As the Garrison Officer of the Wales Border Region, the Earl of Hereford's castle was probably the strongest in all of Western England.
Despite its thick outer walls, the interior was still spacious, with corridors wide enough for four people to walk abreast.
"Your Reverence," the steward began, "as a servant of God, I ought to treat you with respect. However, as the Count's steward, I feel it is my duty to remind you to mind your etiquette when speaking with the Lord Earl.
"Although the Lord Earl is quite magnanimous and likely won't mind such..."
The speaker was the Count's steward, a short, portly old man with a thin voice like a eunuch's.
The portly steward walked ahead, instructing Eric on some matter as he led the way.
Of course, whatever he was muttering was drowned out by the electronic voice in Eric's mind.
[Unremarkable Iron Candlestick +2]
[Decent Quality Silver-Plated Shield +1]
[Live Falcon Specimen +1]
[Old Surcoat +2]
[Clean Salt +10]
[Slightly Flawed Sugar +12]
[...]
[Achievement Unlocked: Scavenger of the Count's Castle (1/1)]
[Acquired Agility Experience +60, Strength Experience +80, Exchange Points +30]
[Agility Experience maxed. Agility Level +1, 8→9]
[Strength Experience maxed. Strength Level +1, 9→10]
"Your Reverence, this is the Count's... Huh? Your Reverence, what in the world are you...?"
The portly steward stopped at the door to the Count's office. Turning to remind Eric of something, he saw that the Priest was now more than ten meters away, standing on his tiptoes, about to lift a tempera painting off the wall.
Perhaps because he was too far away, Eric didn't hear the portly steward.
The painting was so large that when he lifted it, it completely obscured the front of his body. Eric, acting as if nothing were amiss, continued to wrestle with the painting until he finally got it off the wall.
Tempera paintings were done on wooden boards, but 'that damned Count' had actually mounted it in a metal frame, making it incredibly cumbersome.
"Your Reverence!? What are you doing?" The portly steward scurried over to Eric.
"Ah? I... I was..."
Eric panicked for a moment but quickly composed himself.
"Ahem, I was simply stunned by this painting. The Count's taste is truly elegant. You see, I am a Monk with a great appreciation for art, and I was thinking we should have a similar piece for our Monastery.
"Unfortunately, my eyesight isn't the best, so I wanted to take it down for a closer look. Just to look, you understand."
With a sheepish laugh, Eric nonchalantly returned the painting to its original spot on the wall.
"Oh, so we've arrived at the Count's room, have we? I have urgent matters to report to him. I'll go on ahead!"
Not giving the portly steward a chance to reply, he bolted toward the Count's room with a speed he'd never mustered before in his life.
'If I run fast enough, the arrest warrant can't catch me!'
"Huh? Your Reverence."
The portly steward looked like he wanted to say something else, but Eric had already vanished from sight.
"What a strange Priest."
The portly steward shook his head.
...
The small door opened into a surprisingly large reception hall. There, seated in the main chair directly facing the entrance, a tall, thin man with a mustache was watching Eric.
It was none other than the Herald who had fought Eric in the tournament ring.
"You don't seem surprised."
"It wasn't hard to guess. The Lord Earl's middle name is quite uncommon."
'What a cliché opening,' Eric thought. He wouldn't dare say that out loud, though.
William FitzOsborne, Earl of Hereford.
"Robert just left. I was wondering why you two didn't arrive together."
Fitz stroked his mustache, observing Eric.
"If I had truly come with His Highness, it is you who would be troubled, Lord Earl."
"Hahaha! Indeed. That boy Robert is a very generous person, which is why we're all so fond of him. Given his effusive praise for you just now, if he had made a request on your behalf, I would have found it very difficult to refuse."
Fitz laughed heartily, then pointed to a nearby seat, motioning for Eric to sit down.
On the wall beside the chair hung a map of southern England, though it looked quite crude by modern standards.
"Robert just gave me the gist of your plan. Hmm. On the whole, it is indeed feasible. But London is a fortress. If our siege drags on, the Nobility from the north and south will rally to the King's aid, and we will find ourselves surrounded.
"And if we are to rely mainly on Mercenaries, our forces are across the Channel, unable to provide timely reinforcements."
After William conquered England, he brought continental fortress technology with him. London City stands as the pinnacle of that technology.
"Which is why Winchester is so important. It's the Royal Family's treasury. A direct strike from the White Island would be an excellent vector of attack."
Eric stood up, pointing to the small island suspended off the coast of England on the map.
He hadn't told Robert about Winchester.
After all, Robert was the type to just charge ahead recklessly.
"You seem to know a great deal."
Fitz folded his arms, watching Eric with keen interest.
He was the Lord of White Island, a fact few people knew. William had secretly granted him the island, both to manage the sea lanes to Normandy and to provide naval protection for Winchester.
"You weren't sent by William, were you?"
"If I were, it would be quite the circuitous plan for a renowned King to hire an unknown Priest."