The Robber Knight's Secret

39. The Murderous Art

"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.