Somewhere in the Forest.
The rain showed no signs of letting up. In fact, it was coming down harder. The pitter-patter of the downpour filled the Forest, but even that couldn't drown out the sound of angry shouts.
The petty Miss Emma was tied tightly to a nearby tree trunk. But for some reason, she felt no fear at this moment—a fact that even Emma herself found strange.
Raindrops struck the oak leaves, their gravity slightly softened, before finally trickling onto Emma's cheeks, carrying the faint, unique scent of the oak.
A thought suddenly occurred to her: 'It wouldn't be so bad to die here.'
'After all, even if I make it back alive, everything will just go back to the way it was.'
'Perhaps I'm destined to die in childbirth a few years from now, for a man I don't love, ending my mundane and unremarkable life.'
'Maybe if I die here now, someday a kind scholar, writing the history of the Osborn Clan, will note that on a certain day of a certain month, the eldest daughter of the Earl of Hereford died defiantly, unafraid of her wicked captors.'
'I wonder if Roland was this calm when he faced death... No, he must have been.'
"Damn it, I'm gonna kill her right now!"
A burly man with an eyepatch was waving a dagger. His scarred face, twisted with rage, looked exceptionally savage. But even though he was screaming at Emma, looking like he wanted to chop her to pieces, it all felt so distant.
Because a short man was desperately holding the scar-faced man back.
"Stop! Control your anger. This is pointless. She's our prize. We have to keep something to trade for something."
The short man was clearly much calmer and more rational than his scar-faced companion.
"Those English didn't think that way when they were attacking our lands."
"But she's a Norman. I know a little French, and she was speaking French."
"So what? You think the Normans are any better than the English? You want to be like that despicable Kaldog? Sucking up to the English, and now you want to suck up to the Normans? Did you take their gold, too?!"
"The future of Wales is being ruined by people like you!" Scarface was incredibly agitated. (Kaldog: Lord of Glamorgan, ruler of South Wales. Successfully defeated the Dehebas Kingdom in 1072. He was a long-time ally of the Normans and on good terms with the Earl of Hereford.)
"Enough already. To put it nicely, we're mercenaries. To put it bluntly, we're just bandits. You think King Lisi actually respects us? If there wasn't a war on, we'd be dried meat hanging from his gallows."
"And now you're empathizing with the King? The only thing that matters is getting enough to eat. Loyalty and all that... that's something only those Noble Knights can afford to talk about." (King Rhys ap Tudor of the Dehebas Kingdom, who defeated Kaldog in 1080 and regained control of South Wales.)
As the short man spoke, he let go of Scarface. The sudden release caused Scarface to lose his balance and fall to the ground. The dagger flew from his hand, arcing through the air toward him. He squeezed his eyes shut in terror.
Luckily, the dagger only grazed his ear before sticking in the ground.
Scarface let out a sigh of relief, got to his feet, patted his chest, and then shot the short man a vicious glare.
"That's the problem! Everyone thinks like that, and that's why Wales is in this state. That's why the English and the Normans can just walk all over us. So what if we're mercenaries? So what if we're bandits? Even as bandits, we're still Welsh, but in the eyes of the English and Normans, we're second-class."
The short man's words clearly hadn't convinced him. He spat viciously at the short man's feet.
"She got several of our brothers killed. Don't their lives matter?"
"You say that like you actually care. If you'd given them a few more shillings now and then, they might be able to rest in peace. But no, you'd rather spend a few pounds on a dozen slaves."
The short man walked over to a soldier's corpse and shook his head slightly. He reached out and tried to close the man's wide-open eyes, but they wouldn't stay shut.
"Can you not undermine me like that!"
Scarface looked annoyed. He glanced at Emma, then walked up beside the short man and whispered:
"Keep your voice down. Let me save some face. The brothers are still here."
"Don't worry, they can't hear you. The rain's too loud."
'Even if they did hear, they'd pretend they didn't.'
"Fine. Then hurry up and ask this bitch what family she's from so they can come ransom her. Tell her we Welsh rarely take ransoms, so we're showing her extraordinary mercy. She'd better be smart about it."
Emma's clothes were clearly not something an ordinary person could afford. Besides, a woman with such striking looks was definitely not a commoner.
Probably the wife or daughter of some Norman noble.
With that, Scarface strode over to Emma and ripped open her collar, exposing the pale white skin beneath. He didn't do anything more, though. It was just a small threat.
"Where are you from?"
"You vile fiends, I will never surrender. Especially you, Scarface. May your soul rot within your body, may Satan's Long Spear pierce your heart, and may your soul be damned to Hell for all eternity..."
Emma turned her head away.
"Miss, please calm down a little. We're just after money. Have your family ransom you, and this will all be over."
The short man was instantly covered in sweat. It was the first time he'd ever seen a noblewoman who didn't beg for mercy after being captured.
'Doesn't she know how terrible things can get for a captive?'
'Could her Identity be that of a princess? Is that why she's not worried at all?'
'Don't tell me we've actually hooked a big fish this time.'
"Is she cursing me? Damn it, I can't take this, I'm gonna kill—"
"No, no, no, she was giving you a friendly greeting! She said she admires your martial prowess and the unyielding spirit of us Welsh. She's so in awe, she can't even look you in the eye now. May God bless you," the short man said, waving his hand to signal Scarface not to worry.
"Is that so? HAHAHA! She's got good taste. We Welsh warriors are just that heroic. Only those cowardly English would shamelessly give up their freedom."
Probably because he was rarely praised by a noblewoman, and with the added bonus of Emma's good looks, Scarface was momentarily overwhelmed by the flattery and didn't know how to react.
"Miss, you..."
"Stay away from me, you filthy bandit! Your stench makes me sick! I will never submit!"
Before the short man could finish, Emma cut him off and spat at Scarface.
Emma had already made up her mind. If they tried to violate her, she would bite through one of their necks with her teeth and then find a way to kill herself.
"What's going on? She doesn't seem very happy."
"No, this is... this is a special Norman way of greeting people. It's an expression of friendship, the highest form of etiquette."
"Really? This etiquette is too weird."
"The ancestors of the Normans were Viking Pagans from Scandinavia. They've always been a weird bunch. Nothing they do is surprising."
"True..." Scarface nodded.
Seeing that Scarface was convinced, the short man breathed a sigh of relief.
Then he made a "shushing" gesture at Emma.
"Miss, we're not interested in your life. We just want some ransom money. Look, you hurt so many of our men. Their families deserve some compensation, don't they? I'm begging you, please show a little respect for our profession."
For the first time, the short man felt less like a kidnapper and more like a nagging old Bishop.