39. The Murderous Art

                                    

                                          
                   
                          
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.