The Seeds of Uprising

The events that followed unfolded as smoothly as anticipated.

Sithis accepted all of Svein’s proposals and promptly sent for his son, Knutr.

The villagers constructed a new small cabin near the blacksmith’s hut, and Frey moved in.

Indeed, you heard correctly: Frey moved in.

Noren insisted on sleeping in her own room. As she was uneasy leaving Knutr to sleep alone, Frey was promptly evicted.

Anna and her son, Knutr, then occupied Frey’s small dwelling, sleeping together.

However, when Knutr awoke in the middle of the night, he often couldn’t find his mother. He didn’t dwell on it much, convinced his mother was intentionally training him.

‘Sleeping alone is a sign of a true man!’ he thought, believing she wanted him to learn self-reliance.

If Noren had heard her cousin’s thoughts, she would have undoubtedly sighed, ‘Such a brain typical of close relatives.’

****

In the time that followed, Noren began meticulously planning the village’s development strategy for after Svein’s enfeoffment.

Throughout the autumn, Svein dedicated himself to two things: forging iron and educating Knutr. His diligent instruction of Knutr surpassed even the seriousness with which he taught Frey.

Anyone observing might have mistaken Knutr for his biological son!

Noren forced herself to avoid such thoughts, even though the Emperor of the North Sea Empire was named Knutr, and Emperor Knutr’s father was known as ‘Svein the Forkbeard.’

Yet, the royal family was the royal family, and their family was their family; the two were entirely unrelated.

She repeatedly told herself, “Knutr absolutely cannot be Svein’s son, and Aunt Anna has never had an illicit affair with Svein!”

Only by constantly reminding and hypnotizing herself in this manner could she prevent inadvertently revealing Knutr’s true parentage in the future.

After all, Uncle Sithis had no knowledge of the sordid affair between Anna and Svein.

A significant event also transpired in October of that year.

The northern territory of Opava erupted in a populist uprising. In essence, it was a peasant revolt, and it was rumored that the local bishop had been bound and gagged.

Scores of farmers threatened the bishop, demanding he forgo collecting the tithe this year.

Yes, the peasant revolt ignited because Opava was once again, *again*, collecting the tithe!

One must remember that Opava had levied the tithe twice the previous year, forcing many farmers to consume their next year’s seeds during winter.

Fields lay barren, and this year’s harvest was abysmal. Even with people constantly scouring the forests—poaching, gathering pine cones, foraging for wild vegetables and mushrooms—they still couldn’t make ends meet.

The moment news spread that the Bishop of Opava intended to collect the tithe yet again, the entire territory exploded. One might wonder, what were Opava’s guards doing?

Recall that last year’s rat plague and the Great Sorcerer had annihilated the Opava Castle guards. Since then, order had been maintained solely by guards dispatched from Hradec.

However, the Hradec guards had long since been recalled to their own city.

Opava was now staffed entirely by green recruits enlisted from within the territory. Their combat effectiveness aside, these new soldiers’ parents and relatives were also subject to the tithe.

Their meager wages alone were utterly insufficient to support a family of six.

Thus, it was considered a blessing that Opava’s guards weren’t actively joining in to whip the bishop themselves.

Noren could only think: ‘Some people are determined to court death, and you simply cannot stop them. These high-and-mighty clerical nobles have grown accustomed to their arrogance, believing that occasional small favors are enough to win over hearts.’

‘Little do they know that even if Jesus himself stood before them, famished rioters would devour his flesh and suck his bones dry. Moreover, the Bishop of Opava is no Jesus, merely a petty bishop in a minuscule region.’

‘Arrogance is truly the original sin of most medieval nobles, both secular and clerical!’

****

Along the hard-packed road leading to Opava—

“Noren, is it truly necessary to recruit refugees? They have homes and land in Opava; they won’t come to our village…”

Tolke rode atop his white warhorse, a composite bow and a quiver of blunt-tipped light arrows hanging beside the saddle. The horse’s hooves clattered rhythmically on the road, a crisp ‘clip-clop’ that sounded like soothing white noise.

Noren sat at the front of a two-wheeled cart, an old draft horse pulling a cartload of burlap sacks. The sacks contained beans and unhulled wheat, weighing roughly 350 pounds.

The cart was simply too small and of poor two-wheeled quality; otherwise, it could have transported far more grain.

Holding the reins in one hand and a horsewhip in the other, Noren spoke, “Our village population is too small, and our expansion into the surrounding forest is insufficient. Relying solely on the few nearby villages makes it difficult to construct a castle.”

“Furthermore, don’t you feel something is lacking in the village?”

Tolke looked puzzled. “Lacking something?”

“Our guard, our soldier guard!” Noren declared. “Father will soon be ennobled as a baron, and he must have enough household warriors.”

“Otherwise, once the village expands and the territory grows, it will easily breed problems with public order. Making plans now is a good thing!”

Tolke sheepishly rubbed his nose. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead…”

Noren admitted candidly, “I only recently remembered it myself. Not long ago, while surveying locations for the castle’s construction, it suddenly struck me that we lacked labor, which then led me to consider the matter of ‘household warriors.'”

The journey north was tedious. Although they were on horseback, the pace of the draft horse pulling the cart was agonizingly slow, roughly equivalent to walking speed.

It wasn’t until the clear morning of the second day that Noren and Tolke finally reached the Opava territory.

This was Tolke’s third visit. The Opava Castle in the distance remained magnificent, its main tower’s exterior walls a grim grey-black, constructed from sturdy limestone.

The castle’s main tower had likely already been seized by the rioting populace. Noren wondered how long it would take Jaromir to receive the news.

By the time he reacted, Opava might already be reduced to ruins.

Noren smiled, a hint of amusement on her face, but her joy quickly faded.

A sudden question occurred to her: if the rioting populace plundered the castle and still didn’t acquire enough grain, what would they do?

Would they head north and then east into Poland to pillage Silesia? Or would they march south directly towards Hradec, to plunder that wealthy city?

Even a fool would know which option to choose.

Noren now felt a strong urge to turn back.

However, since they had already come this far, she decided they should at least bring a few people back. Perhaps they could even meet the leader of the populist uprising.

‘No, there’s no need to meet them,’ she reconsidered. ‘If we did, Tolke would undoubtedly become a captive.’

Why would Tolke be taken captive? Oh, because mere common soldiers could never hold back Noren, this ‘Hercules.’

“Whoa! Whoa!” With a tug on the reins, the draft horse halted, and the cart wheels ceased their ‘rumble-rumble.’

“We’ll stay in the outer villages; no deeper,” Noren said, leaping from the cart. She stroked her grey warhorse, which had accompanied them, and took a box of prepared refined feed from the cart’s cargo board, carefully feeding it to the horse bit by bit.

“Whoa! Whoa!” Tolke had just registered the blonde girl’s words and was about to dismount when his white warhorse, spotting the refined feed, completely ignored its rider’s commands.

It pranced forward with light steps, charging toward the box of feed.

Only after the white warhorse had lowered its head to eagerly eat did Tolke, still shaken, steady himself against the saddle and dismount.

“I told you to choose another horse then, but you wouldn’t listen. This white warhorse is too foolish, look!”

The girl pointed to the white warhorse’s round, wide-open eyes. It clearly adored the sugar cubes made from beetroot in the feed.

“But at the time, it and your grey horse were the most robust…” Tolke spread his hands and shrugged, indicating he hadn’t wanted to choose the white warhorse either.

“Well then…” Noren was about to suggest buying the young man a warhorse from Prague, given their current financial comfort, when Tolke, with a furrowed brow, raised a hand to interrupt her.

“Someone’s coming!”

Noren glanced around. A straight dirt road, flanked by trees. Where were the people?

As she pondered this, rustling sounds emerged from the bushes on both sides of the road. A group of dirt-covered farmers, their hands and feet caked with mud, burst forth.

“A cart! Grain! It’s grain!”

They shrieked wildly, their shouts bolstering their courage.

There were over a dozen of them, men and children, all carrying pitchforks and wooden clubs, dressed in tattered linen shirts.

Behind a tree, Noren spotted a woman holding a baby, her face etched with sorrow.

“Tolke, don’t shoot.”

“Huh?” Tolke’s hand slipped, and an arrow whizzed out, grazing an old farmer’s face. The old man instantly wet himself, collapsing to the ground, trembling.

The girl warmed up, rotating her neck, wrists, and ankles. “Didn’t you think you couldn’t learn my martial arts just by taking hits? Watch closely; I won’t repeat a single move while dealing with this lot!”

Before her words fully faded, her long legs emitted a grating sound like twisting steel.

Boom! A small pit formed beneath her foot as sand and stones flew. A figure burst forth from the stirred dust!