The Robber Knight's Love (The Robber Knight Saga #2)(20)

“The latter two of which you appropriated for yourself?”

“I did.”

“That, my friend, was not a very wise thing to do.”

Sir Luca and the voice were back to agreeing. At that moment he wished he had never seen or heard of, much less donned, that particular suit of armor. Red had never been his color, anyway.

“Where are the horses?” the voice demanded.

“They are picketed at the back of my tent.”

“Both? What would you want with the mare?”

“I use her as a pack animal.”

The stranger clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Hm…I'll better not tell her that. I doubt she would like it.”

“Her?”

The knife was at his throat so quickly Sir Luca wasn't even sure how it had gotten there.

“You speak when spoken to, understood?” the stranger growled.

“Yes.”

“Now, where is the suit of armor?”

Slowly, Sir Luca pointed to his right. “Here in the tent, behind that partition.”

“Excellent.”

Without any warning, the stranger grabbed hold of Sir Luca and tossed him onto the floor. Before the Italian could turn, the stranger had grabbed his arms and pulled them painfully behind his back. Within seconds, the long sleeves of his nightshirt were tied together. His legs received a kick and reflexively jerked upward, only to be caught and bent back. Before Sir Luca knew what had happened, his arms were tied to his legs, and he was lying on the floor, bent like a sausage on a hanger, and totally helpless.

“If you would excuse me…” The shadowy form of the stranger above him made a slight bow. “I have to change.”

There were a few minutes of silence, during which Sir Luca was wondering what in God's name the man could be up to. Only occasionally did he hear a clink or a scrape, but other than that, nothing.

Then, suddenly, footsteps approached the tied-up mercenary commander. But they were not normal footsteps. There was a clinking of metal with every step. An ominous sound.

A shadow fell across Sir Luca.

“Are you comfortable?” the stranger asked.

“Um…not really, no.”

“Excellent.” The stranger knelt and patted Sir Luca on the head. “You have behaved yourself very well throughout our little encounter, I must say. I give you leave to scream for help, now, should you wish to do so.”

He rose again.

“What?” Sir Luca wasn't quite sure if his ears had deceived him.

“Scream for help. Bellow. Yell. Call your guards.” The stranger shrugged. “Otherwise, getting out of this camp would be far too boring.”

Sir Luca twisted his head and now, for the first time, could see the stranger in full, towering above him. The sight almost took his breath away. The stranger was wearing the blood-red armor of which Sir Luca had been so proud. But not only that: he wore it like a second skin. Where Sir Luca had had to give his page orders to tighten the straps of the armor so it wouldn't rattle on him like a collection of cook pots, the armor fit this man as if it had been made for him. He looked like the devil prepared for war against the heavens.

At his side hung a huge sword—the sword that had been retrieved along with the armor and that Sir Luca had never been able to lift higher than a few inches. The stranger grabbed the hilt, now, and drew it easily with one hand.

“Go on,” he growled at Sir Luca. “Scream for help.”

“Err…help?” said the mercenary commander.

“Come on, you can do better than that.”

“Help!”

“Louder, man, louder!”

“HELP! HELP! HELP ME!!”

From outside, the sound of trampling feet could be heard. The stranger turned, without a word, towards the approaching soldiers and strode out of the tent, sword in hand.





Commanding Confusion

Fritz the Soldier was sitting at a campfire in the middle of the Margrave's camp, keeping watch, and at the same time trying to keep warm. To the latter purpose, he employed not only the campfire but also a bottle of honey wine he had brought with him from his tent. He had already emptied half of it and was just beginning to feel slightly woozy when he heard the voice.

“Help!”

He cocked his head. Had that been what it had sounded like? A cry for help from inside the camp? But who would cry for help in the middle of a well-armed force such as theirs? If anyone had cause to cry out for help, it would be the people in the beleaguered castle.

“Help! Help! Help me!”

This time there could be no mistake. Someone was yelling for help. Sighing, Fritz abandoned his post and followed the sound of the voice. His steps were a little unsteady because of the wine, but following the continued cries for help, he found his way through the tents well enough. To his utter surprise, his steps led him to the commander's tent. Apprehension flooding through him and mixing with the alcohol that was already there, Fritz stopped in his tracks. This couldn't be right, could it? Why would the commander cry out for help in the middle of the night? Fritz hesitated. Sir Luca wasn't someone to disturb in the middle of the night out of pure fancy. The soldier was suddenly unsure what to do.

So Fritz was relieved when he saw his commander in his brilliantly red armor step out of the tent—praise the Lord, there was no need to wake him!