Do you want to marry me?

The short, concise, beautiful question echoed in Ayla's head like horns in the alps, like the biggest of church bells, like the trumpets of Jericho. She felt her heart jump and the blood rush to her face.

Then, before she'd had the chance to answer, she saw Reuben's eyes widen at her blush.

"You do, don't you? What nasty little devil put that crazy idea into your head?"

Ayla's hammering heart screeched to a halt. That question pretty much dashed any hope she might have harbored that this was supposed to be a romantic proposal.

"Crazy idea? What is that supposed to mean?"

He raised an eyebrow, as if this was perfectly obvious, and she was being very daft not seeing the problem immediately.

"Well, after all, I told you I loved you, didn't I? So why the hell would I want to marry you?"

Ayla blinked, not sure she had heard right. The words made all sense individually, but put together like that, she was unable to puzzle out their meaning. Moving her lips, she silently repeated the sentence, trying to figure out what the heck he was talking about, but she might as well have tried to spear a boar with a knitting needle.

"Because... because that's what people do!" she sputtered. "When two people love each other, they marry, so they can spend the rest of their lives together."

Reuben was already shaking his head before she was half finished, an expression on his face that told her he thought she was very naive.

"Wherever did you get that idea from? People marry for political and social advantage, don't they? Powerful nobles forge alliances and extend their lands by marriage. If the bride is particularly ugly, it's most likely she will marry because of her large dowry, if she has one. If she is pretty, someone will marry her because he wants to get under her skirts. But love? Nay. That has nothing to do with it."

He flashed his devil's smile at her, and despite herself, Ayla felt her knees grow week. The angels curse him! How was it that the bastard could make her ache with longing for him even while he was busily engaged in braking her heart?

"Trust me," he said, patting her shoulder, "You don't want to marry me. I've known plenty of married people, and they spend most of the time biting each other's heads off. If there ever was any love involved in the matter, it vanishes at 'I do'. And the more terrible the character of the groom, the worse the situation afterwards. I really wouldn't make a good husband. You might not have noticed, but I'm really rather a clapper-clawed son of a bitch, most of the time."

"You don't say?"

"Yes."

Narrowing her eyes, Ayla jammed her forefinger into his chest. "And, how, if I may ask, do you come to know so much about marriage? Have you tried it out yourself?"

"Of course not, Milady! It's just common sense. Marriage and love don't mix. Just listen to any of the great love ballads. Tristan and Isolde, Lancelot and Guinevere..." He grinned again. "All about women having elicit affairs with dashing strangers they are most definitely not married to. So, take my advice, Milady, let yourself be seduced and have a mind-numbing, marvelous, deliciously sinful affair with me. I'll make it worth your while, I promise."

His words made Ayla shiver all over—not with fear, but with anticipation. This was one promise on which she knew he would deliver, if she only said yes. Fighting down her sinful instincts, she raised her chin in proud defiance.

"My parents married for love!"

He shrugged, as if this were of little importance. "Well, if that's the case I suppose I can't blame you for your warped view of life. Don't worry, I won't hold it against you. It's not really your fault that your parents were a bit crazy."

Ayla opened her mouth. Then she closed it again—and opened it again. But still she was unable to find any insults sufficiently nasty to throw at the monster who was trampling on her tender feelings. And still he was holding her in her arms, smiling as if nothing were wrong.

"You... you fobbing canker-blossom! You reeking pisspit of manhood! You blister-tongued scullion!"

He frowned, lightly. "Is that a 'no' to the mind-numbing, marvelous, deliciously sinful affair?"

"You...!"

*~*~**~*~*

It took a while for Ayla's next round of insults to subside. Reuben listened with considerable interest. She had acquired quite a large vocabulary since he had first met her, and he couldn't help feeling a tinge of pride. At least half a dozen of the more heinous expressions, he felt reasonably sure, she had picked up from him.

When she ran out of breath, he placed a calming hand on her cheek—or at least he tried to. She slapped it away like an annoying fly, immediately.

Satan's hairy ass! She really was steaming because of this marriage-thing, wasn't she?

Reuben took a deep breath. Damn! He'd rather swallow a bottle of vinegar, but if she wanted it that much...

"Oh well," he sighed, giving her a smile that showed how far he was going to humor her. "I suppose we can marry, if you absolutely want to."

"No, I don't!" she snapped.

Reuben frowned. "But... I thought you said earlier you wanted me to guess what you wish from me. And this was your wish, wasn't it? The one thing you really wanted?"

"Yes!"

"But now you suddenly don't want it anymore?"

""No, I don't!"

"And that is because...?" He left the end of the sentence hanging, hopefully. But Ayla didn't seem in the mood to demystify him.

"You dare to ask me that?" Throwing her hands up into the air, she gave a hiss like an angry kitten. "Oh, you... Go and pickle your onion!"

Whirling around, she stomped off without another word. Reuben stared after her, completely perplexed.

Women—there was just no understanding them sometimes.

*~*~**~*~*

Men! They were all impossible! And that pee-brain Reuben was the most impossible of all! How could he do this to her?

You wanted him to propose, didn't you? said a small, annoying voice from the back of her mind. Well, he proposed. It might not have been in the manner you wanted, it might have been as passionate as a dried apricot and as romantic as a block of wood, but still, it means he wants you forever.

Did it, though? Ayla couldn't help thinking back to the tales of his past, tales of that woman, Salvatrice. He had won tournaments for her, written love poems for her. Yes, beating other knights to smithereens was a stupid proof of love, and the love poems might not have been very good, but still, it would at least give you the feeling of being wanted. Being special.

Not just another conquest in a long line of conquests. And Reuben's line was long. It probably stretched all the way from Luntberg to Jerusalem.

"By all the apostles," she growled. "What's the matter with you? You know he loves you! Are you going to pass up a chance like this just because of pride?"

"Um... Milady?"

She turned from the window of the great hall, where she had been standing, looking out over the Lunt Valley, to find Sir Gregor standing behind her.

"Excuse me," she murmured, waving a hand in the air dismissively. "I was just talking to myself."

"Indeed?" He smiled kindly at her. "And this 'he' you were talking about, that's also yourself?"

Ayla felt a blush rise to her cheeks. "N-no. That's Sir Reuben."

Gregor's smile widened, and he settled himself down on the windowsill, not far away from her.

"So he's finally caved in, has he? I wondered how long it would take him."

Ayla's eyes went wide. "You know?"

"Of course. The men down in the yard have been placing bets on it." His expression became slightly sheepish. "Don't tell anyone I told you, though. I don't think the men would like getting word of it back to Sir Reuben."

Ayla had a mental image of a crowd of villagers cowering before an enraged robber knight, demanding his share of the betting money. For just a moment, she couldn't keep a smile off her face.

"I won't, promise."

"Thank you, Milady. Well, I think congratulations might be in order, correct?"

Ayla felt her shoulders sag. "Those might be a bit premature, I'm afraid."

The smile on Gregor's face was replaced by a frown. "But he asked you to marry him, didn't you? That's what we are talking about, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"And you love him."

"Yes."

"So you said yes."

"No."

"Oh."

Sir Gregor gazed out over the valley, contemplatively, following the flight of an eagle with his gaze.

"Forgive me, Milady," he finally said, humbly and earnestly. "I'm not very experienced in matters of romance, so I might be missing an important point, but I don't quite understand."

Ayla sighed. "That's all right. I don't, either, to be perfectly honest."

"I see."

He was silent for a few moments.

"Well, actually I don't see. But it's not really any of my business, either."

Rising, he bowed adroitly. "I only came to tell you that another dozen of the recruits are, in my humble opinion, ready for service on the outer wall. I would suggest that we use this increase in our numbers to double the size and numbers of the patrols on the wall. It will give the people something to occupy their time, and make us more prepared should the enemy decide to attack. The time of the last battle is slowly drawing closer."

The stone of the windowsill was rough under Ayla's fingers. She felt it scratch her skin, painfully, as her hands clenched around it.

"I know. Thank you, Sir Gregor. Your suggestion is a good one. See to it that the necessary steps are taken."

He bowed once more. "As you command, Milady."

Turning away, he was just about to leave, when Ayla suddenly called: "Sir Gregor?"

He half-turned back towards her. "Yes, Milady? Is there something else?"

"The men in the courtyard—what exactly are they betting on?"

Sir Gegor's ears turned red. "Well... it is not exactly suitable for a lady to hear, Milady."

"That won't be a problem, Sir Gregor. I've heard a lot of things that a lady isn't supposed to hear."

"Um... All right. They're betting on who will get the other where they want them first—You Sir Reuben in front of an altar, or Sir Reuben you up into the hayloft."

"Indeed?" For some reason, a smile wanted to creep onto Ayla's face. "And how do the odds stand at the moment?"

Sir Gregor cleared his throat. His face remained perfectly expressionless as he said: "Strictly in confidence, of course, Milady..."

"Of course."

"I believe that at the moment, the odds stand five to one against Sir Reuben."

Ayla nodded, careful to keep any hint of a grin of her face. "Thank you, Sir Gregor. That will be all."

He nodded soberly. Just one corner of his mouth twitched, very slightly. "Till later, Milady."

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Greetings, Milords and Ladies!

This week I really wish I were living in the Middle Ages. I'm filling out tax documents. Ah, how simple the 10th century was... ;-)

Farewell (from a tortured)

Sir Rob