Isenbard was lying on the stone walkway, his bevor ripped from his throat, a long and bloody gash reaching from his chest to his carotid artery, where the blood was streaming out in a red river. His helmet was also gone, torn off and smashed to pieces by some enemy's sword.
“Captain Linhart?”
Someone was speaking. It sounded like Reuben, but the words didn't make any sense to Ayla. Nothing made sense anymore. Isenbard couldn't be wounded…and he most certainly couldn't look as if he were going to die.
“Captain Linhart! Are you listening to me? Go and check along the wall to the west. There might be more enemies trying to get over the wall. I'll check to the east.”
“Who do you think you are, trying to give me orders?”
There was the metallic ring of a sword.
“Err…all right. West wall. I'm on my way.”
“A very wise decision, Captain. You three—stay here and guard Lady Ayla. If she is harmed in any way when I return, you will have to answer to me.”
Quick footsteps hurried off.
Ayla didn't look up to see whom they belonged to. She could only stare at Isenbard's pale, wrinkled face. Strangely enough, a smile lay on his lips.
Quickly, Ayla bent down. She ripped off a piece of her sleeve and started winding it around Isenbard's bloody neck.
“Don't ruin your dress, girl,” he muttered. “It's not worth it.”
“What do you mean?” she hissed between clenched teeth, suppressing the urge to cry. “You are not worth it? Because if that’s what you mean, you can shut up right now, you stubborn old fool!”
He tried to shake his head—but winced and decided that it wasn’t a good idea.
“No. If I could be saved, I would happily let you tear a hundred dresses to pieces. But I cannot, and you know that.”
“No! No, you're going to be fine! I'm going to save you. I am! I…I…”
By now, Ayla had wrapped three layers of cloth around Isenbard's neck. Still, it only took half a minute for the impromptu bandage to be soaked with blood.
The wound was too big, too dangerous. The bleeding couldn't be stopped. Tears fell from Ayla's face and mingled with the blood on the cloth, running down the side of Isenbard's neck in a salty, red rivulet.
It was too much. Simply too much. Ayla collapsed onto his blood-soaked chest, crying her heart out. Arms came up to hug her tightly. Maybe it was only her imagination, but in this brief moment, they seemed to have all the strength that they had lost along with youth, so long ago.
“Shhh,” Isenbard murmured. “Don't cry, Ayla, don't cry. It's not so bad, you know. All of us have to die some time. I…” He coughed, and the flow of blood increased for a moment. When he continued, his voice was weaker but still audible. “I could have died of the pox or some other terrible disease. Instead, God has shown me his favor. I died protecting my mistress from harm.”
“You did,” Ayla choked out. “You did protect me.”
“Did I fulfill my oath of fealty? Is the castle safe?”
“Yes,” she sobbed, though in truth, she had no idea whether it was true. Was the castle safe? She had no idea what would be found on other sections of the wall. There might have been more attacks, the castle might already be breached, soon to be overrun.
But how could she tell him that? She couldn’t. Not now. Not now that he was d—
No! She couldn't even think the word! This was Isenbard! Always there, always reliable, always the perfect knight, her father's oldest friend and foremost protector. He couldn't just…go.
“Don't cry,” Isenbard repeated, his voice beginning to sound drowsy. “I am old, Ayla. My time has come. I'll see my wife again. My dear, sweet Irene… Don't cry, my child.”
“Please,” Ayla whispered. “Please don't. Don't die. If you die, what will I do? I will have no one! No one I can trust!”
The strangest of sounds originated from Isenbard's throat then. It was weak and unsteady and sounded a bit wet. Ayla needed a moment to understand that he was chuckling.
“No one? I doubt very much that this is true. You will have someone. Go to Sir Reuben. Trust him.”
Ayla's breath caught in her throat. Sir Reuben. So he knew.
She pushed herself up a bit, so she could look into Isenbard's face. All she could see there was warmth and peace. Peace such as she hadn't seen since the beginning of the siege. Peace that meant, for some reason, he was no longer really worried for her safety. Not because there wouldn’t be danger—but because he knew she’d be well protected.
“But…but he's not trustworthy,” she muttered.
“I know,” answered Isenbard. “But he loves you.”
Ayla was about to reply when Isenbard's arms slackened and fell to the ground. His eyes, fixed on her with such fatherly affection a moment ago, went blank, and his head fell to the side.
“Isenbard?” In panic, Ayla gripped his shoulders. “Isenbard? Isenbard!”
*~*~**~*~*
Sir Isenbard's body was carried into the castle’s small chapel as the new day dawned. The rays of the rising sun fell into the room through the little stained glass window and created a halo of red, gold, and blue on the stone floor just before the altar.
“There.” Reuben pointed at the glowing spot, and the four members of the castle guard who bore the litter made straight towards it. “Lay him down there.”
They did as he said. Slowly, Sir Isenbard descended. His face looked almost peaceful. His armor, dented and scratched as it was, shone in the sunlight, surrounded by an aura of glorious colors, heralding the hero, victorious in death.
Reuben looked from the old man's corpse to Ayla, who was standing a few feet away, pressed against the wall, her face pale and expressionless. For the first time in his life, he did not have the faintest clue what to do.
If the one you loved was in need, you could find some way to help her. If the one you loved was in danger, you could protect her. But if the one you loved was mourning, you could not raise the dead and make everything right again.
What could he do? Isenbard was gone forever.
The guards rose. One of them stepped towards Lady Ayla, uncomfortably twisting his leather cap in his hands.
“Um…Milady? The scouts from the wall are back with their reports. Do you want to receive them?”
A small whimper escaped Ayla's throat.
“Get out,” Reuben said in a rough whisper, “before I throw you out.”
The guard paled and stumbled backwards towards the door.
“Captain Linhart will hear the reports,” continued Reuben. “I will attend to him later. And maybe to you, too.”
“Yes, Sir! I mean no, Sir! Please, I…” Finally deciding that shutting up was the wisest policy, the guard turned and ran. The three others followed at his heels.
Reuben breathed a deep sigh. Now, only the two of them remained in the silent chapel. Or the three of them, if you counted the corpse.
Again, a small whimper came from Ayla’s direction. Reuben's eyes had never left her while talking to the guard. She had begun to shake slightly. For a moment, Reuben wondered if she was going to collapse. But then she took a small, shaky step away from the wall. And another one. And another one.
She continued like this, crossing the small room as though it was a kingdom the size of France, England, and Scotland put together until she finally stood before the litter, staring down at the form of her fallen protector. Still, a curious tremor was going through her body, as if she were crumbling to pieces.
Maybe she was, inside.
That was the moment when Reuben finally knew what to do. He stepped up beside Ayla, drawing her into his arms. She went willingly, collapsing against his chest, silent tears running down her cheeks. Reuben just stood there and held her, not trying to speak idle words, not trying to stop her from crying. He knew she had cause to cry.
Only now did he realize how mighty a warrior he had thrown onto a dung heap a few days ago. He might have been old, and he might have been neither as strong nor as fast as Reuben, but he had been there and discovered danger when he, Reuben, had not.
He had been the directing force behind the entire castle defense, the only one standing between Ayla and annihilation.
Now someone else had to take up the standard. Taking one hand from Ayla's shoulders, Reuben flexed his fingers and observed the way the red metal glistened in the sunlight with a grim smile. He knew just the man for the job.
By Satan’s hairy ass, he swore to himself. I will wreak vengeance on our enemies for this! It may take weeks, it may take months, but this is one vow I will not break!