The Robber Knight: Special Edition

By Robert Thier

Sir Reuben, the dreaded robber knight, has long been Ayla’s deadliest enemy. He has prayed on her and her people ever since her father fell ill, and she swore he would hang for his crimes. Now they are both trapped in her castle as the army of a far greater enemy approaches, and they have only one chance: stand together, or fall.
Welcome to “The Robber Knight”—a tale full of action, adventure, and romance.

This is the Special Edition of “The Robber Knight”, which contains secret chapters exploring Sir Reuben’s mysterious past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Thier
• Release date: Apr 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311386946

Robert Thier

Robert Thier is a German Historian and writer of Historical Fiction. His particular mix of history, romance and adventure, always with a good deal of humor thrown in, has gained him a diverse readership ranging from teenagers to retired grandmothers. For the way he manages to make history come alive, as if he himself had lived as a medieval knight, his fans all over the world have given him the nickname “Sir Rob”.For him, Robert says, becoming a writer has followed naturally from his interest in history. “In Germany,” he says, “we use the same word for story and history. And I've always loved the one as much as the other. Becoming a storyteller, a writer, is what I've always wanted.”Besides writing and researching in dusty old archives, on the lookout for a mystery to put into his next story, Robert enjoys classical music and long walks in the country. The helmet you see on the picture he does not wear because he is a cycling enthusiast, but to protect his literary skull in which a bone has been missing from birth. Robert lives in the south of Germany in a small village between the three Emperor's Mountains.

Book preview

Feud

Anno Domini[1] 1234

Lady Ayla stared down at the gauntlet.[2] Such a simple piece of clothing: five-fingered, made of leather, without any embellishment or embroidery. A glove. Such a simple thing. Just a glove. It meant the end of the world for her.

She looked up at the herald[3] who had brought the gauntlet and managed a sarcastic smile.

"So nice of the Margrave[4] to be concerned about my well-being. But please tell him from me that the castle is well-heated, and if I need to put on a glove, I have dozens of my own. Oh yes, and tell him next time he wishes to send me a gift, to send a pair of gloves. Gives a much better impression."

The herald more than matched her smile. And why not? He had all the reasons in the world to smile—while she most certainly had none.

You know very well that this is not a gift, Lady Ayla, he said, his voice sounding superior and insolent. "The gauntlet is not for you. It is for your father, Count Thomas. The Margrave von Falkenstein hereby throws down the gauntlet and declares a feud[5] against him and all those he harbors within his walls."

Lady Ayla stood up. Sitting, she had been on about equal level with the narrow eyes of the little man who had come to declare the end of what had hitherto been her life. Now, standing on the raised platform at the end of the great hall where her father's chair stood, she towered over him. It made her feel slightly better, but only slightly, because she knew it was all a pretense. The man was in control here. Though he was alone, and they were in her home, her father's castle, surrounded by her father's servants, he was in control. Or rather, his master was.

Will you be so good as to have your father fetched, Milady? the herald asked. So that he can pick up the gauntlet, as is the custom?

You know very well, Ayla said in a dangerously steady voice, that my father is a sick old man who cannot even walk on his own legs anymore, let alone fight battles.

The herald sighed. Oh, very well. It is just a formality, after all. Here is the legally binding document.

He held up a roll of parchment. At one end, Ayla could see the Margrave's seal in shining red wax. She knew what it was immediately: the letter of feud declaration. The herald thrust the parchment at one of her servants, who caught it with a yelp and stumbled back.

Ayla didn't give it a second glance. It would contain many pretty words, but they would not be enough to conceal the real content, the same ugly message sent by the gauntlet on the stone floor in front of her: I want what is yours, and I will take it by force.

On what grounds does your master declare this feud? she demanded, her voice trembling now. With rage? Fear? She wasn't quite sure herself. What ill have we ever done him? What justification does he have for his actions?

Justification? Hiding a smirk, the herald shrugged. I'm sure one can be found—after he has burned your castle to the ground and made your lands his own. He is in no hurry.

That dastardly comment would have left Lady Ayla speechless, or more likely disbelieving, had she not known the man behind the words. Falkenstein was not a man to make idle threats; he enjoyed making real ones far too much.

But, the herald continued, there might be a way to avoid unpleasantness and spare your people the hardships of the feud to come.

Ayla frowned. Is the Margrave von Falkenstein getting soft in his old days? He has declared five feuds over the last three years, and in none of those cases did he have a shred of mercy for his victims.

Ah, yes, the herald concurred merrily. But, you see, in none of those cases did his adversary have a fair maiden for a daughter who is renowned for her beauty far beyond the borders of her father's lands.

A cold shiver ran down Ayla's spine. What is that supposed to mean?

That, the man said, flourishing his white herald's staff, is supposed to mean that my master did not just send me here to bring you this gauntlet. He sent me here to bring you two things. Two different accessories, you could say, from which you must choose. Either, he pointed to the floor where the gauntlet still lay, you pick up this, or, he reached into his pocket and held up something small and shiny, you put this on your ring-finger.

Ayla gazed at the golden ring in the herald's hand, horror-struck. And she had believed her situation couldn't get any worse.

I see, she said, around the lump in her throat.

The herald smiled at her again, this time suggestively. The Margrave has heard much of your manifold attractions, Milady. His gaze traveled up and down her body in an insolent manner. "Golden hair, a maidenly figure, stunning blue eyes—all the bards[6] sing of you as beautiful and amiable."

Ayla could feel her face growing hot and her small fists clenching.

Personally, the herald continued with a derisive smirk, I must admit that I can't quite agree with the bards on the latter point. I prefer ladies who are a little more docile. Yet the Margrave will have no difficulty in dealing with you, I'm sure.

Indeed?

Ayla wasn't sure whether her eyes could be described as stunning, but at that moment she wished she really could stun with just a look, or maim or incinerate perhaps? That would take care of the impudent cur in front of her. She glared at the herald with fiery intensity.

Yes, indeed. And, in spite of your faults, he would be more than willing to enter into an alliance with you and unite your lands into one, the herald continued.

I'm sure he would.

You should recognize the generosity of his offer and do as he wishes.

Oh yes. Very generous—to ask a maiden for her hand and threaten violence if she does not comply!

The derisive smile was back on the herald's face. Would the Margrave as a husband really be so unwelcome? You are already seventeen years of age, quite an old maiden. You should have been married three or four years ago.

If and when I marry is none of your concern, and certainly not the Margrave's!

"Indeed? By all accounts, you need a strong man to take care of things for you in any case. There have been tales flying around the country about robber knights[7] infesting your father's lands ever since he was taken ill. I myself met with a merchant from Cologne on my way here who had been robbed by a devil of a robber knight in crimson armor."

Ayla gritted her teeth. She had heard reports of the red knight before, but to be reminded of him by this harbinger of doom, to be practically accused of dereliction of duty to her people... It was almost more than she could bear.

He will be taken care of, she hissed. And his crimes are nothing in comparison to what your master is contemplating.

The herald looked from her to the ring in his outstretched hand and back again. Is that your answer? he asked.

No. You shall have my answer. Ulrich!

The servant hurried to Ayla's side. Yes, Milady?

Go and fetch the... accessory for fingers from the old room behind the dungeons, she commanded.

The servant looked nonplussed for a moment. Then a horrified expression spread over his face.

B-but Milady, he stammered, you commanded us never to open or enter that room again!

And now I command otherwise, she said, her eyes still resting on the herald. Go!

The... finger accessory, Milady?

Yes. Do you know what I mean?

I think so, Milady.

Then, as I said, go.

Without a further word, the servant departed.

It was only a couple of minutes before he returned, carrying something wrapped in a piece of leather. While he had been gone, neither Ayla nor the herald had spoken a word. Neither had broken eye contact.

Normally, the main hall of Luntberg Castle was a quiet, comfortable place: a huge fireplace with a warm fire, pelts lying on the floor, the colorful tapestries on the wall given a golden tinge by the light streaming in through the horn window panes covering the narrow windows. Yet while Ayla and the herald eyed each other, the atmosphere became uncomfortably charged, and the fire, which normally crackled so cozily, now seemed to foreshadow a much larger conflagration, a firestorm that would swallow up Ayla's home and leave it devastated by war. Like birds of prey, the two sized each other up, each wondering how much fight the other would put up.

It took Ayla a few seconds to realize that Ulrich had returned and was standing beside her, holding something in his hand. When she finally noticed his presence, she took the leather-wrapped object he had been sent to fetch and handed it to the herald with a defiant expression on her face.

The herald pulled away the leather to reveal an old, rusted, iron thumbscrew.[8]

Take it to your master and tell him, Ayla said, her voice calm again, pointing to the rusty, old instrument of torture, that I would rather put this on my finger than the golden thumbscrew he has offered me.

She stepped down from the raised platform and bent forward to pick up the gauntlet.

I accept the feud.

Her Plan

You will regret this. The Margrave has ways of persuading people. The first of his men will be arriving in a few days. More will follow. Then you will see what you have done!

Those had been the herald's last words before he had departed. And, indeed, Ayla was already regretting her choice. Not for herself, no. Never for herself. She would rather have died than become the wife of a man like Falkenstein.

Most women would have jumped at the chance to marry the Margrave: by all accounts, he was young, quite handsome, and the best jouster between Cologne and Magdeburg. But he was also power-hungry, fanatical, and cruel, continuously extending his dominion by waging war on his neighbors.

As he now planned to wage war on her.

No, if it was only herself she had to think about, the herald's words wouldn't have given her a moment's concern. But she had to think of much more.

Slowly, Ayla walked to the window and thrust it open. From the main hall of Luntberg Castle, one had a wonderful view over the Lunt Valley: a peaceful dale, divided by a river spanned by a single picturesque bridge. The water glittered in the morning sunlight, and even up here, high up on the Luntberg, she thought she could hear the birds singing in the trees.

Soon, the sight from up here would not be so peaceful anymore. Soon, there would be soldiers marching up the valley, burning and looting as they went. All because she, in a moment of anger, had put her own needs over those of her people.

If she agreed to marry the Margrave von Falkenstein, however, maybe things would be different. Maybe she could...

Ayla felt something wet on her cheek. When she reached up and touched it, she realized that it was a tear.

Milady?

Quickly, she wiped the tears away with her sleeve and turned to see Burchard, her father's old steward,[9] who had been waiting at the door during her talk with the herald and had just now entered the hall. When he saw her expression, his own darkened, and he was in front of her with five quick steps. Milady, you aren't honestly thinking of giving in to that blaggard?

But what will happen if I don't? she said, and was angry at herself because her voice sounded like a sniffle. The Margrave will wage war on us, and the people will have to suffer for my selfishness.

Stop trying to be a martyr, Burchard growled, knitting his eyebrows as only Burchard could. He had very impressive bushy, black eyebrows, just perfect for knitting. Use your head for just one minute, will you? If you think the people will suffer at the hands of the Margrave von Falkenstein because of a few weeks of feuding, how much more do you think they'll suffer from a few decades of his rule? Do you really want to subject your people to that? Are you such a coward, little girl?

Ayla immediately stopped crying and turned red with anger—which was, as she later admitted to herself, probably exactly what the old steward had been aiming to achieve. It was a terrible affliction, having someone as a servant who had known you right from the cradle.

I'm not a little girl, she snapped.

Aren't you? Burchard raised one of his eyebrows. When he raised his eyebrows, it was just as impressive as when he knit them. His wrinkled forehead and big, black beard complemented the effect. At the moment, you seem to be acting like one. On the other hand, I saw a young woman in here a couple of minutes ago. A young woman who wasn't afraid to stand up for herself and her people to the impudent demands of a man twice her age with a reputation that would make a battle-hardened warrior blanch. Maybe she's still around.

Ayla took a deep breath, stood straight, and nodded. She is.

Good, Burchard said. Because we desperately need her right now. He went to one knee. What are Milady's orders?

Thoughts racing, Ayla turned to the window again. She could not hope to stand a chance against the Margrave von Falkenstein on equal ground. The man was an experienced fighter, commander, and conqueror. Since her father had been taken ill, the soldiers in Luntberg Castle had been without a leader. Oh, Ayla could direct them to go to this village, protect that place from brigands, but lead them into battle? No.

What they needed was an experienced military leader who was still young and strong enough to be a good fighter. Someone who could make people believe they stood a fighting chance. Unfortunately, no such person was available. So Ayla would just have to think of something else.

She had to protect her people.

All her people.

Gather all the men who can ride, she said, still staring out of the window, down into the valley. They don't have to be soldiers, they just have to know how to ride quickly. Also, gather all the wood you can find, and get me the carpenter from the village.

Burchard stood up, his old eyes gleaming. You have a plan, Milady?

Would I be giving you orders if I hadn't?

No, Milady.

Well, what are you waiting for? Get to work!

Burchard nodded and headed for the door. He was just about to leave the hall when he turned and asked: And what should I do with all these things and men, when I have them, Milady? Where shall I bring them?

You will bring them to the bridge, Ayla said, also heading for the door. And as for what to do, we'll get to that once we've arrived. I'm coming with you. Tell them to saddle Eleanor.

*~*~**~*~*

Her horse was waiting for her when she reached the courtyard. Burchard might be annoying sometimes, but he was also good at his job. None of her servants bothered to help her into the saddle. They all had known her almost as long as the steward.

Ayla took a moment to stroke Eleanor's glossy brown coat.

How have you been, my girl? she asked in a soft voice.

Eleanor whinnied, leaning into Ayla's touch.

Ayla laughed softly and hugged the mare around the neck. Yes, I love you too. But we haven't got time for that now.

The mare regarded her with large, intelligent, brown eyes, seeming to ask why exactly they didn't have time for a bit of tender loving care.

We have to hurry. People are in danger, and we have to help. With a last pat on Eleanor's side, Ayla swung herself into the saddle. Run my girl! Run!

She gently pressed her boots into the horse's sides. Eleanor understood. She had never needed more than a small indication to know exactly what Ayla wanted. Her hoofs turning into a blur, she galloped through the first set of castle gates and along the steep path that snaked down the side of the mountain towards the larger outer gate with its iron portcullis.[10]

Luntberg Castle truly was an impressive bulwark. Built in Ayla's father's youth, when the land had still been free of those accursed robber knights and a series of rich harvests had filled her father's coffers with enough money for this project, it was a massive complex of impenetrable stone walls and high pinnacles. Two walls, the outer lower than the inner one, surrounded the central keep where Count Luntberg and his only daughter lived. Within the first courtyard, there were only the most essential buildings: the armory, the bakery, and a well that led down deep into the mountain, supplying the castle with fresh water.

The second courtyard held a few more buildings, but was essentially there for the purpose of keeping any enemy forces far away from the central keep. Count Thomas von Luntberg, in his youth a man of both foresight and vigor, had built this stronghold on the top of the mountain that bore his name to provide a safe haven for himself and his family if ever there came a time when the clouds of war gathered on the horizon.

Now, it seemed, the castle walls were all that stood between them and certain doom. Suddenly, they did not seem as impenetrable as Ayla had always thought them to be.

No, she chastised herself, slowing down her horse as she approached the outer gate. What about the village? Will I let the people there be driven out of their homes? I will not act like a coward and retreat into my stronghold, leaving them to face the consequences of my actions. I will meet our enemy head on!

She greeted the man on watch at the gate, who bowed in return.

When I've gone, she said, close the gate behind me and let the portcullis down. The time for open doors has passed.

He swallowed. Then is it true what they are saying, Milady? Has the Margrave declared a feud?

He has, was her only answer. Then she urged her horse out of the gate and down the mountain path towards the valley.

*~*~**~*~*

When she reached the bridge, Burchard had already assembled a great number of men and horses. Stacks of wood were piled against the stone bridge's railing.

Burchard greeted her with a bow. Now are you going to tell me what all this wood is for? he asked.

Simple. Ayla pointed over the massive bridge spanning the river in two graceful arches to the eastern, lower parts of the valley. Beyond the bridge, there are only scattered farms. Falkenstein's land lies to the east, beyond the river. The waters flow fast and strong; there are no other crossings for dozens of miles in either direction. She fixed her steward with an iron stare. We are going to head the Margrave von Falkenstein off and erect our first line of defense here—at the bridge.

"What? The old steward's eyes bulged. You are intending to face him before he reaches the castle? Milady, when I urged you not to give up hope, I didn't mean for you to give up your strongest defensive position instead! This is madness!"

Is it madness to want to stop the Margrave before he reaches the village? she asked, looking around. All the men Burchard had gathered were watching intently. All men from the village.

Your concern for your people is admirable, Burchard managed to say through clenched teeth. But...

No buts, Burchard. She leaned closer and said under her breath so that no one else would hear: I overheard my father and Sir Isenbard talking once about what happens when an army moves through country where only peaceful peasants live. They do something called foraging, I believe. What does that word mean, Burchard?

Milady, I never...

"What does it mean, Burchard?"

Burchard took a deep breath. It means that the soldiers range out up to sixty miles on either side of their route, pillaging, plundering, and killing at will. Commanders don't provide food for their soldiers, so the soldiers have to get it themselves or starve. Soldiers don't like to starve.

I thought so.

The steward hadn't given up yet, though. That doesn't change the fact that your plan is insane! I must repeat that from a military standpoint...

Plus, she added, fixing him with her clear blue eyes again, we simply do not have the supplies to feed everyone in the castle over a prolonged period of time. Cut off from any supply chains, there will be hunger. Disease will spread with so many people packed so closely together. Should our stand here fail, we can always retreat into Castle Luntberg or do something different. If we lock ourselves up in the castle, we will be out of options. The Margrave will surround us, and all we can do is pray for a miracle. Do you want to risk that?

Burchard growled something indistinguishable.

And besides, she said, "I kind of think I should at least try to protect my people. She smiled at him. Someone told me once that is what a liege lord is supposed to do."

Sometimes I wish you weren't so much like your father, the old steward growled and gave her her favorite scowl.

Blushing with joy at the compliment, Ayla climbed on one of the stacks of wood and called out to the men who surrounded her: You all heard me! You all know what to do. Now I need all those who can ride a horse and brought one with them to step forward!

Several of the villagers and a few castle guards that Burchard had assembled stepped out of the crowd and bent their knees before her.

Ayla did a quick count. One, two, three, four, five, six... hm, yes, enough. There are seven farms on the eastern bank of the river, aren't there?

The peasants nodded eagerly.

We're going to have to warn them, she declared. It will be impossible to protect the eastern half of the valley. They are going to have to come here and live in the village for a time. Each of you, she pointed towards the riders, will take one of the farms, warn their owners and help them bring whatever is most precious to them back here.

She started pointing at the men, one after another. You will go to Walding's farm. You to Albrecht's, you to Menning's, you to Horst's, you to Otto's, you to Autgar's!

One of the more intellectual castle guards who had apparently learned to count to seven, raised a hand. But, Milady, we are only six. How shall we warn the last family? Shall one of us visit two farms?

Ayla shook her head. No. Falkenstein's forces are already on the move. Who knows, he might already have sentries posted throughout the eastern valley. With no border patrols, how are we to know? It's too dangerous for anybody to stay out there long. Besides, there's no need to. There are seven farms and, she called her horse with a whistle and swung herself back into the saddle, there are seven riders.

Milady! If Burchard's expression had been furious before, it was nothing to what his face looked like now. You aren't seriously considering...

I'm not considering anything, she cut him off, turning her horse to face the bridge. I'm riding to Gelther's farm.

Burchard strode towards her, a determined look in his eyes. But you said yourself how it was dangerous for anyone to be out there. We have no idea who or what may lie in wait!

Exactly—which is why I have no time to waste. She pressed her boots into Eleanor's sides. Run girl! Run like the wind!

Burchard jumped forward, but too late. Before he could manage to grab the reins of her horse, she was already speeding towards the bridge.

Milady! he shouted. Come back!

Ignoring him, she raced across the bridge in full gallop. Just before she reached the other end, she looked back, shouting at the stunned crowd: And woe betide you if I don't see a solid barricade when I return!

Then she turned east again.

Burchard remained standing at the bridge, looking after her, worry and anger etched into his wrinkled face. Only if you looked closely could you see the tiniest hint of a grudgingly proud smile, as his eyes followed the girl riding fast towards the enemy, blond hair flying behind her.

Sir Reuben and the Doll

Sir Reuben sat on his horse counting money. It was one of his favorite activities—the counting of money, not the sitting on the back of a horse. Not that he didn't like to ride. There was just the fact that if you did it long enough, it gave you a sore ass, which never happened from counting money.

...twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two.

He closed the purse contentedly and let it hang loosely from his hand. There was nothing better than the tinkling of gold, except of course the tinkling of stolen gold.

Reuben smiled to himself.

The merchant had really been an amusing fellow. He honestly believed he had a right to keep the money he had earned. Well, maybe he had, in a strictly judicial sense. But Reuben's sword tickling his chubby cheeks had soon convinced him otherwise.

The knight was so lost in his happy reminiscences that he almost missed the hoof prints. Almost, for he was Sir Reuben Rachwild. While one eye always looked at what he wanted to see, the other kept a close look on what he needed to see. It was a talent that had kept him alive these past six years.

The hoof prints were not deep. They were also very far apart, which indicated speed. A light, nimble animal whose rider was in a great hurry. It had to be a Palfrey or a Jennet. Knights’ chargers, carthorses, and plowhorses were big, heavy animals that didn't move fast and whose hoofs left deep impressions in the dirt. Palfreys and Jennets were the only kinds of light horses. He would have given the matter no further thought, had he not suddenly reached a fork in the forest path he was riding on.

The hoof prints led down to the left.

Sir Reuben stopped his horse.

He had seen what was down there earlier, when he had come riding into this valley: nothing but a few farms and a lot of forest. It was a dead end. What would any rider be doing down there? Especially someone who rode such a light, nimble, and surely expensive horse?

Maybe it was a priest visiting his parishioners?

But then Reuben noticed a strange mark left in the dirt, inside the hoof print. Swiftly, he jumped to the ground and examined the dirt more closely. As part of the hoof print, there was the tiny print of a symbol left in the mud: a crest such as only nobles used to mark their precious horses.

Hm... no knight on his charger, that much had already been established. So it had to be a noblewoman. And for some reason she was riding to these farms, and from what he knew of noblewomen, probably not to spend the night there. She would come back soon, eager to return to her warm chamber and comfortable bed...

A grin spread over Sir Reuben's face.

This day just kept getting better and better. If there was one thing he enjoyed more than robbing people, it was robbing stuck-up, stinking rich noble people!

*~*~**~*~*

To say that Gelther the peasant was surprised when his mistress[11] rode up to his house in full gallop would be something of an understatement. He actually dropped the ax he was holding, and it was only sheer luck that he didn't slice off his toes.

L-lady Ayla, he stammered, rushing forward to bow. We are honored by your presence. Please, let me help you down.

But Ayla had already slid off Eleanor's back. She saw Gelther's wife peering out of the farmhouse door and swallowed. This was not going to be easy.

We don't have time for pleasantries, Gelther, she said, her tone much more gentle than her words. I come bearing black tidings.

She explained how Falkenstein had declared a feud, omitting only the marriage option. She was not sure how they would take the news that she had essentially refused peace. Although she knew Burchard was right and a feud against Falkenstein was infinitely preferable to peace united with him, she could not totally silence the small voice in the back of her mind that told her she had not done her duty to her people.

As she told her story, she could see the reality slowly sinking in: with every word she spoke, the expression of the husband grew grimmer, that of the wife more horrified. Finally, she was at the end.

And you came all this way to warn us, Milady? Gelther's wife Margret whispered.

Well, thank you, her husband said, still grim-faced. We will find a spot in the forest to hide. Maybe Falkenstein's men will not find us. Margret, get the children. We're leaving.

What? Now?

Of course now!

What shall I pack? Where are we going? How...?

Just pack some food, he interrupted her. We're leaving immediately, Margret. And I don't know where we're going yet.

Ayla could see it in the farmer's eyes: he had seen death before—unlike his wife. With a short bow to her, he wanted to turn and head into the house, but Ayla stepped forward and grabbed his arm. He looked back at her and saw the determined expression on her face.

I did not just come to warn you. I came to offer you sanctuary. My men are erecting a barrier at the dale bridge as we speak. There we will brave the threat, and you are welcome to seek refuge in the village for as long as the feud lasts.

The farmer inhaled sharply. Do you mean that, Milady?

Of course. Now get your things together! Everything you can carry. I will take as much as I can back with me on Eleanor, so don't hesitate to pack everything that is precious to you.

The farmer made no answer. He just dropped to his knees and bowed his head for a second. Then he was on his feet again and inside the house within a second, while his wife rushed towards Ayla and showered her with thanks.

This caused Ayla to blush furiously. The effusions of the peasant's wife were a testament to the poor conception many noblemen and -women had of their duties as liege lord and protector. These two people felt themselves infinitely indebted to her for what should have been their natural right: protection for themselves and their family.

After some time, Margret was called away by her husband into the house. Ayla, feeling guilty for having to drive them out of their home, did not follow and intrude on their last private moments there. Instead, she wandered around to the back of the house, from which she could see the road leading down into the valley from the east, between the lush green vegetation.

The road was still empty—at the moment. But soon troops would be marching down that road, troops emblazoned with the escutcheon[12] of the Margrave von Falkenstein: a sinister falcon on argent, separated by a bend[13] from black cross.

Ayla could not suppress a bitter smile. Somehow it was very fitting that Margrave Falkenstein's falcon should be sinister. While, in theory, sinister was only a heraldic term for the left side of a coat of arms, it served as fair warning to all those who saw it: Here comes a man to fear, the hawk said. He will grab you with his claws and never let go again.

Milady?

She turned and saw Margret holding a small pile of objects in her arms.

These things we would like you to take, if it is not too much for you...

No, no, Ayla said hurriedly. Come, I'll help you stow them away.

She led the woman to Eleanor and opened the saddlebags.

Margret had been very restrained: after everything was stowed away, only half of the available space was taken. Ayla told the woman to get more, and after a short argument, protesting that it would be too much for the lady's fine horse, Margret did as requested.

Ayla returned to the back of the house. When Falkenstein's troops approached, she did not want to be caught off guard.

However, instead of an enemy soldier, she found a small girl at the back of the house, her hands behind her back, staring up at the lady garbed in fine clothes with eyes as big as saucers. This had to be one of Gelther and Margret's daughters.

Hello. Ayla bent down and smiled at the little girl. What's your name?

The girl gave a frightened squeak and ran to hide behind a pile of firewood that was stacked against the side of the house.

You know, I'm not in the habit of eating children, Ayla said to the empty air. It's not something I generally do.

No reaction.

And even if I did, she added, I do it only on Mondays and Saturdays. Today's Wednesday, so you can come out.

For a few more seconds, there was silence.

Then a big eye, topped by a tangle of black hair, peeked around the corner. Really? Only on Mondays and Saturdays? Promise?

Promise, Ayla said with a solemn expression, holding up her hand as if she were swearing an oath. On my honor as a maiden.

For some reason, that made the girl come out at once, which made Ayla wonder whether she looked that innocent that everybody believed her immediately when she said she was a virgin. That thought annoyed her, so she tried to push it away and bent down to the girl, who only reached up to her waist and couldn't be more than five years old.

Are you really Lady Ayla from the castle? the girl asked. She was a bit hard to understand because she kept biting down on a fold of the old dress she wore, probably still slightly afraid that this strange, colorful creature would eat her. I've never seen a real Lady before.

Well, you have now. But it's nothing too special. I see myself every day in the mirror, and I'm none too pleased about it.

Why? You're very pretty.

Um... thanks.

I'm blushing, Ayla thought furiously. A five-year-old just told me I'm pretty and I'm blushing. Can you get any more pathetic?

Have you come to take Mommy and Daddy and Andris and me away? the girl accused.

God, this was becoming uncomfortable! And Ayla used to think she was good with children! When this little thing grew up, she should join the Inquisition.

Err... yes. But it's not like you think...

I don't want to go away!

I wouldn't either, in your place, Ayla said with a sad smile. But, you see, there is this evil man coming who might do evil things, so you have to go somewhere where it is safe.

The girl scowled. Can't you just kick him in the butt? You've got knights, haven't you?

Well, yes, but he has more.

That wouldn't matter if yours were better, the girl proclaimed, sagely. You see, I know. I hear from the bards every time they come to the village. A really good knight is better than a dozen bad ones. He can rescue princesses and fight dragons and bump baddies on the head and all that stuff.

Ayla didn't know whether to cry or smile. Well, unfortunately, I haven't got any knights like that.

Didn't you train yours properly?

Yes, that must be it. Dear me, how careless of me. I'll be sure to get some good knights as soon as I can find some.

The little girl nodded, satisfied. The silly grown-up had obviously learned her lesson. But then she remembered her original subject. I don't want to go away, she repeated.

Ayla wished she could just vanish into thin air.

Sorry, she said. You have to. But it's only for a time.

Really? You promise?

Ayla nodded, and then wondered whether this was a promise she would be able to keep. I'm here to help you move, she said, trying desperately to change the subject. "I've got a horse;