“Got ya, Mr
Rangel. Now, my boy, speak up, ‘cos we
are murderers.”
“Shut up, Mr
Luc, please. Don’t say we are
murderers. Not murderers. Not murderers as such,
young man. Just a little homicide. That’s all.
Just a little. Homicide. From time to time. Not…
regular.”
“Homicide?” I say, stepping under Zel’s head to the
horse’s left flank, where I’ve tied my
scabbard to the saddle. The threat is clear enough. “Yeh, I’ve heard about homicide. Not very
nice, is it? Not very friendly.”
“Ah, but
we,” explains Rangel, covering Luc’s face with his massive hand and pushing him
to the
ground, “we have the homicide pardon, you see. From King James himself. We have the
parchment. Show the young man the parchment, Luc. The Pope has said prayers for our
murdering
ways. So that we might join the crusade
against the Muslim Moors. And the King
has
pardoned us, as we have the leftovers of murdering skills. From a previous life, you understand.
Such that are required for the crusading
manner of employment. Show the young man
the
parchment that was passed from the King’s blessed hand to our very
own. The piece of
delightful parchment
that says what has gone on – in the murkiness of our past – in a murdering
sort
of way – is now all forgiven – with the King’s very hand – signed at the bottom
– in proper
writing.”
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