Reuben looked up at Ayla, who stood in the doorway smiling, and was sure that not all his sweating came from the fever. Christ, she had only said his name and “hello”! What was the matter with him? His name was nothing special. Well, in fact, it was special. After all, it was the name of Sir Reuben Rachwild himself, but still—he had heard it often enough before. Why did it sound so special coming from her lips?

Appreciatively, his gaze swept over the ivory skin of her face and the maidenly figure concealed by the white dress she was wearing. Now that he thought about it, that could be enough reason for him to start sweating...

“Greetings, Milady,” he said with a smile so dazzling that it could charm the pants off anybody. And hopefully the skirts, too.

Ayla didn't lose her skirts, but she did blush and her smile broadened, which gave Reuben immense satisfaction. Never for a moment had he doubted the efficiency of his charms—but the girl, however intriguing she might be, was probably also not quite right in the head. Reuben hadn't forgotten the strange objects in her saddlebags that day he had robbed her in the forest, and he had been concerned whether his charms would affect a creature such as this. Apparently, they worked just as well on crazy girls as on normal people. How gratifying.

“You know, you don't always have to call me by my title,” Ayla chided him. “Most of the people I looked after at the nunnery where I learned the craft of healing never did, either.” But in spite of her words, Reuben could tell she was pleased by his use of the title. Some girls were like that, they liked respectful and old-fashioned manners. He thought she would be one of those, and he had been absolutely right.

“What if I want to?” he asked. “You are a beautiful young lady and deserve to be honored with the title. In fact, I would rather think 'queen' more appropriate than simply 'Milady'.”

This piece of flattery, however, didn't have its intended effect. Instead of fluttering her eyelashes at him suggestively, like any lady at the Imperial Court would have done, Ayla didn't even seem to register his compliment on her beauty. Instead, her face fell and she busied herself with the linen and water she had brought, so as not to have to meet his gaze.

“I'm no queen,” she mumbled. “I don't even deserve to be the lady of a castle. Now turn over, will you? I have to change your cataplasms.”

Reuben didn't move. “What's wrong?” he asked with a softness in his voice that surprised even himself.

Ayla's eyes flitted to the gray-bearded knight on the other bed.

“Oh.” Now Reuben understood. “My new roommate?”

“Yes,” Ayla whispered.

“But surely you don't blame yourself for that. He went onto the battlefield to protect you, to fulfill his oath of fealty. That he lies here isn't your fault, but the fault of the man who struck him down.”

“No, I don't blame myself for what happened, Reuben.”

He studied her face closely. “But you do blame yourself for something?”

“How is it you know me so well?” Ayla asked, seeming half annoyed, half amused.

“Well, you've had a pretty close look at me over the last few days. I've tried to do my best to return the favor,” he said, grinning up at her and lifting a suggestive eyebrow.

She smacked him with a wet cloth. “You be careful what you say or I'll stuff one of these down your throat!”

“Yes, Milady. Certainly, Milady.” He waited for a few moments, but when she didn't say anything, just continued her ministrations in silence, he asked: , “So, what is it you blame yourself for?”

“You don't give up, do you?”

“Never.”

The playful mood in the room shifted, and when Ayla continued, her voice was soft and somber. “I blame myself for not knowing what to do, now that he's not there anymore. A real mistress of a castle should know what to do. She would know how to defend her lands and her people.”

Reuben smirked. “Are young girls hereabouts usually taught swordplay? Did your father forget that in your education?”

“Of course not!”

“Neither is that practice very widespread anywhere else, I think. That's hardly your fault.”

“I wasn't talking about defending my lands personally, with a sword in my hand. I was talking about knowing what to do. What orders to give, how to appear as a confident leader, what to expect of the enemy. They are planning something, I know it. I just have no idea what, and I feel lost and alone.”

You won't be alone much longer, Reuben thought. As soon as I get off this sickbed, I will make your enemies quake in their boots.

But it was too early for that. He couldn't say it. Even if he could, she wouldn't believe him.

And if she did, she would hang you, came the grizzly afterthought.

A fresh cataplasm was wrapped around Reuben's calf by Ayla's gentle hands. He shuddered under the touch—and not because of the coldness of the water. Satan's hairy ass! This girl was... alluring. Despite the fact that, or maybe even because, she wanted to see him swing from the highest tower.

“By the way,” he said quickly, to keep his imagination from getting out of hand, “these cold thingies really seem to work.”

He couldn't see her smile because he had his back to her, but he could feel it, could hear it in her voice.

“The cataplasms? Of course they do. I'm good at what I do.”

“Yes, you are,” he said, closing his eyes and carefully flexing the muscles in his leg, under her fingers. “Very good. Please don't let me interrupt you.”

A wet cloth slapped against the sole of his bare foot, and he yelped in surprise.

“We were, I believe, talking of the defense of this castle,” she said in a haughty tone. “Let's stick to that subject, shall we? Now turn around, I have to wind those cloths all the way around your legs.”

Reuben did as she asked and lay on his back, staring up at her face. She was looking down at his calves, and the blond curtain of her hair shielded most of her face from him, but her cheeks had definitely reddened. Oh yes, she was blushing.

He grinned as he watched her pick up the next cold cloth. But then the cloth slipped through her fingers and fell to the floor. With a jolt, Reuben realized that her hands were shaking. Guilt, hot fiery guilt, washed through him. She was beset by her enemies, had just lost her only protector, and he was making fun of her! Could he be any crueler? Yes, he probably could, but still...

He didn't want to make fun of her. All right, maybe he sometimes did, but not now, not when she was in need. Now, he just wanted to help.

But how could he? He was tied to this bed. He couldn't even get up, he was so weak.

Her words came back to him: I was talking about knowing what to do. What orders to give, how to appear as a confident leader, what to expect of the enemy.

Could he help with this? How, without blowing his cover? And if that happened, she would hang him...

“I... I'm sorry,” she whispered, picking up the cloth. “I'm just not feeling very well right now.”

Oh, hang his cover! And himself, if need be.

“Soldiers are organized into lances,” he said suddenly, “tactical units of varying size and shape. A number of lances in turn make up a banner. Lances are usually commanded by a knight, or in his absence, by an appointed captain.”

Ayla's head jerked up. The cold cloth in her hands was forgotten as she stared at him. “H-how do you know that?”

“When the lances and banners go into battle,” Reuben continued in a rush, “it is the knights who lead the charge against the enemy, riding full gallop with their lances in hand to try and break the ranks of the enemy. The bannermen come after them, destroying what is left. Since you are fighting a siege, a protracted battle without wide open areas and with good defensive positions, there will be greater emphasis on the foot soldiers than on knights. You will have to defend a barricade, not charge the enemy on an open field, the only place where knights could bring the mounted charge with lances, their most powerful weapon, to bear. Isenbard's incapacitation, tragic though it is, might not be the catastrophe it appears to you now. One knight more or less does not win or lose you a siege. With the right leadership, a few lances of good foot soldiers can hold that bridge of yours against an army.”

By the time he had finished his lecture, Ayla's mouth was open in the cutest “O” in the history of the alphabet.

“Are you making fun of me?” she demanded.

*~*~**~*~*

The devil of a man actually managed to look hurt!

“Does it sound like I am?” he demanded.

After a few seconds, Ayla slowly shook her head, still too confused to really know what to think. “No, Reuben. As strange as that sounds, what you've said actually seems to make some sense.”

“Why, thank you, Milady.”

“But where did all this stuff come from, Reuben? You're a merchant, not a mercenary.”

He grinned at her, that devilish grin she just couldn't resist. It made his gray eyes burn right through her to the center of her soul. “Even merchants have brains, you know.”

She pouted. “I have brains, and eyes and ears, and I've lived in a castle with soldiers and knights all my life—but I didn't know half the things that just came tumbling out of your mouth.”

Reuben shrugged. “Well, I guess I'm a very special merchant.” He raised an eyebrow at her, which made the scimitar scar on his forehead crinkle up in the most adorable way.

Oh, how Ayla wanted to touch the scar, to stroke it with gentle fingers. She couldn't help it; her expression softened and a smile suffused her features. “That you are,” she said, staring deeply into his predatory gray eyes. “And I'm supposed to believe everything you've said, just like that? What guarantee do I have that you aren't just making it up?”

“You could just trust me,” he suggested innocently.

“Trust you?” She snorted derisively. “Yes, of course! Do I look that stupid?”

*~*~**~*~*

“...greater emphasis on the foot soldiers than on the knights,” Ayla said. “You will have to defend a barricade, not charge the enemy on an open field, which is the only place where knights can bring the mounted charge with lances, their most powerful weapon, to bear. Isenbard's incapacitation, tragic though it is, might not be the catastrophe it appears to you now. One knight more or less does not win or lose you a siege. With the right leadership, a few lances of good foot soldiers can hold that bridge of ours against an army.”

The captain of the guard, Burchard, Sir Rudolfus, and Sir Waldar sat around the lord's table in the great hall, staring at her, their mouths hanging open. This looked particularly unattractive in Sir Waldar's case, who still had a half-eaten piece of mutton stuck between his teeth.

“Well... err...” The captain of the guard scratched his head, then bowed to her. It was not an empty gesture. “That was really convincing, Milady. Thank you. And how should we position ourselves?”

“How many lances do you have?”

“Six, Milady.”

“How many men in each?”

“Three lances of ten men in the castle guard, Milady. Sir Isenbard brought one lance of twenty with him, and Sir Waldar and Sir Rudolfus each one lance of five.”

Ayla frowned. “We must organize a constant watch of about the same number of soldiers. You know the men best, Captain. You have fought beside them. Do you think it would be best to divide them up into more regular units or leave them as they are, with their familiar comrades?”

The captain shuffled uncomfortably. “Either way, these men will die to protect you, Milady.”

The frown disappeared from Ayla's face and was replaced by a smile. “I'm touched by your words, Captain. I am sure they come from the heart. Yet I do not wish these men to die in defense of me. I wish them to fight in defense of their home and live through it.”

“Yes, Milady.”

“Also, you did not answer my question, Captain. When I ask a question, I expect to be answered.”

“Yes, Milady. I... think the men would prefer to stay as they are. They know the men in their own lances, know they can trust them to protect their backs.”

“I see. Then the lances will remain as they are. Please see to it that one lance of castle guards, supplemented by the other lances so as to bring up the total number of men to at least twenty, is always guarding the barricade.”

“Yes, Milady.”

“Also ensure that the soldiers from the different lances are quartered next to each other and mingle when they are not on guard duty. I want them to get to know and trust each other. We cannot afford strife amongst ourselves if we wish to win this struggle. If there are any problems with discipline or morale, I wish to be informed immediately, do you understand?”

“I do, Milady. It shall be done as you wish.”

“You are dismissed, Captain.”

The soldier bowed and left the room, a spring in his step.

Next, Ayla turned to Sir Rudolfus and Sir Waldar. To Sir Rudolfus she entrusted the inventory of their stocks of food and everything that could be handy in a siege, reminding him that the pen was mightier than the sword. He almost fell over his feet thanking her. To Sir Waldar she entrusted the leadership of the castle guard while their captain was in charge of the barricade's defense, reminding him that the sword was mightier than the wine bottle. He snorted with laughter and marched out of the room, his belly wobbling.

When they were alone, Ayla's eyes strayed to Burchard.

His mouth was still hanging open.

“Where,” he asked, and she couldn't decide whether he sounded angry or curious or impressed or all at the same time, “did all that just come from?”

Ayla gave him her most dazzling smile. “I am simply an inspiring military leader with a natural talent for strategy.”

His bushy eyebrows drew together. “Are you now? Since when, exactly?”

“Oh, just shut up.”