The Lord’s Benevolence and a Noble’s Scheme

Under Noren’s capable leadership, the caravan had safely departed the jurisdiction of Kroměříž Town.

Their journey now led them northward along the broad trade route that hugged the Morava River, their destination Olomouc Castle, from which they would then proceed to the Unichov Bishopric.

Igor found himself utterly perplexed by the caravan’s unhindered departure from the town, unable to fathom why Mayor Kunar had not intervened to intercept or arrest them.

After considerable racking of his brain, he finally settled upon three possible conclusions:

Firstly, the band of robbers was not under Mayor Kunar’s command.

Yet, this possibility seemed remote, for even his own family would find it arduous to assemble such well-equipped forces.

Secondly, Mayor Kunar had simply not detected their presence within Kroměříž Town.

This, too, was highly improbable, considering the abundance of patrolling soldiers throughout the settlement.

Thirdly, and most certainly, it was the Lord’s divine benevolence.

His fervent prayers must have touched the merciful Lord, who, in turn, had exerted divine power to befuddle Kunar’s senses, thereby compelling the mayor to overlook their presence and allow them safe passage.

In essence, God had saved him.

In gratitude for the Lord’s divine protection, Igor offered incessant prayers throughout their journey, commencing each day with a morning prayer and preceding both lunch and dinner with further supplications.

As Igor’s voice lacked any real resonance, his prayers often resembled the muttered gossip of a woman fond of backbiting.

This constant murmur grated on the nerves of several Northmen, who found themselves itching to silence him.

“Ugh! What are you—” Igor’s protest was abruptly cut short as Wiz stuffed his mouth with a hard, unyielding piece of rye bread.

“Finally, some quiet!” A collective sigh of relief swept through the group.

This young noble, who rose early each morning and began his day with prayer, had shattered many a peaceful slumber.

Silencing him now was merely a restitution of tranquility to them all.

“Henry, I recall you profess belief in Jesus,” Hafdan inquired.

It was now the third night since their departure from Kroměříž Town.

Hafdan, Wiz, and Henry were gathered around a crackling bonfire, a wild rabbit, sizzling and dripping fat, skewered upon a stick that leaned precariously into the flames.

“Do you not believe in Jesus?” Henry retorted, finding Hafdan’s question peculiar and thus posing one of his own to the young Northman.

“Who believes in that cowar—” Wiz began to bellow, only for Hafdan to swiftly clamp a hand over his mouth.

Hafdan, restraining his younger brother who squirmed relentlessly to break free, offered a placid smile. “Naturally, we believe in Jesus.

His creation of the world in seven days stands as a testament to His supreme power; He is indeed a magnificent deity.”

“Strange words indeed.

‘A deity,’ you say? Does that imply the existence of other gods?” Henry mused aloud as he tore a leg from the roasted rabbit.

He deftly tossed the piping hot meat between his hands until it cooled sufficiently, then plunged the entire leg into his mouth, stripping every morsel of flesh from the bone with a single, practiced bite.

Hafdan offered another smile, then drew his brother close, whispering something into his ear.

Once Hafdan released him, Wiz ceased his grumbling, instead settling into a quiet consumption of the rabbit meat.

Noren and Tolke, seated by a separate, nearby bonfire, naturally caught snippets of their conversation.

She knew well that the Northmen merely feigned their conversion, secretly maintaining their devotion to the Æsir gods.

Hafdan, she surmised, was likely testing the steadfastness of Henry’s Christian faith, seeking an opportune moment to sway his beliefs.

Though Noren harbored a profound indifference towards the faiths prevalent in Europa, be they of the Æsir or of Jesus, she considered herself at best a half-hearted cultural Christian and a mere nominal follower of Thor.

Nevertheless, she keenly understood the profound significance of faith to the people of the Middle Ages.

In a Europa characterized by a complex tapestry of national cultures, both faith and culture dictated a sense of mutual identity, with faith undeniably holding the dominant sway.

Should Henry embrace one of the Æsir gods, she and the other Northmen would feel far more secure in entrusting their lives to him.

“Noren, I can’t shake the feeling that the young noble is concealing something,” Tolke murmured, his chopsticks trembling slightly as he painstakingly lifted a morsel of meat from his porridge and brought it to his lips.

Noren cast a fleeting glance at Igor, who was now writhing on the ground in an attempt to dislodge the bread from his mouth.

She then withdrew her gaze, indifferently blowing on her meat porridge. “Perhaps,” she conceded.

Having cooled it, she took a small sip. “It’s merely the usual machinations and petty squabbles amongst nobles.”

“Then we…” Tolke began, though he didn’t fully grasp Noren’s intentions, he knew he would unconditionally support any decision she made.

“Simply escort him safely,” Noren instructed, finishing her barley porridge and smacking her lips with lingering satisfaction.

She then turned her gaze pointedly to Tolke’s bowl. “If we can forge a good relationship with a bishop, our journey will prove to be far from fruitless.”

“Mm-hmm,” Tolke murmured, lowering his head in earnest contemplation.

“That…” Noren began, gesturing towards the bowl in Tolke’s hand.

She blinked playfully. “Are you still eating that?”

“Hm?” Tolke looked up at Noren, then down at the meat porridge, before extending the wooden bowl to her. “You can have it.”

Noren accepted the bowl, slurping the barley porridge with relish.

Her appetite was prodigious; despite having already consumed three bowls, she still felt only half-satiated.

Tolke’s gaze fixated on the girl’s pale pink lips as they met the very rim of the bowl his own mouth had touched.

A flush of self-consciousness spread across his face, and he awkwardly averted his eyes, his expression becoming unmistakably unnatural.

Tolke’s lips parted, a silent attempt to articulate something, but ultimately, the words remained unspoken.

Noren, catching a glimpse of the young man’s peculiar reaction from the corner of her eye, mumbled, “It’s only a bowl of your porridge, isn’t it?”

The girl rolled her eyes with an elegant flourish.

‘Since when had Tolke grown so stingy?’ she wondered.

****

After two more arduous days of travel, Noren and her companions finally reached the direct barony of Otta the Handsome.

Olomouc Castle, the venerable residence of Count Otta.

The castle itself stood majestically upon a raised earthen mound.

Much like Opava Castle, it comprised a formidable stone main building encircled by an outer stone wall.

Opava Castle, however, found its stone walls enveloped by a cluster of thatched civilian dwellings, beyond which stood an additional defensive barrier: a fifteen-foot-high wooden palisade and earthen rampart.

Olomouc Castle, conversely, stood at a considerable remove from the commoner villages and towns, separated by a minimum distance of one hundred and twenty yards.

Furthermore, owing to its construction atop an earthen mound, a deep moat lay carved between the mound and the gentle slope below.

Access to the fortified hill was thus restricted to a narrow wooden bridge, barely wide enough for two horses to pass abreast.

After Noren and her company traversed the relatively prosperous village beyond the castle walls, they chanced upon one of the Count’s household knights, who, having just concluded a bout of drinking and revelry, was making his way back to the castle.

The household knight recognized Igor, mounted on a piebald horse, with a single, discerning glance.

“Igor?” the household knight questioned, a note of surprise coloring his voice.

“It is I,” Igor affirmed, having also spotted the household knight.

He bowed his head in a respectful greeting. “My greetings to you, Sir Kovan.”

Sir Kovan returned the nod, offering his own salutation. “And my greetings to you, Young Master Igor.”

Noticing the two blond individuals, a man and a woman, standing beside Igor, Sir Kovan inquired with a curious tilt of his head, “Young Master Igor, what brings you here…?”

Igor explained, “My brother and I journeyed to Kroměříž, where we were ambushed by bandits along the road.

Fortunately, with the timely assistance of Miss Noren, the crisis was averted, though my brother was unfortunately struck by an arrow.

I sincerely hope he can receive proper medical attention here, under the Count’s care.”

Sir Kovan’s eyes widened in alarm upon hearing that Ryan had been struck by an arrow. “Hit by an arrow! Where was he hit?!” he exclaimed.

Igor pointed to his own armpit. “Here.

It’s lodged against his ribs.”

Sir Kovan’s initial surprise visibly softened.

“The Count has departed for Prague to attend the Duke’s banquet,” he informed them, “however, the Count’s esteemed court physician remains within the castle.

I am confident he will be able to treat Ryan.”

“That is truly wonderful!” Igor exclaimed, his face breaking into a radiant smile.

Beside him, however, Noren merely pursed her lips in mild disapproval.

She grumbled inwardly: ‘That fool is still fixated on his bloodletting therapy.’