The proud, stupid old fool! In horror, Ayla stared at the big, gradually darkening bruise on the side of Isenbard's head. How he had managed to keep himself upright at all with that injury was a complete mystery to her. Still more astonishingly, he had managed to keep from falling unconscious through almost half of the battle. Ayla was sure that he had received that bruise from the blow to the head she had witnessed. And still he had fought on and on and on.

Now, however, the rest of his body had certainly caught up with his head.

“Don't die on me, do you hear me?” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “You stubborn, old stone-face, don't you die on me!”

“But Milady,” Dilli dared to whisper, “he's just got a bruise. He's not even wounded. Why do you think he would die?”

Ayla simply shook her head in despair. She didn't feel like explaining right now. But she knew. She knew all too well that from such a blow as Isenbard had received, a man could slip into a deep sleep from which he would never wake again. There would be no blood, no screams—only an endless, terrible silence, and then death.

Isenbard was in a dark hell of his own mind now, and only the Lord's grace could release him from that prison.

“Milady?”

Abruptly, Ayla looked up from the stretcher on which Isenbard was lying. She hadn't realized how far they had come. Their little party—she, Dilli, and two villagers who were carrying the stretcher—had reached the outer castle gates, and the guard was looking at her in concern.

“Milady? Shall I open the gates?”

“Of course! Can't you see who this is? We need to get into the keep, now!”

The guard's eyes strayed to the face of the man on the stretcher and he blanched. “God have mercy on us,” he muttered and quickly unlocked the side gate. “Through here, Milady, that's quicker.”

Ayla nodded thankfully at the man and stepped first through the side gate.

It seemed to take them forever to reach the second gate. On their way up, people crowded around them and blocked their way, badgering Ayla with questions. Women were wailing at the sight of Sir Isenbard on the stretcher, and the men looked grimmer than Ayla had ever seen them.

He was their hope, she realized with dismay. And now he's fading away. She guessed she had known it all along, but it was hard to accept nevertheless. Without her only real knight, she was lost.

Don't give up, she chastised herself. He won a great victory today. He might wake up at any moment. Don't make your life more sinister than it is.

It was sinister enough already.

Ayla tried to be patient with the people who surrounded her, tried to assuage their fears and give them confidence. Inside though, she was screaming for them to get out of the way.

Finally, she reached the second gate.

“Don't let anybody into the keep who has no business there,” she ordered the guard. “I'll be busy enough the next few hours.”

He bowed respectfully. “As you wish, Milady.”

At the door to the keep, she met Burchard. His dark frown would have robbed her of her last bit of confidence if she hadn't known that he always looked like this.

“How is he?” the steward asked without bothering with social niceties.

“Not good,” she answered, and he nodded.

“Where shall we bring him, Milady?” one of the villagers asked. “From what the others said, every free room in the keep is already filled with two or three wounded men.”

Ayla thought for a moment, then gestured for them to follow. “Come with me.” She led them up the stairs and to a door she knew very well by now. The door to the only room that didn't have more than one invalid in it at the moment. Raising her hand, she knocked.

*~*~**~*~*

Reuben's eyes flew to the door when he heard the gentle knock on the oak wood. The footsteps outside had sounded like those of heavy men, but the knock... Could he dare to hope that she was alive and well?

“It's all right,” he heard a familiar, sweet voice from outside. “He's probably asleep. Come in, but be quiet. He needs his sleep.”

Reuben closed his eyes in an ecstasy of relief. She was alive and well! And more importantly, she was still able to give orders to others. That could only mean that she was no prisoner of another, but still mistress of her own castle. The day was won!

And he hadn't been fighting.

Well, there would always be another day...

The door was opened and he pressed his eyes shut more tightly, not sure he had the strength to look at her yet. He heard feet shuffling as they carried something into the room. His nostrils flared as he caught the metallic scent of blood. No, they weren't carrying something into the room. It was someone. Someone bleeding.

“Where should we put him?” a man asked. “There's no space. And we need space for two people, if possible. We still have to put the fellow with the head wound somewhere, and all the other rooms are full.”

“Burchard, can you help me drag Reuben's bed over to the window?” she asked. “That will give us enough space.”

So it wasn't the steward who was hurt. That made sense. Though a beast of a man, he didn't look like a trained fighter. But who then? Reuben could clearly hear the anguish in Ayla's voice. He felt a sudden stab of envy for whoever could excite such feelings in her. He longed to look, but he also wanted to listen. So he kept his eyes closed for now.

Strong arms gripped the posts of his bedstead and shoved. Soon he was beside the window and could feel a cool breeze on his face. It was quite comforting, reminiscent of Ayla's cool, soothing touch—though nowhere near as exciting.

“Out,” Ayla commanded everybody when they had finished moving things around. “I need to look after him, and I need to concentrate.”

“Milady,” Burchard's deep voice growled, “we should discuss our plans. We are in serious trouble without...”

“Later, Burchard! Now, everybody, out! I won't repeat myself again.”

They left, albeit grumbling, in Burchard's case.

For a minute or two, Reuben heard nothing but quiet steps, the clinking of metal, and the swishing of cloth. Opening his eyes a fraction, he risked a look. Ayla was standing at the opposite end of the room, bent over a man in armor. From where he lay, Reuben couldn't see the man's face. Ayla began to turn, and quickly Reuben closed his eyes again.

Once more, clinking and swishing.

And then, Reuben heard something much worse: one quiet, heart-breaking sob.

Ayla was crying.

Reuben had to use all his strength to stay still. The need to get up and go to her, comfort her, was so strong that he thought it might even have overcome the weakness of the fever. But he stayed where he was, listening closely.

Not long after, Ayla left the room, and Reuben opened his eyes. There were two other beds in the room. On the first lay a soldier with a blood-soaked bandage around his head. On the other bed in the room lay a knight. His heart suddenly constricting with fear, Reuben stared into the limp, gray-bearded face of Sir Isenbard. Her last protector.

*~*~**~*~*

Not wanting to walk into the arms of the many curious people still waiting out front, Ayla left the keep through the back exit. She had done all that was in her power for Isenbard. All that she could now do was wait and see what would happen. Preferably in some quiet place where people wouldn't be pestering her with questions. Questions would only lead her to think of what might happen next. And any thoughts of what might happen next would make her cry.

As she stepped out into the back courtyard, Ayla saw a little figure sitting in the dirt, playing with two dolls. The figure seemed familiar, somehow. She blinked, for a moment forgetting her distress.

“Is it you?” she asked.

Farmer Gelther's daughter turned her head, and a broad grin appeared on her face as she recognized the approaching adult.

“Lady Ayla!”

The little girl sprang up, ran up to her, and threw herself at Ayla with such force as to almost make her topple over.

“Hey there! I'm glad to see you too,” she laughed. “Though I have to admit, I don't even know your name. I've only been introduced to your doll, Agnes.”

“Lady Agnes,” the girl corrected her admonishingly, proudly holding up her new doll in the fine silk dress.

Ayla nodded gravely. “Of course. Where have I left my manners—Lady Agnes. I humbly beg your pardon. And what is your name, if I may ask?”

“Fye. My name is Fye. And you have to call her 'Milady'. That's what you call a lady, you know, when you're talking to her.”

“Certainly.” Ayla inclined her head towards the doll. “Once again, my most sincere apologies, Milady. It won't happen again.”

“Thank you, Milady.” Fye made what was probably supposed to be a curtsey and grinned up at Ayla. “Lady Agnes is very pleased. And she knows you're a lady too, so she won't have you whipped for your dis... your discussy...”

“Discourtesy?”

“That's it!”

“Well, I'm very relieved,” Ayla said. She pointed at the other doll. “And who is Lady Agnes' companion? I don't believe I have seen him before.”

“No, you haven't. That's the knight who has come to rescue Lady Agnes from the evil man who wants to steal her castle.” The girl pointed towards a pile of dirt in the middle of the yard. “It's over there.”

“I can see why she wouldn't want to lose such a magnificent fortress.” Ayla had to work hard to keep the smile off her face.

“By the way, have you brought your knights up to scratch yet?” the girl inquired.

Ayla knelt down beside her. For some reason, thinking of Isenbard just now did not make her want to cry in desperation. How could it be that she couldn't talk to Burchard about the bleak prospects facing them, couldn't even think about it herself, but she could talk about them to this imp of a girl?

“Not quite,” she admitted. “My only real knight has just been knocked out.”

“Silly of him,” Fye commented. “He should have been quicker.”

“Yes, he should. But he's a stubborn old ox. Never knew when it was time to retreat instead of attack.”

“Oh, he's old, is he?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Fye frowned. “Couldn't you get any young ones?”

“They're in rather short supply.”

“Rubbish. You see, Lady Agnes had no problem getting Sir Reuben here.” Fye held up her self-made knight doll.

Ayla nearly choked. “Sir who?”

“Sir Reuben. I named him after that man that's lying in that room up in the castle, the one you brought in a couple of days back. He looks like a real knight, strong and handsome.”

Ayla didn't really know what to say to that, so she didn't say anything. She had enough difficulty with keeping her face from catching fire.

“Why are you blushing?” Fye inquired, obviously interested in the strange adult reaction.

“Um... it's nothing, really. But I have to disappoint you. Reuben is no knight. He's just a merchant.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“That's odd.”

“Why should that be odd?”

“He was yelling for people to bring him a sword and a horse earlier,” Fye said, frowning. “I heard him, shouting from up there, yelling for people to bring him a sword and horse.” And she pointed up to Reuben's window.

“Yes, of course he was.” Ayla shook her head, bemused. The things children dreamed up when they played... She leaned closer to inspect the tattered Sir Reuben in Fye's hand, made out of strips of cloth and rusted metal. “He probably really needs them to defend Lady Agnes.”

“Yes, he does.” Fye nodded. “And do you know why he wants to defend her so badly?”

Ayla leaned even closer and whispered conspiratorially: “No, I don't. How did she ever manage to get such an ardent defender?”

Fye whispered, as if sharing a great secret: “He's in love with her.”

“Oh.” Ayla blushed again and inwardly slapped herself. Where did she pick stuff like that up? she asked herself. She can't be older than four years!

“It's not surprising, really,” Fye said with a shrug. “She's very beautiful.” She eyed Ayla's slim figure and luscious blond hair speculatively. “You're not so bad yourself. You should be able to get some knight to fall for you, even if he won't be near as good as Sir Reuben.”

“Oh really?” Ayla rose, trying desperately to think of a diplomatic answer. “Err... that's very generous of you. Well, I'd better go now. I have... things to do. A siege to get rid of, you know.”

“Of course. You run along, Milady.”

Dismissed thus, Ayla fled the back yard.

If I get out of this alive, she told herself, I'd rather become an old maid than marry and have a child, or God forbid, several of them!

Well yes, a small voice in the back of her mind said. Unless a certain stunning gray-eyed merchant could be prevailed upon to be your groom, hmm?

Blushing even more furiously than before, she hastened her steps.