The Robber Knight's Love (The Robber Knight Saga #2)(14)

Relief flooded Reuben's body, and he let the candlestick fall. They hadn't come for him! Not yet, anyway.

“Here I am, my good men,” Isenbard called, apparently all too eager to leave the company of his strange roommate.

One of the guards opened the door, and the soldiers filed in one by one. Reuben retreated into a corner, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. Not an easy task for a man six feet, seven inches tall and with a curved scar on his forehead, but still, he thought it best to do all he could to not attract the attention of the guards. If they didn't pay attention to him, they would not try to kill him. If they did not try to kill him, he would not have to kill them, which would be a good thing. Killing her guards was definitely not the right thing to do to regain Ayla's affections, and Reuben was determined to do exactly that.

At first, he had despaired. At first, he had thought she would make good her promise and he would hang before daybreak. But the night had dragged on, and no soldiers had come to drag him to the gallows.

As the old saying went: while there was life, there was hope.

So Reuben sat in the corner and watched while the guards loaded the old knight onto the stretcher they had brought with them, all the time quelling the urge to cut through them and get out of here—the most logical course of action, according to his survival instincts. It would be so easy. So terribly easy. Reuben didn't have a sword, but they each had one. He just needed to take one of theirs away, and he could turn the men into mincemeat within seconds…

No! Reuben shook himself. No killing. Well, at least no killing of Ayla's guards. That would create a bad impression.

Gloomily, he stared after the guards as they carried the old knight out of the room. The door they shut behind them seemed like the door shutting on his hopes. No, killing Ayla's guards would not be a good idea. But what else could he do other than kill or be killed?

If only he could get out of this room! But there still were guards posted outside. Ayla was sure to have told them who he really was, and they would grab him and kill him as soon as he set a foot outside—in which case he would be dead, meaning that he could not do anything to win back Ayla's heart. Corpses were not very good at romance.

The only alternative was to go out and kill the guards to get past them—in which case Ayla would be angry at him, meaning that he also could not win back her heart. This was so infuriating! Wasn't there at least someone around he could beat into a pulp to vent his anger?

~~*~~*

Ayla could hardly believe her eyes when Sir Isenbard was carried into the main hall on a stretcher and the old knight lifted one hand to greet her.

“Greetings, Milady.”

“Uncle Ironbeard!” She threw herself at the old knight and hugged him with as much force as she could muster. “I've missed you so much! I'm so happy you're finally awake.”

“Milady,” he growled into her ear. “People are watching!”

And, indeed, the entire hall was full of villagers witnessing the scene. Some of them were turning slightly away, others were busying themselves with their work, but all were smiling and looking at the two out of the corner of their eyes.

“And?” Ayla demanded.

“What about proper decorum?”

“The crows can eat decorum for all I care!”

“Milady!”

“Oh, uncle.” She retreated a little bit, grasping his shoulders and shaking her head. Tears were shining in her eyes, but this time, they weren't tears of sadness. “Don't you understand? They want to see you well again as much as I do. I wouldn't want to begrudge them that.”

“There was nothing really wrong with me,” he muttered, embarrassed. “I was only asleep.”

“For over a week!”

“Well, I'm not as young as I used to be. Old people need their rest.”

Ayla raised a threatening finger at him. “You had a bruise on your head as big as a melon. If I were “asleep” like that, I doubt I would ever wake again. Now, stop trying to downplay your injuries. That is an order.”

“Yes, Milady.”

“Good.” Ayla let go of him, and immediately, Isenbard tried to rise.

“What do you think you are doing?” exclaimed Ayla and gripped him by the shoulders again, pushing him down.

“Getting up, of course, Milady.”

“You are not to get up! Not for a few days yet. You've been seriously injured and still need time to recuperate.”

“But—”

“That is an order, too!”

Reluctantly, the old knight sank back onto the stretcher.

“As you wish, Milady,” he said stiffly. “I thought that, perhaps, you might require my help with the defense of the bridge, but apparently, I am not needed.”

Ayla glanced around uneasily at the gathered crowd.

“Now that everyone has seen that Sir Isenbard is on the mend, could you please leave us alone for a few minutes?” she asked the villagers. “He and I have some private matters to discuss.”

The villagers bowed, and with muttered “Of course, Milady”s and “As you wish, Milady”s, they left the hall.

When they were alone, Ayla took a deep breath, fixed her eyes on the angled, lined, white-bearded face of the man on the stretcher, and said, “The bridge has fallen.”