Chapter 140 - 135: Believing in Something Is Better Than Believing in Nothing

The sky quickly dimmed, the entire canopy turning a deep blue as specks of stars began to appear in the night sky.

The firewood crackled softly and steadily in the flames, occasionally releasing a faint, earthy scent.

Splinters on the wood caught fire, flying off as sparks that landed in the damp soil and were instantly extinguished.

They had found a cave to rest in before dusk.

Dinner was an unfortunate wild duck. As they were already lost, Hereward had laid down a rule to ensure no one else wandered off: no one was to go more than half a mile away to forage for food.

Besides, it had been raining recently, and not many animals would venture out in such weather.

So, catching this wild duck was a considerable stroke of luck.

Gary was in charge of cooking the wild duck. He claimed to have once been the cook for a rather prestigious Saxon nobleman.

He hummed an unfamiliar tune as he tended the fire, turning the duck to ensure it cooked evenly.

He seemed to have a good feel for the heat, as a delicious aroma soon began to fill the air.

"Gary, can’t you hum something a Saxon can understand? I’ve had enough of those Frankish tunes," Tokel said with some annoyance.

"But I like this tune."

"Sing a folk song! A folk song! I don’t want to hear Norman tunes, and I don’t want to hear Frankish ones either."

"Why are you taking this so seriously, Tokel?"

"We are both true-blooded Saxons. If we’re going to hum a tune, it should be a Saxon one, just as our protector, Saint Dunstan, was a true-blooded Saxon himself. I can’t stand listening to Frankish, and I don’t like Norman either.

It’s just like how Saint Dunstan had no love for shoeing the Devil’s hooves. So, in this Saxon forest, we should only hum Saxon tunes."

Tokel declared in all seriousness.

"But Mister Hereward grew up in France. I’m sure he’d prefer a Frankish tune."

Gary lowered his voice, as Hereward was already asleep.

Tokel didn’t answer Gary. Instead, he looked to Gwen, seeking her support.

"Miss Gwen must feel the same way. I also quite like Welsh tunes—they’re so soothing and gentle."

"I’m terribly sorry, but I’m indifferent to music. Please leave me out of this," Gwen said with a shrug.

Rebuffed by Gwen, Tokel turned to Eric.

He then tossed something to Eric.

Eric caught it instinctively.

It was an egg.

A boiled one—they keep better that way.

"Cultivator Eric, what do you think?" Tokel asked.

"Me? Well... I prefer the poetry of Virgil," Eric said as he peeled the egg.

"Virgil? Is he a Danish poet? A poem in Danish might be wonderful. My uncle went to live in Denmark to escape that vile bastard, William," Tokel said, a bit unsure.

"No, he was a Roman poet. He wrote in Latin," Eric explained.

"Latin, Tokel, you should know that’s the language used to praise God. We are all children of God, and we are all the same in His eyes," Gary added, looking at Tokel.

"So what? Who’s to say God is even listening? If He were, why would He let the Normans treat the Saxons so cruelly? We’ve done nothing wrong."

"So the Normans have erred, and now you’re going to correct them, aren’t you? Perhaps even in the same fashion. Besides, before all this, what did the Saxons do to the Welsh?" Eric said, taking a bite of his egg and chewing as he spoke.

The English were, in fact, retaliating against the Normans with the same cruelty.

Tokel was momentarily speechless; he didn’t know how to answer Eric.

Although he strongly disagreed, he didn’t know how to refute the point.

’God is always merciful. God asks for peace.

Violence is the whisper of the Devil.’

As Tokel stewed in his frustration, Gary extended a chubby hand toward him.

"Tokel, where’d you get an egg? Let me have a taste. I love eggs."

"Ah, thanks. So where did you get these anyway?"

"I ’borrowed’ them from a local, back when we were in Chester."

Tokel crossed his arms and leaned back against a rock, lost in thought.

Just as Eric was about to finish the last of his egg, Gwen’s voice reached his ear.

"Can they really be corrected?" Gwen asked. She was tracing meaningless symbols in the damp earth with a twig.

"I don’t know. But it’s better than just accepting things as they are."

"No, I’m just saying it’s useless," Gwen said with a shrug.

"But it’s better to believe in something than nothing at all. Believing something can be done is the first step to achieving it. Of course, in this day and age, adding ’in God’s name’ makes it more fitting and gives it more weight.

On that note, this very Forest, before it belonged to the Saxons, belonged to the Britons—the ancestors of the Welsh. The Saxons took this forest six hundred years ago, perhaps even more recently. Before that, the Saxons were still in the forests of the Germanic Region."

"That’s the optimistic view," Gwen said, waving her twig, her voice cold and stern. "Here’s another way to put it: the Britons have been without this Forest for six hundred years. And for every moment of those six hundred years, they have been in constant retreat."

"That’s a bit harsh."

"I’m not Welsh. Their history and their miserable plight don’t move me in the slightest, so I certainly won’t be losing any sleep over it. Besides, what’s the use in knowing any of this? Is it going to change your life one bit?

If you’re unlucky, you’re unlucky. If you’re poor, you’re poor. What if this Forest did belong to the Welsh? Their king would be just like that damn bastard William, passing laws to drive the common Welsh folk out of it anyway.

I don’t think the Welsh have it so bad right now. Even though many of the English are still prejudiced against them, at least in Wales we—no, *they*—still have their forests."

With that, Gwen stabbed the twig into the ground.

The sound of their conversation caught the attention of the young boy, Ared, who had been feigning sleep nearby. He promptly sat up and squeezed in between Eric and Gwen, separating them.

He then glared at Eric and said something to Gwen.

"Oh, by the way, Ared is a pure-blooded Welshman," Gwen said, jerking a thumb toward the boy.

"What did he say?"

"He said you’re not to be trusted."

"Is that right? Fair enough. But it doesn’t seem like you’re worried about me at all."

"Mister Hereward is trustworthy, and he’s a good judge of character. And of course, a certain little someone who worries about you once vouched for you to me. If you even remember her."

"Martha? What’s wrong?" Eric asked, remembering the little girl.

"She’s fine. She’s at King’s Bridge now. Her father was hired by King’s Bridge Monastery to build them a new cathedral."

"That’s good. Philip should take good care of them."

"And another thing, you’re absolutely terrible at playing the villain. Could your acting get any faker? What was that, a love tap? Did you forget to eat or something? You have to do it like *this*, at least."

Gwen grabbed the hem of her tunic and gave it a sharp tug.

RIIIP! The emerald-green fabric tore open.

"Honestly, I’ve seen my share of villains. They never get what they want. I always manage to get away and turn the tables on them."

Eric: "..."