The hail had long since stopped, and the light rain that came with it had vanished as well, but the sky was still a dreary gray.
Cecilia rowed the small boat, saying nothing all the way until they were nearly ashore.
This made Eric feel a little awkward. 'Perhaps I should say something more,' he thought.
After they disembarked, JOJO was already on the bank, having shaken the water from its coat and begun to graze on the withered grass by the shore.
On the shore stood a small hut, a shed for storing lumber. Aogu Village had many trees, and they all belonged to the Monastery. Not far off was a tavern, which also belonged to the Monastery.
It looked no different from an ordinary house, only larger. Inside were many pieces of furniture, such as tables, long benches, storage chests, and wall hangings.
Its prosperity was evident in other ways, too: a large salmon hung from the ceiling, slowly smoking over the fire below; a stoppered wooden cask rested on a bench; chickens pecked at the reeds strewn on the floor; and a bubbling pot on the hearth wafted the mouthwatering aroma of spring lamb.
Outside the tavern, a brown-haired woman in a worn-out apron was splitting firewood with an axe, her belly large with child and her face etched with exhaustion.
A man's voice sounded out. "She's Welsh."
The newcomer's eyes were set a bit too close together, flanking a long nose. He walked with a limp.
Eric knew him, and he knew Eric.
The man was Sinward, the Dean responsible for the surrounding villages.
In practice, everything here belonged to him.
Only when Sinward drew closer and got a clear look at Eric's face did he recognize him.
"You're a damn bastard, Sinward."
The brown-haired woman was a slave, and her owner was none other than this Dean.
"To see you right after my afternoon nap... what rotten luck, Eric."
Sinward didn't back down, but he still instinctively avoided Eric's gaze. Eric was a head taller than him, and Sinward was naturally a bit afraid.
Sinward had more than one slave, and two wives as well.
In England, many men who could afford it had more than one wife, or one wife plus one or more concubines and female slaves. The English Church's authority over marriage was weak.
A marriage was considered valid as long as two people exchanged vows in the presence of a witness. A Priest might offer a blessing, but his presence wasn't necessary. No written record was made of the marriage unless the couple was wealthy enough to warrant a property agreement.
After Conqueror William became the King of England, he reaffirmed the Pope's decrees on marriage and slavery. However, with the constant rebellions and invasions of the past few years, there had been no time to fully implement the laws.
Of course, Sinward, as the Monastery's Dean, brazenly ignored the Church's rules. This was mainly because he had a cousin who was now a powerful Bishop—the newly appointed Bishop of Hereford, Warren.
That was why Eric despised Warren. In his eyes, the man was, at best, a charlatan pretending to have Devotion.
"Oh, right. You don't like women. A pity. I had a boy before, perhaps he would have interested you."
"May your filthy soul rot in your decaying body. You openly defy God's law, but don't think you're beyond judgment. Your day of reckoning is near."
"Are you threatening me? My cousin is Bishop Warren. He can have you thrown out whenever he pleases."
"Is that so? But he can't protect your life."
Eric walked over to the brown-haired woman and took the axe from her hands. Fearfully, Sinward took two steps back.
"What are you doing? My cousin is Bishop Warren. I... I can't chop firewood myself. My back is bad. I was knocked from my horse by the Flemish during the White Island war." He was starting to get scared.
"A shame they didn't finish the job!"
Eric split a log with a single swing of the axe. Cecilia helped the brown-haired woman sit down, then helped Eric stack the split wood.
"Only a fool would care about a slave. Slaves are just talking tools. I bought her, so I can use her however I want. She's my property."
"Is that so? A piece of paper written by a man can turn a person into a tool. If it's that simple, then I wouldn't mind writing a hundred of them for you."
"You... you... I am the Dean! My cousin is Bishop Warren, and you are just a Priest. You can't... you can't talk to me like this."
Sinward's tone softened. He hastily retreated a few more steps.
"I'm going for a drink. Women are the root of original sin. It was Eve who tempted Adam."
He muttered, trying to look unfazed as he walked off toward the town, attempting to save face in front of his daughter.
"You didn't have to argue with him over that."
"If he weren't your father, I'd have killed him by now."
"Oh really? I didn't realize I was so important. There's no need to lump me in with him. He's a vile and immoral person."
"I know. People can't choose their family. When all this is over, I'll find a way to set her free."
"Freeing a slave is a punishable crime."
"The Normans don't have slaves."
"But this area is under Bishop Warren's jurisdiction."
"I have my ways."
Soon, all the firewood was split. He tossed the axe aside.
Eric clapped his hands clean, took JOJO's reins, and started walking toward the Monastery.
"Do you really have to go?" Cecilia finally asked the question.
"I think... yes."
"Are you not happy being a Cultivator?"
"I am, but it shouldn't be limited to this. You've seen for yourself how powerless words are. In this age, even a great orator must remain silent. If he's a man passionate about justice, he won't have a tongue for long."
"But you're not a Judge, you're just a petty, thieving, fake Cultivator. Why are you being so serious? And can you stop talking with so many flourishes? It's tiring to listen to."
"Er..."
'She's as blunt as ever,' he thought.
"Just say I want to make more money. A lot of money. Enough to become so powerful that people like your fa—... like Sinward have to get lost. Maybe the next time you see me, I won't be just some unknown Cultivator anymore."
Eric climbed onto JOJO. The donkey carried him forward at a slow pace, its hooves clopping on the damp soil—CLIP-CLOP, CLIP-CLOP—as if it were a Warhorse.
The gloomy clouds parted, and a gentle sunlight shone down, creating an unexpectedly sacred and solemn atmosphere.
"You mean like a famous master outlaw?"
Cecilia's words had barely left her mouth when Eric almost fell off the donkey.