A tentative knock from the door ended the staring contest between Reuben and Burchard.
"Enter!" Reuben commanded.
"Hey! Aren't you forgetting something?" Ayla jammed her elbow into his ribs again. Again, it had absolutely no effect. "I get to tell people to come in! This is my castle, after all."
"But this is my strategic meeting," he told her with a disarming smile.
She was just about to try and come up with a counter-argument when the door opened a crack and a villager stuck his head into the room. Ayla frowned. The man looked unusually pale. She thought she recognized him—Gernot, one of the farmers who had lived on one of the seven lonely farms strewn throughout the Lunt Valley before they had been abandoned during the Margrave's invasion. She had often seen him at the services in the chapel which the castle priest held on Sundays.
"Milady?" His voice was strained. "May I come in?"
"Yes, of course, Gernot. What is it?" Her frown deepened. She couldn't think of any reason why he would be looking so sick right now. Had someone close to him died in the fighting? Or was he himself not well?
"I'm sorry for asking, Gernot, but are you sick? You look rather unwell."
He waved her concern away—but she could see his hand shaking as he did.
"I-I'm fine, Milady. I just came here to deliver a message. Sir Reuben gave orders to have everyone assembled in the inner yard. I was sent to say that everyone is there, and waiting for you."
Grabbing his ear and pulling it down to her level, Ayla whispered to Reuben: "You gave orders to assemble everyone?"
"Why, yes, Milady. I'm your commander in chief. I can give orders."
"And were you going to tell me about them any time?"
"Certainly. I'm telling you now. I gave orders to have everyone assembled."
"I already know!"
He smirked. "Well, that's hardly my fault, is it?"
"Why do you want to have everyone assembled?"
He raised an eyebrow, and gestured to the chest. "It's hardly any use, me hatching this brilliant plan, if we don't share it with anybody. We need quite a lot of people to put our new secret weapons to use."
"And what if I hadn't agreed to this?" She cocked her head, challenging him with her gaze. "What if I had said no to your plan? What would you have done with the assembled villagers then?"
He grinned in that way that made her want to slap him and kiss him at the same time. "I would have gone ahead with my plan anyway. But I doubt you could have refused, even if you wanted to." His hand lightly skimmed over her cheek, down to her jaw line. "I can be very persuasive when I want to be."
Ayla smiled back at him. "Can you? Well, now's your chance to prove it."
*~*~**~*~*
Reuben stood on the steps in front of the keep's entrance, looking out over the sea of people gathered around him. Beside him stood the chest, closed, but unlocked. It was time to reveal his diabolical secret.
He had to work hard to keep a grin from his face. Oh yes, he'd tell them all about it. But he'd do it in his own sweet way.
He took a deep breath.
"How many of you believe in the resurrection of Christ?" he roared.
They stared at him. Mouths fell open. Eyes widened. They hadn't expected this question—and they most certainly hadn't expected it from him, of all people. They looked like a flock of sheep, after a wolf asked them how many of them had wool on their back.
"Well?" he barked. "I asked you a question! How many of you believe that Christ will come again to judge the living and the dead, in the resurrection of the body, and in life everlasting? How many? Hands up!"
Slowly, a few tentative hands went up.
"So few?"
Reuben raised an eyebrow at Father Jone, the castle priest, who was standing at the edge of the crowd.
"I think you had better improve your preaching, father. It seems like faith is grossly neglected here."
The father's eyes flicked confused between Reuben and the villagers. Then he sent a mildly disapproving look at his flock, and more hands shot into the air. Over the growing forest of raised arms, Reuben could see Ayla's startled face at the other end of the courtyard. She looked as if her eyeballs were ready to pop out of her sockets—which would really a shame. They were very nice eyeballs.
"What are you doing," she mouthed at him. He just cocked his head, and flashed her a quick smile. He knew was he was doing. And she'd find out soon enough.
By now, all the hands in front of him were up.
"So," Reuben growled. "You all believe that when you are dead, you have a chance at another life?"
"Y-yes," a few people called out.
"Even though your body will die and lie in the ground to rot and be eaten by worms, you believe that in the end, Christ will come and raise you?"
"Yes!" More voices now, not so hesitant. Religion was really marvelous... the stuff it could get people to believe. Reuben had seen bodies eaten by worsms. Personally, he didn't want to be raised from the dead in that condition. But to each their own.
"And you believe that he will judge you, and if you have had the last rites and are free of sin, he will raise you into heaven?"
"Yes!" The voices were a roar now, an outpour of religious ecstasy, followed by loud cheers. It was time to stab the rhetorical sword home!
"Well," he said, suddenly lowering his voice to a dangerously low level, "then you had better all form a line and get Father Jone to give you the last rites. Because in a few weeks, a month at most, we'll all be dead."
The cheers died abruptly. The color drained from their faces. These people knew him by now—knew him well enough to realize that when he talked of death, he was serious.
"You will die in faithful defence of your liege lord, of course," he added, "so I'm sure that'll count when Jesus weighs your good deeds against your sins, but on the other hand, Christians aren't supposed to kill at all, so maybe he'll send you to hell anyway. I don't really know. But just to play it safe, I'd go to Father Jerome, in your place."
He gave them a wolfish, completely humorless grin.
"Not that I am going to pay him a visit. I've committed far too many sins to get past St Peter at the gates. But for some reason, I've grown fond of you lot. I'd hate to see you burning in hell alongside me, after you die a horribly violent death."
Nobody tried to cheer now. There wasn't even the suspicion of a sound. People exchanged uncertain glances, Father Jone was clutching his cross, muttering something which Reuben supposed was something very prayerly, and Ayla on the other side of the courtyard looked ready to strangle him.
Hm... had she maybe imagined he'd give them some marvelous pep-talk about how brave and noble they all were?
Well, he much preferred his own method: kicking some verbal ass.
It didn't take long for the first, questioning hand to rise quivering into the air.
"Um... excuse me? Sir Reuben?"
"Yes?"
"Err... Why are we going to die?"
Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Reuben stepped to the very edge of the stone landing and smiled down at the man who had dared to ask him the question. It wasn't a nice smile.
"Because you'll all be killed by the Margrave's army, of course."
A whisper ran through the crowd. There was fear in it. But there were other feelings besides. Good.
"But... you trained us! You made us into warriors," one of the men at the front protested. "We can—"
Quick as a striking snake, Reuben bent down and plucked the man out of the crowd. He hauled him into the air, and in a second had his arms pinned behind his back.
"Warriors?" he snorted. "Pah! You lot have barely scatched the surface of what it means to be a warrior! You're good enough for skirmishes, and raids, and even minor fights when you outnumber the enemy like you did at the bridge. But a real fight, against a real enemy?"
He bent forward. He could hear the man's heavy, pained breathing. His face was as white as a sheet now. Excellent. He was getting the lesson.
"Have you ever fought with people milling around you, crushing in from all sides, arms flailing, metal screaming against metal, guts spilling all over you, the stench making you want to throw up, but you can't, because if you lose control you'll lose your head? A dozen of your friends are already dead and more are falling right and left like flies, arrows are whizzing over your heads like dark birds of prey, intent on your death, and all you can do is struggle on and on and on, until you're so tired you can't feel your own body anymore and just want to scream and die? Well? Have you?"
"N-no, Sir!"
"And what do you think it will be like when, in a short while, the entire Army of the Margrave von Falkenstein—six-hundred blood-thirsty bastards—will come storming up this hill to crawl all over the castle walls and try to rip your guts out?"
There was a collective gasp from the crowd. Reuben didn't even look at them. He kept his eyes on the man in front of him, pressing him down with ease.
"Yes!" he roared. "They're coming! They're coming to get us! What did you think? That you could just sit this out without raising a finger, without spilling a drop of blood? Do you have horse shit for brains?"
Suddenly, his blade was in his hand. The man underneath him whimpered. Reuben knew that at this point Sir Waldar, Sir Isenbard, any other knight would have stopped, if they'd had ever gone this far. But he was no ordinary knight. He was a robber knight. And he knew better than any the price of weakness.
Now he had to show them.
"Do you know what will happen when they come? Do you?"
The man on the stones beneath him stared up at the blade, terror in his eyes. Reuben raised his sword—then, slowly, he drew the glimmering length of steel down his own arm, until blood dripped from the wound onto the man's face.
"Blood," he said, his voice low and soft. Still, every single man, woman and child in the courtyard heard him. He was sure of that. "That is what will happen. Blood, blood, and more blood. Blood will run down this mountain like water from a thousand springs. You will be annihilated. Your women despoiled, your children skewered. The skulls of the dead will litter Luntberg like Golgotha."
He rose, and tore the man upright, setting him on his feet again. As soon as he let go of his arms, the peasant stumbled away and down the stairs, frantically wiping his commander's blood from his face.
"The Margrave probably won't give you a Christian burial," Reuben continued, calmly. "He might burn what's left of you, or leave you to rot, who knows. But bury you according to the laws of the mother church, on sacred ground? Highly unlikely. So it probably doesn't matter whether you confess your sins to Father Jone. You'll die and burn in hell in any case."
With that, he sat down on the chest and fell silent. Taking a handkerchief from a belt pouch, he started to bandage his wounded arm, and paid no attention whatsoever to the whispering crowd. He'd prepared dinner on the road for himself often enough to know there was no sense attending to a stew before it was cooked.
One minute. Two. Three. The fourth minute was nearly up, when someone from the back of the crowd called out:
"So... What do you plan to do about it, Sir?"
Unhurriedly, he tied another not on his bandage, and then looked up. "Me? What makes you think that I have a plan?"
People got out of the way, leaving the unfortunate speaker standing alone, in the focus of everyone's attention—especially Reuben's. The thick-set little man swallowed.
"B-because you always do, Sir. First, when the enemy wanted to cross the bridge, and then when they started to throw stones and fire at us. You saved us. Every time."
"True." Reuben let his best devilish grin spread across his face and gloried in the way it made the little fellow flinch. "I am magnificent, am I not?"
"Y-yes, Sir. Absolutely Marvelous. The best commander we could wish for."
"Smart of you to realize that."
Reuben went back to tying his knots, not giving the man another glance. It was two more minutes before the fellow dared to clear his throat.
Slowly, Reuben looked up again.
"Yes?"
"Um... well, Sir, we... that is I was wondering..."
He broke off, clearly unable to say the words. Reuben sighed. Being with Ayla had softened him too much. He was actually inclined to have petty on the smarmy little peasant.
"You were wondering if I could pull of another military miracle?"
Greatfully, the man nodded. "Yes, Sir. Exactly, Sir."
"Well..." Rising to his feet, Reuben patted the chest on which he had been sitting. He gave the crowd another one of his devilish smiles. This time, they didn't step back from it. They seemed to soak it up, as if it were the first sight of the Promised Land. "As it happens, I do have a little idea."
For the very first time, the crowd seemed to really notice the chest. Hundreds of gazes zeroed in on it, trying to look through the wood, to wrest the secrets from this plain wooden object that could somehow hold their salvation.
Reuben let them dangle for a few more delicious seconds. Then he lifted the lid, and reached inside. His hand came out again, holding a roughly cross-shaped object made from wood.
"Without this, you're dead," he told them, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "But with it, you have a chance at survival. Take it!"
Before anyone could say as much as a word, he hurled the thing at a villager. But not just any villager. He didn't pick a smith with strong arms, or a brawny butcher. The wooden thing sailed straight towards a diminutive old crone in the front row. She caught it reflexively, and stared down at the cross-shaped object with awe. Then, she slowly lifted her eyes to Reuben's.
When she met his gaze and didn't flinch, he knew he had picked the right one.
"That's a crossbow," he told her. "Shoot it. Guards, make way for her!"
A quick hand gesture at a line of guards stationed at the side of the courtyard made them part, and revealed the shooting range with straw targets that had been erected there. Several scarecrows stood there, too, wearing bloody rags that had once been worn by soldiers of the Margrave.
"Here. You'll need this."
Reuben had to admit, he was enjoying himself immensely. Pulling a crossbow bolt from his belt pouch, he tossed it to the old hag, who swiped it out of the air with amazing dexterity.
Twirling the bolt in one hand, the old woman experimentally raised the crossbow. Then she hesitated, and lowered it again for an inch or two.
"Go on!" Reuben encouraged. "You can do it."
Muttering erupted from the crowd who only now seemed to catch on to what was happening.
"Hang on!" a burly peasant shouted. "That's my granny! You can't go around giving weapons to my granny!"
The hag's thin shoulders stiffened, and the crossbow went up again. "Oh, shut up, Theofilius!"
Reuben couldn't suppress a grin. Thank Satan for pushy relatives!
"But granny, you're over seventy years old, and you're no warrior!"
"And you are, since you've been battling with turnips on your father's farm so often?"
"Um... well, no, not exactly, but—"
"Place the crossbow with the stirrup against the ground," Reuben advised the old woman, ignoring the grandson, since that was obviously was she was inclined to do. "That's the metal thingy at the end of the long wooden beam. Place your foot in the stirrup, grab the string and pull it back. It shouldn't be too difficult if you put all your weight behind it."
"Granny, don't!" The peasant stepped forward. "I forbid it!"
Never in his life had Reuben seen a crossbow being cocked so fast. The weapon was ready and at shoulder height before anyone could say "Hail Mary."
"I forbid—" was all the unfortunate grandson managed to say, before the twang of the bowstring sounded, followed by a thud.
Three-hundred heads swiveled. Gasps rose from the crowd.
The scarecrow right in the middle of the target range now sported a ragged hole in the center of its chest. The end of the crossbow bold stuck out of the hole, fletching still quivering from the impact.
"The nice thing about crossbows," Reuben said into the stunned silence, "is that anyone can use them. You need special skills to use a bow. But for a crossbow, you just need to arms, two legs, and eyes for aiming."
He thought for a moment. "Scratch that. One eye would probably do. My point is: anyone can use them. Youngsters, cripples, even grandmothers. Anyone. After a few days of training you'll be as good at shooting a crossbow as any soldier in the Margrave's army. Do you know what that means?"
From most people's stupefied expression, he gathered that they didn't. The granny seemed to get it, though. She was clutching her crossbow like a newborn babe, her face split into a deliciously evil toothless grin.
"Look up there." Reuben gestured towards the castle walls, and everyone turned top look up at where guards patrolled the walkway.
"Right now, we only have about fifty trained archers to defend the walls. They can pick of the Margrave's soldiers in dozens before they even reach the walls. All the rest of you can do when the attack begins is stand around, waiting for the enemy to come to you. With the crossbows, our number of shooters increases sevenfold!"
Reuben caught the granny's eye, returning her grin with one of his own.
"Imagine the hailstorm of death that will go down onto the Margrave's army!"
A murmur spread through the crowd, like waves, spreading out from where a pebble had been dropped into a lake. Only this was a pebble made from steel, dropped into a lake of blood. Reuben could see it in the villager's eyes: bloodlust. The fierce desire to get back at the ones who had invaded their lands and burned their homes to the ground.
It was only a faint mirror image of the violent battle rage pounding through his own veins. But it was there, and by Satan's warty prick, he was going to use it!
"So... we just load and shoot?" one of them asked, definite eagerness in his voice—but also suspicion. Reuben could almost hear the thoughts running through his mind. Can killing really be that easy?
"Yes," he said, fixing his eyes on the man who had spoken. "Exactly. If you have the right tools, you can kill with the twitch of a finger."
"But... We're no real soldiers. We have never used one of these things. How are we supposed to hit our targets?"
"How could you miss?" Reuben countered. "When the attack begins, it won't be a single soldier confronting you, but a swarm of enemies surging up the mountain towards you. You won't even have to aim, just point the crossbow down and pull the trigger. It will truly be like shooting fish in a barrel. With one exception."
He paused, to make sure the importance of the point.
"Fish don't want to kill you. The Margrave's soldiers do. And they will, if you don't kill them first."
Reaching into the open chest once more, Reuben held up a crossbow for all to see.
"Your salvation," he shouted. "Take it and live, or leave it and die!"
The muttering among the villagers grew louder. Some carefully edged closer to the chest, inspecting the crossbow with narrowed eyes. The doubt was slowly draining out of them, replaced by a fiercely burning hope. Reuben could almost smell his victory. They were his! He had won them. As soon as one of them would touch a crossbow, all the others would follow.
Even Ayla on the other side of the courtyard seemed to be in a good mood, though Reuben could see from the look she gave him that she'd have words with him about his plans of sending grandmothers into battle.
He sighed. Well, no day could be perfect, could it?
No, it certainly couldn't. Just at that moment, when one of the villagers was beginning to move forward, stretching his hand out towards the chest of crossbows, a voice rang out over the courtyard.
"Halt! Halt, you fools! You do not know what you are doing! Do not imperil your souls by touching the devil's tools!"
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Greetings, Milords and Ladies!
I hope you enjoyed the latest installment. Can any of you guess why crossbows were considered so dastardly devilish in the Middle Ages?
In case any among you are interested in learning medieval weaponry to shoot at unicorns and dragons from your bedroom window, here is a little image explaining the different parts of a crossbow ;)
Till next time!
Farewell
Sir Rob
---------------------------------------------------------------------
GLOSSARY:
Golgatha: The name of a hill outside Jerusalem, where allegedly Jesus was crucified. The name means "place of the skull", and the site has traditionally been depicted as a mound covered in human skulls.