Chapter 116 - 110: The Temptation of Returning to the Village

"This..."

"They’re talking about... they’re talking about Southampton City. They mean the two gates of Southampton City. We’re responsible for operating the catapults to attack one of them, but after several days, we’ve made no progress.

So a lot of them are getting anxious." The short man gave an awkward laugh and explained.

"Oh, I see. It’s true, the weather has been bad these past few days, and with the high tides, this siege is proving to be a tough fight."

"Tell me about it. And who knows how long this will drag on."

"Is everyone that anxious to get back to their villages?"

"Of course. All the young men from the villages were drafted. Planting season is coming soon, and the villages can’t manage without them.

It doesn’t matter much to me. I can’t help much even if I go back. The bit of land at home can barely feed an extra mouth as it is." The short man sighed.

The short man was not young, looking to be in his fifties. For a farmer in this era, that was a considerable age.

At that age, his sons would have been grown men with families of their own, making a fifty-year-old father seem redundant. The small plot of land they owned could never support the entire family.

The bleakness in his words was palpable and quickly spread through the crowd.

The men began to murmur amongst themselves again.

"It’s all these damn Normans’ fault! They’re the ones who brought the scourge of war to England. It’s one battle here, another one there, constantly drafting us to fight for them.

"Exactly! Every time we’re conscripted, who are we fighting? Other English, just like us! They’re just people who couldn’t take the Normans’ oppression anymore. The Normans are making us kill our own people."

"I’ve said it before, they’re born evil. Burning, killing, and looting—they’ll stop at nothing. How many villages and towns have they destroyed? They’re here to wipe out the English."

"The Normans have always looked down on the English. Go work as a laborer in the city now, and if your employer is a Norman, he’ll find any excuse to lower your wages just because you’re English."

Some of the men cursed the Normans with righteous indignation, even though they rarely came face-to-face with them and couldn’t understand their language.

"It’s not that exaggerated, is it? I think the Normans are alright. Was England not at war before the Normans came?"

"But those were wars between us English."

"But people still died, didn’t they? Doesn’t God teach us that all war is detestable?"

"I think you’re all being a bit extreme. At least the Normans have stamped out some of the wicked practices that went against God’s will but were widely accepted. Like slaves and concubines. I remember the village Priest saying that God lets disaster befall England because the English have held on to such Heresy."

"We can’t understand the language of those Norman Lords either. Maybe they aren’t bad people; they just don’t understand our plight. After all, most of them can only rely on those despicable English cronies."

"That’s right! They ’freed’ the slaves because they don’t need them anymore—they have all of England to serve as their slaves! Nobody knows the Normans better than I do! And yet there are plenty of English who are happy to be their dogs, to speak up for them!"

"Oh, right, I remember now! These guys worked as translators and laborers for the Normans. No wonder they’re speaking up for them!"

"A translator and a laborer are just jobs! We’re just trying to feed our families!"

"..."

The crowd grew rowdy, and a few emotional men started shoving each other, looking like they were about to come to blows.

The short man shouted a few more times, trying to quell the argument, but this time his calls had no effect.

"Uh... I’m sorry, they..."

The short man turned back to Eric, looking embarrassed. He tried to explain, but he found he couldn’t smooth things over.

"It’s fine. I don’t have a very high opinion of these Normans or those English Little Commanders either. Everyone thinks those despicable English lackeys should be hanged, and I agree.

We English have no reason to shed blood for the Normans’ wars, and even less reason to slaughter our own countrymen, right?" Eric held out a hand, signaling for the man to relax.

"Yes. But young man, sometimes your hands are tied. Most of the time, a man can only look out for himself." The short man shrugged.

"True. Just look out for yourself."

Eric nodded in agreement.

In fact, this was exactly the effect he wanted.

Perhaps the crowd’s arguing had gotten too loud, because a man dressed like a Commander strode over and roared at them, "What’s all the noise! This is a goddamn battlefield, so all of you shut the hell up! Or I’ll have you charging the walls of Southampton myself!"

The Commander’s words had an immediate effect; the restless crowd fell silent in an instant.

"The Knight Lords are charging at the front, and you idiots in the rear can’t even handle the catapults properly? It’s absurd! Where are your Commanders?!"

The men, who had just been in an uproar, now lowered their heads in fear.

"He... they’re... they’re drunk. They... they’re lying down."

The Commander looked toward the two other Commanders lying on the ground and frowned.

"What a bunch of idiots."

The Commander spat on the ground and then headed back toward his own camp.

The moment he was gone, the men started cursing again, only this time their target was the meddling Commander.

"If we get a chance to rout, I’ll be the first to take his damn life!"

"Those Norman Knights had better all die out there! Who gives a damn about them. They’d better not give me a chance to run!"

"..."

Eric watched the men with great interest, then turned his gaze to the short man.

"Old man, what do you think?"

"This..."

"Trust me, old man. I’m English, too. I’m on your side. An Englishman doesn’t lie to another Englishman. I’m a scout for the camp. Maybe I can help you."

Eric extended his hand to the short man.

"I think... most of us want to get away from Southampton. No one wants to be here, fighting in some meaningless war. Most men just want to go back to their villages and hold their wives and children without a care in the world."

The short man looked conflicted, nervously rubbing his fingers together, but finally spoke his mind.

Eric then pulled the short man to the other side of the crowd, to the spot where he had placed the bodies of the two Commanders.

"Lad... what are you doing...?"

"Old man, if you trust me, I can help you. I’ve received word that the enemy is organizing an attack.

If the Knights at the front are routed by the army from Southampton City, I’ll find a way to let you know immediately. When that happens, you can lead the men and escape from here.

I’ll find a way to get rid of these troublesome Norman lackeys—these detestable English Commanders. I’ve already gathered a number of trustworthy brothers. We’ll make it look like the camp was hit by a major assault. That way, even if the Knight Lord investigates later, he’ll have no reason to punish us."

Eric pulled open the Commander’s collar, revealing a gruesome gash on his neck.

The man was clearly dead.

The short man grew fearful.

"It was a wild beast that got him," Eric said deliberately.

"Of course," the short man nodded. "So, if that happens, what can I do?"

"Get the English in the camp moving as much as possible. Tell them the Knights have been routed. If they’re brave enough, they can go home."