The Robber Knight's Love (The Robber Knight Saga #2)(11)

“You most definitely aren't. Tell me, Sir, were you never taught to respect your elders?”

“I was. Couldn't see the point of it, though, really. They all were too damnably stupid and easily beaten.”

“Ah!” The old knight clapped his hands together. “Now I remember! Weren't you at the great tournament in Schweinfurt, in the year of our Lord 1229?”

Reuben had to muster all his self-control not to twitch at these words. Damnation! The old fool had seen him! What was worse, he had seen him before the dungeon. Before the event that turned Reuben's life upside down and made him into what he was today.

“I doubt that very much,” he said with as much disdain as he could muster. “I'm a merchant. What would I want at a tournament but to sell wine to cheering fools and disappointed losers? And I have people who do that for me.”

“A merchant?” The old man eyed Reuben's massive figure—6 feet 7 inches of pure muscle, a hard-jawed face, and a mess of long black hair—with disbelief. “Forgive me, but you don't look very much like any merchant I have ever seen.”

“And you,” retorted Reuben with a smirk, “don't look like any fool[3] I've ever seen. You're missing the colorful costume and the hat with bells on it. Appearances can be deceptive.”

The eyes of the old knight almost popped out of their sockets.

“Very good!” Reuben clapped. “You look slightly more like a fool now! When the siege is over, I can procure a costume for you, if you wish. I'll even sell it to you at half the usual price, since you're obviously so talented.”

“I wonder how you have survived to your current age, with a tongue as insolent as yours,” the old knight said icily.

By killing anyone who tried to cut it out, grandfather, Reuben thought, but he said nothing. He had accomplished his goal. The aged man was now fully concentrated on his anger and wounded honor instead of thinking about where he might have met Reuben before.

Though, Reuben thought to himself dryly, trying to hide who he was from this old wreck would be a wasted effort. After all, Ayla knew. One who knew was enough. One who knew was one too many. Surely, she would have told the entire castle of his true identity by now.

But then, why hadn't the castle guards come to fetch him yet?

As if in answer to his question, he heard a sound: the heavy boots of at least a dozen guards approaching. Closer and closer they came, until they were stopped by the guards before the door. Reuben's heart was hammering fiercely, and he gripped the candlestick with iron strength, not bothering to conceal his feelings. The old knight looked at him strangely as he saw emotions battle on the face of the younger man.

What did the guards want? Reuben wasn't sure, but he feared he knew. Had Lady Ayla finally decided to fulfill her promise and present him with a knotted rope?

“Halt!” The guards outside the room demanded of the newcomers. “What brings you here?”

“Orders from Lady Ayla,” Reuben heard another guard reply. “We are to bring the convalescent to her immediately.”





What Rats Cannot Climb

Burchard found Ayla in a quiet corner of the back yard, sitting on a barrel, her face wet all over.

“There you are!” he exclaimed, staring at the wetness on her face. “What is the matter with you?” He looked up at the perfectly clear night sky. Still, it wasn't raining. “Wait a minute…you…you haven't been crying, have you?”

She shrugged and tried to conceal her face behind her hand. “Maybe a bit,” she whispered.

“Why, though? What's the matter?”

A half-hysterical little chuckle escaped her. “You mean, apart from the siege and the powerful noble who wants to force me into marriage?”

“Well…err…If you put it like that…”

Nonplussed, Burchard scratched the hairy back of his head. He had never been very good at dealing with emotions—probably because he didn't have that many himself, he thought. What did one do with a weeping female?

Ah, yes!

Hurriedly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a wrinkled, but reasonably clean, handkerchief, which he held out to his mistress.

“Here, Milady.”

“Th-thanks.” Ayla took the piece of linen and blew her nose as ladylike as was possible. Afterwards, she dried her eyes and wanted to hand the handkerchief back to her steward, but he refused.

“Keep it.” He looked at her closely, frowning. “You look like you're going to need it again soon enough. Honestly, Milady, what is the matter? You have been through plenty and have never reacted like this before.”

She shrugged again, hesitating for a moment. Finally, she said, “Well, I think it all caught up with me, that's all.”

The steward's expression softened. Ayla was such a resilient personality, he sometimes forgot she was only a girl of seventeen years.

“Then I will go away and not bother you just now.”

“What is it that you wanted, Burchard?”

“I wished to tell you that Sir Rudolfus wants to speak to you about our supplies. Do you remember? You put him in charge of storing and rationing. But if you are too distressed right now…”

“No, no.” She interrupted him with a wave of her hand. Determinedly, she blew her nose again, this time not at all ladylike, and rose from the barrel she had been sitting on. “I have not the time for foolishness. Lead me to him.”