Chapter 143 - 138: The Self-Cultivation of a Thief

Dean Torod walked over from nearby. He noticed Hildred, a Cultivator he disliked, breaking the rule of silence he had established.

Torod was a middle-aged man with distinctive eyebrows. They were thick and knit tightly together, forming a sharp peak in the middle.

In short, he looked like a very serious person.

He appeared steady and composed. His gait was firm, and he quickly reached Hildred’s side.

His eyes narrowed as he scanned Eric, and then Gwen behind him.

The way he furrowed his brow made the peak of his eyebrows look even sharper.

Before he could speak, Eric continued:

"You’re clearly looking for Brunelus. His beautiful mane shows he is the Dean’s favorite horse.

Fifteen hands high, the fastest animal in the stable.

A dark coat, a long tail, small round hooves, but a steady gait; a small head, keen ears, and large eyes.

He went to the right, as I said, but you’d better hurry after him."

Eric repeated his description, this time in greater detail.

Eric spoke in French, which made Torod feel a sense of familiarity.

Serving as a Dean in this foreign land, and in such a desolate place, meant he had to face what sounded like gibberish all day.

Although he was always devout to God, he was often troubled by it.

Now, hearing the language of his homeland made him feel a deep sense of warmth.

The content of Eric’s words also astonished him, for he had precisely described the appearance of his beloved horse.

Torod couldn’t help but feel a flicker of goodwill toward this Cultivator from his homeland.

The stern man waved a hand at Hildred and the other Cultivators. Hildred nodded and, though very reluctant, ran off to the right.

After a short while, Hildred ran back.

"Dean, we found him!"

"Thank you, my friend from afar. I offer you my most sincere gratitude."

Torod gave Eric a slight nod. For the first time in a long while, a smile touched his lips, however faint it was.

Perhaps because he hadn’t shown such an emotion in so long, it looked forced, but to Torod himself, it was sincere enough.

It was the first time Aldred had ever seen the new Dean smile.

"It was a simple matter."

’Wise and humble. Not bad.’

Torod nodded unconsciously.

"Perhaps I can offer you some assistance, brother," Torod said.

Eric, of course, knew what Torod meant.

He was inquiring about Eric’s identity and his purpose for coming.

Lincolnshire was part of Northern England. In recent years, it had been plowed over several times by the Danish and King William’s men in turn. Now, like Yorkshire, it contained vast, uninhabited areas.

No one wanted the land granted here because there was no one to farm it.

So the King had stuffed all the land here into the hands of the Monastery.

Peterborough Monastery was one of the few populated places in the region, and even that was a struggle. There weren’t nearly enough tenant farmers, so the Cultivators had to till the fields themselves.

Therefore, no one would come here unless it was for something important.

Eric took a letter from his tunic.

This was a letter Eric had stolen from a Cultivator who was on his way here.

’This will be a good way in.’

Given how desolate Lincolnshire was, trying to cross it alone on foot was unrealistic. He planned to procure a horse and supplies from this Monastery, and while he was at it, ask about Robert.

Besides, he owed a debt to Hereward and intended to help find Dean Brand. If possible, he would help rescue him.

Torod took the letter and broke the seal.

"You’re the Referee sent by the Bishop?" Torod’s expression darkened.

The Bishop in question was the Bishop of Lincolnshire, Langxiang de Marchat.

"Yes. Bishop Langxiang sends his regards."

"My name is Torod, master of this Monastery. Follow me."

Torod led Eric and Gwen toward the Monastery on the hill.

"How did you do that? How did you know so much?"

Gwen was puzzled by Eric’s earlier display.

She had been with Eric the whole time, but she hadn’t seen a single thing he mentioned.

"You can actually understand French?"

The mountain path here was rugged and uneven. The rain from the past few days had turned the ground to mud, making it very difficult to walk.

Eric climbed a somewhat steep earthen slope, then stopped and offered his hand to Gwen below.

Gwen hesitated for a moment before taking Eric’s hand.

Eric gave a sharp tug, but unfortunately, Gwen’s right foot slipped. Acting on instinct, Eric caught her by the waist and pulled her up.

Gwen’s hands were soft and lovely, and felt very pleasant to hold.

She didn’t seem to resist the contact.

For some reason, she even went out of her way to explain that the most important thing for a professional thief is to take good care of their hands.

Hands without calluses, always smooth, could skillfully and accurately perform all sorts of thieving maneuvers while greatly reducing errors and mistakes.

’A successful theft is a guaranteed success,’ was her creed.

’Such professionalism made him, a good-for-nothing who relied on a system for thievery, feel ashamed of his inadequacy.’

"Of course. Is it some kind of profound language?" Gwen scoffed, expressing her disdain.

She seemed quite fond of that expression.

"So, how did you know so much?"

"All things are artfully created, freely splashed like a painting, reflecting eternity in a mirror."

"Speak plainly."

"At the crossroads, there were clear hoof prints in the clean snow, leading down the path to our left.

The distinct tracks showed that the hooves were small and round, and the gait was quite regular—from that, I deduced the horse’s nature and the fact that it hadn’t bolted in a panic.

At the turnoff where the horse went right, there was a cluster of bilberries with a long, brown horsehair caught on it, which must have been left behind when the horse swished its tail...

Finally, don’t tell me you didn’t notice the manure pile at the end of that path? When we passed the bend below, we saw a pile of dung staining the snow beneath the steep cliff of the south tower. And judging from the location of the fork, that path could only lead in that direction."

"Then, how did you know the horse’s name?"

Gwen was struggling with the flood of unfamiliar words Eric was throwing at her. The limited French vocabulary in her brain had basically crashed.

Nevertheless, she pretended to understand and nodded.

"How could it be any other name? Brunelus, Brunellus, brunus, brown. Perhaps you should study Latin." (Brunelus: Latin for brown, specifically the color of a pitcher plant.)

"Really?"

"May the Holy Spirit sharpen your mind, child."

Eric sighed and put on a very disappointed expression.

Just as Gwen was starting to feel a sense of defeat and was beginning to form a whole new impression of Cultivators as a group...

Eric took two quick steps forward, then turned his head, tapped his temple, and said to Gwen with a light chuckle:

"Of course it’s fake. We’re not in some chivalric romance, are we? Who ever heard of such a bizarre plot twist?"

Gwen was speechless, her face contorting with rage as she balled up a fist.