Ayla knew from the look on Isenbard's face when he approached her that the hour of her doom had come. He stomped towards her with an expression that made a thunderstorm look like a beautiful spring morning.
She was just on her way to pay Eleanor another visit and tried to slip into the stable and bolt the door behind her, but he cut her off and planted himself firmly in her way.
“What's that I hear about a red knight in the castle?” he said, his voice deceptively low.
“Knight?” Ayla responded brightly. “What knight? There's no knight. Apart from you, Sir Waldar, and Sir Rudolfus, of course.”
“Well, your maid, a few excited village girls, and half of the servants and soldiers tell me otherwise! They said they saw a red knight on a black stallion ride into the castle this very morning!”
Ayla groaned inwardly and internally chastised herself for having told Isenbard all about the robbery all those weeks ago. Had he not known about a certain red knight who had robbed her and left her stranded deep in the forest, he would not have been half as suspicious.
“Oh, that!” She tried to laugh. It didn't sound very convincing. “That was only Reuben.”
“Reuben?” Isenbard's eyebrows shot up.
“Yes, Reuben.”
“Let me clarify—we are talking about the same man here, aren't we? Reuben the merchant? Reuben the convalescent? Cannot-utter-a-sentence-without-swearing-vile-oaths Reuben?”
“Um…yes. That one.”
“Correct me if I'm wrong, Milady, but, as I said, isn't he supposed to be a merchant?”
“Yes.”
“Milady,” Isenbard said slowly, coming a step closer, his hands on his hips. “The villagers and guards not only say this red fellow came riding into the castle this morning, they also say he was clad from head to toe in armor and riding a black warhorse! They say he broke into the enemy camp and stole your mare back from under Sir Luca’s very nose!”
Ayla bit her lower lip. “Well…in that, they're not entirely mistaken.”
“And you expect me to believe that all this was done by a merchant? A peaceful, money-loving apple dealer?”
“Arms dealer. He is an arms dealer.”
“Fine. But that he knows how to sell a sword doesn't mean he knows how to wield one, Milady. How would he be able to break into the camp and steal a knight's armor, not to speak of riding in that armor at full gallop, if he himself isn't—”
Isenbard broke off, and his eyes went wide. Concern swept away Ayla's nervousness in an instant, and she grabbed one of his hands.
“Isenbard? Are you all right? Isenbard?”
Maybe the injury he had suffered had delayed effects! Oh Lord, maybe he was having a seizure!
But his eyes focused on her again almost immediately. They had a strange, pondering look. As if he were weighing something in his mind.
“An arms dealer,” he said slowly. “I see. Yes, as such he would have a certain expertise with weapons, I'm sure. I’m sorry for troubling you with unnecessary concerns, Milady.”
Relief flooded through Ayla. He had swallowed her story! It was amazing. She wouldn't have thought anybody would believe her inexpert attempts at lying. Smiling, she looked after Isenbard as he went away, whistling.
*~*~**~*~*
A few hours after his invigorating talk with Ayla, Reuben heard voices outside his room.
“I'm sorry, Sir, but nobody is allowed to enter the room with a weapon.”
“Not even me, Hubert?” It was the voice of an old man, but still a strong voice. Reuben fancied he had heard it before. He frowned. Where had that been?
“Um…especially not you, Sir.” The guard sounded embarrassed. “Lady Ayla gave us express orders that you were not to enter this room with a sword in your hand, and that if you were to try, we should…err…stop you.”
“Did she, now? How interesting. And how exactly would you go about stopping me, Hubert?”
“Um…I have no idea, Sir. Now, can you please give me the sword? Please, Sir?”
“Certainly. I don't think it would be a good idea if we were to come to blows, now, would it?”
“Certainly not, Sir.”
There was some shuffling and clanking, then the door opened and an old man stepped inside. His face was wrinkled, but still angular and firm, and he had a neatly trimmed, white beard.
“I remember you,” Reuben said, examining him warily. “You're that old geezer who couldn't ever shut up.”
The old man raised an eyebrow. “I admit, I'm not often characterized in this fashion, but I suppose you are correct. And you are that young fellow who deserves to have his tongue cut out for his insolence.”
“Yes, that's me.” A grim smile flitted over Reuben's face. “I have very often been characterized in this fashion. And yet, my tongue is still firmly attached.”
“I'm not surprised.” The whitebeard's eyes flitted to the giant sword at Reuben's hip. “You carry efficient protection against tongue-cutters.”
Reuben shrugged indifferently. “A merchant has to defend himself on the road.”
“It's better than a candlestick.”
“That it is.”
“And where did you come by this impressive peace of weaponry?” asked Isenbard. “It is a strange thing for a 'merchant' to carry.”
Reuben heard the stress the old man put on the word. There was knowledge behind this man's speech. Dangerous knowledge. Reuben's jaw tightened, and he considered drawing the sword and decapitating the old fool. Slowly, his fingers moved towards the hilt of his weapon.
But then he thought of Ayla. This castle was her home. He couldn't spill blood here. It took so long to be washed off the floor. Besides, he couldn't again shake her trust in him when there was the slightest chance it might be rebuilt. And, oh yes, most people, Ayla probably included, generally considered killing people to be wrong. He remembered that from before he had started enjoying it.
His fingers moved away from the sword hilt again.
Only then did he notice that the old man's eyes had followed his movements closely. For the first time in a long while, Reuben felt uncomfortable under the gaze of another. A feeling that he only remembered from his teachers, back when he had been a young page and then a squire.
“You were ill, weren't you?” the old knight asked.
“Yes,” was Reuben's curt reply. Why had the man asked that? He surely knew it.
“And Ayla nursed you back to health?”
“Yes, she did.” And he had to know that, too. What was his game?
“Ah, yes, Ayla.” The old knight sighed. “She has a good heart, I have to admit. But she has a brain the size of an earthworm's, and she is awfully ugly. I hate to speak ill of my mistress, but so it is. The ugliest girl that I saw in my entire life.”
What in the devil’s name was this? Reuben's face turned red with anger. Ayla trusted this man, called him a friend, and he was insulting her behind her back? In two steps, Reuben was across the room and in front of Isenbard. He towered over the old man, his hand on his sword hilt again.
“I think she is the loveliest young lady that ever walked the earth,” he growled, his voice seething with fury.
“Is that so?” Isenbard inquired calmly.
“Yes! Intelligent and lively, too! And you had better agree or I will make you regret it!”
“Indeed? Well, in that case…” Isenbard sighed, “you're right. She is not bad-looking. And quite smart for a young girl.”
Bah! Reuben stared with contempt at the old knight. Only a coward backed down this easily, even if his claim was preposterous. The next time he saw Ayla, he had to speak with her about her trust in this craven old fool. From what Reuben had seen so far, there was no foundation for it whatsoever.
“You don't like being stuck in here, do you?” Isenbard asked, changing the subject with unexpected abruptness.
Reuben glared at him, still not entirely appeased. “Of course! Wouldn't you hate being stuck in a room all day?”
“You would rather be out there?”
“Yes!”
“Doing what?”
Reuben was silent. No answer came to him. He knew perfectly well what he would like to do. His hand was itching to draw his blade again. But he couldn't tell that to this old man. Why had the man asked, anyway? This was getting more and more awkward. Reuben had no idea what the old man was doing here or what these odd, unconnected questions were leading up to.
“Was there something in particular you wanted?” he asked the old man, wanting to be rid of him.
“Yes,” the whitebeard replied, eying Reuben with a small, satisfied smile on his lips. “And I think I have found it.”
Then he turned and left the room without another word. Reuben gaped after him. What had that been all about?
*~*~**~*~*
Ayla stood on the gallery and looked down into the main hall. People had begun to settle down there. With what few possessions they had left—pieces of cloth and string, earthen bowls, and the like—they had demarcated their personal space in the large room, and, with Ayla's permission and against the protest of the castle cook, had used the large embroidered feast tablecloths owned by the Luntberg family to make makeshift beds for themselves and their children.
Now they were sitting around without much to do. And as it always is with people who know each other and don't have much to do, they started gossiping. First, they talked of the mysterious occurrence of this morning, of the merchant who had come riding into the castle dressed in a knight's armor, with an army at his heels. Normally, such a topic would have provided enough to talk about for weeks on end. But these were not normal times, and people's thoughts soon returned to the army in front of the gates, the merciless infamy of the Margrave von Falkenstein, and, ever more often, the specter of doom that threatened to engulf them: starvation.
Ayla listened from the shadow of a stone pillar as the worry of her people grew. She had come here after her conversation with Isenbard, wanting to see if she could help them in any way, if they needed anything—only to realize that they needed exactly those things she could not provide for long: food and safety.
They all knew what nobody would say aloud: that the safety of the castle was just an illusion, temporary and fleeting. Soon, their supplies would run out, and then they would be at the mercy of their enemies, hopelessly outmatched. Fear was spreading like an epidemic.
Only one person seemed to be entirely confident.
“And then,” declared Fey and let the stick in her little hand swish through the air like a sword, “Sir Reuben will hack his enemies into tiny little pieces. Really, really tiny little pieces, you know? Like mincemeat, only muuuch bloodier.”
“Um…I'm sure he will, dear,” said Margaret, the despairing mother. “But hush, will you? There is a man who is actually called Reuben, and he is a guest in our lady's castle! You shouldn't call your doll by the same name. If he hears…”
“Why not? He should be honored I named it after him, shouldn’t he? It's a knight's doll, after all, and he's just a stingy, money-grabbing merchant.”
“Yes, dear, but he or Lady Ayla might not see it that way…”
“Then I'll go to them and explain. They'd have to be really silly not to see I'm right.” Fey rolled her eyes at the thick-wittedness of her mother. Then she lost interest in her parent altogether and began practicing blows with her stick sword again. “And then, if there are any enemies left which Sir Reuben hasn't cut into tiny little bloody pieces, he will give them to his personal torturer. And he'll put them on the rack and pull them reaaaaally long. You know, until they're ten or eleven feet tall or something like that. And then they'll have to walk around like that for the rest of their lives and will continually bump their heads when they want to go through a doorway.”
“Fey! You shouldn't say such things!”
“And the Margrave he will pull even longer, so that he won't fit through a doorway anymore at all! And after the baddie has hit his head often enough, Sir Reuben will take him and chop him into pieces which will be even more tiny and bloodier than the pieces he chopped the others into!”
“Fey!”
In the shadow of the pillar, Ayla couldn't prevent a smile from flickering over her face. Oh, if only Sir Reuben could really hack her enemy into tiny little bloody pieces. Then her world would be so much simpler. But even if she had been able to trust him, even if she did not need to keep him under guard all the time, what could one man do against an army of six or seven hundred?
Nothing.
Despondently, Ayla shook her head and, as she did so, from the corner of her eye, saw a shimmer of reddish light reflecting off her hair. Looking out of the window behind her, she saw that the sun was already setting, flooding the land with crimson. She had stood here longer than she had thought.
What now?
She supposed she could only go to bed. Awake, there was nothing more to do but worry. Hopefully, sleep would help her save her energy and endure a little longer. Soon enough, she would be kept awake by the gnawing hunger in her belly.
Ayla returned to her chambers, which she now shared with Dilli and three of her other maids. After much arguing, Burchard had accepted that sleeping in their company might not be totally morally unacceptable. Ayla lay down on her four-poster bed. Normally, she would have drawn the curtains to keep the warmth in, but the curtains had been taken off at her order to serve, along with the castle’s tablecloths, as bed sheets for those of the villagers who didn't have anything else to sleep on. So she simply curled up into a tight ball and pressed herself into the mattress, wishing heartily that, when she woke up, all this would prove to be a bad dream and the feud would have never happened.
*~*~**~*~*
When she jerked awake, it was dark, and a knife was pressed to her throat.
“Not a sound, girl,” growled a rough voice out of the darkness, “or you're dead!”