The Robber Knight's Love (The Robber Knight Saga #2)(89)

Ayla swallowed. In that, he was absolutely right. It was, in fact, the main reason why she had not been up to see her father more often. Something always needed to be done, something always popped up to keep her busy. But now she needed just a few moments away from the madness, together with the last solid, dependable, familiar person who hadn’t yet been shaken by the siege.

“I have to be with you sometimes, father,” she told him, gently stroking his beard. “If I wouldn't do that, I think I would go mad.”

He stared into her eyes, and the fatherly love she saw there almost made her cry, almost brought the whole horrible truth tumbling out of her mouth.

“How is everything down in the castle, Ayla?”

She shrugged. “What can I say? Our supplies are slowly dwindling, the enemy is always playing new tricks on us, looking for ways into the castle or ways to demoralize us.”

“The latest of which reached even me, here, high up in my retreat,” the count sighed. “I must admit, I haven't been sleeping very well for the last few nights.”

Ayla's lips twitched. “Neither has anybody else in the castle. Well, at least that is over, for now. They seem to have despaired of that tactic.”

“Just like that?”

“Well…” Ayla hesitated. It couldn't really hurt to tell him, could it? “The main point of it was to exhaust us. A few days ago, when we were all half-dead from lack of sleep, there was an attempt to take the castle. But it failed, and after that, they seemed to lose confidence in that particular plan.”

“I see.” The Count nodded gravely. “Is there anything else you'd like to tell me?”

“N-no. What else could there be?”

Her father smiled at her again. His smile was so sad it almost brought tears to Ayla's eyes again.

“For example—how long has Isenbard been dead?” he asked in a quiet voice. Ayla’s breath caught. She felt as if a mule had kicked her in the stomach.

“How…how did you…”

“Ayla, my child.” With another sad smile, the count reached up to cup her face with a shaking hand. “You're my daughter. I have known you for seventeen years, ever since your mother, God bless her soul, brought you into this world. Whenever you try to lie or conceal anything, you get this expression on your face, like a little kitten trying to hide a cup of milk behind its back.”

Ayla would have protested that she looked nothing like a kitten, and even if she did, she definitely was not in the habit of carrying cups of milk around with her, but the pained expression on her father's face stopped the words.

“How long, Ayla?”

“About three days. We…we just buried him yesterday.”

“I wish I could have been there,” the count murmured. “I wish you had told me, Ayla. I understand why you didn't, but I still wish you had told me.”

Ayla's lower lip began to tremble. God, wasn’t this the perfect irony! She had concealed the truth from him because she had feared that her father would be the one that couldn't handle the reality of Isenbard's death, and now it was she who felt as if she would break down any minute.

“I…I'm sorry, father,” she whimpered. “I just thought that if you knew…that it would be too much for you, that it would kill you. I'm so sorry.” Impulsively, she threw her arms around the old man's skinny neck and hugged him close. The curls of his long beard stroked her face, wiping the tears away. “I'm so, so sorry. I didn't want to lose you, too.”

“I know.” He patted the back of her head with a feeble hand. “Shh, Ayla, I know. Don't cry.”

But she did. She cried long and hard while Count Thomas held her and rocked her like a baby. Somehow, it felt good—letting go, losing oneself to the grief, not being afraid of showing what one really felt. She couldn't do that at the funeral, not with her people watching her.

Finally, when her sobs began to subside, her father gently pushed her away. “How did it happen?”

So she told him everything, from the grizzly bombardment to the nocturnal attack on the castle and Isenbard's heroic defense of the wall. She described every single event in minute detail, knowing that nothing less would do. Now that the truth was out, her father deserved to know all. Isenbard had been his closest, no, his only friend in the world. So she talked for hours and didn't hold back with praise when she came to Sir Isenbard's last minutes up on the wall.

“He was a hero,” she concluded, her voice hoarse from talking and crying. “He defended the wall with only half a dozen men. Without him, we all would be dead or enslaved.”

“The stupid fool,” the Count muttered, shaking his head, a smile on his face and moisture in his eyes. “He always took on too much than was good for him.”

Ayla nodded, not having the strength for any more words.

They sat together for a while in silence. Ayla knew she had to give her father this time. Finally, the count collected himself and cleared his throat.

“But…that is not everything?” he asked, looking questioningly at his daughter.

A frown crept on Ayla's face. “Yes, it is. I have told you everything about Isenbard's death, just as it happened.”

“About that, yes, but…” He stared intently into his daughter's eyes. She averted them quickly and tried not to look like a guilty kitten caught in the act. “There's something else. Something you're concealing from me.”