「The next day, in Otto’s room at Fougeres Castle.」
Shortly after dawn, as sunlight streamed through the window, Otto shot bolt upright in bed.
He’d had too much apple cider the night before, and his head was still spinning.
He shook his head hard, trying to clear it.
He gazed at the sunlight streaming through the window.
’I hope it’s not too late.’
He muttered to himself, then rolled out of bed. Slipping on his shoes, he prepared to go relieve himself.
He searched under the bed for a while but couldn’t find a chamber pot.
’So much for their hospitality.’
He grumbled, then walked to the door, intending to take care of his business outside.
He reached the door and grabbed the handle, but found it wouldn’t turn.
’This is not the time for jokes, you bastards.’
He pushed with all his might, but the door didn’t budge an inch.
The damn thing was even iron-plated.
He tried to kick the door, but the moment he lifted his leg...
The urge to pee became overwhelming. He had to squeeze his legs together, half-squatting as he hammered on the door with his fists.
"Help! The lock’s broken!"
"Hello? Is anyone out there? I’m trapped!"
"Eric! Eric!"
"Helia! Helia!"
"Help! Help me! I have to use the bathroom!"
Finally, he sank to the floor, clutching his abdomen and weakly tapping on the door.
But there was no response.
"Help! Somebody, help! He...lp..."
"..."
...
Laponti was situated on the border of Mann. Ever since Duke William’s conquest of the region, the city’s fortunes had steadily declined. Constant rebellions by the Mann People and persistent provocations from the Anjou People had transformed it from a prosperous city into a mere military fortress.
Laponti was close to Caen, Normandy’s second-largest city. As a result, many of Laponti’s serfs, and even some of its freemen, began migrating to Caen in organized groups.
With the wars against the Mann People and Anjou People tapering off in recent years, some of Laponti’s nobility finally had the time to hunt down their runaway serfs and restrict their flight to Caen.
They relished the opportunity to exercise their authority and flaunt their status.
In truth, the nobility of Laponti didn’t really need that many serfs. Most had already leased out the bulk of their lands—through coercion or semi-coercion—to wealthy townsfolk or prominent merchants. This was a way to mitigate the financial devastation war wrought upon their estates.
They let the wealthy citizens shoulder the burden of rent and the losses from war, while the nobility retained their seigneurial rights over the populace.
Exercising these seigneurial rights also generated a not-insignificant income.
For instance, a Lord would charge a fee for providing judicial services to his subjects. Of course, in the legal arena, the lord’s court had to compete with the Church’s ecclesiastical courts. In theory, both held equal authority.
As for hunting down runaway serfs, it was a peculiar form of entertainment for them.
Tournaments were infrequent and expensive to host. Hunting runaway serfs was one of the few legally sanctioned forms of entertainment where they could display their martial prowess.
The noble lords’ interest in controlling their serfs was always capricious.
After being caught and returned, the serfs would simply start wandering again once the nobles departed. They had no reason to stay, nor could they.
They had no land, no tools, and most possessed no particular skills.
The luckier ones might find short-term work in the city for meager wages, but most were reduced to begging and wandering the outskirts.
Laponti City lacked proper stone walls. Its northern and western flanks were protected by tributaries of the Seulune River, but the exposed eastern and southern sides were defended only by a hastily erected wooden palisade. The castle, a brick-and-timber structure, stood to the west, near the river.
「Laponti City. The city gate.」
"Want a sip?" A lean, middle-aged man dressed as a guard tapped a young soldier on the head with a wineskin.
The young soldier was sitting on the ground with his arms crossed, his back against the wooden palisade. His hat was pulled down over his face, and he was pretending to be asleep.
After the older man tapped him, the soldier pushed up his hat. His nose twitched. He seemed to catch a scent, and his eyes fixed on the wineskin in the man’s hand.
He snatched the wineskin, hastily uncorked it, and began to guzzle it down.
"Goddamn it, I knew you were hiding the good stuff! How could a Priest not have good wine? That’s like a bathhouse without women."
The middle-aged man was Thomas, a country Priest—or at least, he had been.
The young man was Peter, a bandit. Perhaps he’d once been an honest man.
Plague and war had brought them together. They had wandered from place to place, surviving by looting corpses on the battlefield.
Just three days ago, they had found a guard’s identification papers on a corpse and had, by a stroke of luck, become guards of Laponti City.
"If you’re going to drink, then drink. Stop your damn whining. It displeases God." The Priest motioned to take back the wineskin.
"Alright, alright! Seriously, though, you don’t want any?" Peter quickly relented, blocking the Priest’s hand.
"I don’t drink that stuff. God has filled me with His love, so I no longer have need of wine." The Priest crossed his arms.
"Don’t be ridiculous. What Priest doesn’t drink? It’s not like you’re a Cultivator."
"I was once a weak priest in a comfortable village. Or I used to be. Back then, I thought about wine almost every day. I never imagined the wine could run out.
I thought people would always make wine, just as bees make honey and cows give milk. I never imagined I’d see the day when there was no one—not a single person—with a pint, a barrel, or even a jug of wine for sale.