The rain had soaked Emma's clothes. It was already the end of the year, and with the danger gone, her adrenaline subsided. A creeping cold began to become unbearable. The horse's jolting intensified the pain from her wound.
"Eric, why did you turn back to save me?"
"Why must there be a reason? You're not one of those Theologians, and I'm not your subordinate."
"Truthfully, I wasn't afraid at all in the beginning. I didn't expect anyone to come save me."
"I see."
"That was just instinct."
"I understand."
"I thought that it would have been fine to die here. At least then, maybe some kind writer would, in a few brief lines, note that the eldest daughter of the Osborn family was a woman of noble character and Knightly Spirit. That she lived an ordinary life but died a glorious death. That she was far more devout, brave, kind, fearless, and wise than anyone of her time..."
"All those descriptions, and you call it 'a few brief lines'? I'd say that writer must be quite the windbag."
"Don't be so harsh. What's wrong with a writer being a bit more emotional?"
"There's no need to be so drastic sometimes. Even if you can't be Matilda, or Adelaide, the Countess of Savoy, you could always give Egypt's Cleopatra a try."
"Am I that terrible? I hate Richard, but I also love him. I would never do something like that. If I could, I'd rather try being a Nun. Eric, what is life in a Monastery like?"
Emma had a strong inkling that her father's favored suitor this time was the younger brother of the King of France, a man of such high Identity. Her father had likely already made a decision about her marriage long ago.
"Late at night, you discuss academic questions about the Bible with your classmates, debate the authenticity of the Epistle of Barnabas, and even discuss the besieged King William, mock the misguided Roman Emperor, and the cunning, treacherous Greeks who are always begging for aid..."
"That sounds fascinating. Are there any drawbacks? I often hear Mr. Francis complain about how dull Monastery life is."
"The drawback is that all of that only exists in theory."
Emma: "..."
...
They brought the news of the Welsh attack back to Xialing, but it had very little effect.
The Normans were few in number and also had to contend with English rebellions, so their control over South Wales was precarious. After the main army withdrew, the offensive had all but ended. Their strategy was now primarily defensive, relying on a network of newly built castles.
With the Count away from Hereford, it was impossible to launch a counterattack to crush the Welsh. The only hope was that this was a small raiding party, and that the local Knights could shelter the villagers inside their castles in time.
In those days, the lives of common folk were always tragic.
However, the tournament in Xialing City was proceeding as scheduled. Welsh raids rarely lasted more than three days anyway.
The Nobility undoubtedly considered themselves fortunate. Their own castles were certainly not as strong as Xialing City. It was safe to stay here, and the only price was a paltry three days' worth of lodging—a trivial expense for most of them.
"First exchange! Eric, the Priest of Wang Bridge, wins!"
"Second exchange! Eric, the Priest of Wang Bridge, wins!"
"Third exchange! Eric, the Priest of Wang Bridge, wins!"
"..."
The watching commoners and Nobility had lost count of how many times his name was announced, or how many times the name "Saint George" was cried out.
It was unexpected, but the Knights competing in the tournament consoled themselves with the thought that losing to a Priest was far more acceptable than losing to a commoner.
'Besides,' the Knights reasoned, 'a true Knight's greatest strengths aren't in melee combat, but in superior Riding Skill and mastery of the lance. No one can withstand the charge of a Frank Knight head-on.'
"Damn it, where did this Priest come from! By Christ, he definitely cheated!"
"Are you all blind! What kind of bullshit tournament is this! Dammit! He's a fake Cultivator, he's a Wizard!"
"I just didn't eat enough this morning! If you've got the guts, wait for me after I've had a full meal!"
"Next time in Rouen, I'm going to shove my lance right up his ass!"
"..."
Regardless, the championship title fell to Eric.
When he stepped onto the victor's dais, his arms were already covered in colorful ribbons, tied on by admirers. The two "true" Knights standing beside him could only watch and grit their teeth in frustration.
The prize of one thousand silver pence wasn't handed out as coin. Instead, it was a small, palm-sized golden statue of a Warhorse.
In truth, such prizes were of little importance to a Knight. Almost none of the Knights competed for the official prizes. What they craved was glory and the spoils of victory.
These "spoils" primarily came from the jousts. In a jousting match, if a Knight successfully unhorsed an opponent or captured his mount, he could claim the Warhorse as his own after the tournament. Alternatively, the defeated Knight could negotiate to pay a ransom for his horse, though the price was always exorbitant.
A Knight typically required three horses: a palfrey for riding, a sumpter for baggage, and a Warhorse for battle. The Warhorse was the most crucial. As it was essential for combat, its price was incredibly high, ranging from 40 to 100 pounds. (1 pound ≈ 240 silver pence)
By capturing Warhorses, many poor Knights were able to make their fortunes.
After receiving his prize, Eric had barely stepped off the dais when he was hoisted up by the cheering commoners and tossed into the air.
"The glory of Christ will never fade!"
"He is the warrior promised to us by God!"
"..."
"Did you see? Those snooty Knights—they look as foul as a piss-pot!"
Clearly, Eric's victory over the Norman Nobility was a source of great satisfaction for the English commoners. A middle-aged man dressed like a wealthy merchant bellowed to the crowd, "Let us offer our greatest blessings to this Christ Warrior, the champion of the tournament! He is worthy of all the praise in the world.
Today, drinks for everyone are on me! Let us bestow our gifts upon this champion!"
"WHOOOA!!!"
The commoners in the whole arena erupted in thunderous cheers and applause.
The crowd thronged around Eric and surged toward the nearest tavern.
Eric tried to say something, but his voice was drowned out by the crowd's cheers.
Soon enough, however, Eric's attention was captured by someone in the distance.
In the center of a nearby square, another large crowd had gathered. A ragged old man was standing atop an overturned fish cart, shouting to the onlookers, "Brothers! The day of judgment is at hand! Repent! Repent!
Christ can no longer tolerate these acts of blasphemy! Disaster has arrived! In the distant East! Heretics have turned that land into Hell! Their savage atrocities have consumed everything, and they slaughter Christians by the tens of thousands as if they were cattle..."
The onlookers were clearly terrified by the doomsday prophet's words. They grew anxious, whispering nervously amongst themselves.
Most of them were aware of a plain fact: Christ had promised that His kingdom would come one thousand years after His incarnation.