The Robber Knight's Love (The Robber Knight Saga #2)(82)
“Be brave, my child.”
“Th-thank you, father.”
Retreating towards the freshly dug grave, the priest took out a small container from under his robes. He swung it from side to side on a small chain, and the sweet smell of incense spread through the little orchard.
“Thou shalt sprinkle me with hyssop, O Lord, and I shall be cleansed: Thou shalt wash me, and I shall be made whiter than snow.”
Bending down to a bowl of holy water on the ground beside him, he sprinkled a few drops over the grave and continued. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, we dedicate and consecrate this spot of earth as the final resting place for the body of Sir Isenbard von Riffgarten. May this spot of earth forever be a hallowed place to which his kin might come and remember him, until our Lord's righteous servant rises once more on the day when all the righteous reawaken from the earth to the glory of God. For the house of God is founded on the summit of the mountains, and is exalted over all the hills, and all the people shall come to it. And they shall say: ‘Glory be to thee, O Lord.’”
All voices rose up and, in a resounding chorus, proclaimed,“Glory be to thee, O Lord.”
Only Reuben remained silent. He couldn't see what was particularly praiseworthy about a God who let good people die while evil men continued to live. For that matter, he couldn’t see what was praiseworthy about a God who let evil noblemen declare feuds against their peaceful neighbors in the first place.
On the other hand, I’m pretty evil myself, he mused. So maybe I shouldn’t complain that God and his avenging angels seem to be taking a nap right now.
Then he felt Ayla's hand tremble in his and decided that, yes, he would and should complain. Nobody had the right to make his Ayla suffer like that, not even the creator of all. If he ever went to heaven—which, considering his previous life, was, admittedly, pretty unlikely—Reuben was going to give God a good talking to!
“Everything is ready, Milady,” the priest said with a slight bow of his head. “The grave is blessed, and we can proceed. Unless someone wishes to say a few words…?”
Reuben felt her tremble again, stronger this time. His alarm bells began to ring. He had known enough ladies to know what they usually did in situations like this. Was she going to fall, or even faint?
But the next thing he knew, she straightened herself. Letting go of his hand, she took a step towards the priest.
“Yes,” she said, and suddenly her voice didn't sound weak, tearful, or frightened at all. It sounded like what Reuben imagined an avenging angel would sound like. The kind who didn't take naps. “I would.”
Sweet and Bitter
Ayla climbed onto one of the enormous, gnarled roots of the tree. With her standing on this makeshift platform, Reuben was the only one in the crowd who was as tall as her. She towered over all the rest.
“My friends,” she called out, her voice echoing between the castle walls. “We all have lost our strongest protector today, our champion against the evil forces that are arrayed against us. And we have lost far, far more than that. We have lost a friend.”
For a moment, it seemed her voice might break. But only for a moment.
“The Good Book says,” she continued, “Brothers, we do not want you to be ignorant about those who fall asleep, or to grieve like the rest of men, who have no hope. We believe that Jesus died and rose again and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him.”
She swallowed, wrestling with the power of the words.
“I know these words, and I do believe in the resurrection and eternal life. And yet…Sir Isenbard lies there, unmoving, and my feeble, doubting spirits weeps at the sight. Before he will rise again with our Lord Jesus Christ, many hundreds or thousands of years may pass. Mountains will grow and fall, kings will die, and new ones be crowned, and we all will long be dust in the wind before the day comes when Isenbard von Riffgarten will rise again. He will never, ever again walk among us here at Luntberg.”
Reuben heard small sobs from the crowd as women began crying and saw the grim faces of men trying not to let their fear show. He wondered what Ayla was doing. If she wanted to encourage the villagers, she hadn't had much luck so far.
“I look into his cold, unmoving face, and the sight drains the hope out of me. I ask myself, what shall we do without him? What can we do? Now that he is dead, should we surrender to the Margrave? Give up hope?”
There were uneasy mutterings among the crowd and some more sobbing. Reuben tried to signal to Ayla to shut up, but she didn't seem to see him. What the hell was she doing?
“A voice inside me whispers, It would be the best thing to do,” she continued. “We could submit ourselves to his rule. Maybe he will have mercy. Maybe everything will turn out all right.”
Reuben’s teeth clenched in outrage, and he had to restrain himself from grabbing and shaking her. What in the names of Satan and all his little devils…!
Her head sank as she looked down and rested her chin on her chest. The mutterings increased. People threw each other looks of mingled despair and fear, and Reuben realized suddenly these weren't her own thoughts and fears Ayla was voicing. They were her people’s.
“Yes, maybe we should surrender,” she continued, still looking down, avoiding everybody's eyes. “Maybe it would be the wisest thing to do. But, what then? What happens when, in a year, I come to this grave, a slave to the Margrave? Shall I bend my knee, speak a prayer, and say, ‘Isenbard, you fought for my freedom—and you died for nothing’?”