Ayla had never been a great runner. Riding? Yes, she had enjoyed riding since her childhood. But running had never been her thing.
Now, however, not even the famed runner Thersippus, who, according to Plutarch, ran an entire day without stopping to deliver the news of Athens's victory over the Persians and collapsed dead after delivering his message, could compare to her speed. Fortunately, though, she didn't drop dead on reaching her destination.
Gasping, she stumbled up the last few steps of the tower stairs and out into the cold night air, just as Captain Linhart raised his arm.
“Ready your bows!” he shouted to the archers arrayed on the wall. “Nock your arrows!”
Then he noticed Ayla stumbling towards him and clutching the battlements for support, wheezing like an old pair of bellows.
“Ah, Milady. You're just in time to see us dispatch that rump-fed moldwarp.” He pointed over the battlements to a massive figure in red armor, driving a black stallion uphill so fiercely you might have believed the devil was behind him. The knight’s fist tightly gripped a rope leading another horse—a horse that Ayla recognized immediately. Behind the two animals followed not the devil, but a gaggle of soldiers, yelling terrible insults and curses. “He must have lost his mind, trying to attack a castle on horseback, without a single siege weapon,” Linhart snorted derisively. “But all the better for us. A mad enemy is killed quickly. He will soon be no more.”
He turned to his men.
“Mark! Draw!”
Twenty bowstrings were pulled back.
“Hold! Hold until he is in range.”
Behind him, knees wobbling from exhaustion and hardly able to get out a syllable, Ayla waved frantically in the attempt to get Linhart’s attention.
“Ssst…nnnn dnn,” she gasped but was too breathless to pronounce any real words.
“What was that, Milady?” Linhart half turned back to her. “I'll attend to you in a moment, just as soon as we have sent this demon to join his master down below. A few seconds more and he will be in range. Hold…Hold…”
“Stop!”
The word that burst from Ayla’s lips was quiet and breathless, but nevertheless perfectly understandable to everyone in the vicinity. Still, Captain Linhart and all the twenty bowmen with bows still drawn gaped at her as though she had suddenly started spouting speeches in some heathen tongue.
“Excuse me, Milady?” said Linhart after a few seconds.
“Stop…I said…stop. I don't…” Ayla gasped for breath again, still leaning heavily on the battlements. “I don't want you to shoot.”
The eyes of the captain and his men wandered from the red knight to Ayla and back. “You don't want us to shoot him?”
“No.”
“Just to be absolutely sure, Milady, you do not want us to shoot that rider in the red armor advancing towards the castle right now?”
“No.” Ayla shook her head, let go of the battlements, and stood erect. “I want you to open the gates for him.”
“What?”
“Don't worry, Captain,” she said as forcefully as she could. “I know the man who is riding up that hill.”
“Err…forgive me for saying so, Milady,” the captain dared to object, “but I know him, too. He has beleaguered us for the last few weeks, remember?”
“Captain?”
“Yes, Milady?”
“Open the gates!”
The captain hesitated. He might have obeyed. He might have refused. It could have gone either way had not, at that moment, the sound of an arrow whizzing through the air distracted him. He whirled around—but all of his men were still standing there with their bows drawn and arrows nocked.
His gaze strayed down over the battlements, and he suddenly froze as he saw several arrows flying past the red knight galloping towards the castle. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. He saw more arrows flying past the red knight.
“Err…why is the enemy shooting at their own commander?”
Captain Linhart's sane world of soldiering was slowly collapsing around his ears.
“That's what I've been trying to tell you,” Ayla growled. “He's not who you think he is! Now, go open the gates, or do I have to do it myself?”
“No, Milady! As you command, Milady!” Captain Linhart turned towards the gatehouse, made his hands funnel-shaped around his mouth, and shouted, “Open the gates!”
The guard at the gates, half-asleep until that moment, abruptly woke up and stared up at Linhart, eyes wide.
“Open the gates, man!”
The soldier made a very impolite gesture at his commanding officer, indicating that said commanding officer had a bird's nest for brains, but did as he was commanded. Three other guards rushed to his aid to help lift the giant iron portcullis, which had not been pulled up since the enemy had surrounded the castle.
Ayla watched and wavered. Should she stay here? Should she wait and see if another of the arrows, which were flying after the red knight in dozens now, would hit its mark? Or should she get down there, hoping against hope that all would go well? In the end, she couldn't bear it. She rushed to the tower door, and when Linhart wanted to stop and question her, she waved him off.
“Not now, Captain! Later!”
Not waiting for his reply, Ayla pulled open the door and sprinted down the staircase, her feet echoing loudly on the cold stone.
Please, God, she prayed, please don’t let me fall and break my neck in this gloomy tower. Let me get down all right. Let me get to him.
Twice she stumbled and only kept from falling by grabbing the rough stone wall. When she reached the bottom, her slender white hands were scratched and bloodied.
Please, oh Lord. Please let him be all right!
She staggered out into the courtyard—and stopped dead at the sight that met her eyes.
Dozens of soldiers stood all around, their weapons drawn. Apparently, the confidence of the gate guards in their commanders didn't go far enough for them not to think backup necessary. A lot of backup. Two of the soldiers held not only guisarmes, but also torches. In their flickering light, Ayla could see another two guards, these two unarmed, who were gripping the iron rings set into the oak gates and, with mighty grunts of effort, slowly pulling them back to reveal an archway of darkness.
The noises of the night outside flooded into the courtyard. Cries, curses, and the clatter of hooves. But no rider appeared out of the shadows.
Please, Ayla prayed with fierce intensity. Please…!
*~*~**~*~*
Sir Reuben had to admit, some of those cavalrymen had been pretty good. They had actually managed to get their swords out of their scabbards before he had stabbed them. That had been some achievement.
He threw a glance over his shoulder. At the beginning, he had been slightly worried that the mare—what was her name again? Eleanor?—wouldn't be able to keep up with them. But she had proven herself to be a magnificent and swift animal and seemed only too eager to keep up with Satan.
No, the mare was keeping pace all right. The riders catching up to him might be the bigger problem.
An arrow whizzed past his head, and he glanced back again in annoyance. Bah! Problem? They couldn't even shoot straight while in the saddle! If he had been pursued by Saracens, Magyars or Tartars, he might have been in trouble, but could these bastards who hadn't shot a bow on a horse once in their lives ever pose a threat to him? Never!
He looked up towards the castle again, and every thought of the pursuing army vanished from his mind. Far, far above, he saw a slim, white figure up on the battlements, strongly contrasting with the dark night sky. His heart thudded.
Ayla! She was waiting for him.
A grin spread across his face. Everything was working out exactly as he had planned. He would bring back her horse, and she would fall weeping into his arms, brimming over with thankfulness.
Suddenly, the white figure disappeared from the battlements. Reuben hoped that meant those damn castle gates would open soon. It would be a poor end to his adventure if, after rescuing his lady's beloved horse, he would be slaughtered in front of said lady's castle because she hadn't opened her gates quickly enough.
“Hüa![6] To the left, Satan!” With a violent tug on the reins, Reuben turned the stallion on the narrow mountain path that led up the Luntberg to the gates of the castle. Behind him, he could hear angry shouts as the army pursuing him tried to fit onto a path meant for only a few men to walk abreast.
And yet, in spite of that, some of his enemies seemed to be catching up. When Reuben looked back again, he could see a few riders advancing up the path towards him. Unlike himself, they wore only light armor, and their horses, though inferior to his, were not as tired by the weight. He measured the distance with narrowed eyes. Yes, they were definitely catching up.
He looked ahead again. Still several hundred feet to go to the gates.
Glancing back at the riders after a moment or two, he could see that they had already halved the distance. Normally, Reuben would not have been worried by this. He was confident of defeating any foe. But these riders bore bows, and even the most miserable archer could shoot him with an arrow if he was just a few feet away. He had to move faster!
“Come on, Satan, you old devil! Show me your fiery wings!” Reuben pressed his spurs into the flanks of the stallion. Snorting, the black beast gave him his best effort, sprinting up the hill at a pace that hardly seemed possible for such a massive animal. Still, the enemy was gaining. And the gates, Reuben noted with dismay, still hadn't opened. What was Ayla playing at?
Then, he heard the voice, ringing out over the clamor of the army behind him: “Open the gates! Open the gates, man!”
He smiled to himself as he heard the creaking of ropes and the squeal of metal. The portcullis was being lifted. He always knew his plan would work. Now he only had to live long enough to see its completion!
Another arrow whizzed past him, closer this time. Reuben paid it no heed. He was just about a hundred feet away from the gates now, which were slowly swinging open. Behind them, in the courtyard beyond, he could see flickering torchlight illuminating a maiden with golden hair. He had no mind for any enemies anymore.
As if feeling Reuben's triumph, Satan redoubled his efforts and raced up the rest of the mountain at a prodigious speed, flying between the open gates like an avenging angel. Eleanor came close behind, and the angry shouts of Reuben’s pursuers mingled with the creak of hinges as the gates closed behind him and the portcullis slammed down.
Yes!
Triumphantly, Reuben reigned in his horse—and suddenly found himself surrounded by a ring of steel. More than a dozen guards had gathered in the courtyard, and all were pointing their guisarmes at him. Though they were the ones holding the weapons, not he, all of their faces resembled those of frightened children.
And for good reason, thought Reuben darkly. He looked around and spotted Ayla. She was standing a bit farther back, next to another guard who was holding a torch aloft.
“Milady?” He nodded to her. “If you would be so kind as to clear up this little misunderstanding and tell your friends here to put away their weapons?”
“Take off your helmet,” she said in a slightly hoarse voice. “This time, I want to be sure. I want to see your face.”
Without another word, he reached up and unfastened the leather straps holding his helmet in place. When he removed it and proudly raised his head, so unmistakable with its wild black hair, strong chin, and scimitar-shaped scar, gasps could be heard from all around.
“Reuben the merchant?” whispered one of the soldiers, slowly lowering his weapon.
“Not quite,” said Ayla in a toneless voice, stepping forward. “Climb down from your horse, Sir Knight.”
Again, gasps escaped the assembled crowd.
“Knight?” could be heard in low voices all around. “Did she say knight?”
Ayla paid them no heed. She continued towards Reuben, the soldiers parting before her like the Red Sea before Moses. Reuben climbed from his horse and strode towards her, a grin on his face which was, perhaps, a tiny bit cocky. Now it was time for his reward! What would he get from Ayla for his demonstration of heroism? A tearful apology, maybe? A few caresses? A kiss, even? There were so many possibilities…
He made a little bow to her, more of a nod, really. “I have brought you back the horse which you had…misplaced,” he said, still grinning, pointing to Eleanor.
Ayla had stopped a couple of paces away from him.
“I can see that,” she said in a small voice.
Everyone was watching the two of them. Reuben was rather enjoying himself. This was going to be good. Maybe he would even get more out of her than a kiss. But then he would have to take her to some place more private…Yes, there definitely were many possibilities.
“Reuben?” she said.
“Yes, Milady?” he said, raising an eyebrow. What was she waiting for?
Then, suddenly, she rushed towards him. “Reuben!”
She raised her arm as if to embrace him. Reuben stepped towards her eagerly, although, somewhere in the back of his mind, an alarm bell started ringing. This scene was slightly familiar, wasn't it?
Then he noticed why it appeared familiar: her arm was aimed slightly too high for an embrace. It was also moving a bit too forcefully for such a tender purpose.
It looked like she wanted to…but she couldn't, could she? Not again?