It was about an hour later that the door to Reuben's room swung open and Ayla staggered in, one hand covering her eyes.

“You don't mind if I sit here and contemplate our doom for a while, do you?” she asked, slumping down at the foot of his bed without waiting for a reply, and without removing her hand from her face.

“Err... no, not at all.”

“Good. Oh, and by the way, you were right. We are all going to be slaughtered.”

Reuben had spent a lot of time in female company, and had perfected the art of reading their moods and outbursts. He might be wrong, but something told him that something had transpired, something which wasn't very encouraging and promising.

“What has happened to you, Ayla?” He reached out and tried to pull her hand away from her face—in vain. He couldn't have lifted a leaf from the ground, he was so weak. Damn! “Ayla, talk to me! What happened? Did you have an encounter with the enemy?”

“Worse,” she groaned. “I just met our allies.”

Reuben relaxed, rolled his eyes, and let his hand sink back onto the bed. “So that's it. You're simply overreacting.”

“You haven't met Sir Rudolfus and Sir Waldar before, have you?”

“I must admit that I haven't had the pleasure, no.”

“Then do me a favor and don't speak of things you don't understand.”

“Come on. It can't have been that bad.”

Ayla turned around and lowered her hand. For the first time since she'd entered the room, Reuben could see her expression—and flinched at the sight.

“That bad?” he asked with trepidation.

*~*~**~*~*

Ayla watched nervously as the knight leading the first group approached. At least she hoped he was a knight. He wore no mail, preferring instead baggy robes that made him look more like a scholar than a warrior. Yet he was the only one among the men riding on a horse, so who else could he be but their lord?

About ten paces away from her, the horse came to a halt. The gangly youth on its back tried to dismount, but somehow managed to get his foot stuck in his riding gear. It took a while for him to disentangle himself.

When he had finally managed, he approached Ayla on his over-long legs and gave an awkward bow, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I... err... hear that you are having some slight difficulty with one of your neighbors, Milady, and require my assistance?”

“Slight difficulty? Yes, you could say that.” Ayla pointed across the river to the sea of enemy tents behind her. “That's my slight difficulty.”

The young man's eyes went even wider than they already had been. “Dear me. Those are a lot of tents. Why would all those people be camping in front of the bridge like that?”

“I guess it's because they want to conquer and kill us.”

“Conquer and... kill? My goodness. Have you talked to them? Asked them nicely not to?”

*~*~**~*~*

Ayla contemplated Reuben's question for a moment, remembering. Then she nodded.

“Yes,” she answered Reuben. “That bad.”

*~*~**~*~*

Sir Waldar arrived a few minutes later. Three men helped him off his horse. The poor animal seemed to be exceedingly glad to be free of the burden.

“Isenbard, you old sack full of sauerkraut!” Sir Waldar stamped towards them and slapped his paunch, a greeting he apparently considered more appropriate than a bow. Or maybe he just would have fallen over if he'd tried that. “How are ye holding up?”

“I am well, thank you,” Isenbard responded. “Greetings, Sir Waldar.”

“Greetings Sir Waldar? Greetings!” Waldar burst out laughing as if the word were the best joke he had ever heard. “Listen to him! Going on like we're at the Emperor's court.”

“We are not,” Isenbard said. “In fact, we are at the court of your liege lord, the Lady Ayla von Luntberg. I believe you have yet to pay homage.”

He indicated Ayla who stood beside him, staring at Sir Waldar with open amazement.

Waldar glanced over at her and grinned. Several of his teeth were missing. “Oh. Sorry, lass, didn't see you there.”

“You need not apologize, Sir Knight,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Not everybody draws attention as easily as you do.”

He blinked at her for a moment, then burst out laughing again. “You mean not everybody is as fat a fart as old Waldar? Well, you're right!” He slapped his enormous belly again. “When I saw you just now, I thought you were no good, but now I see you're really old Luntberg's girl. You've got spunk!”

“If I do have 'spunk', as you put it, Sir, I assure you it accumulated merely accidentally. Do you know why you have been summoned hither?”

“God's breath! Just like the old Count! He used to get all formal too when something tickled his gall bladder.”

“Kindly refrain from befouling the air with your tongue whilst on my land, Sir Waldar. Will you be so kind as to answer my question now?”

“Sure, lass, sure.” The jolly little fat man nodded. “You've got some trouble with that upstart little pisser of a Margrave and want Waldar to rush to the rescue.” He leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered: “You have absolutely nothing to worry about. It's good swordsmen you need? Well, let me tell you, I am a master of the steel!”

Ayla felt a tiny glimmer of hope. Perhaps the appearance of the man was deceiving. Perhaps he was a fierce warrior who just didn't look the part.

“At least as long as the steel comes in the form of a metal beer mug,” he added, and burst out laughing again. “Ha! Got you! That was a good one, wasn't it?”

*~*~**~*~*

Ayla seemed to consider the matter for a moment longer, and then added: “In fact, maybe even a little bit worse than that bad. Really, really, really bad.”

Reuben looked up at her. Even seen from below, as she looked down upon him, she appeared to be such a vulnerable creature. She had felt incredibly soft and small in his arms when he had plucked her from the saddle during that fateful robbery. And although she was so vulnerable, she had shown nothing but strength and bravery then, staring him down along four feet of deadly steel. Just as she showed nothing but strength and bravery now, faced by even greater danger and the incompetence of those who were sworn to protect her.

If only he were out of this bed and on his feet again, with a sword in his hand...

“Where is the enemy now?” he asked to distract himself from useless wishful thinking.

“Camping on the other side of the river, opposite the bridge and the barricade, which is, at least, finished now, thank the Lord.”

“And is it a good barricade?”

“It didn't fall apart when I knocked on it. That's all I can tell you, I'm afraid.”

“How high is it?”

“About seven feet, I think.”

“What kind of wood? How thick? With or without a guard's walkway? With or without murder holes?” The questions were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. Too late, as Ayla looked at him oddly, he realized how strange they must sound coming from a merchant.

“Why would you want to know what kind of wood it is made of, Reuben? And what in God's name is a murder hole?”

“Just something I heard,” he muttered.

She leaned forward, a concerned expression on her face, and laid a hand on his forehead. Satan's hairy ass, she thought he was rambling from the fever! Well, at least that made it unnecessary for him to come up with a clever lie. His head felt so slow and heavy, he couldn't think straight enough to lie convincingly. And with him, that meant something. He could have lied convincingly while tap-dancing on a poisonous snake.

But he couldn't just shut up now and pretend to be delirious. He needed to know more. He needed to know what kind of danger she was in. He was useless now, but he wouldn't always be. Soon he would be on his feet again, and then these accursed mercenaries would find out just whom they were dealing with.

“What does this Margrave want from you?” he asked.

Ayla's face darkened. “He wants my hand.”

“Your... hand?” For a moment, Reuben didn't understand. Then the meaning came to him, and he sucked in a sharp breath.

“He wants to force me into marriage and gain my father's lands.” Never had her face looked this pale, her eyes that much like shining blue ice. But although she was in command of herself, he saw her lower lip tremble. “Though I gather, from what his herald told me, that land is not all he hopes to gain from the union.”

Taking her hand from his forehead, she wrapped her arms around herself and looked down at the floor.

Reuben wished so much that he could take her in his arms right now, that he could shelter her as she was so obviously trying to do herself. But he didn't have the strength for it.

Anger rose in his chest. Anger the like of which he hadn't felt in a long, long time. Not since the tournament. His hand reached for his sword—but still the place at his belt was empty. He dreamed of having a blade in his hands, almost as fiercely as he dreamed of having Ayla.

She peeked down at him. He could see the moisture in her eyes, ready to spill over. Yet when her eyes fell on him, the fear in her face was replaced with curiosity.

“Why do you do that?” she asked.

“Do what?”

“Clutch your belt. You do it whenever you're angry. I've seen you do it a number of times now.”

“I'm wishing for a sword to cut off the Margrave's head,” he told her.

She stared at him for a moment, wide-eyed. Then a grin spread across her face and she started giggling. “Reuben! You're so funny!”

“That wasn't supposed to be funny,” he protested. And it hadn't been. For once, he had told her the truth—and she was laughing at it. Well, all the better. “I'd love to cut off his head. Then you wouldn't be troubled by him anymore.”

“That's sweet of you.”

She leaned forward, and before he knew what had happened, her lips brushed against his forehead. She herself didn't seem aware of what she had done. But he was. She was totally innocent. But he wasn't.

“However,” she continued, “I wouldn't want you to throw your life away for me.”

“And why do you think I wouldn't be successful?” he asked, breathless. His mind was still elsewhere—still experiencing the moment when her lips had touched his forehead. Did he dare call it a kiss?

She giggled again. “Reuben, you, swinging a sword? Please! You look strong enough, but you're no fighter. You're too good a merchant.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You think I'm such a good merchant, do you?”

“Well...” She blushed. “You could make me give you pretty much anything for free, just for one of those cheeky smiles of yours.”

This immediately brought said cheeky smile to Reuben's face, more radiant than ever before. “Really? Anything?”

“If you're going to ask for honey wine, forget it. You're not getting any.”

That wasn't what had been on Reuben's mind. But it was probably better to let her think so and keep his real wishes to himself—for a while. Unless he was very much mistaken, she was just starting to like him. Definitely not the right moment to provoke her into slapping his face.