Her father's hand closed tightly around hers as he heard the horns call men to arms. He looked at her imploringly. “Stay here with me, will you?” Count Thomas asked.

Ayla shook her head, sadly. “I can't. I have to go downstairs and prepare. You know that. I'm the only one with any decent training in healing around here. I have to take care of the wounded.”

Taking a deep, rattling breath, the Count nodded his ancient white head. “Yes, I know. Still, I'd rather you stay here with me. But I know you have to go. Just promise me...”

“What?”

“Promise me that you won't go out there, outside the castle. Let the wounded be brought to you, into the castle. And for God's sake, don't go anywhere near the battle.”

Ayla hesitated.

The grip of her father's wrinkled fingers around her own small hand tightened even more, and he said, in a commanding tone he almost never used anymore: “Ayla! It is far too dangerous for you to set foot outside the castle. Promise me!”

Slowly, she nodded. “I promise.”

The Count relaxed back into his pillows. “Good.”

They heard the horn sound again. “Now go. I know you need to.”

Ayla jumped up and rushed to the door.

Outside, Isenbard waited for her. “What did you tell him?” he asked her, eying the oak door behind her.

“A lie he needed to hear,” was her only reply. “Follow me, Sir Isenbard. We have work to do.”

Ayla rode on a horse of her own this time, as the two of them left the castle and approached the bridge. Every step of the way hurt her heart. She felt as though she were betraying her faithful mare by riding another horse. But this was no time to be sentimental. It was quicker this way, and Sir Isenbard's horse might need all its strength in the approaching fight.

To Ayla's surprise, a few tents had been erected on their side of the bridge, on a small meadow. She inquired what these might be.

“Our tents,” the knight replied, urging his horse forward to keep up with her.

“What do you mean, 'our tents'?” she persisted, glancing at the knight riding beside her with slight disapproval. This was no time for Isenbard's usual terseness.

“I made the men put them up. One for me, one for you, and one command tent.”

“A tent for me? Do you think I intend on sleeping out here, then?”

“It's not for sleeping. It's for treating the wounded.”

“Really?” She raised an eyebrow. “Didn't you hear me promise the Count that I would steer clear of the battlefield?”

“I also heard that in the Orient, fish can fly and men can breathe fire. Doesn't mean I believe it.”

“Ha!”

Only a few yards away from the tents, Ayla brought her horse to a halt and slid off its back, glad to be on her own two feet again. “And what do you need a tent for?”

“I need some place to put on my armor.”

The lady of Luntberg appraised her knight as he dismounted. From head to toe he was covered in glittering metal. “Don't you have armor on now?”

Isenbard shook his head.

“Then what is that you're wearing?”

“Chain mail.”

“That's armor too, isn't it?”

“No.” The face of the knight was unusually grim as he said this. Apart from the fact that it was what knights wore while fighting each other, Ayla knew next to nothing about armor. But Isenbard's hardened face made her wary.

“How so?” she asked with mounting trepidation. “It looks like armor to me.”

“Not for a battle it isn't. Imagine... how can I explain it?” He looked away. For some reason he didn't want to meet her eye.

“Isenbard?”

“Imagine going to a ball, Ayla. This is what you have been trained for your whole life as a lady. Imagine entering the ballroom, imagine all eyes are fixed upon you.”

Ayla had no trouble conjuring the image. She had dreamed of attending a big ball pretty much all her life. There was always a tall and dark stranger in her fantasies, whose attention she immediately attracted. Lately, this stranger had started to look more and more like Reuben.

“Can you imagine it?” Isenbard asked.

“Oh yes.”

“Good. And now imagine that scene with you wearing no dress.”

Blood flooded Ayla's face. Why the heck did she have to bring Reuben into the picture! Now he wouldn't disappear.

“Uncle!”

“I'm trying to teach you something, Ayla.” Isenbard's voice was cold and hard as stone. Still he wasn't looking at her. “Entering a battlefield while wearing nothing but chain mail is like entering a ballroom in your... um... underthings. It leaves you vulnerable. The difference is, while as a lady in a ballroom you might earn disdain for appearing thus, I might earn death instead. What a ballroom gown is to a lady, plate armor is to the knight. I am about to don my gown for the field. And I am not sure whether my shoulders can still bear the weight, Milady. Come, and I will show you.”

She followed him without question. He led her into his tent, where a young man waited for them, beside something very bulky covered by a large cloth.

“My squire, Theoderich.” Isenbard nodded to the youth. “Lad, make your bow to Lady Ayla von Luntberg.”

The squire bowed perfectly and immediately, clearly demonstrating the rigors of Isenbard's regime.

“Show the Lady Ayla my armor, lad.”

The squire gripped the large cloth with both hands and pulled. It came away, revealing a metal monstrosity.

Ayla had often seen suits of armor before, but never had she been so close to one, or had had a reason to contemplate its purpose. The armor was a head taller than her, and made out of large steel plates that were welded together in some places, layered in others. It only seemed to be designed to protect the upper body, lacking metal plates to protect the legs and feet, as it hung there on a wooden construct. Ayla supposed she should be glad it didn't encase the whole body, because this would make it easier to move in. But somehow, the fact that it had no legs made the armor look even more frightening, like a man cut in half. And that half metal man looked more than heavy enough to bring you down. Ayla didn't see how anyone stuck inside there could move an inch.

The empty visor stared at her accusingly.

“And... knights walk around in these things?” she asked in a tentative voice.

“Most don't.” Isenbard's voice was totally neutral. “Most can't walk two steps after putting it on. They have to be heaved onto their horses with cranes before any battle or tournament. If they fall from their horses, they are lost. They lie on the ground, helpless as an overturned tortoise.”

“But you don't. You can walk around with it?” she demanded to know. Please say yes. Please.

“I used to.” The old knight met her eye. “Yet I haven't worn one of these for over fifteen years.”

Carefully, he grasped her hand and guided it towards one of the metal arms.

“Lift it,” he said.

“I don't think that is such a good idea. I...”

“Lift it!” It was no request. She put her hand under the metal and heaved.

The steel stayed where it was.

“I can't, Isenbard. I can't lift it.”

“I know.” His voice was suddenly gentle, like she had heard it only on the rarest occasions.

“Why are you showing me this?” Panic welled up inside Ayla. She didn't like where this was going. She didn't like it at all. “Why me?”

“Because you need to know,” he said, his voice returning to his usual terseness. “You are the lady of the castle. You need to know what our situation is.”

“Why? What am I supposed to do?”

He scratched his beard thoughtfully. His gaze seemed to reach far off into the distance. “Lead your people,” he finally replied. “And pray that the Lord sends you a knight who is still worthy of the title.”

She gave him a weak smile. “That would be a miracle, Isenbard. They only happen for prophets and saints, not for normal people like me.”

He patted her shoulder awkwardly. “Well, they have been known to happen now and again, girl, even for normal folk. Now leave me. I must prepare for battle.”

As she left the tent, Ayla turned one last time and saw the squire fastening the central part of the armor around Sir Isenbard's torso. His shoulders sagged under the weight, and suddenly his face looked very old.

Ayla stepped out into the dawn to face a sun glowing the color of blood, and prayed that it might not be an omen. And for some silly reason, she also prayed for a knight to come save her. How incredibly stupid. Her castle was under siege. She was beyond anyone's reach. And who would want to save her, in any case?

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Greetings, Milords and Ladies!

Are you excited to see Sir Isenbard in action? ;) I've tried my best to convey the reality of medieval armor in this chapter, so the coming battle will be realistic. I hope I did a decent job? On the right, you have a picture of a knight's plate armor, by the way :)

Your faithful medieval scribe

Sir Rob

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GLOSSARY:

Plate Armor: In contrast to chain mail, which is little metal rings woven into a sort of metal cloth, plate armor consists of solid metal plates, sometimes overlapping, sometimes connected with joints. As time wore on during the middle ages, more and more parts of the body were covered with plate, over traditional chain mail. This resulted in a very heavy armor. Towards the end of the middle ages, knights really could hardly move anymore while in their armor and head to be heaved onto their horses ;)