Spring Reconstruction and a New Allegiance

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March 1068 of the Julian calendar. Snow and ice melted. Bohemia was bursting with life. Wheat seedlings in the fields were emerald green. Gray rabbits pricked up their long ears from burrows. A drowsy, gaunt brown bear yawned widely and poked its head out of a cave, only to retreat back inside after sensing the cold air on its nose.

Three months had passed since the populist uprising in Opava. The weather was warming. Villagers who had been temporarily lodged in Hradec were gradually returning to Ostrava.

Noren methodically directed the villagers in rebuilding. Everything quickly fell into place. By May or June, when she returned from Prague, the village should be restored to its former state.

The populist revolt months ago had hit this small village. Fifty deserters had caused massive destruction—houses burned, people killed.

After that night, wooden crosses sprouted in the forest. Beneath the mounds of earth lay the unfortunate dead.

To make matters worse, a sudden hailstorm that night severely damaged the wheat fields of Opava.

What troubled Noren more was the heavy toll on Ostrava’s able-bodied young men. Many farmlands would be left untilled.

If only the children of the deceased families were to farm, countless fields would inevitably lie fallow.

So she decided on some necessary measures:

I. Purchase, at a fair price, the excess land that bereaved families could not farm, and allow them to redeem it later.

II. Permit freemen displaced by the war to reclaim wasteland in Ostrava. First year tax-free, second year a twentieth, third year a tenth.

III. Allow logging, but the timber would belong to Baron Svein.

These measures targeted homeless freemen.

As for the serfs who fled here, to accommodate their ingrained mentality—that they farm diligently only when their lord beats and flogs them—it was like Red in *The Shawshank Redemption*: out of the physical prison, but still confined within its walls in his mind.

Thus came the fourth measure:

IV. Within controllable limits, accept as many refugee serfs from Opava as possible, and supervise their farming of Ostrava’s lands to prevent abandonment.

Noren made these unenlightened serfs obediently till the existing fields, avoiding degradation from prolonged disuse.

Still, the serfs needed some hope.

Hence the fifth measure:

V. Each year, grant a certain number of serfs promotion to freemen, the quota determined by circumstances.

Allow some ambitious serfs to rise. She deemed it necessary.

Ambition indicated relatively liberated thinking—they understood the need to strive for a better life.

Blind enlightenment was not advisable; the Middle Ages lacked the prerequisites. But if serfs themselves realized they should fight for happiness…

She didn’t mind being a benefactor.

“Move it!” A cleanly dressed serf cracked his whip, producing a sharp snap. He had served Noren’s family for years and was tasked with supervising the Opava serf refugees.

Serfs toiled across a large, bare new field. At the whip’s crack, they didn’t even blink, accustomed to it.

This new field had been plowed before the attack to feed two hundred refugees from Opava. But after the attack, forty or fifty of those people died, and the rest fled. Now only the new serfs could work it.

“Five, ten, fifteen… fifty here, another fifty over there. Counting the refugee freemen and two tanners with skills, the new population is nearly one hundred fifty… Ah, so few.”

The blonde woman frowned slightly, her full, round lips pouting, a slender finger tapping beside her mouth.

She still wore winter clothes. March air was cool, and the thick coat felt like wrapping in a heavy blanket while in air conditioning. A brand-new white fox stole encircled her neck, a sliver of white fur visible near her chin, making her neck look especially long, like a proud swan’s.

She pinched her chin and thought, “Forget it, step by step. Productivity in this era is what it is. No rush. Once I return from Prague, the village should be rebuilt.”

“My lady, my lady…” A fawning voice came.

Noren turned. A masked man in all black hid behind a tree.

“What are you afraid of? We’re in the village,” she scoffed, but still walked toward him.

“How did it go?” she asked.

“Smoothly.” The masked man’s eyes crinkled as if smiling.

“What was the result?”

The masked man suddenly looked around left and right. Seeing no one paying attention, he crouched and gestured for Noren to do the same.

She kicked him. “Stand up and talk.”

The masked man hopped on one leg, clutching his shin. Though he held back, the kick seemed painful.

“Spit it out, don’t dawdle,” Noren urged.

After a moment, he tried to lean in, but seeing Noren’s clenched fist, he smiled sheepishly and stopped.

In a low, excited voice: “I hid under the knights’ carriage and sneaked into the monastery where Jaromir resides. Then I placed the ‘item’ you gave me in the most conspicuous spot.”

“Where?”

“In the monastery church, in front of the largest crucifix, surrounded by burning candles.”

“And then?”

“I heard Jaromir fainted from rage on the spot.” The masked man’s beady eyes sparkled; beneath his black mask was a smug grin.

“And later?” Noren asked.

“I clung under the carriage and slipped out.”

“I wasn’t asking you. I asked if Jaromir made any moves afterwards.” Noren folded her arms, tapping her elbow with a finger.

“Moves? Hmm… let me think… Oh, I heard something happened at Prague Castle, but I don’t know the details.” The masked man pondered again, but it seemed he hadn’t picked up specific rumors from inside the castle at the tavern.

“Alright. That’s good.” She nodded and turned to leave.

“Hey, hey, wait!” The masked man hopped in front of her, blocking her way.

Seeing her unfriendly gaze, he rubbed his hands, squinting with a cunning gleam. “My lady, haven’t you forgotten something?”

“Oh, the antidote?” Noren pulled a small silver box from her pocket. It was filigreed.

Opening it revealed a round black pill.

Its surface flowed with blackness—a kaleidoscopic black.

Noren tossed the whole silver box to the masked man.

He picked up the black pill, brought it to his mouth, then stopped. “Is this really the antidote?”

His beady eyes fixed on the blonde, trying to read her expression.

“Maybe? Maybe I grabbed the wrong one. Or maybe there never was an antidote in this world.” Noren spoke half-truthfully in a nonchalant tone. This black pill was a product from two little wizards—capable of controlling someone, but ineffective against men of “hardiness,” “strength,” or “Heracles,” and also useless on miracle workers following the mystical scholar path.

The masked man hesitated no longer. He swallowed it in one gulp.

He closed his eyes, feeling for changes in his body, but sensed nothing. Just as Noren said, perhaps there never was an antidote.

‘I used to work for the Lublin Mercenaries. Now, to save my own skin, I delivered the head of ‘Knight’ Wood to Jaromir’s doorstep… Well, what difference does it make who I serve?’

The masked man made up his mind. He knelt on one knee and offered up his sword with both hands. “My lord, John of Lublin, pledges his loyalty to you.”