Ha! Reuben was immensely pleased with himself. Leisurely, he flipped open his visor and took a deep breath of the sweet-smelling air. It was a really nice day. He smiled to himself as he rode along, towing the girl's horse behind him. What a robbery!

The girl had really been funny, especially the way she had stared accusingly up at him after he had plucked her off her horse, as if she expected him to ravish her at any moment. She had honestly thought he had let his hands wander on purpose!

He chuckled lightly. As if a thin little slip of a girl, or any woman for that matter, could interest him! Women only cost money, caused trouble, and possessed no more brains or bravery than a rabbit.

Though now that he thought about it... He had to admit that the girl hadn't seemed frightened when he had revealed his intentions, not even when he had held the sword to her throat. She seemed to have more guts than the usual specimen of her sex.

On the other hand, she seemed underdeveloped in the brain department. Not being afraid when a sword was pressed against her throat was a pretty good indication of that.

All the girl seemed to have felt was anger. Reuben had robbed enough people to appreciate the unique reaction. It got a bit tedious over the years when everybody just handed you their money without protest. The girl had been fun. Her accusing expression had almost made him want to slap her on the rear, just to see if she would try to stab or strangle him.

He smiled to himself again, for no particular reason. Yes, that would have been amusing. And she had actually had the gall to threaten him with death! As if she would ever be in a position to have his life in her hands.

At a place where the path widened a little bit, he stopped and went to the girl's horse. This was always the part of being a robber knight he enjoyed the most: reaping his rewards. Appreciatively, he felt the bulging saddlebags and reached for the clasp.

“So,” he muttered to himself, “let's see what riches or delicacies this fine lady has stored in her saddlebags.”

He opened the first saddlebag, reached inside, and felt something heavy and lumpy. Ah, this was sure to be a purse, full of gold! He pulled it out and blinked at the small sack of corn he was holding in his hand.

Huh?

Was everything all right with his eyes?

Quickly, he reached into the saddlebag again and unearthed the following, in this order:

A second sack of corn

One hammer

Two little barrels filled with pickles

One rusted old horseshoe

Three dirty wooden bowls

One ugly little leather doll.

Sir Reuben stared at the leather doll for some time, although it was no very pleasing sight. She (or he, or it, it was hard to tell) had a painted face that looked like she was being pinched in the butt and didn't like it.

What kind of girl would be riding around the woods with this in her saddlebags? Reuben was reconsidering his assessment of the wench. Maybe he should consider himself fortunate to have got away from her with his life. He had heard that witches used dolls in their evil ceremonies. And who but a witch or a madwoman would be riding through the forest with such a load? Who knew what she was capable of?

Best to get as far away from her as possible, as fast as possible. Closing his visor, he sprang back into the saddle and brought his horse to a brisk trot that the animal could keep up over long distances.

His thoughts kept drifting back to the girl. Was she after him now, bent on exacting revenge? Well, if she was, he would face her as bravely as he had faced anything in the past. Mad or not mad, witch or no witch, he was not someone to be beaten by a girl!

Reuben’s musings were interrupted when he heard noises. However, they didn't come from behind, they came from further up the path. And they weren't the kind of noises he expected, either. He heard the sound of marching feet.

He didn't slow down or try to hide, though. He never slowed down for anybody. Ever.

The noise kept getting louder and louder. After a few minutes, Reuben entered a large, circular clearing. A lesser man might have waited, might have stayed on the easily defensible forest path. But he was not one to be deterred from his path by anything. Besides, why should those men be bothered by him? The clearing would only make it easier to pass them.

A contingent of armed men came into view at the other end of the clearing and spread out. As soon as they spotted Reuben, the commander gave a sign to his men. They stopped and gripped their spears and guisarmes more tightly at the sight of an approaching knight. Yet as soon as they saw that he was alone, they relaxed again.

Behind his visor, a derisive smile the men could not see flitted across Sir Reuben Rachwild's face. If they had known him, they would not have relaxed.

“Halt!” the commander shouted. “Halt in the name of the Margrave Markus von Falkenstein.”

Reuben opened his visor again to have a better view of the surroundings. Quickly, his practiced eye scanned the soldiers. Forty, perhaps fifty men. Mercenaries probably. Well-armed and, to judge from the scars, battle-hardened. Their weapons were not new, but kept sharp for immediate use. They were professionals.

This was beginning to look like fun. The day was just getting better and better.

“And tell me,” Reuben demanded, slowing down his horse but not stopping it, “why should I pay heed to any Margrave von Falkenstein?”

The commander drew his sword. “As you well know,” he growled, “Margrave von Falkenstein has declared a feud on your mistress, Lady Ayla. So if you do not want me to cut you open like a freshly-caught fish, dismount and surrender!”

“I don't know any Lady Ayla.” Reuben's voice was deadly calm, his face impassive. He did not stop his horse. “I am just passing through.”

Surprise flitted across the commander's face. “You do not serve Lady Ayla, the mistress of these lands?”

“No.”

“That may be so,” the commander granted, “but since I have only your word for it, I must treat you as I would any of Lady Ayla's men.”

“Meaning?” Reuben demanded, and there was a note of steel in his voice now.

“Meaning I must ask you to surrender your horses, money, armor, and weapons to me, and you will have to come along with me to the Margrave's camp.”

Reuben's answer came clearly and calmly.

“No.”

“You do not have any choice here,” the commander persisted. “I must insist.”

With one hand, Reuben reached for his sword, with the other for his shield. “Then I will resist. I will not surrender to lowly mercenaries such as you. Not while I still have a sword-arm attached to my body!”

“Don't be a fool,” the commander growled. “I've got four dozen men! It will be your death.”

“Maybe.” Reuben shrugged and slammed down his visor. “But you see, the thing is: I do not fear death!”

*~*~**~*~*

Eleanor was gone.

The thought would have moved Ayla to tears. Would have—if she hadn't been fuming with anger. She had been robbed! Robbed on her own lands!

Eleanor, her dear friend. Her childhood companion. The sweet thing she had watched growing up from a filly to a beautiful mare.

And the impudence of the man! He had dared to lay his filthy hands on her! And now she was alone in the forest, on foot, with no help anywhere in sight, and Falkenstein's men could be lurking behind the next bend in the path, for all she knew. She forced herself not to let her thoughts drift in that direction. It would take her to the feeling that lay behind her anger, a feeling that would make her feet unsteady and fill her head with horrible images.

It took Ayla less time to reach help than she had expected. After only ten minutes or so, she heard the sound of pine-needles being crushed under heavy boots approaching. Peeking around a tree, she saw Burchard, followed by a few castle guards, marching up the forest path towards her.

Relief flooded through her at seeing the wrinkled face of the old steward. He was marching hurriedly, his face set like that of a grumpy old bulldog determined not to give up the scent. They had come after her!

She jumped out from between the trees and ran toward them. “Burchard! God, am I happy to see you!”

She threw her arms around him and hugged him fiercely. She didn't want to admit it to herself, but wandering through the forest alone had been scary—scarier than being robbed, in fact. While she was facing an enemy, she knew what to do. She knew that she could not back down. But alone, fearing that Falkenstein's soldiers might appear at any moment, and without a horse or other means to escape them, she had felt terribly vulnerable. It was comforting to have her arms around the solid bulk of her father's old friend.

Burchard gripped her shoulders and pushed her away. “Just a minute! What is this? Why are you walking? Where is your horse? And why did you hug me?”

“I'm walking because I don't have my horse. And I don't have it because it was stolen by some crimson-clad fiend who calls himself a knight,” she said, choosing to ignore the last question.

“Stolen? By a robber knight?” The usual scowl on his face deepened. “Did he threaten you? Did he hurt you, Milady? I...”

“No,” she hurriedly assured him. “I'm perfectly fine. He just took my money and my horse, that's all.”

Not that that hadn't been enough. Just the thought of having lost Eleanor made her want to strangle the villain!

“Are you sure?” Burchard asked, disbelieving. “And the knight was wearing red?”

“Red like the devil,” she confirmed. “Why do you ask? Do you know something I don't?”

He shook his head, but his eyes remained troubled.

“You know who this red knight might be, don't you?” Ayla asked with an eagerness that surprised herself.

Burchard scrutinized her closely, then said: “I have an idea. But if I'm right, it's all the more important to get out of the forest and back over the river as quickly as possible.”

Ayla didn't much like the sound of that. Now that she had reinforcements, her first instinct was to go after the villainous knight and retrieve what was rightfully hers.

But to do so would have been foolish: he had horses, they didn't. And even if they managed to catch up to him, they were on a narrow forest path, wide enough for one man to defend alone, and he was standing on higher ground. Yes, he probably was no great fighter, cowardly thief that he was, but was she willing to risk her men's lives on that chance?

Taking a deep breath, she said: “Yes, Burchard, you're right. Let's h—”

The ring of metal on metal interrupted her. Cocking her head, she turned to face up the path that led out of the valley again.

“What was that?” she asked.

“I didn't hear anything, Milady.”

“That's because you've got hair growing in your ears, Burchard. Psst! Be quiet!”

Everybody went still, and in the ensuing silence, they could hear the clash of metal upon metal in the distance, intensifying—yet not because it drew nearer, but because the blows became ever mightier and faster.

“Come on!” Ayla gestured up the path and had already started on her way back when Burchard grabbed her by the arm.

“Have you gone insane?” he exclaimed. “That's too dangerous!”

“I know it's too dangerous! That's why we're going to help whoever is fighting there.”

“I meant too dangerous for you!”

“Well, I didn't.”

Burchard rolled his eyes. “Why doesn't that surprise me? Milady, how do you even know that one side of the fight deserves help?”

“Because,” she said with simple logic, “the other side is sure to be Falkenstein's men. Don't you hear it? That's more than two weapons up there. Who but him would dare to bring a battalion of soldiers onto my land?”

Burchard's grip only hardened. “And the prospect of walking up to a battalion of Falkenstein's soldiers doesn't worry you?” he demanded.

“Not really, no,” she said, grinning grimly. “I will have my brave guards with me.”

“And what makes you think,” the steward growled, “that your brave guards won't just drag you back to the castle before allowing this foolishness?”

“Well,” she said, and nimbly slipped out of his grasp, “they'd have to catch me first.” Then she turned and ran back up the forest path. She had to help the poor souls that were fighting for their lives.

“After her!” Burchard yelled.