"Wait, I don't understand, Eric."
"I was thinking..." Just as Eric was about to speak, Philip excitedly cut him off.
"Do you know what I've done? I've secured you an opportunity to study in Paris. At the Divinity School!"
The Divinity School in Paris was the most prestigious seat of learning in all of Western Europe. Even the current Archbishop of Canterbury, Lanfrank, studied in Paris.
England had long been on the periphery of Europe, and those who had studied in Paris were few and far between. If Eric were admitted, what with his Norman Identity, the position of Bishop would be his for the taking.
It was glory within arm's reach.
"Hasn't the King sealed off all of England? Is it even possible to leave now?"
"This is the will of the Church. The Church may not have an army as mighty as the King's, but it ensures its people are in every corner of the land."
"I want to live a secular life, Philip," Eric sighed.
"Why, Eric? You made vows when you entered the Monastery. Do you think they're worthless? Why forsake your oath? Is there anything in this world more meaningful than serving God?"
Philip couldn't understand. He gripped Eric's shoulders and shook them.
He knew Eric better than anyone else in the Monastery and was keenly aware of his potential as a Cultivator. He had always firmly believed that one day Eric would become a member of the Clergy more exceptional than most, a venerable Bishop, a learned Theologian.
"I am sorry, Philip. If I had spent the first half of my life entirely within a monastery, then perhaps being a servant of God, becoming a devout Priest, and at the right time, climbing to a higher position... perhaps that would have been the better choice."
"Forgive me, Philip, for disappointing you. My spiritual practice is insufficient. I have too many worldly thoughts, so many I can barely stand it, so many I lie awake all night. I must reclaim what I have lost—the things that should have been mine."
"Alas... You've really decided, then, Eric. Think this through. You have a gift for theology."
Seeing the look on Eric's face, Philip knew that any further words would be useless.
"I have, Philip."
"What do you plan to do?"
"Peace is teetering on the brink. Princes and dukes fight over land like drunkards in a tavern fighting over plates. In the distant East, the power of the Heretics has grown fragile over the centuries."
"There, Andalusia is a honey cake; there, Anatolia is an eel pie. And here, Normandy and England are already boiling over. Every corner of the West and East is a place where I can drink my fill of glory."
Eric walked to the doorway, his gaze fixed on the world outside the Monastery.
"It is all vanity and nightmare. War is never the will of God. Alexander built an empire by thirty, uniting East and West, yet in a few short years, it was all dust."
"And the Conqueror of Gaul, the proud Caesar, who harbored an impossible dream of being King, watered his horses at the Tiber River, only to have his soul ascend to the heavens a few months later."
"Brother, go find your ambition and your heroes in the books of Plutarch. For a man, the important thing is to be more than just a man." Philip turned his back.
"Philip, as you said, the Church must be returned to its rightful place. Can you truly be satisfied with what you see before you? These princes and Nobility who know nothing of doctrine, who treat it as a mere tool to be altered at will."
"Even the Pope Saint has become a puppet. The people of England ignore the Church's laws, freely taking concubines and wives, yet it is not considered a sin. That detestable system of slavery is treated as a normal affair on this island."
"Those kings and Nobility secretly bestow the best Parish Divine Offices upon one another, granting them to illiterate thugs. This is a great desecration of the Church."
"I will wash all of this away, and until it is done, war is the only path forward. Brother Philip, I will still remember my former Identity as a Priest. I will remember Ambrose, Jerome, Augustine, and Gregory."
"I will remember the beautiful rhetoric of Virgil, the eloquent speeches of Cicero, the supreme Logos of Aristotle..."
Eric turned and looked at Philip once more.
"Perhaps. But sometimes our hands are forced. I hope that someday you will still remember the will of God."
Philip accepted it.
'But many things in this world cannot be decided by will alone. Perhaps Eric, too, will one day become a tyrant.'
"When will you leave?"
Eric stiffened. He then rubbed his hands together and walked up to Philip, looking a little embarrassed.
"That depends on the will of God. I'd like to learn about our English Church—the conscience of the King's Army—as soon as possible. When do you think you can arrange that?"
Philip: "..."
'Don't tell me he only decided to go to war after I told him I'd secured him a place to study abroad.'
After bidding Philip farewell, Eric returned to his room and lay down on the bed he had slept in for the past two years.
After several days on the road, even on the back of a donkey, Eric was still quite weary.
He had only meant to rest for a moment, but he unwittingly fell asleep.
...
"Giscard, you bastard! You broke your promise! I'll make you regret this! I'm going to hang him right in front of you!"
"Father..."
"So what? I can get something better. Go ahead and hang him. I still have my hammer and anvil. I can forge a better product. HAHAHA~"
...
"You all deserve to die!"
With a furious shout, Eric jolted awake.
His breath came in ragged gasps, and a cold sweat beaded on his forehead.
Eric looked out the window. The sky had already grown dark.
He hurried out of the room, possessed by an urgent desire to leave.
Outside his room was the Monastery cloister, which was completely deserted. Wind blew in through the windows, lingering in the corridor and making a sound like a howl. Eric felt a chill.
His pace quickened.
The cloister led to the chapel, its doors still open.
The last ray of the setting sun in the west shone upon the Holy Image inside the chapel.
Eric broke into a run, fleeing the Monastery.
He didn't know where he was going, until someone called his name.
"Cultivator Eric? What's wrong?"
A middle-aged woman had stopped him.
She was Liv, Sinward's wife and Cecilia's mother.
"I... Is Cecilia here?"
"She's not. She went to fetch Sinward. That lout is drunk and making a scene in town again."
"Is that so?"
"You don't look well. Has something happened?"
"No, it's nothing. I just... I feel like I don't know where to go."
Eric faltered.
"No, I'm just joking. Just talking nonsense, don't take it seriously. HAHAHAHA~"
Eric suddenly burst out laughing.
...
「That night.」
Cecilia and her mother, Liv, threw her father, Sinward, onto the bed.
"You should just drown in your drink," her mother, Liv, cursed at Sinward.
Cecilia said nothing and went straight to her room. She was exhausted from the day.
She flopped onto her bed and felt something underneath her.
She lifted the covers. Beneath them was a heavy pouch containing what looked to be a full five shillings and thirty or forty silver pence, as well as a note.
She could just barely make out Eric's name, but the rest of the writing was incomprehensible to her.
"'Wait... go... Norman...' What is he rambling about now?" Cecilia seemed a little angry. She crumpled the note into a ball and stuffed it into her pocket.
Then she lay back on her bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, lost in thought...