Chapter 154 - 149: Stop Buying, Haul It All to My House

"Richard, if you stand any farther away, don’t expect me to pay for your dinner tonight."

"But I hate this damned smell of wool. I’d rather be in a latrine. A human latrine!"

"Fine, then you can have your dinner there, too. Wool stinks, but it can be traded for Silver Coins. Dung is just stinky and worthless!"

A woman in a gray tunic with messy hair was pushing a cart loaded with wool with all her might. The weight was clearly a heavy burden, forcing her to push for a bit and then stop to rest.

She was drenched in sweat, constantly wiping her cheeks with her sleeve. But her sleeve was just as dirty, so her face only got filthier with each wipe.

She cursed at the youth beside her as she pushed. The boy pinched his nose, keeping a distance of at least six feet from the cart.

Under her threat, the boy reluctantly approached the cart. He pushed with only one hand, his entire body radiating unwillingness.

The woman was angry enough to hit him, but she knew violence was useless against her brother. It would only waste more of her energy and embarrass her in the middle of the street.

Emma had always been keen on inspecting her domain and listening to the commoners’ complaints, believing she understood their hardships better than most Nobility.

But after these last few months of truly living as a commoner, she realized their suffering was a kind of misery that words could barely describe.

She wanted to go to London to meet the current victor—Prince Robert, whom her father had favored. But she could barely take a step. Without her noble Identity or any money, she couldn’t even afford the tolls.

’I don’t even know how many days it’s been since I bathed. The smell of my own body makes me want to vomit.’

After a difficult and stumbling journey, she’d finally made it to Luton, just a stone’s throw from London, yet she couldn’t get any further.

As a Norman herself, this was the first time she had experienced the tyranny and shamelessness of the Normans firsthand.

’And that bastard Richard is completely useless. I have to do everything.’ The more she thought about it, the more wronged she felt.

’It’s not fair. I get none of the rewards, but I’m always first in line for the suffering.’

’What a shitty world.’

But complaining was one thing; she still couldn’t give up on her family.

She slowly squeezed through the crowd, heading for the market between the high street and the Cathedral.

The market was jam-packed. People jostled each other in the narrow aisles between the stalls, frequently blocked by carts like the one Emma was pushing. She stopped and stood on a bundle of wool to look for a wool merchant.

She could only spot one. She got down and pushed her cart in that direction.

The man was doing good business. He had cordoned off a large area with a rope, with a shed behind it.

The shed was surrounded by a rail, its wooden frame covered by a wattle fence of woven twigs and reeds, obviously a temporary structure for the market day. The merchant was dark-skinned, and his left arm was crippled below the elbow.

A wooden comb was attached where his elbow was severed. Whenever someone came to sell him wool, he would plunge his maimed arm into the fleece, pull out a sample with the comb, feel it with his right hand, and then offer a price based on its quality.

Afterward, he would use the comb and his right hand together to count out the number of pence he agreed to pay. For large sellers, he used a scale to weigh the wool.

Emma pushed her way through the crowd to the front of the counter.

A farmer presented the merchant with a fine bundle of wool from three sheep, tied with a leather strap.

"Too fine," the merchant said. "Three-quarters of a pence for each sheep’s fleece."

He took out two pence, then grabbed a Little Axe and quickly and skillfully chopped the third pence into four pieces. He gave the farmer two pence and one quarter-piece, saying, "Three times three-quarters of a pence is two and a quarter pence."

The farmer untied the strap and handed over the wool.

Next, two young men heaved a massive bundle of wool onto the counter. The merchant inspected it carefully.

"This is a full bundle, but the quality is poor," he said. "I’ll give you one pound of silver pence."

Emma didn’t understand how he could be sure it was a full bundle; perhaps it was from experience. She watched him weigh out one pound of silver pence.

She called over to Richard, and they dragged their bundle of wool off the cart and onto the counter.

The merchant inspected the wool. "Middling quality," he said. "Half a pound of silver pence."

"What?" Emma said in disbelief.

"One hundred and twenty pence," he said.

Emma was aghast. "But you just paid one pound for a bundle!"

"That’s because the quality was different."

"The price should depend on how good the quality is, not just that it’s ’different’!"

"Half a pound," he repeated stubbornly.

"Be straight with me," she insisted. "There’s nothing wrong with this wool, is there?"

"No."

"Then pay me the same price you gave those two."

"I can’t."

"Why not?" she nearly shouted.

"Because no one pays a girl the same price as a man," the wool merchant said lightly.

’I want to strangle him.’ His offer was even lower than what she had paid to acquire the wool. It was infuriating. If she accepted his price, all her hard work would have been for nothing.

Richard urged Emma to take the deal so they could find a place to eat. He was getting hungry.

Just as she was fuming, she felt a bump against her shoulder.

She immediately spun around, ready to curse someone out, but the words died in her throat the moment she saw him. The man was a Knight clad in Chain Armor.

He strode slowly to the wool merchant’s stall. The merchant immediately scurried in front of the Knight, bowing and scraping.

"My lord, how may I help you?"

"Don’t buy this wool. All of it... haul to my home. Easter is coming. I make clothes, give to Monastery." The Knight spoke in broken English.

Emma suddenly looked up, her gaze fixed on the Knight. She thought his voice sounded vaguely familiar.

And she was quite sure he could speak proper English.

"Of course, my lord. It’s just... that is... perhaps we could first discuss... the price?" the wool merchant said with a sycophantic smile.

"What? What is this Englishman saying? Can you understand him?" The Knight suddenly turned to Emma and asked her in French.

"Ah? Oh, he said... he said he wants to discuss the price of the wool." Emma was startled by the Knight’s sudden question.

"Wool price? I honor him, take his little wool. You ever hear Norman need pay for English thing? Should thank me for my favor, but he ask for wool money? I count to five. You pull your wool to Luton Castle. One, two, three..." the Knight said, again in his broken English.

"Ah, no, my lord! I’m just a small business, I can’t afford a loss like this! This wool is half of everything I own!"

The wool merchant dropped to his knees on the ground, clinging to the Knight’s leg and wailing.

Passing townspeople sighed, but who would dare cross a Norman Knight? All they could do was offer their sympathy.

"Crying? Crying also uses time. You not know who is master in England? What Normans want, you must give. No choice.

Move for me! People around, you move too! Move to Luton Castle, tell them is for Lord Belem!"

The Knight kicked the wool merchant away and roared.

At that, a few nearby vendors "volunteered," grabbing the cart and hurrying off in the direction of Luton Castle.

Only the wool merchant was left, still crying on the ground.

The Knight looked at Emma. "Come with me."

Emma grabbed Richard and followed the Knight without hesitation.

The Knight led Emma out of the marketplace and into a small alley.

"You really dared to follow me. Little girl, I see you’re..."

The Knight advanced on Emma, raising his hand. But before he could even start his act, Emma snatched off his Helmet.

"Eric, what are you playing at?"