The season had already turned to Winter. England, this godforsaken place, was rainy to begin with, so it became exceptionally damp and cold in the winter.
Though last night's snow wasn't heavy, it still left a thin layer on the ground.
Without the concrete grounds of later eras, without the towering, densely packed buildings that numb the senses, stepping out of the Monastery was like walking onto the set of a nature documentary.
On a patch of rock, relatively flat and of a suitable size, Eric was bare-chested, supporting his entire body with his two hands and doing push-ups.
A few snowflakes drifting in the air landed on his skin, instantly melting into droplets that mixed with his sweat and dripped onto the rock. His powerful arms, tensed, looked exceptionally thick.
After about another half an hour, Eric stopped exercising. He briefly wiped the sweat from his body with his hand, walked over to a small, frozen lake nearby, picked up a rather large stone, and smashed open the icy surface.
He scooped up the frigid lake water and splashed it on his face. The chill instantly washed away his fatigue.
He put his worn-out Monastic Robe back on.
Even though the system made it easy to strengthen his muscles, if he didn't train regularly, they would still go soft, and eventually, his Strength Level would drop.
'Seriously, I already have a system. Does it really have to be so realistic in these weird little ways?'
He had complained about this more than once.
Especially having to train like this in the winter.
But perhaps because of his mother's Danish blood, he didn't find the winter all that cold.
Eric's mother was Danish, but he hadn't seen her for as long as he could remember.
He'd heard bits and pieces about her later on, mostly from the taunts of that guy, his nominal half-brother, Bohemond. His mother was said to be the daughter of a Danish merchant who had come to Normandy to do business.
For various reasons, his father, Robert, hadn't ended up with her. After all, Robert really hadn't had much to his name in his early years.
Because of this, he was often mocked by Bohemond for being a bastard.
So Bohemond often used it to ridicule him.
"The bastard son of a merchant."
"The spawn of a northern barbarian."
And so on.
But Eric knew that Bohemond wouldn't be the final winner either.
'Bohemond must have been quite troubled these past few years, too.'
After all, the old man, Giscard, was preparing to leave his entire inheritance to the son of his new Lombardy wife.
'What else could he say? According to Norman tradition, ancestral lands should be passed down according to the laws of inheritance, but newly conquered lands were considered personal property to be disposed of freely.'
'But... even if Giscard had just given him some money, that would have been fine. Why did he have to send him to a Monastery? Why did something like this have to happen to him?'
BANG!
He slammed a fist into a nearby tree trunk. The snow resting on its branches instantly fell onto his head. He didn't seem to intend to move.
"Just you wait. What wasn't given to me, I will one day take back. I'll prove that I'm stronger than anyone. I'll be stronger than Bohemond, and stronger than Giscard."
'He still had time. The year was 1074. Although the Norman Conquest was over, the Normans' conquest of Wales was still ongoing. In a few more years, Short Sock Robert, son of Conqueror William, would launch a rebellion against his father. If he could seize the opportunity, obtaining a fief of Baron Level shouldn't be a problem.'
He untied the reins from the tree trunk and mounted his donkey.
...
Xialing was one of the central cities of Hereford, controlled by the Earl of Hereford. It served as a buffer zone between Wales and England.
Although Welsh resistance continued after the Norman Conquest, Hereford, and Xialing in particular, still prospered, becoming one of the most flourishing cities in Western England. After all, mountainous Wales still required a supply of goods from England on a material level.
But the Welsh threat remained, so this was also the region with the highest density of castles in England. Many craftsmen, seeking to make a living, flocked here as well.
Tom was a highly skilled builder and craftsman, but having arrived late, he found that many opportunities were simply not available to him, despite coming here full of dreams.
Fortunately, he was lucky enough to land a project: building a wedding house for a Knight.
Tom was working on the main gate for the house. The doorframe was to be rounded, resembling a pillar—a testament to the prominence of the newlywed noble who would live here.
His eyes were fixed on the shaped wooden template he used as a guide. He angled the iron chisel against the stone and tapped it gently with a large wooden mallet. Chips flew from the stone's surface, scattering in all directions, leaving behind a much smoother contour. He chipped away for a while longer. This time, the finish was smooth enough for a Cathedral.
Tom's greatest dream was to build an unparalleled Cathedral. But things rarely go as planned. After the Norman Conquest, many of England's churches and monasteries were plundered by the robber Normans. Vast amounts of gold and silver were shipped off to the Church in Normandy and to the Pope in distant Rome.
It had been a long time since there was any news of church renovations in England.
He had built a Cathedral once—Exeter Cathedral. At first, he treated the job just like any other building. When the Master Craftsman warned him that his work wasn't up to standard, he was both angry and annoyed; he knew he was far more meticulous than the average builder. Only later did he understand that the walls of a Cathedral couldn't just be good. They had to be perfect.
That was because a Cathedral was built for God, and also because the structure was so immense that even the slightest deviation in the walls from absolute vertical and horizontal could fundamentally weaken the structure's integrity.
Tom's annoyance turned to fascination. The combination of the grand, majestic building with the meticulous precision of its details opened his eyes. From the Master Craftsman at Exeter, he learned the importance of proportion, the symbolic meaning of various numbers, and the almost magical formulas used to calculate the correct width of walls or the angles of a spiral staircase. He was captivated by such things. To his surprise, he found that many builders found these matters baffling.
If Tom had stayed at Exeter until the Master Craftsman died, he himself might very well have become the next Master Craftsman. But the Chapter of Cultivators ran out of money—partly due to the Master Craftsman's poor management—and the craftsmen had to scatter to find work elsewhere.
The lord of Exeter's castle had once invited Tom to be his craftsman, to repair and improve the castle's fortifications. Barring any accidents, it was a job he could have had for life. But Tom refused, because he wanted to build another Cathedral.
Unfortunately, all he could do now was build a simple wedding house with no technical challenge, for some bastard Norman Knight. It was an insult to a Master Craftsman.
A shout, accompanied by the sound of horse hooves, interrupted Tom's thoughts.
"Bad news, bad news, Tom!"
A thin man hastily reined in his horse, dismounted, and ran quickly over to Tom.
From his attire, the man was clearly a Knight's attendant. He was the attendant of the Norman Knight Tom was working for. He was a decent fellow, but a locally hired one, because the English were cheaper.
"What's wrong?"
"This project of yours has likely fallen through, Tom."
"What do you mean?"
Tom's heart skipped a beat. 'You've got to be kidding me, the house is almost finished,' he thought.
"This wedding house probably won't be needed anymore. Young Master EDe's marriage proposal was rejected. He's furious right now."
"What? How could that happen?"
"Who knows? I heard his fiancée humiliated him in public and slapped him across the face."
"Huh? Isn't she the Earl's daughter? Wasn't this arranged long ago?"
"Who knows? The moment Lady Emma saw Young Master EDe, she declared she would never marry a woodcock."
"Her mother should have taken a birch rod to her," Tom said, climbing down from the scaffolding and tapping his own head.
"Unfortunately, the Countess has been dead for many years," the attendant said with a shrug.
"But the Lord Earl just stood by and watched?" Tom asked, unwilling to give up.
"The Earl promised her mother he would never make her marry someone she hated."
"What a stupid promise!" Tom said resentfully. "How could a powerful man tie himself to a young girl's whims like that? Her marriage could forge a military alliance, bring in an income like a Baron's... and even this very house that's being built."
The attendant said, "She has a brother, so who she marries isn't as critical."
"Even so..."
"Besides, the Earl is a stubborn man," the attendant continued. "He never goes back on a promise, not even one made to a child."
Tom looked at the low walls of the unfinished house. He hadn't yet saved enough money to get his family through the winter, and the thought sent a shiver down his spine. "Maybe the young man will find another bride to live here with him. He has an entire county to choose from."
Sigh. These Normans... 'God, save England,' he thought.