"No, Reuben! Don't!"

Ayla's shout was the only thing that stopped Reuben from taking the enemy knight's head off right there and then. His blade stopped a hair's breadth from the other man's throat. Not a thick hair, either, like a boar's bristle, but a really, really fine one.

He stood like that for a moment, breathing heavily—unlike his enemy, who, by the looks of him, had ceased breathing altogether.

"Explain!" he growled, pressing the words out between clenched teeth. "And make it a very, very good explanation, Milady, or this fellow is going to become a head shorter."

Ayla didn't see to be in the mood to oblige him.

"Put the sword down, Reuben!" she commanded from behind him. She sounded like a little girl telling the family dog not to do it on the carpet. In any other circumstances Reuben might have turned around to flash her a smile. Right now, however, he was busy contemplating the best way to kill the fly-bitten dog's turd in front of him. Hmm... maybe a quick twist of the neck... or a sword through the belly, leaving him to enjoy slowly bleeding out...

"I said put the sword down!" Ayla's voice intruded on his important contemplations. Satan's hairy ass! That girl could be annoying sometimes.

"How about you tell me first what he is doing out of the dungeon?" Reuben growled. "And then I decide whether I want to put my sword down or cut his head off."

Out of the corner of his eye, Reuben saw Ayla glance at Sir Gregor, and blush.

Ayla, blushing? Because of a man that wasn't him?

This was intolerable!

"How—did—he—get—out?" he managed to get out, biting on every word, having to use every ounce of his restraint not to decapitate the loathsome creature in front of him there and then.

"Um... I let him out."

"You what?"

"You don't need to shout, Reuben."

"I'll shout whenever I damn well please!"

"And don't curse, either!"

Reuben thought about releasing a volley of expletives, just to show her what he thought of her ordering him around, but he decided that were more important matters at hand.

"Milady," he said, trying to retain a minimum of calm in his voice, while injecting the maximum of sarcasm, "do you know what the word 'enemy' means?"

"Of course I do!"

"And do you normally let your enemy's stroll through your castle? Armed, I might add?" His eyes had just landed on the sword at Sir Gregor's hip. With his left hand, he drew it from the scabbard, out of the other knight's reach.

"No, of course I don't," Ayla snapped. "You see, it's not..."

The sound of running footsteps cut her short. Two men burst into the room, red in the face from running. Both of them wore the marks of chains around their wrists, and the crest of Falkenstein on their tunics. "Sir Gregor! Sir Gregor, we heard a struggle! Are you all r—"

They didn't get any farther than that. Reuben's left hand shot forward, pressing the spare sword against the throat of the first man. At the same moment, his leg kicked out and pulled the other man's feet out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground. Before he could rise, Reuben's foot came down on his neck. This left him in rather an interesting position, with both hands holding swords to the throats of enemies and one foot on another enemy, threatehning to crash down. If Reuben had seen somebody else contorting himself like this, he would probably have keeled over laughing. Right now, he didn't feel like laughing at all, however.

"If anyone else storms in unannounced, I'm going to kill one of these three to have an arm free to deal with whoever comes in!" he bellowed down the corridor at the nervous figure of several chamber maids that very visible through the open door at the end of the corridor. "Understand?"

The maids nodded hurriedly.

"Good! Now piss off!"

And they pissed, at a prodigious speed for people who had to be careful not to stumble over their skirts. Not taking the pressure of his three simultaneously trapped victims for a moment, Reuben turned his head and sent one of his best glares at Ayla.

"Ayla... What is this?"

She cleared her throat. Her cheeks were still the color of ripe apples.

"Um... well... I forgot to mention before that I've been rather busy while you were gone, Reuben. There are a few things you should probably know..."

*~*~**~*~*

It went better than Ayla expected. For one thing, none of the people present lost their heads or got their throats cut. For another, it only took about half an hour for Reuben to stop cursing.

She desperately wanted to get all others out of the room and have him to herself. She knew she'd be able to calm him down if they were alone—and there were a few other things besides calming him that she could only do when they were alone.

But she didn't get the chance. Sir Gregor hadn't just come to say hello.

"Here, drink this." Ayla approached the knight with a mug of water. He was sitting at the table, massaging his throat, with Reuben hovering over him threateningly.

She stepped forward to put the mug to the knight's lips, but Reuben snatched it out of her hand before she could get anywhere near him.

"I'll do that," he growled. "You stay away from him."

"Reuben, I've told you, he's on our side now."

"I know. That's why I'm not replacing the water in the mug with molten lead. Now step back from him."

Sighing, Ayla took a step back and sat down at the other end of the table. If this was how Reuben was going to behave around all her newly acquired troops, the command structure in the castle might be a bit difficult to maintain.

"Here." Turning towards Gregor, Reuben grabbed the mug more tightly and almost shoved it down the other knight's throat. Gregor coughed, swallowed hard, and covered his mouth before he spewed half the water around the room. It took him a while to get everything down. "Th-thank you, Sir Knight."

"If I said you're welcome, I'd be lying."

Sir Gregor's lips twitched. "And that would stop you because of your firm moral principles?"

Reuben obviously tried to retain his grim expression, but Ayla could see a tiny twitch of his lips, and suddenly felt a bit more hopeful. "No," he retorted. "I just don't waste my breath with lies when there's nothing to be gained by them."

"Very wise."

Slowly, Sir Gregor's smile left his face and he turned towards Ayla. Her hopeful feeling disappeared. Oh no. Here was the face of a man bringing bad news.

"Milady," he began in a cautious voice, "There's a man outside the gates."

Ayla sat up straight.

"What does he want?"

"He says he's a herald from the Margrave von Falkenstein, and he demands to speak to the person in charge."

Ayla opened her mouth.

"That would be me," Reuben said, his hand going automatically to the hilt of his sword. "Where's this gorbellied harpy of a herald?"

"Wait just a minute!" Ayla rose to her feet, for a moment regretting that she didn't have a sword of her own to grip. Her tongue would just have to do as a weapon. "I'm the one in charge here."

"No," Reuben told her. "You made me the commander of your forces, remember? You put me in charge. So you are in charge no longer. I am."

Ayla's mouth dropped open. "It doesn't work like that!"

"It does with me."

"You can't just take away my position!"

He stepped towards her, and bending down until his lips were close to her ear, whispered into her ear: "I'm a robber knight. I can take whatever I want."

By the apostles! If only his voice wasn't so darn seductive! It was hard to remember that they were talking about command structures here, and not... other things.

She raised her chin.

"No, you can't Reuben."

He smirked. "Well, maybe not in front of all these nosy bastards here, but if we were to find a quiet room..."

Raising a finger in warning, Ayla stepped back from him. "Stop! We're talking about power and command, not... not what you usually want to talk about. So stop right there!"

He smirked at her. "And what if I don't?"

Lowering her voice, she hissed: "Then I'm going to change my mind and will let Burchard trial for the incubus you are!"

With that, she stepped past him and out into the corridor, trying to ignore the booming laughter from behind her.

She reached the outer wall not long after, her temper still boiling. She loved Reuben madly, just as he was—the only problem being that him being just as he was included him being absolutely infuriating! She had been coping with the siege just fine before he had gotten his knightly ass off his sickbed! So why should he suddenly be in charge?

True, he had given her a few pointers, but she had held her people together and commanded her soldiers in battle all on her own. Did he expect that just because he was up and about again, she would now sit back like some dim-witted damsel? She would show him who was the lady of Luntberg!

Well... not exactly. She doubted he wanted to be the lady of Luntberg and walk around in a dress all day. She would show him who was in charge!

Stepping out onto the guard's walkway, dozens of feet above the ground, she saw a small cluster of guards gathered not far away. They all avoided Ayla's eyes, especially Captain Linhart, whose face was as red a field poppy.

Good. She was going to have words with the captain later on.

"Where is this herald?" she demanded. Behind her, she could hear familiar, heavy footsteps. She knew perfectly well who was approaching, but ignored him. This was her business.

"Down there, Milady."

One of the guards pointed over the wall to a point on the path, where a mounted figure was waiting, clutching a pole with the banner of the house of Falkenstein flapping in the wind.

Ayla crossed the remaining distance to the edge of the wall and rested her hand on the crenels. She studied the distant rider. From up here she couldn't tell exactly what he looked like but she could tell that it wasn't the same herald that had delivered the Margrave's first threats—and for that, she was supremely grateful. She doubted she could have clung to her self-control if confronted with that insolent cur.

"You are a herald and official envoy of his Excellency the Margrave von Falkenstein?" she called, her voice surprising herself with its clarity and firmness.

"I am," the man called back, with a voice that was clearly used to carrying on conversations in double the usual volume. "Am I addressing the Lady Ayla von Luntberg, daughter of Thomas, Count von Luntberg?"

"You are. Have you come to deliver a message?"

"Indeed I have, Milady."

"Speak then, and say what you have come hither to say."

The herald straightened, and raised his white staff of office.

"The mighty Margrave von Falkenstein declares the Lady Ayla of Luntberg to be in league with demons and other forces of hell," he proclaimed. "He bids all who are true Christians in their hearts to lay down their weapons and surrender to his mercy, so their sins might be purged from them and their evil masters might be destroyed. Anyone who wishes who surrender, except the evil sourcerer and hellspawn known as the Reuben the Red Robber Knight shall be spaired. He furthermore declares that all who wish to surrender must do so within the next seventy-seven days. In seven days God created the world, and in seventy-seven days the Margrave shall begin to destroy your evil. By that time, siege fornications around this castle will be built, and the true struggle will begin. The mighty Margrave von Falkenstein will show no mercy to those who dare persist in their devil-worship."

Taking a breath, he raised his staff a little higher and pointed it at Ayla.

"Yet he gives you one last chance, Ayla, daughter of Count Thomas. It is possible that you are not yourself a witch, but merely under the power of that ungodly creature of evil known as the Red Robber Knight. In his infinite mercy, the Margrave offers you his hand in marriage one last time. By your union with him, you shall prove your innocence and save your soul."

Ayla felt sick. Sick to the core.

She? In league with the devil? If there was anyone in league with the devil it had to be the Margrave! Only one who had the Evil One whispering in his ears could come up with lies as infamous as those she had just heard.

She wanted to scream at the herald, to throw rocks at him, or better yet to shoot him, for daring to insult the man she loved, a man who had suffered through inconceivably excrutiating torments and just today had bared his tortured body and soul to her. But she couldn't. There were rules when dealing with heralds and envoys. Rules of honor as old as time itself.

She could not brake them. No one could.

"Deliver my greetings to the Margrave," she said, putting as much disgust and duration into her polite words as she possibly could, "but inform him that I cannot accept his oh so generous offer. I'm afraid I will have to—"

She cut off with a yelp when she was suddenly grasped by the shoulders, lifted up, and put aside, as if she weighed nothing more than a feather. Looking sideways, she caught a flash of red. She didn't need to see more to know who had just put lady of the castle aside like a chair that stood in the way.

Oh no! No, no, no!

She would have cursed him, if she didn't love him so much.

No one could brake ancient rules of heraldry, diplomacy and honor. Except maybe for one man.

Reuben stood where she had stood before, his blood-red surcoat cluttering in the wind, his black hair whipping across his forehead, and an expression on his face that would have sent any sensible man running.

The herald stayed where he was.

"Who may you be, Sir?"

Reuben's eyes narrowed, and the men around him shifted uneasily. So did Ayla. All of them could feel it: the diabolic energy rolling off of the Red Knight in waves.

"I am Sir Reuben Rachwild von Riffgarten, supreme commander of all of the forces of the Lady Ayla von Luntberg," he called, and the echoes of his voice reverberated all around the valley, as if magically magnified. "You might also know me as the ungodly creature of evil. I have a message for his Excellency, the Margrave von Margrave. Do you think you can remember it, if I tell you, you lousy little worm?"

"I shall do my very best, Sir."

"Good." Reuben leaned forward, his eyes burning. He raised his voice to the level of thunder: "Then tell him to lick the inside of my ass clean!"

Silence.

It lay over the valley and castle for a good, long time. The herald, beet-red in the face, open and closed his mouth a couple of times, searching for something to say. He didn't find anything.

"Is there a problem?" Ayla asked, sweetly, stepping up to the breastwork beside Reuben.

"Um... I... um... am not sure whether it would be proper to tell the Margrave to... um..."

Quick as a flash, Reuben grabbed a bow from the hands of a nearby soldier, put an arrow to the string, drew and aimed. The herald was gazing directly into the grey eyes of death. And they did not look merciful.

"Are you still not sure?" Reuben inquired.

"No, Milord! I will deliver the message to the Margrave right away, Milord!"

"Word for word?"

"Yes, certainly! Exactly as you said, Milord!"

"Good. Now ride, before I turn you into a porcupine! You have three seconds! Ride!"

Without a second's hesitation, the herald whirled his horse around and galloped down the mountain. Reuben took a deep breath. "Three!"

"Reuben, you can't do that!" Ayla hissed. "You can't harm a herald! It's not honora—"

She stopped, and raised her eyes to the heavens. "Of course it's not honorable. But you don't give a piece of horse manure about that, do you?"

The devilish smile she loved so much tugged at the corners of Reuben's mouth. "Two," he roared, causing the herald to dig his spurs into his poor beast's sides.

"Reuben, please! You can't..."

"Three!"

The arrow shot from the bow. It arced through the air, plunged down and buried itself in the earth right in front of the herald's horse. The horse veered to the right, nearly throwing its rider off, but he managed to stay on and they galloped further downhill, until they disappeared behind a patch of trees.

Reuben turned and took the hand of a speechless Ayla. Grasping them firmly, he led her fingers to his lips.

"Let it not be said that I do not respect my liege lady's wishes. Though let me councel you, Milady, that next time, it would be advisable to kill him on the spot and sent him back in parts. Nothing delivers a message like a severed head."

"Oh, I don't know," Ayla mumbled, fighting to suppress a smile. "I think what you told him will deliver a pretty clear message. Thank you for finding such... um... powerful words, Sir Knight. I would never have been able to be so eloquent myself."

"As always, it is a pleasure to serve you, Milady."

*~*~**~*~*

The herald came back astonishingly quickly. Sir Hartung watched as the mounted figure with the white staff galloped towards the camp at a pace he wouldn't have thought the man's horse capable of.

"Ah, there you are." Hartung nodded and strode towards the man. "There really was no need to hurry back at such a pace."

The herald glanced back at the castle.

"Y-yes there was, Sir Hartung."

"Well, if think so. Was your mission a success?"

"Um... you could say that. In a way."

"Excellent. So you have their answer."

"Yes, I definitely have that."

"Then follow me. The Margrave is waiting."

Hartung marched ahead, and the herald followed—but the Field Marshal noticed that now, the man didn't seem to be in nearly as much of a hurry. In fact, he hung back as far as he could.

"Come along, will you?"

"Y-yes, Sir Hartung."

They entered the Margrave's tent, and Hartung spotted the lean frame of his liege lord immediately, leaning against one of the tent poles and gazing into a dark corner, his back turned towards them.

"Your Excellency?"

"Yes?"

The Margrave turned. His sharp eyes zeroed in on the herald immediately.

"Ah, you have returned. Speak, man. Did you give my message?"

The herald bowed.

"Y-yes, your E-excelleny."

Frowning, Hartung glanced at the man with the white staff in astonishment. It wasn't usual for heralds to stutter.

"And?" the Margrave asked. "What did they say?"

Hartung knew he couldn't be expecting a surrender—not after what had transpired so far. But it would still be interesting to hear their reaction. A willingness to negotiate might well suggest weakness.

"Um... err... Milord, I..."

Again, a frown flitted across Hartung's face. What was wrong with the herald? He hadn't notice it before, but the poor fellow actually looked as if he were about to be sick.

"What," the Margrave repeated, his voice as calm as it was deadly, "did they say?"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Greetings, Milords and Ladies!

In regard to Reuben's diplomatic recommendation of ass-licking in this chapter - just In case you might suspect me of being vulgar, let me assure you that I am quoting from a very respected source: namely, the play "Goetz von Berlichingen" by famous German 18th-century poet and playwright Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, who in Germany has about the same standing as Shakespeare does in the English-speaking world. His hero, also a robber knight, throws this curse at the commander of the Imperial troops that are besieging his castle. The phrase is inspired by a passage from von Berlichingen's diaries, so there is real historical authenticity behind it.

Even better: some time later, classical composer Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart took this phrase and turned it into the piece of music, a canto entitled "Leck mich im Arsch" (Kiss my ass / Lick my Ass). It is piece number 231 in the Köchel-catalogue, or 382c according to the new cataloging of Mozart's work, you can look it up if you wish.

Just in case you enjoy classical music, I have included a youtube video of a choir singing "Lick my Ass" (in the original German).

So, next time somebody asks you "What's your favorite song?" you can be all cool and cultural and say: "Oh, it's 'Lick Me in the Ass' by Mozart." ;-)

I hope you have enjoyed the chapter, and my little foray into literature and music history!

Farewell for now,

(a very cultured-feeling) Sir Rob