"The Lord says, 'I will grant peace unto the world, and well-being to those who are far off and to those who are near.' As the successor to Saint Peter and Saint Paul, I command you to promise to renounce evil deeds, make your might submit to God, and preserve peace among the devout, in holy places, and at holy times. From dawn to noon on weekdays, no weapons shall be drawn. Transgressors shall suffer eternal damnation.
In the name of the Holy See, I reiterate to you: Sheathe your swords! Sheathe your swords! For all who draw the sword will die by the sword!"
What Eric recited in Norman French was the peace decree that Pope Alexander II had issued ten years prior at the Lateran Council, addressed to all the monarchs and noble knights of the Catholic World.
Before Conqueror William crossed the sea to seize the throne, while he was still just the Duke of Normandy, he had been a staunch supporter of this resolution.
This decree was known to nearly everyone in Normandy.
"Priest! You..."
Ede's expression froze.
He obviously knew of this decree, and it was just now turning to noon.
Although Eric spoke in Norman French, the English people gathered around somehow sensed it didn't bode well for the knight and began to whisper among themselves.
"Priest, stop meddling! This has nothing to do with you. Go back to your monastery."
Ede tightened his grip on the reins and roared at Eric.
'Getting rid of an ordinary Englishman would just be a minor hassle. After all, these are special times. King William despises the English and wouldn't care about such a small incident.'
'But getting a priest involved—and a Norman priest at that—is another matter. No matter how insignificant this priest is within the Church, harming him would be a slight against the Church's authority. Besides, Warren is currently preparing for the bishop's election, so it's best to avoid any conflict with the clergy.'
'But to back down now, in front of everyone, would be a complete loss of face.'
'And for some reason, he'd taken an instant dislike to this priest and was finding it hard to control his temper.'
"King William has long abided by the Pope's Decree, yet you turn a deaf ear to it. You treat the glory of the Lord as nothing and disrupt God's peace. That alone is enough to have you excommunicated."
Eric tucked the Nail Hammer into his belt, slid his hands into his sleeves, and stared at Ede.
'In truth, when he first arrived in this world, Eric, as a man from the modern era, had been willing to view the Church with an open mind. He had to admit, however, that he was still prejudiced against it.'
'This was especially true after he learned that his own father, a man he was never close to, had sent him to a monastery without a second thought, all to secure the inheritance for a new son born to his new Lombard wife.'
'This only deepened his loathing for the Church. And yet, during the nearly two years he spent at King's Bridge Monastery, he came to a realization. While many of the monks, priests, ministers, and even bishops were unworthy of their titles—most of them lacking noble character and virtue, violating church rules at every turn, being illiterate, drunk, and greedy, practicing simony, and even keeping mistresses—their so-called depravity paled in comparison to these Normans and some of the Sain. At least many within the Church were genuinely trying to maintain a balanced order and regulate the excesses of the nobility. Whether their motives were to protect Church property or enhance its reputation, their actions had at least slightly improved the plight of freemen and even serfs.'
'Perhaps the ideals of the Cluniac Monks and Pope Gregory VII were too radical, but in some ways, they had their merits.'
"The Pope? His Holiness is far away in Rome, and he has the German monarch to keep him busy. He's not going to pay you any mind. No one can threaten me!"
Ede jerked the reins, dug his heels into the warhorse's flanks, and the beast instantly let out a shriek.
"EVERYONE GET OUT OF THE WAY! IT'S NOT MY FAULT IF YOU GET TRAMPLED!" Ede roared. The warhorse reared up, poised to charge down the street at lightning speed.
'Everyone fears death, especially these coddled priests. He refused to believe this arrogant priest wouldn't leap aside.'
The surrounding crowd hastily scattered, packing themselves against the storefronts. In the chaos, many market stalls were overturned and trampled, their goods spilling across the ground.
Tom frantically pulled Martha and his wife aside. But then he saw Eric, standing his ground, motionless. "Priest, are you trying to get yourself killed?! Run!"
But at that moment, Eric didn't move an inch.
Martha let out a scream and squeezed her eyes shut.
"CRACK!"
A clean, crisp sound. And a clean sound means good bone.
That was followed by the warhorse's agonized shriek.
Warm, rank blood instantly splattered across his cheeks, his vision washed in crimson.
Yet this wasn't Eric's blood. It wasn't even human. It was the horse's.
The great horse now lay collapsed on the ground, its neck twisted at a grotesque angle from its body. The point of impact was a mangled pulp. Blood gushed from its neck, staining the already damp ground and seeping into the earth between the cobblestones.
Ede was thrown from the saddle by the impact, sent flying into a nearby butcher's stall where he shattered a solid wood meat table. He tried to struggle up, but his head swam, making it impossible to keep his balance.
[Successfully killed one well-trained Norman Warhorse. Strength Experience +60, Exchange Points +28]
As the synthesized voice rang in his mind, Eric stood with half his body drenched in horse blood, looking like a demon straight out of Hell.
Crimson blood dripped steadily from his Nail Hammer. Eric wiped his eyes with his left hand.
He strode over to the dazed Ede, snatched him up by the neck with his left hand, and lifted his entire body off the ground. The once arrogant and domineering Norman Knight now dangled like a helpless chick waiting to be slaughtered.
Eric slammed him against a nearby wall. The searing pain in Ede's back made him bite through his own tongue, and the coppery taste of blood flooded his mouth. He was suffocating, completely unable to speak.
'Fuck, this… this guy is a monster!'
"I'm going to count to three. Hand over the money you owe them. Got it?"
As he spoke, his grip tightened on the man's throat.
Ede could only struggle to unfasten his coin purse.
Eric released Ede and tossed the coin purse to Tom.
"Go on, divide it up."
Eric chuckled and patted Ede's cheek.
"As for you, my name is Lait. If you have a problem with this, you can find me at King's Bridge Monastery. I'm a Cultivator there. I welcome you to take revenge on me in the Norman way."
The moment Eric finished speaking, Ede, who had been slumped on the ground, scrambled to his feet.
"You just wait, Lait."
Ede shouted as he ran off down the alley.
Eric shook his head. As he turned to leave, the crowd instinctively parted to let him pass.
"Father."
Martha called out to stop Eric.
"Martha, Normans don't have three heads and six arms. They only have one head, and they get scared when they face danger. People are simple, really. Whether or not they do evil is their own choice. The great and almighty Lord gave everyone free will. Destiny isn't predetermined; no one's end is 'fated'."
Eric patted Martha's head, then turned and left.
"'Fated?'" Martha didn't understand.
From somewhere in the now-silent crowd, a voice cried out.
"A hero."
"A hero!"
"You're a hero!"
"Hero!"
'A hero? Perhaps.'
'But… a country that needs heroes is a pitiful thing.'
With that thought, Eric quickly left the area.
From a corner of the crowd, Robert had watched the whole farce with great interest.
"A truly magnificent performance."
"Indeed. The spitting image of me in my youth—so mighty, brave, and kind. No praise is too high for him." Sir Loren raised his beer stein as if toasting someone, then took a huge gulp, most of which spilled down onto his beer belly.
"He can't compare to you, Beer Knight. If you'll pardon my saying so, your only flaw is being too modest."
...
Eric stepped into a deserted alley.
He then slumped against a wall, sliding to the ground and clutching his right elbow with his left hand.
On closer inspection, his face was drained of all color.
He was nowhere near as composed as he had just appeared. That had been a horse, after all. In fact, his right elbow was broken.
'Damn it, I used too much force. I shouldn't have been putting on an act.'
'System, exchange for a Supreme Bandage.'
[Affirmative, Host. This will cost 10 Exchange Points.]