It was now late December, a fine time for Xialing. The Xialing Market would begin at the end of the month and last until Epiphany. Xialing was the heart of Hereford, and to ensure the Count's profits, its market began a week earlier than those in other regions.
During this period, the gates of Xialing City were thrown wide open. People could, for a time, forget the existence of King William, and so farmers from the surrounding villages flocked to the city.
If some among them were fortunate enough to find lodging in the city, taken in by a kind soul, they could start a new life there. After residing in the city for a year and a day, they would be able to shed their serf Identity and become glorious freemen.
Many held this hope, but even more came simply to purchase necessities like cloth, grain, and ironware, or to sell what little surplus grain they were lucky to have.
The price was a city where the buildings, people, and animals seemed ready to burst through the walls and spill into the moat. Wooden houses stood shoulder to shoulder, squeezed so tightly together they resembled a crowd gathered for a hanging. Every last scrap of land was put to use.
In the narrow alleys originally left between two houses, someone else had erected a new building half as wide. Its door took up almost the entire front wall, leaving no room for a window.
Where a space was too small for even the narrowest house, a stall would pop up selling weak beer, bread, or apples. And where there wasn't even room for a stall, one would find a stable, a pigsty, a dung heap, or a water barrel.
The streets were barely wider than an oxcart, but the driver refused to stop, fearing his ox might not start again. So he whipped the animal onward, heedless of any obstacles. He shouldered his way through the crowd, wordlessly shoving everyone to the side—be they a Knight on his Warhorse, a Forest Hunter with his Bow and Arrow, a monk on a pony, an Armed Soldier, or a beggar, housewife, or prostitute.
The only place with its doors still closed against the din, if such a thing could be said, was the tavern. After all, few people were patrons so early in the morning.
In a room within the tavern, a young man opened his eyes. He tapped his forehead with a fist and then sat up. In truth, he was neither drowsy nor tired; his mind was perfectly clear.
'In fact, it was as if I hadn't slept at all.'
'It had started about a month ago—I seemed to have lost the ability to sleep deeply at night.'
The din of the market drifted in from the window, giving him the illusion of being back in Rouen. Of course, it wasn't the only sound in the room. There was also a rather loud snore.
The snores came from a flaxen-haired woman, lying half-naked on the far side of the bed, her pale buttocks partially exposed.
He finished dressing, then gave the woman's pale buttocks a hard slap. A red mark immediately blossomed on her skin, faintly taking the shape of a handprint.
"Get up! You greedy witch."
The drunken woman merely stirred, mumbled a few unintelligible words, and fell back asleep, the snores starting up once more.
In truth, even if she had spoken clearly, Robert wouldn't have understood. He only understood French.
He left the room. The main hall of the tavern was empty, but it was far from quiet, as snores rose and fell from multiple directions.
Robert headed for the room at the far end of the corridor, the source of the loudest snores. The door latch was ancient and let out an infuriating SQUEAK the moment he pushed it open.
It did nothing, however, to disturb the resonant snores from within. A chaotic mix of smells and filth assaulted him: the pungent odor of fruit wine, the thick stench of sweat, food scraps, and alcohol-laced vomit.
Robert wrinkled his nose in disgust. He picked up the wooden stick used to prop open the window and prodded the lump of flesh on the bed—an old, comical mound of fat.
But there was no reaction.
Robert chuckled softly and pinched the man's nose. His hand was promptly swatted away.
"All right, Robert, stop messing around."
The fatty mound shifted, preparing to find a more comfortable position and go back to sleep.
Then, as if remembering something, he lifted his head, forced his eyes open, and looked at Robert.
"Robert, what time is it?"
"Why do you ask? For you, every hour is another fine wine, every minute another capon. Your clock is a madam's tongue, your sundial a tavern's sign, and the sacred sun herself is but a lady of Charm wrapped in fiery red silk. I truly don't know why you even bother to ask the time."
Robert jeered openly.
"To come to a humble knight's room this early in the morning just to mock him... only you would do such a thing. I bled for your Normandy. As a poor knight, this is the only pleasure I can afford.
That noble Earl of Hereford has probably set up a brothel right inside his castle. It would be all too easy for an Earl, after all. At this very moment, he's probably lamenting his own feeble stamina. When you see him later, I expect you to treat him with the same fairness."
Sir Loren said, sticking out his potbelly as he ambled over to a corner of the room and nonchalantly began to relieve himself.
"Oh, yes, of course, my dear Sir Loren. I am already quite familiar with your valor, your glory, and your justice. I swear by the miracles of the Lord of Heaven, I am utterly convinced that under your leadership, Sir, even the Heretics of the Levant would meekly offer their necks to the sword."
"Justice... now that's a Judge's highest honor."
"Of course. I was planning to make you a Judge," Robert continued to tease.
"That would be a rare honor indeed. If I became a Judge, I'd cut a fine figure, I'm sure. It's better than being constantly at court's beck and call. I just hope I wouldn't hang any innocent men. Speaking of which, these so-called Judges nowadays are no different from executioners.
Promise me, Robert, that you won't become one of them."
Sir Loren finished his business, then picked up the chamber pot and sniffed its contents.
The disgusting act made Robert wrinkle his nose.
"What, afraid the gallows will one day be waiting for your own neck?"
Robert didn't answer directly, changing the subject instead.
"Perhaps. But try not to jest about such an unpleasant business. A good reputation is far more important than some official title.
Speaking of which, when I was in London the other day, I ran into a minister who was cursing you out in the middle of the street, Your Highness. Right there in the street. I ignored him—his language was too strong—but he had a point, Your Highness."
"Ignoring him was the right call. Even if Truth herself were to shout in the streets, no one would listen."
The relaxed look slowly drained from Robert's face. After a half-minute of silence, he scratched the back of his head and turned away, his back to Sir Loren.
"You know, you've been a terrible influence on me, Your Highness. May God forgive you. Before I met you, my heart was pure. Anyone who met me, even some old country farmer, would exclaim, 'What a benevolent knight!'
Upright, kind, always willing to help—such words barely scratched the surface of my virtues. But now, awakened by that minister's words, I have repented and turned over a new leaf! As God is my witness, I will stick to my word, or I am nothing but a scoundrel."
Sensing Robert's dejection, Loren spoke with a suddenly serious expression, raising a finger as if swearing an oath to the heavens.
"Is that so? In that case... where should we go to snatch some Money Bags tomorrow? My Beer Knight."
"...Fine. Have it your way. I'll be there regardless. I never said my repentance started *today*," Sir Loren said with a shrug.
Just then, the room door was kicked open, and a shifty-eyed young man burst in, cheering loudly at the pair:
"Time for a Norman special operation! I've got the intel! Four o'clock tomorrow morning, a group of pilgrims is heading to Canterbury with lavish offerings. I promise you, we'll make an absolute killing! If we pass this up, we might as well go hang ourselves!"
The young man was Arno Conte Ville, eldest son of the Earl of Kent and Robert's cousin.
"Let's make this interesting. Anyone who doesn't go pays the tavern bill for the past few days."
"Well now, you old pork chop, aren't you the clever one! Eat any more and you'll turn into a proper hog." The young man pinched Sir Loren's fleshy chest.
As the two were fooling around, a shrill whinny suddenly echoed from downstairs, capturing the attention of all three men.