The Robber Knight's Love (The Robber Knight Saga #2)(7)

Oh yes, and she wanted to kill him. That might present a slight obstacle to romance.

Angrily, Reuben picked up the iron candlestick and hit the wall with it.

Sir Isenbard still regarded him cautiously from the other end of the room. “Um…Sir? Are you quite well?”

“Oh, shut up, will you?” Reuben growled. He couldn't deal with that doddering old fool now. Ayla hated him! The only woman he loved, and she hated him!

He hit the wall again and again, trying to vent some of his anger and desperation.

It didn't work, which was saying something. Up until now, smashing something to bits had always lightened Reuben's mood. Or someone…His eyes strayed to the man on the bed. Unfortunately, he wasn't in fighting condition or Reuben would have challenged him to a duel, right there and then.

He started looking around for something else to smash—when, suddenly, a thought struck him:

Ayla had promised to hang him from the highest tower of the castle.

But he wasn't dead yet, was he?

Carefully, he reached up and checked his neck. No, definitely no rope marks. And no noose around it, either.

Something was holding her back.

Of course, it might just be the preparations for having him hanged, drawn, and quartered instead of just hanged. Or maybe, just maybe…she might not want to kill him.

Could there still be hope?





Improper Ideas

Ayla found Burchard in the main hall, where he was trying to coordinate the accommodation of the displaced villagers. It looked like he wasn't having much success thus far. The dark hall was a chaos of frightened people shouting, asking questions, and not receiving any answers. Burchard stood in the center, holding a torch aloft and yelling at people who wouldn't listen.

When Ayla entered, a hush fell over the assembled crowd. People made way for her as she approached her steward, bowing to her respectfully.

“How is everything coming along?” she asked, marveling at the fact that she had managed to keep her voice reasonably steady.

“As well as can be expected,” Burchard grunted. He peered at her suspiciously from under his impressively bushy eyebrows. “Why is your face wet?”

“The rain,” she said.

“Oh, right.” He was about to return his attention to the parchment in his hand when he frowned. “But it isn't raining outside.”

“Is the castle large enough to house everybody?” she asked in a desperate effort to distract him. It worked.

“No, of course it isn't.” The answer came clear and concise. The steward lowered his voice so the surrounding villagers couldn't listen. It didn't get any less furious in the process. “This castle was meant to be a refuge for its lord or lady, not for several hundred puny peasants. Oh, and let's not forget that you let them bring their cows and geese and heaven only knows what else along!”

“Which I'm sure was a good idea, considering how many hungry mouths we will have to feed.”

“Yes. But it was also you who brought all those hungry mouths into the castle in the first place.”

“What should I have done?” she demanded. “Left them to the mercenaries?”

“No, of course not. Not you.” He glared at her fondly. “You've always had more heart than sense.”

“Thanks.”

“That wasn't intended as a compliment.”

“I'm sure it wasn't. Now, are you sure we can't find a place for everyone?” Concerned, Ayla let her eyes drift over the many people milling about in the main hall. “It's a pretty big castle, you know.”

“Actually, I do know its size. I've been running it for over two decades, after all,” the steward said morosely. “And no, there is not enough room. The barracks are occupied by the soldiers, and we can't let the village folk get in their way. I have been able to place about one hundred in the stables. It's not very comfortable, but at least it's warm and dry. Another fifty will be able to camp out in the main hall, once this rabble has dispersed.” He gestured at the villagers around them. “Then there's the armory—all the weapons we have are in the soldiers’ hands right now, so it's empty and can be put to use. The servants can make a bit of room in their quarters, too. That's another fifty. But many of the guest rooms are already filled with men recovering from their wounds.”

His words hit Ayla like a spear in the chest. The guest rooms. Men recovering from their wounds. Her thoughts were immediately with one particular man, who had just now recovered from a grievous injury. One man who had lied to her. One man who had betrayed her.

Only with great effort did she prevent tears from coming to her eyes again.

Burchard, never particularly sensitive to feelings that weren't proclaimed from the rooftops, plowed on: “So that leaves about twenty or thirty, maybe even fifty peasants without a roof over their heads. Sir Rudolfus is counting right now. He seems to be very good at counting.”

“So a few dozen people at least,” concluded Ayla, just managing not to sob.

“Yes. And we have nowhere to put them.”

Ayla frowned. “But…what about my chambers?”

Burchard blinked.

“You sleep in your chambers, Milady.”

“Yes, I know that, Burchard. And?”