“You will regret this. The Margrave has ways of persuading people. The first of his men will be arriving in a few days. More will follow. Then you will see what you have done!”

Those had been the herald's last words before he had departed. And, indeed, Ayla was already regretting her choice. Not for herself, no. Never for herself. She would rather have died than become the wife of a man like Falkenstein.

Most women would have jumped at the chance to marry the Margrave: by all accounts, he was young, quite handsome, and the best jouster between Cologne and Magdeburg. But he was also power-hungry, fanatical, and cruel, continuously extending his dominion by waging war on his neighbors.

As he now planned to wage war on her.

No, if it was only herself she had to think about, the herald's words wouldn't have given her a moment's concern. But she had to think of much more.

Slowly, Ayla walked to the window and thrust it open. From the main hall of Luntberg Castle, one had a wonderful view over the Lunt Valley: a peaceful dale, divided by a river spanned by a single picturesque bridge. The water glittered in the morning sunlight, and even up here, high up on the Luntberg, she thought she could hear the birds singing in the trees.

Soon, the sight from up here would not be so peaceful anymore. Soon, there would be soldiers marching up the valley, burning and looting as they went. All because she, in a moment of anger, had put her own needs over those of her people.

If she agreed to marry the Margrave von Falkenstein, however, maybe things would be different. Maybe she could...

Ayla felt something wet on her cheek. When she reached up and touched it, she realized that it was a tear.

“Milady?”

Quickly, she wiped the tears away with her sleeve and turned to see Burchard, her father's old steward, who had been waiting at the door during her talk with the herald and had just now entered the hall. When he saw her expression, his own darkened, and he was in front of her with five quick steps. “Milady, you aren't honestly thinking of giving in to that blaggard?”

“But what will happen if I don't?” she said, and was angry at herself because her voice sounded like a sniffle. “The Margrave will wage war on us, and the people will have to suffer for my selfishness.”

“Stop trying to be a martyr,” Burchard growled, knitting his eyebrows as only Burchard could. He had very impressive bushy, black eyebrows, just perfect for knitting. “Use your head for just one minute, will you? If you think the people will suffer at the hands of the Margrave von Falkenstein because of a few weeks of feuding, how much more do you think they'll suffer from a few decades of his rule? Do you really want to subject your people to that? Are you such a coward, little girl?”

Ayla immediately stopped crying and turned red with anger—which was, as she later admitted to herself, probably exactly what the old steward had been aiming to achieve. It was a terrible affliction, having someone as a servant who had known you right from the cradle.

“I'm not a little girl,” she snapped.

“Aren't you?” Burchard raised one of his eyebrows. When he raised his eyebrows, it was just as impressive as when he knit them. His wrinkled forehead and big, black beard complemented the effect. “At the moment, you seem to be acting like one. On the other hand, I saw a young woman in here a couple of minutes ago. A young woman who wasn't afraid to stand up for herself and her people to the impudent demands of a man twice her age with a reputation that would make a battle-hardened warrior blanch. Maybe she's still around.”

Ayla took a deep breath, stood straight, and nodded. “She is.”

“Good,” Burchard said. “Because we desperately need her right now.” He went to one knee. “What are Milady's orders?”

Thoughts racing, Ayla turned to the window again. She could not hope to stand a chance against the Margrave von Falkenstein on equal ground. The man was an experienced fighter, commander, and conqueror. Since her father had been taken ill, the soldiers in Luntberg Castle had been without a leader. Oh, Ayla could direct them to go to this village, protect that place from brigands, but lead them into battle? No.

What they needed was an experienced military leader who was still young and strong enough to be a good fighter. Someone who could make people believe they stood a fighting chance. Unfortunately, no such person was available. So Ayla would just have to think of something else.

She had to protect her people.

All her people.

“Gather all the men who can ride,” she said, still staring out of the window, down into the valley. “They don't have to be soldiers, they just have to know how to ride quickly. Also, gather all the wood you can find, and get me the carpenter from the village.”

Burchard stood up, his old eyes gleaming. “You have a plan, Milady?”

“Would I be giving you orders if I hadn't?”

“No, Milady.”

“Well, what are you waiting for? Get to work!”

Burchard nodded and headed for the door. He was just about to leave the hall when he turned and asked: “And what should I do with all these things and men, when I have them, Milady? Where shall I bring them?”

“You will bring them to the bridge,” Ayla said, also heading for the door. “And as for what to do, we'll get to that once we've arrived. I'm coming with you. Tell them to saddle Eleanor.”

*~*~**~*~*

Her horse was waiting for her when she reached the courtyard. Burchard might be annoying sometimes, but he was also good at his job. None of her servants bothered to help her into the saddle. They all had known her almost as long as the steward.

Ayla took a moment to stroke Eleanor's glossy brown coat.

“How have you been, my girl?” she asked in a soft voice.

Eleanor whinnied, leaning into Ayla's touch.

Ayla laughed softly and hugged the mare around the neck. “Yes, I love you too. But we haven't got time for that now.”

The mare regarded her with large, intelligent, brown eyes, seeming to ask why exactly they didn't have time for a bit of tender loving care.

“We have to hurry. People are in danger, and we have to help.” With a last pat on Eleanor's side, Ayla swung herself into the saddle. “Run my girl! Run!”

She gently pressed her boots into the horse's sides. Eleanor understood. She had never needed more than a small indication to know exactly what Ayla wanted. Her hoofs turning into a blur, she galloped through the first set of castle gates and along the steep path that snaked down the side of the mountain towards the larger outer gate with its iron portcullis.

Luntberg Castle truly was an impressive bulwark. Built in Ayla's father's youth, when the land had still been free of those accursed robber knights and a series of rich harvests had filled her father's coffers with enough money for this project, it was a massive complex of impenetrable stone walls and high pinnacles. Two walls, the outer lower than the inner one, surrounded the central keep where Count Luntberg and his only daughter lived. Within the first courtyard, there were only the most essential buildings: the armory, the bakery, and a well that led down deep into the mountain, supplying the castle with fresh water.

The second courtyard held a few more buildings, but was essentially there for the purpose of keeping any enemy forces far away from the central keep. Count Thomas von Luntberg, in his youth a man of both foresight and vigor, had built this stronghold on the top of the mountain that bore his name to provide a safe haven for himself and his family if ever there came a time when the clouds of war gathered on the horizon.

Now, it seemed, the castle walls were all that stood between them and certain doom. Suddenly, they did not seem as impenetrable as Ayla had always thought them to be.

No, she chastised herself, slowing down her horse as she approached the outer gate. What about the village? Will I let the people there be driven out of their homes? I will not act like a coward and retreat into my stronghold, leaving them to face the consequences of my actions. I will meet our enemy head on!

She greeted the man on watch at the gate, who bowed in return.

“When I've gone,” she said, “close the gate behind me and let the portcullis down. The time for open doors has passed.”

He swallowed. “Then is it true what they are saying, Milady? Has the Margrave declared a feud?”

“He has,” was her only answer. Then she urged her horse out of the gate and down the mountain path towards the valley.

*~*~**~*~*

When she reached the bridge, Burchard had already assembled a great number of men and horses. Stacks of wood were piled against the stone bridge's railing.

Burchard greeted her with a bow. “Now are you going to tell me what all this wood is for?” he asked.

“Simple.” Ayla pointed over the massive bridge spanning the river in two graceful arches to the eastern, lower parts of the valley. “Beyond the bridge, there are only scattered farms. Falkenstein's land lies to the east, beyond the river. The waters flow fast and strong; there are no other crossings for dozens of miles in either direction.” She fixed her steward with an iron stare. “We are going to head the Margrave von Falkenstein off and erect our first line of defense here—at the bridge.”

“What?” The old steward's eyes bulged. “You are intending to face him before he reaches the castle? Milady, when I urged you not to give up hope, I didn't mean for you to give up your strongest defensive position instead! This is madness!”

“Is it madness to want to stop the Margrave before he reaches the village?” she asked, looking around. All the men Burchard had gathered were watching intently. All men from the village.

“Your concern for your people is admirable,” Burchard managed to say through clenched teeth. “But...”

“No buts, Burchard.” She leaned closer and said under her breath so that no one else would hear: “I overheard my father and Sir Isenbard talking once about what happens when an army moves through country where only peaceful peasants live. They do something called “foraging”, I believe. What does that word mean, Burchard?”

“Milady, I never...”

“What does it mean, Burchard?”

Burchard took a deep breath. “It means that the soldiers range out up to sixty miles on either side of their route, pillaging, plundering, and killing at will. Commanders don't provide food for their soldiers, so the soldiers have to get it themselves or starve. Soldiers don't like to starve.”

“I thought so.”

The steward hadn't given up yet, though. “That doesn't change the fact that your plan is insane! I must repeat that from a military standpoint...”

“Plus,” she added, fixing him with her clear blue eyes again, “we simply do not have the supplies to feed everyone in the castle over a prolonged period of time. Cut off from any supply chains, there will be hunger. Disease will spread with so many people packed so closely together. Should our stand here fail, we can always retreat into Castle Luntberg or do something different. If we lock ourselves up in the castle, we will be out of options. The Margrave will surround us, and all we can do is pray for a miracle. Do you want to risk that?”

Burchard growled something indistinguishable.

“And besides,” she said, “I kind of think I should at least try to protect my people.” She smiled at him. “Someone told me once that is what a liege lord is supposed to do.”

“Sometimes I wish you weren't so much like your father,” the old steward growled and gave her her favorite scowl.

Blushing with joy at the compliment, Ayla climbed on one of the stacks of wood and called out to the men who surrounded her: “You all heard me! You all know what to do. Now I need all those who can ride a horse and brought one with them to step forward!”

Several of the villagers and a few castle guards that Burchard had assembled stepped out of the crowd and bent their knees before her.

Ayla did a quick count. “One, two, three, four, five, six... hm, yes, enough. There are seven farms on the eastern bank of the river, aren't there?”

The peasants nodded eagerly.

“We're going to have to warn them,” she declared. “It will be impossible to protect the eastern half of the valley. They are going to have to come here and live in the village for a time. Each of you,” she pointed towards the riders, “will take one of the farms, warn their owners and help them bring whatever is most precious to them back here.”

She started pointing at the men, one after another. “You will go to Walding's farm. You to Albrecht's, you to Menning's, you to Horst's, you to Otto's, you to Autgar's!”

One of the more intellectual castle guards who had apparently learned to count to seven, raised a hand. “But, Milady, we are only six. How shall we warn the last family? Shall one of us visit two farms?”

Ayla shook her head. “No. Falkenstein's forces are already on the move. Who knows, he might already have sentries posted throughout the eastern valley. With no border patrols, how are we to know? It's too dangerous for anybody to stay out there long. Besides, there's no need to. There are seven farms and,” she called her horse with a whistle and swung herself back into the saddle, “there are seven riders.”

“Milady!” If Burchard's expression had been furious before, it was nothing to what his face looked like now. “You aren't seriously considering...”

“I'm not considering anything,” she cut him off, turning her horse to face the bridge. “I'm riding to Gelther's farm.”

Burchard strode towards her, a determined look in his eyes. “But you said yourself how it was dangerous for anyone to be out there. We have no idea who or what may lie in wait!”

“Exactly—which is why I have no time to waste.” She pressed her boots into Eleanor's sides. “Run girl! Run like the wind!”

Burchard jumped forward, but too late. Before he could manage to grab the reins of her horse, she was already speeding towards the bridge.

“Milady!” he shouted. “Come back!”

Ignoring him, she raced across the bridge in full gallop. Just before she reached the other end, she looked back, shouting at the stunned crowd: “And woe betide you if I don't see a solid barricade when I return!”

Then she turned east again.

Burchard remained standing at the bridge, looking after her, worry and anger etched into his wrinkled face. Only if you looked closely could you see the tiniest hint of a grudgingly proud smile, as his eyes followed the girl riding fast towards the enemy, blond hair flying behind her.