"Cut the damn bullshit! All of you are going out on patrol today, not a single one stays behind!"
Annoyed by the Knight’s words, Zogo smacked the most vocal of them on the head with his scabbard. The man’s Helmet rang, and he finally shut his mouth.
Zogo hated it when anyone spoke ill of the Baroness.
Seeing Zogo’s anger, the Knights hastily scattered and mounted their horses. Their refusal to patrol had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. Someone had shouted it first, others had chimed in, and soon they had all agreed.
All the Knights were afraid of Zogo. He was the most senior among them. In fact, Zogo himself had hired many of these household knights after Baron Alan left, to ensure the safety of the castle and the Baroness.
After all, it was a common practice among the Nobility to abduct female heirs for forced marriages. Many among the Mann Nobility, as well as the nobles of Normandy and Brittany, knew Lady Eleanor was a wealthy heiress. They had also heard that her husband, Baron Alan, had been away fighting in the Holy War for many years and had yet to return.
Zogo returned to the castle’s watchtower. The gentle breeze was making him a little drowsy, but a sound from outside the castle quickly snapped him awake.
It was the sound of hooves—the sound of galloping Warhorses.
Zogo saw a troop of about a hundred Knights riding toward the castle.
This gave him a start. ’Is that bastard Elijah planning to use force?’
’No, I have to inform the Baroness.’
He ordered the guards to ready their Crossbows, then rushed down from the watchtower and ran toward the main keep.
But just as he burst through the door, he saw a familiar figure.
He immediately backed out.
An old man with white hair sat cross-legged outside the door, leaning on a cane. He gazed into the distance, though at what, it was unclear, his cloudy eyes appearing lifeless.
It was the Old Baron of Fougeres Castle, Zogo’s old master.
It was just that since the death of his eldest son, his mind had become somewhat unstable, at times lucid and at other times muddled.
"My Lord, Elijah is here. He may be planning to storm the castle."
"Who?" the Old Baron asked, lifting his head to gaze at Zogo with his vacant eyes.
"Elijah, my Lord."
"Eli-what?"
"Elijah," Zogo repeated emphatically.
"What Leah?"
"Lord Elijah," Zogo said once more.
"Eli-what?"
"My Lord, you should go back upstairs and rest. Lady Eleanor is calling you for dinner."
"Alrighty then!"
At the word ’dinner,’ the Old Baron’s eyes instantly cleared a fraction. He sprang to his feet and dashed back inside the house with surprising speed.
Zogo was left speechless.
’The heroic old lord died a long time ago.’
The thought suddenly popped into Zogo’s head, startling even himself. How could he think such a thing about his benefactor?
"Zogo, what’s wrong?"
A gentle voice sounded beside him. Zogo took a few steps back and looked up.
Lady Eleanor was leaning out of a window, looking down at him as he stood in the castle courtyard.
Her skin was delicate and fair, but the nobility of her features and countenance prevented the vapid, doll-like expression sometimes found in beautiful women. Her arching, deep-brown eyebrows set off her forehead charmingly, and beneath them hid a pair of clear blue eyes.
Her thick hair, a shade between brown and gold, was arranged in a multitude of graceful and captivating curls, in a manner to which artifice had perhaps lent some assistance to nature.
These curls were adorned with jewels and hung down long, revealing her to be a woman of high birth who had shed the carelessness of girlhood for a gentle and bright disposition.
A gold chain encircled her neck, from which hung a small, golden Holy Relic box.
"Ah, my Lady, I think we may have a bit of trouble. It’s likely that bastard Elijah. He’s somehow gathered nearly a hundred Knights, and they are galloping toward us as we speak."
Eleanor immediately made to come down.
"Just stay in your room! Please, don’t come down. I’ll deal with them," Zogo shouted hurriedly.
But it was no use. Soon, Eleanor emerged from the great hall.
She wore a light green silk blouse and skirt, covered by a loose, long robe that almost trailed on the ground. A golden bracelet adorned her fair wrist, and her sleeves were very wide, though they only reached the crooks of her elbows.
The robe was deep red, made from an exceptionally fine woolen cloth. A silk veil with gold-thread embroidery was draped over the upper part of her gown, which the wearer could adjust at will, either to cover her face and chest in the manner of the Spaniards, or to wear as a scarf over her shoulders.
"I am the Baroness. I must take responsibility for Fougeres Castle. I cannot leave everything to you, Zogo." She clutched her chest, looking just like a gentle depiction of the Holy Mother in a painting.
"Very well, my Lady. But you must promise me not to push yourself. Things have not yet reached such a desperate point."
"Mm," Eleanor nodded.
"All the Knights of Fougeres Castle are here to protect you. To die in battle for one’s Lord is an honor for a Knight."
"Mm," Eleanor nodded again.
Although Eleanor had agreed, Zogo had the feeling she hadn’t retained any of it.
Just then, Zogo heard the incessant snorting of Warhorses outside the castle gate. They had arrived.
A guard quickly ran down from the watchtower and rushed up to Zogo and Eleanor.
"Commander, my Lady. It looks like the Baron has returned."
"What?" Eleanor and Zogo exclaimed in unison.
"That man... he’s carrying the Baron’s Sword." This guard was a veteran; he recognized the Baron’s Sword.
"Alan..."
Eleanor murmured the name. After six years, the once-familiar name now sounded strange to her ears.
She was suddenly at a loss for what to do.
"Let him in."
It was not Eleanor’s voice, nor Zogo’s. It was the voice of the Old Baron.
At some point, the white-haired Old Baron had appeared behind Eleanor.
It seemed to be one of his lucid moments.
"I have a feeling it’s Alan, returned at last," the Old Baron said again. "And even if it’s not, with so many Knights outside, it would be improper not to let their leader enter. Let him in."
"Eleanor, Zogo, return to the great hall with me. We will wait inside," the Old Baron said, waving at the two of them.
"Yes, my Lord."
"Yes, my Lord."
...
「Outside the castle.」
Eric was glad he had put on his Barrel Helmet ahead of time.
Otherwise, he would have nearly taken a Crossbow Arrow to the head just now.
Eric threw the Arrow back, and it struck the impertinent guard in the arm.
A moment ago, Eric had tentatively used the name of that dark-faced man, attempting to impersonate him and sneak into the castle.
He had even rubbed charcoal powder on his face for the occasion, but it now seemed there was no chance to make use of it.
This Fougeres Castle wasn’t built within a city, but stood isolated on a river plain, so trying to sneak in by pretending to be a citizen was impossible.
’Looks like a direct assault is the only way. This castle doesn’t seem to have more than fifty guards, and I just saw those household knights leave on patrol. They shouldn’t be back for a while.’
Just as Eric was about to order an attack on the castle, its main gate swung open.
Eric looked up at the guard on the wall, who waved at him, gesturing for him to enter.
Eric flicked his reins and urged his horse forward through the gate.
The Knights behind him hesitated, fearing a trap.
Eric waved a hand at them, signaling for them to stay put.
Once inside the castle gate, two Attendants took the reins of Eric’s horse, and Eric dismounted immediately.
Eric took off his Helmet.
An elderly Knight held up a drawing, comparing it to Eric, seemingly to confirm whether or not he was the Baron.
A few guards also gathered curiously around the elderly Knight, anxiously awaiting his conclusion.
"Uhh..." The Knight pursed his lips, his brow furrowed as if he were engaged in some difficult task. "Are you... really the Baron?"
"Of course," Eric nodded without a hint of guilt.
"Hmm... I don’t know, you don’t really look like him," the Knight said, showing the drawing to Eric.
"Ah, of course it’s me. I was much thinner back then.
Fighting the Heretics in Iberia, I endured many hardships. The climate in Iberia is very different from our own, so it’s only normal for one’s appearance to change a bit. I consider it a medal bestowed upon me by God."
Eric looked at the ’abstract’ painting and was rendered somewhat speechless.
A perfectly triangular head, thick lips, an abnormally long neck...
’With a portrait like this, the man himself wouldn’t recognize his own face. Bastard.’
——————