Chapter 8: The Wretch’s Plea
One week later.
“I’m hungry,” Baldwin said.
“I’ll go check the kitchen,” Caesar said.
In people’s imaginations, the king’s son and his attendant could get anything they wanted at will. Perhaps you could say that Amalric I felt full of love and mercy for this only child who might leave the human world before him and suffer countless humiliations and pains before that, and was willing to satisfy all his demands.
But in this era, the scarcity of supplies was comparable to a blank sheet of paper casually scribbled on. Even in the kitchen of Holy Cross Castle, there were only some vegetables, smoked meat, stockfish, and pickled herring.
A grand banquet like the kind that could be recorded by monks had to be prepared in advance, and for many days, so that the estate steward could gather enough livestock, wheat, and game and fowl.
The castle steward and the head cook also had to purchase spices, honey, and sugar and salt from merchants, bake bread, salt meat, make candied fruit, and take out the silver utensils and porcelain utensils, linen tablecloths, and other utensils that had been stored in the storeroom all along. Polishing, cleaning, and air-drying them also took quite some effort.
Normally, the king and nobles had two or three meals a day（ even in combat） that were very simple, not even particularly fresh. When busy, they ate extremely hastily—a bowl of barley porridge with dried meat or a piece of overnight bread dipped in wine would suffice. Not to mention commoners, whose barley grains were ground very coarsely or simply boiled into porridge as grains. Adding some dried peas or seasonal vegetables was the greatest of fortunes.
Nowadays, people still avoided and gave way to Caesar upon seeing him, but compared to Witt, the prince’s new attendant was much more likable. He wouldn’t deliberately spit at people, nor get too close to the water source or stove, and he spoke to people from four or five steps away. But the most convincing thing was that his appearance showed no slightest damage.
“He’s a pious good child,” they said, firmly believing that Caesar hadn’t caught the disease because he was pious enough, especially the cook and the scullery maids.
“What vegetables do you have today?” the black-haired little attendant asked politely.
“Onions, kale, turnips, pumpkins, and cabbage,” a maidservant said timidly. Vegetables were never precious things; they were casually piled on the floor on one side of the kitchen—this was today’s portion. Caesar carried a cowhide drawstring pouch and put in two onions, one cabbage, and some dried peas.
Under the fruiter’s guidance, he took two apples that were surely the sweetest and juiciest. The butcher gave him a piece of roasted beef as long as an arm. The milk squeezed this morning had been boiled and was in a plump pottery jar.
“Would you like some beer?” the brewer panted as he ran over. “Beer just delivered from the monastery!”
Caesar hesitated. He didn’t like or approve of drinking alcohol; no matter the alcohol content, it was harmful to the body. The problem was that on Ayyarasa Road, or many other places, due to the lack of stable clean water sources, people were accustomed to using wine to replace water, and considered drinking freely a symbol of manliness. As the heir of Ayyarasa Road and his attendant, neither he nor Baldwin could avoid this issue.
The beer was delivered by several monks from St. John the Baptist Monastery. They still remembered Caesar and greeted him happily, shook his hand, and wished God’s blessing on him.
Seeing people who had once helped him and knowing they were all well was undoubtedly a pleasant thing, but Caesar’s good mood was soon ruined by an uninvited guest.
“Stop!” Caesar said in disgust. “Or I’ll call the guards!”
The one who suddenly jumped out from the shadows was Witt.
Back in the left tower, Witt wasn’t like this. He wore a fine cotton tunic and long shirt, draped in a goatskin cloak, with deerskin boots, his face ruddy and body plump. An unknowing person would surely call out “master” upon seeing him.
Now, his fat seemed sucked dry by the devil with a wheat straw. His eyes bulged terrifyingly. He wore only a coarse hemp robe down to his knees, barefoot, his whole body emitting a stench—not like it was stuck on, but overflowing from deep inside.
With one glance, Caesar knew he must have sneaked into the castle by clinging to the carriage under the pretext of delivering beer.
While Caesar was observing Witt, Witt was also sizing up Caesar. When Caesar had just arrived at the left tower, they hadn’t taken this little slave seriously. So what if he was the prince’s attendant? The prince was just a leper! He should have been driven to the valley outside the city to fend for himself with those abandoned by God…
But just because he had a king for a father! These pious good people had to be forced to serve him—when the castle steward came to ask them, how they had been dazzled by generous rewards, and how elated and carried away they were after getting the qualification, they completely didn’t want to.
Who knew that with Caesar’s arrival, the prince’s highness, who had always remained silent no matter how they acted out, suddenly drove them out of the left tower and wouldn’t listen to any of their appeals. They weren’t knights or attendants, not even blacksmiths or carpenters. As ordinary servants, they had no qualification to live permanently in the castle.
But as long as they could get into the castle, who would want to leave? Work in the castle, even handling feces, was easier than quarrying, farming, and herding outside, not to mention that when war came, the castle was the safest place.
They, they too had been bewildered by the devil in helplessness to do such things!
His hand groped emptily in the air above his head, as if to grab a hat, but his hat had long vanished. He could only kneel, place his hands on his chest, lift his head, his greedy eyes scanning Caesar’s body—dressed exactly like a noble’s son in a deep blue silk tunic, cuffs and collar edged with gold and silver thread, white wool trousers, brown long boots, a wide leather belt（ commoners were only allowed cloth belts）, with a dagger hanging from the belt and a silver cross dangling on his chest.
If he hadn’t… If he knew, this outfit and the honor it represented should have been his!
“Please,” Witt shouted in a hoarse voice. “Please, attendant lord, don’t call the guards, don’t call the guards. Heaven pity me, I’m here to beg for mercy, I’m here for confession!”
When he learned he was “chosen,” Witt had been ecstatic for a while and arrogant for a while, thinking he could thus leap out of purgatory, return to the human world, or even ascend to the heavens. But the cruel hand of destiny soon slapped him. He did get pardoned and became a monk master, but upon arriving at the monastery, he quickly realized his bargaining chips weren’t as many as he thought.
He had never been able to become a knight or even a good servant. Now chosen, he could only treat very minor ailments and wounds—not exaggerating, things like scabies, scrapes, or chills that could be fixed with a bit of spit, hot wine, or bloodletting. Monks weren’t needed at all—begging for holy grace cost a lot of money.
If Witt had Caesar’s looks and character, perhaps some wealthy lord or king would keep him in court for the pleasing sight, but he was such a vile sinner…
Life in the monastery was far from as satisfactory as he imagined. He had to work like a farmer, sleep on the ground, and eat and drink meager and poor fare.
He really couldn’t stand that hardship and had found a way to sneak back.
Compared to before, Witt’s current appearance did evoke some pity, but not to mention the trap he had set to murder Caesar earlier—Caesar had heard plenty about his evil deeds from the castle servants after getting familiar with them.
This little weasel’s malice seemed aimed at everyone. “Like a stinking leather pouch filled with bad wine,” the cook said, full of sour bitter juices. He delighted in bullying anyone he could handle, from colleagues to his master.
He was the first to complain and curse, the first to blackmail and extort over trifles, the one who incited other servants to slack off or make snide remarks. In a short time, he successfully turned the left tower into a smoky den of villains.
“…I know there’s some misunderstanding between us,” Witt said. “But I can swear on the Holy Sepulchre that at least I, attendant lord, sincerely want to befriend you and serve our good master together.”
“No need to say that,” Caesar said. “Your accomplices probably didn’t expect, when they were hanged on the gallows, that you the ringleader would push all the crimes onto them.”
Witt had been very cautious. He merely brought the bad news of their impending expulsion to the other servants, then hinted that Caesar was behind it. He got wine and pies, called in prostitutes, and those simple-minded nasty fellows naturally knew what to do. “What do you want?”
“I want to return to his highness’s side,” Witt said, then quickly added, “I know I did… make a little mistake before, but attendant lord, I’ve been chosen now, I’m a monk. If I’m by his highness’s side as his personal secretary, like Heraclius, it would only be good for his highness, who is still not allowed to participate in any sacraments.”
Afraid Caesar didn’t understand, he hurriedly said, “You know, right? Lepers aren’t allowed in sacraments, so when it comes to inheriting or being inherited, their power is stripped. But with me there, I’ll prove that his highness fulfills every duty to God just like all Christians.”
As he spoke, he stared at Caesar. Now, Caesar was the only one he could rely on—his uncle ignored him completely, the monks saw him as a prisoner needing supervision, and as for great figures like Abbot John, the Count of Tripoli, Amalric I, he didn’t even have the qualification to meet them.
“Alright,” Caesar thought for a moment before saying, “I’ll mention it to his highness.”
——————————————
“You’re back?” Baldwin was by the fireplace, reading a heavy book by the firelight. “What was in the kitchen today?”
“Some good vegetables,” Caesar said. “Drink some milk first, then I’ll make soup.”
Baldwin moved away from the fireplace. They first shared the milk in the pottery jar. Caesar picked up the ewer and poured some clean water into the jar, used the poker to hook the hooks on both sides of the jar, and skillfully hung it on the iron rod above the fireplace hearth. Flames immediately danced around the pottery jar, and the water in it soon boiled. Caesar held the roasted beef, drew his dagger, and shaved it bit by bit into the boiling water, followed by the cabbage and onions.
Baldwin came over to help. Caesar glanced at him. “No need for the veil and gloves in the room.”
“But you’re still here, aren’t you?” Baldwin said, his eyes reflecting the firelight—calm blue eyes like lake water.
“If I could catch it,” Caesar said, “I’d have shown symptoms long ago. I told you I won’t get the disease.” He stood up, removed Baldwin’s veil, then his gloves. They were all soft thin silk that could catch fire from a single spark. Wearing them around the fireplace was really unsafe.
“I saw…” Baldwin said.
“What?”
“Witt. That was Witt, right?” Baldwin turned his head and looked at his little companion.
Caesar briefly told Baldwin about Witt’s proposal.
“You probably don’t know,” he continued, “Witt and those people were originally new attendants prepared for me by father. Servants were just temporary.” He smiled melancholically. It was hard to imagine such a smile on a nine-year-old boy.
“After confirming I had leprosy, David and Abigail, and my previous friends and attendants were no longer suitable to stay by my side. My father wanted to find suitable candidates from wandering knights and their offspring, exchanging prospects and honor for their loyalty to me. Take Witt as an example: he originally had no qualification to serve me, but who knew the situation changed so drastically?”
“They weren’t forced,” Caesar said. “They’re not slaves, no masters, though they did sell themselves for a good price.” Only after coming to the castle did he learn that the servants there were on a wage system, paid daily, and Witt and the others’ rates were ten times theirs.
Baldwin’s smile became a bit more genuine, then he shook his head. “But they soon regretted it. They were constantly fearful. Even though I hadn’t rotted my face or deformed my bones like those long-suffering lepers, I must say they tried to control themselves, but later…
Not everyone can be as fearless as you and accept this semi-imprisoned life.” He looked at the flames. “Unlike other people’s servants or attendants, once known to be mine, they’re inevitably shunned and disliked.”
“Couldn’t they just leave?” Caesar commented sarcastically. “Even bloodsucking leeches are picky about the victim’s skin not being thin enough.”
Baldwin chuckled. “Looks like you won’t let Witt return to my side.”
“Who would trust such a villain?” Caesar said. “But this matter…”
“I’ll tell Heraclius. It’s his dialectic lesson this afternoon anyway,” Baldwin said lightly. If Witt were only malicious and stupid, the matter might have passed, but he seemed exceptionally gifted at evil, so he couldn’t stay. But dealing with a chosen person wasn’t work they could handle.
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