbard!”

“He might prefer to have you as his wife—that would give his conquest a semblance of legality. However, that doesn't mean he won't consider your head on a platter a viable alternative. Do you think that's a risk I'm willing to take?”

That was about the longest speech Ayla had heard him make in years. She stopped struggling. Only when they heard the lookout shouting, “He's turned around! He's heading into the forest!” did Isenbard roll off her and get to his feet. He offered her his hand to help her up.

“Oh sure,” she mumbled. “First knock me down, then help me up. Very courtly manners, indeed.”

She took a look at her dress and almost groaned. This morning, she had put on one of her finest dresses, a white silk with gold trimmings. Now, it was covered with muddy brown stains.

“Oh no! Another dress ruined! Why did you do this, Isenbard?”

Isenbard snorted. “Because I had rather that your dress be stained brown than red.”

Ayla rolled her eyes. “Men! Have you any idea how long it is going to take to get rid of those stains?”

The sound of a horn came from the eastern end of the valley. Everyone looked that way and saw above them, in the distance, where the forest path left the valley, a standard rising above the treetops. A standard in silver and black: the colors of Falkenstein.

“No I don't,” Isenbard said in a quiet voice. “And if you don't mind, you'll have to wait until later to tell me.” Running towards the half-finished barricade, he shouted: “What are you staring at, you wooden-headed louts? Get working! Get working again or I'll have the skin off your backs!”

From the midst of the men, Isenbard threw Ayla one single look and nodded towards the castle. She understood, and for once, she was in no mood to argue.

She ran.

The horns of Falkenstein echoed behind her.

*~*~**~*~*

In his dark mood, Reuben again heard horns blowing. What was this? The first contingent of wedding guests arriving? Though he didn't particularly want to know how disgusting the wedding guests were sure to be, considering the nature of the groom, he got up and walked to the window. Morbid curiosity be damned.

At first, he didn't know what he was seeing. The scene in the valley had totally changed. Oh, there were still birds singing in the trees, the sun glittering on the river water. But there was an anxiety and tension in the air he hadn't felt before. And in the middle of it all was the gray-bearded knight, shouting and waving his arms about as if the men he was commanding were building a bulwark for a desperate final battle instead of erecting tents for a wedding feast.

Then, Reuben's gaze focused on what he was seeing and his eyes widened. He had seen the kind of thing they were building before. Many times. And it was no tent for a feast—unless it be a feast of blood.

His eyes snapped up to where the sound of the horn had come from. And there they were, men in glinting armor, with sharp swords and hard faces. There it was, the standard of a mighty noble about to wage war.

“Satan's hairy ass!” he breathed. “What's happening here?”