Chapter 397: The Bard’s Joke
Camilla still did not refuse—it was merely for a bit of relaxation.
When a marquis sought a lover, he hardly needed his wife's permission—especially when she was merely a fiancée.
Moreover, her elder sister wouldn’t mind having some sort of relationship with a marquis like Gregor.
After all, a widow whose husband had died—unless she was particularly outstanding in certain aspects—rarely had the chance to marry into high-ranking nobility.
If she could establish a connection with this Marquis, even if her elder sister couldn’t become Gregor’s lover, having that link through Gregor and Camilla would certainly improve her chances of marrying into a suitable noble family later.
Of course, besides her elder sister, Camilla had also found Gregor two rather large maids—daughters of subordinate nobles under Marquis Shalier, sent to the Marquis’s castle.
That could be seen as Camilla’s subtle expression of dissatisfaction.
However, when Camilla brought the three women to the door of her room, they were met with Gregor’s snoring, loud enough to rattle the vine decorations.
The four of them fell into silence. Camilla’s rather large elder sister looked somewhat anxious but didn’t dare make a sound.
Camilla waved her hand slightly, and the three stepped back, not daring to disturb.
Camilla opened the door and saw Gregor lying on her bed, sleeping soundly.
This was the first time Gregor had rested in her room.
Without saying a word, Camilla closed the door and turned to the three expectant women, saying, “The Marquis is very tired. Perhaps tonight, he just wants to rest. If he needs anything, I’ll call for you.”
Disappointment was visible on all three of their faces.
Still, they bowed and left.
Camilla’s elder sister blended well among the daughters of the vassal nobles.
It was only natural. After her husband died, even with Marquis Shalier’s support, she hadn’t managed to remain in her late Viscount husband’s castle to secure inheritance rights for her child. That meant she held no particular value anymore.
So, in front of the future Marchioness Camilla—and quite possibly the future Marchioness Mother Camilla—someone like her really had no standing.
…
Gregor didn’t wake until just before sunset.
Knight Edwin and Knight Kelton had also returned to the castle. Their armor bore slashes and charred cracks, and they dragged along the corpse of a knight whose armor and body were both twisted beyond recognition.
Gregor received them in Camilla’s room. Aside from them, people from Doyle, only Camilla, a Woodlander, was present.
The scent they carried quickly overpowered the fragrance of Camilla’s room.
“My Lord Marquis, the Doyle Knight Order is gone,” Knight Edwin said, voice choked with grief. “Only thirteen knights escaped. We found Knight Every Flake by tracking their path.”
“He was seriously wounded—beyond saving—so they abandoned him. By the time we found him, he had only one breath left.”
Gregor was not wearing armor, nor did he carry himself with noble decorum—just loosely wrapped in a silk cloth.
He glanced at the mangled Every, then looked at the two knights. “So, what happened to you two?”
Knight Edwin and Knight Kelton hesitated, exchanging glances, but neither dared to speak.
Gregor didn’t get angry. He simply stood up, completely at ease, stretching his arms, and then picked up a cup of deer blood milk that Camilla had prepared and took a sip.
Eventually, Knight Kelton spoke up. “We encountered those fleeing knights… and they attacked us.”
Gregor said, “Even within the Doyle Knight Order, you two were among the top. Even if you couldn’t defeat so many, you should’ve been able to retreat without such disgrace.”
Seeing that Gregor didn’t seem angry, Knight Kelton grew more nervous and said, “They had two magic cannons—mounted like the ones on city towers. They used those to attack us.”
Gregor nodded. “Seems like you dodged the direct hit. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be seeing you tonight.”
“That’s good news. So, for the Doyle Knight Order still has an ember left—cheers.”
Saying so, Gregor raised the cup of deer blood milk and drank it all in one go.
Knight Edwin and Knight Kelton exchanged glances, wondering if Gregor had gone mad from the blow.
Given Gregor’s regard for the Doyle Knight Order, it would’ve been more reasonable if he had cursed and beaten them up first.
This calmness seemed… too unnatural.
Camilla noticed their unease and spoke up. “The Marquis already knows what happened in Doyle City. It’s all over now. The fact that you two returned alive is the best news.”
Only then did they breathe a sigh of relief.
It seemed Gregor had already vented his fury.
Besides, as for what happened in Doyle City…
When they found Every, he muttered deliriously—things like “radiance,” “destruction,” “the Knight Order is gone”… incoherent, almost mad.
Of course, when they reported to Gregor, they tacitly omitted those knights’ screams of “traitor,” “faithless,” and the like.
“Alright, Camilla, get someone to treat their wounds. They’ve got healing ointment with them—find some women, the bigger, the better,” Gregor said.
Then he looked at the two men. “Bishop Jeremiah said we should spend some time ‘communicating’ here. So, for the next few days, stay and do just that. After five days, we’ll return to Doyle together.”
Since Gregor had said so, the two naturally nodded in agreement.
After Camilla assigned the two women from earlier that day to accompany the knights, she returned to her room with her elder sister.
Camilla bowed slightly. “Then, please enjoy your communication as well.”
Her elder sister gave Gregor a flirtatious smile.
Gregor bared his teeth and said, “Camilla, I never said I still wanted to ‘communicate.’”
Camilla glanced at Gregor’s already energetic manhood and said, “He said he does.”
“Oh, Camilla, knights aren’t just for riding women, you know,” Gregor said bluntly. “Tonight, I don’t want any civilized communication. Nor do I want anyone interrupting us.”
Camilla was momentarily stunned, but quickly regained composure, calmly sending her elder sister—whose face was full of resentment—away.
“There’s jealousy in her eyes,” Gregor said.
“Jealousy is normal,” Camilla replied as she began to loosen her clothes.
Gregor paused, then laughed as he sat up. Without blinking, he said, “Need me to get rid of her for you?”
Camilla said, “I’m not someone who kills for fun.”
Gregor said, “Right. But you’ve gotten rid of three maids I’ve communicated with recently.”
Camilla said, “Those lowborn women tried to challenge my position.”
Gregor said, “So it’s because your sister isn’t lowborn?”
Camilla said, “Only because she never got the chance.”
Gregor looked at the now fully bare Camilla and said, “Even though I can finally tell your front from your back, barely… still can’t compare to your sister.”
Camilla’s cheeks turned pink. “She’s too foolish. And she refuses to be just a mistress.”
Gregor said, “Ha! True. If she were too stupid and stayed near me, Jeremiah would take care of her.”
Camilla climbed onto the bed, awkwardly offering to communicate. Though she tried to remain composed, her voice trembled slightly. “Your trust in Bishop Jeremiah reminds me of how I trusted my father in childhood.”
Gregor grabbed Camilla’s hand, stopping her advance. “Clerics of the Church of the Sanctuary, after baptizing a child and giving them a church name, become godfathers—bearing responsibilities akin to a father.”
“If that baptism could be extended to any age, I’d be the first to ask Bishop Jeremiah to baptize me and give me a church name.”
Camilla didn’t reply to that. Instead, flustered, she said, “Aren’t we supposed to be having civilized communication?”
She recalled the strange scenes of communication she’d seen in the fortress.
Smiling, Gregor said, “I told you, Camilla, knights aren’t just for riding women.”
Then he pulled Camilla to sit properly on the bed and picked up a book from the headboard.
“Didn’t expect you to have a copy of the New Testament Scriptures,” Gregor said, running a finger along the spine.
The New Testament Scriptures were exquisitely crafted. The cover alone was thick snow bear leather—tough as leather armor—and the pages were monastery-made, extremely durable.
It was about half a finger thick, making the Scriptures quite hefty.
A bard once said, when traveling to another city, there was no need to bring a sword or shield. As long as they had the New Testament Scriptures, they had both.
Given its weight, swinging the Scriptures like a flanged mace could crack even an elite warrior’s skull.
The bard concluded, “That is the power of faith.”
That same night, the bard suffered four ambushes—each time, someone smashed his head with a flanged mace, leaving him bedridden for half a month.
He wasn’t sent to the grave only because all four maces were made of oak.
Those who knew the tale claimed it was the Lord’s Messenger purifying the evil in his heart.
Oak was mentioned in the New Testament Scriptures—blessed by the Lord, able to dispel evil.
After all, how could anyone who wasn’t clouded by evil say such blasphemous words?
So, when that bard recovered enough to walk, he went straight to the Great Cathedral of York.
He donated twenty York gold coins, fasted for a day in prayer, and cleaned every corner of the cathedral with his own hands.
It’s said that the bard became more devout than ever after that.
Yet this bard’s story became a joke, retold by other bards far and wide.
And that was how Gregor heard the tale.