This herald was nothing like the last one—that was the first thought that ran through Ayla's mind when she looked down at him from her father's high chair on the raised platform in the great hall. The last one had been small, narrow-eyed, and shifty. This one was large, with a pale, bony face and a mustache that solemnly drooped at both ends. His hands were very hairy and looked too large for the small scroll and leather pouch he carried.
All in all, he reminded Ayla a bit of Bardo—only that the gigantic carpenter's shoulders weren't weighed down by a thousand worries, as this man's shoulders clearly were, and that Bardo wasn't quite as old. Gray streaked the hair of this man, and there was a sad wisdom in his eyes that only people who have seen too much possess.
What is he doing here? she wondered. What message could the Margrave possibly want to send me? What need is there for words, after we've exchanged blows and Luntberg has emerged victorious?
The herald walked down the hall with hesitant steps. Before the raised chair, he halted and licked his lips. Obviously, he was none too happy about the message he had to deliver.
“I…I bring you greetings from the mighty Margrave von Falkenstein, oh worthless harlot who…”
Before he could get out another syllable, a red-clad figure streaked past Ayla and grabbed him by the neck. The herald was a large man—but nowhere near as large as Reuben. The Red Robber Knight kicked the man's legs out from under him and slammed him into the floor, face first.
“Show proper respect to the lady!” he snarled. “If I hear another foul word from you, I'll cut your throat! And don't think I won't recognize them. I know foul words like old friends!”
“Please, no! Please, Sir Knight, do not kill me! Please, Lady!”
The man tried to raise himself to his knees, but Reuben increased the pressure, and he stayed where he was, his breathing hectic.
“Reuben?” Ayla raised a hand, her eyes fixed on the man at the floor. She wasn't surprised at the insult—it was what she had expected from a herald of the Margrave. What had surprised her was the man's obvious reluctance. “Let him up. And you, man, had better keep a civil tongue, or I cannot guarantee for Sir Reuben's actions. He gets…easily excited.”
The man scrambled to his knees and remained like that, kneeling in front of her. He had nothing in common with the other herald. Ayla wondered why the Margrave would have chosen such a man.
She had her question answered almost immediately.
“I am so sorry, Milady,” the man panted, pleading in his eyes. “The Margrave forced me to say this. He forced me to come here, threatening he'd kill my family if I didn't. None of the other heralds would go, they fled when they heard what the Margrave wanted them to tell you rather than face your anger, but he knew he could use my family as leverage to force me. Please, if you have to torture me, do so, only do not kill me. Without me, my family would…”
Ayla held up a hand to stop his desperate flood of words. Outwardly, her face was calm. But inside, she was filled with rage. A man who did this to one of his own vassals, merely to deliver a series of insults, did not deserve to call himself a knight, much less a margrave. He did not even deserve to call himself a man!
“Speak the words your master has sent you here to speak,” she told the herald in as gentle a voice as she could. “Here at Luntberg, we do not punish the messenger for the insolence of his master.”
“Speak for yourself,” Reuben growled. He still hadn't let go of the man's neck. “I, for one, could think of some interesting ways to punish this worm.”
Ayla sighed. “Reuben?”
“Yes, Milady?”
“Let go of the man's neck.”
“Are you sure? I could…”
She raised an eyebrow. “I believe you told me not too long ago that my wish is your command, did you not?”
The scowl on his face gave way to twitching lips. “Now that you mention it, I believe I did.”
“I wish for you to let go of this man's neck. And apologize to him.”
“As you command, Milady.”
Letting go of the herald's neck, Reuben said, “There you go. I apologize for throwing you to the floor and for wanting to rip out your intestines with a carving knife. Oh, and for the further list of tortures I would like to subject you to, such as squashing your—”
“That will be enough apology from you, Sir Reuben.”
“Are you sure, Milady?”
“Quite sure.”
The herald had paled. Ayla gave him what she hoped was an encouraging smile and made a gesture that invited him to continue, and hopefully also reassured him that his intestines wouldn’t be ripped out with a carving knife. For a few moments, there was only silence in the room. Finally, the herald dared meet Ayla’s eyes cautiously.
“Milady, may I continue with my message?”
“You may.”
“And you…?”
The question hung unfinished in the air, but Ayla guessed what it was without much difficulty. She forced a smile on her face.
“And I won't punish you for what it says, rest assured.”
The man lowered his eyes again.
“Thank you, Milady.” His voice was low and thick with emotion. “You are a truly great noble. May God forgive me.”
He reached for the small leather pouch that had fallen to the floor in Reuben's sudden attack. Picking it up, he held it out to Ayla.
“The Margrave ordered me to bring you this. He told me you would know what it meant, though what a Lady such as you would know of such objects of horror is beyond me. He said the thing inside accompanies the words I have to speak.”
More than a little nonplussed, Ayla took the leather pouch and loosened the drawstring. As she turned the leather pouch upside-down, a shiny metal object fell into her palm. It was a metal vice of some sort. Somehow, it looked strangely familiar. She strained to remember where she had seen it before.
When it finally came to her, a cold tingle went down her back. The hand on which the shiny metal device lay began to shake.
There it was: the thumbscrew she had sent the Margrave, along with her defiance, so many months ago. There the thumbscrew lay, freed of rust, polished, and ready for use. Suddenly, she knew what was coming. She knew, although it seemed impossible. They had won! They had beaten the Margrave's army. How could this be happening?
The herald took a deep breath.
“The Margrave wishes me to tell you…wishes me to tell you…” He broke off, shaking his head. His voice was hoarse as he said, “I can't find the words for it myself. I simply can't. You're a noble lady, I can't tell you what…what he told me.”
“Can you quote his words?” Ayla asked gently. Inside, she felt cold as a winter night.
The old man hesitated—then nodded. “I think so. If my tongue can bear the shame.”
He swallowed.
Then he began to speak, slowly and clearly. His voice suddenly sounded distant, artificial, and…cold. Ayla shivered again. Was this what the voice of the Margrave sounded like?
“You sent me a message saying you preferred this to a golden wedding ring?” The herald demanded, pointing at the thumbscrew in Ayla's hand. “Very well, then. I shall take you at your word. I advise you to try it on and accustom yourself to the feeling, for I shall come and put it around your soft little fingers, one after the other, and squeeze until the bones crack. I shall cast you into my deepest dungeon, where nobody shall hear your screams. I shall burn your castle to the ground and kill your father with my bare hands. I shall bring ruin and desolation to your life until nothing is left of it but a shadow which I shall consume!”
The words fell on Ayla like the blows of an executioner's ax. This could not be! It simply could not be! The Margrave was finished! Beaten! This had to be a load of empty threats.
However, when the herald continued to speak, his words didn't sound empty.
“There will be no chance for you to escape this time. No opportunity to surrender. If you will not bend to my will, you must be taught a lesson. And I intend to teach it to you with fire, steel, and blood. As soon as my banners are assembled, I shall ride forth at the head of my army. And then woe betide you that dared to defy the Margrave von Falkenstein.”
When the herald ended, there came a long, long silence. Ayla didn't know how the others felt, but she struggled for something to say, struggled even for the strength to open her lips. Finally, she managed it.
“W-what is this?” she demanded. “What trickery? What empty threats? The Margrave has no soldiers, let alone an army! We destroyed his army, we killed his soldiers!”
In search of affirmation, her eyes wandered to Burchard, who was standing to the left of her chair. The bulky steward just shrugged.
“Don't look at me. I'm no military expert. Though, I have to admit, to me, they looked pretty much dead.”
“They were dead! All of them, the entire army.”
“A mercenary army.”
Ayla's head whipped around to see who had spoken. It was Reuben, his voice unusually calm and self-possessed. He was staring at the kneeling herald with a calculating expression on his face.
“A mercenary army,” Reuben repeated, “brought in from outside the Margrave's domain and promised payment and loot after they had dealt with us. All we achieved by killing them was to free the Margrave of the obligation to empty his coffers to pay them.”
Ayla felt hope slipping away from her. Still, she firmly clung on to it, refusing to accept what she was hearing.
“But still, what army could he send against us? His army is gone!”
“Banners,” Reuben said softly. He made a motion with his head to the kneeling herald. “He said banners. The Margrave is going to call his vassals to arms. Now that his use of mercenaries has failed, he is going to assemble all his liegemen and send his real war machinery against you.”
“But why?” Ayla asked, moisture coming into her eyes. “Why would he do this? Surely, we have demonstrated that we're more trouble than we're worth, that we won't give up easily! Why would he continue to hound us now?”
The three men exchanged looks. Somehow, they all seemed to know something, to understand the motives of the Margrave on some level she could not. What was going on?
“Tell me! Why do this?”
“Because he has been defeated,” Reuben answered gravely.
“That doesn't make sense! If you're defeated, you go away and hope it won't happen again!”
“No.” He shook his head, and Ayla thought she could see a sad smile flicker on his face. “Not if you're a powerful noble. If you are, and you are defeated, you stand up again and attack with everything you have. Backing down is not an option. Especially—“ his eyes focused on her, “—when your opponent is a girl. I know men like the Margrave, Ayla. I've served them, made them, killed them, even been them. Men like that live by their reputation of ruthlessness. He cannot let it get about that he has been beaten by a girl with no experience in war whatsoever. His enemies would surround him, his own men laugh at him and desert.”
“But that is…that is just…”
The herald slowly came to his feet, his head bowed. Reuben stepped away from him and returned to his post by Ayla's side. She was grateful for it. “Begging your pardon, Milady, but the knight is right,” the old messenger ventured in a low voice. He hesitated, and Ayla saw him shiver. “You weren't there when he received the news of Luca's death and defeat. I've seen him fly into a rage before, but this… Three men who had the misfortune to stand too close to him that night lost their heads, simply because they were there. He called his banners that same night, sent out riders into all directions. For the first time in seven years, they were to assemble his full force of liegemen.”
He stopped, apparently fearing he might have said too much, still not quite sure he would not be harmed. Bowing silently, he retreated towards the door. But when there were no shouts of “After him!” or “Throw him in the Dungeon!”, he apparently deemed it safe enough to turn towards Ayla one last time. She clearly saw the pity in his eyes.
“I…I hope you don't take this wrongly, Milady. I just feel honor-bound to tell you. Last time the Margrave sent an army against you, he came for acquisition. This time, he comes for revenge. And he comes himself, with everything he has—which does not include mercy.”
“Then what shall I do?” Ayla asked, her voice quivering. She could have slapped herself the moment she said it. What kind of noble was she, asking advice from the enemy's herald?
The big man shrugged and looked away, his eyes pained.
“Pray,” he suggested. Then, with a final, hurried bow, he turned and fled the hall.
Ayla sat on her father's chair, petrified. Fear gripped her heart and would not let go. She had believed everything was over. She had believed that, after all their struggles, they were finally safe. How naive she had been! She didn't deserve to lead her people. She would only lead them to death and destruction.
Beside her, Burchard cursed. Ayla didn't even think about chastising him for it.
“That maggot-ridden haggard! The curses of all witches down on him!”
On her other side, Reuben said nothing. And suddenly, Ayla remembered something. She turned her head to face him.
“You knew, didn't you?” she asked, for some reason with a weak smile on her face. “You knew this was going to happen. That's why you didn't want the people to start working on rebuilding the village.”
He shrugged. “I suspected. I thought it would be better to wait, to be sure.”
“And you didn't say anything?” Burchard exploded. “Are you mad, or just a traitor, you loggerheaded lout?”
“Why should I have said anything when I might have been mistaken?” Reuben enquired calmly.
“Because…because we could have prepared! We could have done all kinds of things! We could have started repairing the castle, training the men…”
Burchard's voice trailed off slowly.
“Exactly.” Reuben nodded.
“You have already begun preparing,” Ayla realized with a whisper, leaning sideways until her head rested against Reuben's side. It felt wonderfully solid and warm. The thought of being torn from him forever…no! She couldn't allow herself to think like that.
“Yes, Milady.”
“But what use is it?” she whispered. “If the threat is truly as great as the herald says it is, if this army will be so much stronger than the one before…”
“Oh, it will be stronger. I have no doubt.”
“Then why?” Ayla shook her head, not ashamed of the tear that was running down her left cheek. She should be stronger! She should fight! “Why should we even try? How could we possibly have a chance?”
Slowly, Reuben stepped from her side. She wanted to clutch at him, to hold him close, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he stepped around the chair until he faced her. Although the chair stood on a raised platform, he was still slightly taller standing than she was sitting. He regarded her, and in his gray eyes, she saw no fear, no despair. Only a fierce, steely glint. And beneath them gleamed his familiar smile, more beautiful and deadly than ever.
“How could you have a chance, Milady?” he repeated. “Well, I'll tell you how. You have a chance because you have two things at your disposal which you did not have the last time the Margrave issued a challenge.”
“And these would be?” Burchard asked, suspiciously.
“The first is time to prepare,” Reuben replied, still only looking at Ayla. Her tears had somehow, miraculously, stopped flowing. The fire in his eyes seeped into her, warming her. “To assemble his banners, the Margrave needs time. We can use that time to our advantage.”
“Time alone won't win us battles,” Burchard said scornfully.
Reuben gave a thoughtful nod, as if he had truly considered this and found it a valid argument. “True. That is where the second thing comes in.”
“And that is?” Ayla asked, in a low but steady voice. “What is this thing of breathtaking power that will win us battles against impossible odds?”
Reuben raised his hands, laced his fingers, and slowly began to crack his knuckles. The noise made Burchard flinch and echoed throughout the hall.
“Why, Milady,” he said, his devilish smile as wide as it could get. “Me, of course.”
THE END
of
THE ROBBER KNIGHT’S LOVE
The adventures of Reuben and Ayla will continue in the third volume of the Robber Knight Saga, The Robber Knight’s Secret.
Now follows an insight into Reuben’s mysterious past.