The heavy footsteps stopped at the top of the stairs. Ayla retreated another step—but when the cellar door was pushed open, the figure appearing in the doorway was no enemy soldier. It was one of Ayla's own guards, and a grin of joy and excitement shone on his face.
“Milady,” he called down into the cellar. “Milady, I just passed the chamber upstairs, you know, the one we put this merchant in when we found him…”
Ayla’s heart went from hammering to frozen in an instant. What had Reuben done?
“And…?” she asked, her voice quivering.
“And I heard voices! Sir Isenbard is awake! He's finally awake, Milady, isn't that wonderful?”
Joy flooded Ayla’s heart, warming it, bolstering it, and, for the moment, making all her sorrow and heartache forgotten. Isenbard was awake! Finally!
“How is he?” she demanded eagerly, stepping around Burchard, who did not stop her this time. “Is he hurting? Is he able to move? How does his speech sound? Is he completely conscious or only half aware?”
“I do not know, Milady. I only heard him utter a few words, then I ran as fast as my feet could carry me to inform you of his recovery.”
“You did right,” she assured him.
“Will you go and attend to him?” The soldier sounded hopeful. He was obviously burning with the desperate wish to have his old commander back on his feet and in fighting condition. “Shall I inform him of your coming, Milady?”
She wanted to say yes. She had already opened her mouth and formed the first syllable with her lips—then she remembered Reuben. Abruptly, she shrank back. No! She couldn't be in the same room with him. Not now. Not after what he…
Quickly, she shook her head. “No. I, err…will have to constantly keep an eye on him, and I’m too busy right now to always be climbing stairs. Send a few men up there and have him brought to me in the main hall immediately!”
*~*~**~*~*
“Bring the convalescent to Lady Ayla? Which one?” asked the guard. “This fellow, Reuben?”
Reuben's grip tightened around the iron candlestick. Swift as a panther, he jumped to his feet and raised his makeshift weapon, prepared to strike down the first man who dared to enter. The old knight at the other end of the room blinked at him, obviously not quite understanding what he was doing, standing behind a door with a raised candlestick in his hand.
Well, Reuben thought wryly, he would understand soon enough.
“No,” replied the other guard. “Not that one. Sir Isenbard. Lady Ayla is very desirous of speaking with him.”
Relief flooded Reuben's body, and he let the candlestick fall. They hadn't come for him! Not yet, anyway.
“Here I am, my good men,” Isenbard called, apparently all too eager to leave the company of his strange roommate.
One of the guards opened the door, and the soldiers filed in one by one. Reuben retreated into a corner, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. Not an easy task for a man six feet, seven inches tall and with a curved scar on his forehead, but still, he thought it best to do all he could to not attract the attention of the guards. If they didn't pay attention to him, they would not try to kill him. If they did not try to kill him, he would not have to kill them, which would be a good thing. Killing her guards was definitely not the right thing to do to regain Ayla's affections, and Reuben was determined to do exactly that.
At first, he had despaired. At first, he had thought she would make good her promise and he would hang before daybreak. But the night had dragged on, and no soldiers had come to drag him to the gallows.
As the old saying went: while there was life, there was hope.
So Reuben sat in the corner and watched while the guards loaded the old knight onto the stretcher they had brought with them, all the time quelling the urge to cut through them and get out of here—the most logical course of action, according to his survival instincts. It would be so easy. So terribly easy. Reuben didn't have a sword, but they each had one. He just needed to take one of theirs away, and he could turn the men into mincemeat within seconds…
No! Reuben shook himself. No killing. Well, at least no killing of Ayla's guards. That would create a bad impression.
Gloomily, he stared after the guards as they carried the old knight out of the room. The door they shut behind them seemed like the door shutting on his hopes. No, killing Ayla's guards would not be a good idea. But what else could he do other than kill or be killed?
If only he could get out of this room! But there still were guards posted outside. Ayla was sure to have told them who he really was, and they would grab him and kill him as soon as he set a foot outside—in which case he would be dead, meaning that he could not do anything to win back Ayla's heart. Corpses were not very good at romance.
The only alternative was to go out and kill the guards to get past them—in which case Ayla would be angry at him, meaning that he also could not win back her heart. This was so infuriating! Wasn't there at least someone around he could beat into a pulp to vent his anger?
*~*~**~*~*
Ayla could hardly believe her eyes when Sir Isenbard was carried into the main hall on a stretcher and the old knight lifted one hand to greet her.
“Greetings, Milady.”
“Uncle Ironbeard!” She threw herself at the old knight and hugged him with as much force as she could muster. “I've missed you so much! I'm so happy you're finally awake.”
“Milady,” he growled into her ear. “People are watching!”
And, indeed, the entire hall was full of villagers witnessing the scene. Some of them were turning slightly away, others were busying themselves with their work, but all were smiling and looking at the two out of the corner of their eyes.
“And?” Ayla demanded.
“What about proper decorum?”
“The crows can eat decorum for all I care!”
“Milady!”
“Oh, uncle.” She retreated a little bit, grasping his shoulders and shaking her head. Tears were shining in her eyes, but this time, they weren't tears of sadness. “Don't you understand? They want to see you well again as much as I do. I wouldn't want to begrudge them that.”
“There was nothing really wrong with me,” he muttered, embarrassed. “I was only asleep.”
“For over a week!”
“Well, I'm not as young as I used to be. Old people need their rest.”
Ayla raised a threatening finger at him. “You had a bruise on your head as big as a melon. If I were “asleep” like that, I doubt I would ever wake again. Now, stop trying to downplay your injuries. That is an order.”
“Yes, Milady.”
“Good.” Ayla let go of him, and immediately, Isenbard tried to rise.
“What do you think you are doing?” exclaimed Ayla and gripped him by the shoulders again, pushing him down.
“Getting up, of course, Milady.”
“You are not to get up! Not for a few days yet. You've been seriously injured and still need time to recuperate.”
“But—”
“That is an order, too!”
Reluctantly, the old knight sank back onto the stretcher.
“As you wish, Milady,” he said stiffly. “I thought that, perhaps, you might require my help with the defense of the bridge, but apparently, I am not needed.”
Ayla glanced around uneasily at the gathered crowd.
“Now that everyone has seen that Sir Isenbard is on the mend, could you please leave us alone for a few minutes?” she asked the villagers. “He and I have some private matters to discuss.”
The villagers bowed, and with muttered “Of course, Milady”s and “As you wish, Milady”s, they left the hall.
When they were alone, Ayla took a deep breath, fixed her eyes on the angled, lined, white-bearded face of the man on the stretcher, and said, “The bridge has fallen.”
Isenbard showed no emotion except for a slight tightening of his jaw. “How?”
“There was a nocturnal attack. It was fended off, but it was nothing more than a ruse—a distraction. While all our soldiers were fighting to protect the enemy from crossing the bridge, more of Falkenstein's men crossed the river with boats. The night was pitch-black, and we didn't see them. They could have taken us totally by surprise and massacred every last one of us.”
Confused, Isenbard’s gaze wandered from the door through which the obviously unmassacred villagers had just left to Ayla, and from Ayla back to the door.
“But then…how come that all of you are still very much alive?”
Pain shot through Ayla's heart at the memory.
No! she told herself. He didn't do it because he has feelings for me! He did it out of selfishness, out of self-preservation. He would have died along with the rest of us if Falkenstein had succeeded.
“Reuben warned me,” she whispered.
The old knight's eyebrows shot up. “Reuben? That fellow I shared a room with until recently?”
“The very same.” Ayla hesitated for a second, then added hastily, “He's been giving me military advice.”
“I thought,” Isenbard continued, a frown creeping on his wrinkled forehead, “that he said he was a merchant.”
Ayla suddenly felt as if she was being pulled into two directions. She realized that now the time of decision had come. Would she give up Reuben's secret? If ever she had trusted someone, relied on someone, it was Isenbard. He was her father's oldest and most trusted friend, her loyal mentor and defender. He had fought for her, bled for her, and if the time came, she did not doubt that he would die for her.
Surely she could trust him?
Of course, there was the point to consider that, if he knew the truth, Isenbard would, as soon as he was better, maybe before, jump up from this litter, get himself a sword, and challenge Reuben the robber knight to a duel to the death.
But wasn't that what should happen? Shouldn't Reuben be punished for his crimes? And this way, it occurred to her, she wouldn't even have to give the order to hang him. It would all happen by itself. Slowly, she opened her mouth and wet her dry lips.
*~*~**~*~*
Since there was nobody around who could act as a punching bag, Reuben pounded the wall instead, yet that didn't bring the same kind of relief.
The guards were the problem. The guards, and thus his confinement to this infernal room. For the foreseeable future, he would be stuck in here, within thirty square feet of space. And that wasn't what he wanted at all. Reuben was sure that to win the heart of a lady a radius of movement of a hundred feet was an absolute minimum.
What could a prisoner do?
Again, Reuben struck out at the wall blindly and cursed in surprise when his fist, instead of hitting the stone wall, hit the rough wood of the garderobe.
He stared at the wooden wardrobe for a moment—a wardrobe built into the outside wall of the keep. A wardrobe with no floor.
Slowly, a devilish grin spread over his face. There was always one thing a prisoner could do: escape!