SMW C18 A scheme?

Alexander stepped onto the platform with calculating eyes, quickly assessing the assembled crowd. Looking at them, I estimate around three hundred people have gathered. That's quite substantial for a village this size.

The impressive turnout was undoubtedly due to the announcement made two days prior, promising a shocking revelation that would challenge fundamental truths. In this era and world, people were naturally social creatures, particularly vulnerable to gossip and drawn to any break from their monotonous daily struggles.

"Thank you for that gracious introduction, Father Hensfried," Alexander said with a respectful smile. The priest bowed deeply before stepping to the side of the platform.

This deferential gesture was clearly visible to all the villagers, though they thought little of it at first.

Alexander reached into a large hemp sack that had been placed beside the platform. From within, he withdrew several dirt-covered, oval-shaped tubers, holding them high for all to see with deliberate ceremony.

"Good people of Graybrook," he began, his young voice carrying clearly across the muddy square, "I have brought with me today the subject of God's divine revelation—these humble roots that grow abundantly in our very own soil."

A shocked gasp erupted from the crowd as recognition dawned on several weathered faces.

Lammert felt his blood turn to ice. As a swine farmer, he knew those cursed roots intimately. Panic flooded his mind as he realized the implications. Oh merciful saints, is he going to make an example of me because I gave him those devil's apples? Is this my public execution?

Wulfger experienced a similar surge of terror, his face draining of color.

Suddenly, a loud voice rang out from the crowd: "Young lord, those are devil's apples! Don't touch them—they'll bring curse and corruption upon you!"

This outcry triggered a wave of alarmed murmurs throughout the assembly:

"Why is our young lord handling cursed roots?"

"Has he been bewitched by demons?"

"The devil's apples will poison his soul!"

"Someone must stop him before it's too late!"

Alexander simply smiled calmly at their distress. "You are quite correct—these have indeed been called cursed roots and devil's apples for generations. But I declare to you today that such names belong to the past!" His voice grew stronger and more confident. "I have given these blessed tubers a new name—potatoes—and I proclaim before God and all assembled here that they are not cursed, but divinely blessed!"

The crowd erupted in shocked gasps and horrified exclamations. After all, they had been taught by the Church that cursed roots brought plague, madness, withering sickness, and even death to any foolish enough to consume them.

Noticing the crowd's mounting apprehension and fear, Father Hensfried stepped forward to address their concerns.

"People of Graybrook!" the priest called out with commanding authority. "I am your spiritual father, devoted servant of the Almighty, and faithful shepherd of your souls. I have dedicated my life to protecting you from evil and guiding you toward salvation." He paused meaningfully. "Therefore, when I tell you that these potatoes are blessed rather than cursed, you must trust that I speak divine truth! I myself have consumed them and found them to be among God's greatest gifts to mankind!"

The crowd's shock deepened into stunned silence. Their own priest—the man they trusted above all others for spiritual guidance—was claiming to have eaten devil's apples and lived to tell about it.

Alexander smiled at their bewildered reactions, having anticipated exactly this response. He spoke quietly to Father Hensfried, who was observing the crowd's distress with obvious concern. "I expected this reaction, Father. Fortunately, we prepared for such skepticism."

"Indeed we did," Father Hensfried nodded solemnly.

"Everything is ready, young lord. I had the church prepare mashed potatoes to distribute among the people, so they can witness the truth with their own senses."

Alexander nodded approvingly. "Excellent." He turned back to address the crowd with renewed confidence. "I understand that words alone cannot overcome generations of fear and superstition. Therefore, we have prepared food made from these blessed potatoes, prepared and blessed by your own church, to prove beyond doubt that they are gifts from Heaven rather than curses from Hell!"

The crowd exchanged uncertain glances, murmuring anxiously among themselves.

Just then, a procession emerged from the direction of the church—several young acolytes and church sisters, assisted by castle soldiers, carrying large wooden bowls and iron pots filled with steaming mashed potatoes. The considerable distance from the church to the village square had left them visibly tired from their burden, but they approached with dutiful determination.

"Now, form orderly lines!" Alexander called out with a warm smile. "Come and witness God's creation and taste the blessing He has given us!"

The crowd caught the rich, creamy aroma wafting from the mashed potatoes, and despite their fears, curiosity began to stir. Slowly, hesitantly, some villagers began to form lines as instructed. However, many others hung back, preferring to watch and see if the first brave souls would be struck down by divine wrath or demonic poison.

Lammert and Wulfger reluctantly joined the line, whispering frantically to each other:

"This... this is our young lord's punishment, isn't it?" Lammert's voice shook with terror. "He's using the church to poison us with devil's apples because I gave them to him!"

"Quiet, you fool!" Wulfger hissed, elbowing his friend while glancing nervously around. "If anyone overhears you and realizes this mess is our fault, we'll be executed before we even get poisoned!"

Lammert trembled violently at the thought.

Both men were convinced that their earlier interaction with Alexander had led directly to this dire situation. They believed their young lord was orchestrating their deaths through cursed food as punishment for Lammert's transgression.

Throughout the crowd, similar dark thoughts took hold. Many villagers began to suspect this was a calculated solution to the barony's chronic food shortages—eliminate excess population by tricking them into consuming poison, thereby reducing the number of mouths to feed.

Whispers of conspiracy and betrayal rippled through the assembled masses as they stared at the innocent-looking mashed potatoes with growing dread.

"H-have mercy on me, my lord. I am but a humble blacksmith," stammered the weathered man who found himself first in line, his calloused hands trembling as he stared at the wooden bowl of mashed potatoes being offered to him.

Squire Oswin, who had been assigned the duty of serving the villagers, raised his eyebrows at the man's obvious terror. "Are you certain you don't want this blessed food?" he asked, though his own eyes lingered hungrily on the creamy mixture.

Mashed potatoes had become Oswin's absolute favorite dish since Alexander's introduction of them to the castle, especially when prepared with cheese, butter, or rendered lard. Unfortunately, as a mere squire, he was only permitted one or two servings per day, leaving him constantly craving more.

If this fool refuses it, perhaps I could eat it myself, Oswin thought hopefully.

However, the blacksmith completely misinterpreted Oswin's eager expression and raised eyebrows. Seeing the squire's armor, sword, and what appeared to be impatient anticipation, the poor man swallowed hard and accepted his fate.

"I... I'll eat it," he whispered, gingerly accepting the warm bowl with shaking hands.

I thought being a blacksmith—a valuable craftsman—would exempt me from this population reduction scheme, he thought despairingly. But apparently even skilled workers aren't safe from their solution to the food shortage.

The blacksmith started to turn away, planning to find a discrete spot where he could pretend to eat while actually spitting out the supposedly poisoned food.

Before he could take more than a step, Oswin called out sharply: "Wait there, friend. Take a bite here first—I want to see if you enjoy it. If not, don't waste it by throwing it away. Just give it back to me."

The blacksmith and several people behind him in line felt their hearts sink. Curse it all! They're making sure we actually consume the poison. There's no escape now...

Trapped and hopeless, the blacksmith returned to stand before Oswin, forcing what could generously be called a smile onto his face—though it looked more like a grimace of pain. "Of course, my lord. I'll... I'll take a bite right here."

He trembled as he brought the wooden spoon to his lips, expecting the taste of death itself.

Instead, his mouth filled with the most incredible flavor he had ever experienced. His eyes went wide with shock as the creamy, rich texture melted on his tongue, seasoned perfectly and more satisfying than any meal he could remember.

The watching crowd assumed the blacksmith was experiencing the first effects of the poison. Several people in line began backing away in terror.

The poison has taken hold, they thought fearfully. The poor man is already succumbing to the curse.

But before anyone could voice their fears, the blacksmith moved his spoon for another bite. Then another. And another, eating with increasing enthusiasm.

The scene left everyone speechless. The assembled villagers gasped in amazement and confusion.

"That... that blacksmith actually enjoys eating it?" Lammert whispered to Wulfger in disbelief.

"Maybe he's lost his mind and wants to die?" Wulfger suggested weakly.

Before they could speculate further, the blacksmith suddenly exclaimed with genuine joy: "This is absolutely delicious!"

The young lord and Father Hensfried were telling the truth all along! he realized with overwhelming relief. This truly is divine food! Just these few bites prove beyond doubt that it's not devil's apple—it's a gift from Heaven itself!

Turning eagerly to Oswin, he asked hopefully: "Is there any more available?"

Oswin looked visibly disappointed that the blacksmith hadn't rejected the food and given it to him. With a resigned sigh, he replied, "Only one serving per person. Now move along so others can receive theirs."

The blacksmith lingered, clearly reluctant to leave. "My name is Ranulf, master squire. If our young lord has need of a blacksmith, he can find me at the forge behind Miller's Lane, near the old oak tree."

Oswin nodded and carefully stored this information, recognizing that skilled craftsmen like blacksmiths were valuable assets for any lord.

Before departing, Ranulf made an extraordinary offer: "Please tell our young lord that if he requires my services, he can pay me with this food you've just given me instead of coin."

"You mean mashed potatoes?" Oswin asked, surprised by the unusual proposal.

"Is that what it's called?" Ranulf inquired eagerly. When Oswin nodded, the blacksmith continued enthusiastically: "Yes, exactly! If our lord can provide me with mashed potatoes as payment, I could offer my services for free or at significant discount."

Oswin found the arrangement quite appealing personally, but knew such decisions lay beyond his authority. "I'll certainly relay your offer to the young lord."

Ranulf nodded gratefully and finally departed, leaving behind a crowd of stunned villagers who had just witnessed their fellow villager not only survive the supposedly cursed food, but actively praise it and request more.

The demonstration had achieved exactly what Alexander had hoped—living proof that potatoes were blessing rather than curse.