Chapter 11: Refugees

“Three Oak Shields and five Oak Spears, a total of five gold coins.” Alton rubbed his hands.

There was no business more profitable than dealing in arms, especially monopolized military arms.

If Corleon hadn’t heard the news of the village being destroyed, he might have hesitated, but under the current circumstances, he didn’t hesitate and handed over the five gold coins directly.

The old priest had spent his whole life saving less than twenty gold coins, and Corleon hadn’t made any major deals since taking over.

Originally, after the church bestowed Blessings upon the militia, knights would usually offer a fee, though it wasn’t mandatory—Borien, being newly appointed, simply didn’t know the custom.

Perhaps he truly didn’t know…

“Wow, thank you for your generosity. May the glory of the Noble House of the Twin Lions forever shield you.” Alton became even more enthusiastic.

Of course he was enthusiastic—five gold coins meant he’d net at least four coins in profit.

If it weren’t for such high profit, he wouldn’t have accepted non-military custom orders.

“I have the Lord’s protection.” Corleon placed a hand on the cross on his chest and spoke.

“Oh yes, Priest Corleon, of course, your Lord will protect you.” Alton didn’t care about any Lord—he only wanted to make money.

“Would you like one of my lads to help you carry this to the church? Of course, it would cost a few coppers.”

“No need. I have the Lord’s Blessing, which grants me strength and wards off illness.” Corleon said, then slung the bound Oak Shields onto his back and hoisted the five Oak Spears, wrapped in burlap, onto his shoulder.

They were quite heavy, but with Corleon’s current physique, carrying them back posed no problem.

“Mr. Alton, you’re also welcome to visit the church when you have time. The Lord will grant you Blessings too.” Corleon said to Alton.

“Of course, when I have time, I’ll go.” Alton gave a perfunctory reply.

Corleon could see Alton’s perfunctory attitude, but didn’t mind.

This was the awkward status of the church in this era.

The poor couldn’t afford worship, and the rich were unwilling to worship.

…

Without lingering, Corleon hesitated briefly, then exited the town through the West Gate.

Outside the West Gate, tents had already been set up.

Under the protection of guards, the official was registering villagers who had lost their homes due to the village’s destruction and come to York Town seeking refuge.

However, only healthy adults and children were registered and allowed into town. Those who were disabled or elderly were dragged aside, crying and begging.

Their eyes were filled with fear.

After a moment of hesitation, Corleon walked up to the abandoned group.

“I am a priest of the Flower Church. If you have nowhere to go, you may follow me to the church. Though we only have wooden fences and hot porridge, it can provide you with rest and a full stomach.”

After speaking, Corleon drew a cross in front of himself and continued on.

The abandoned ones looked at each other, then, after glancing at the wary town guards, slowly followed Corleon.

“That’s Priest Corleon.” The guard leaned toward the official’s ear and spoke, pointing at the departing Corleon.

“Wow, seems to be a kind-hearted priest, going out of his way to the West Gate just to console this trash.” The official remarked sarcastically.

He didn’t say much more—comforting the rabble was the church’s responsibility after all.

“Make a signpost and place it at the crossroads. When registering, tell that trash they can take refuge at the church. There’s a kind priest there who’ll offer them protection.” He instructed the guard.

The lord owned the land, and the official was the one who helped him govern it. So long as he didn’t make a major error, such officials were typically hereditary.

Over time, he had come to see the people as property.

And the disabled and elderly were merely useless, worthless property.

Returning to the church, Corleon arranged the newly purchased Oak weapons.

By the time he stepped outside again, more than a dozen people had gathered.

Their eyes were filled with fear.

They only dared huddle together on the cleared patch of land outside the church.

“Do not be afraid. This is the Lord’s Throne. No evil can draw near here. And the Lord loves mankind—He will grant protection to all.” Corleon said, motioning for them to relax, then turned to an elderly man who looked relatively healthy.

“May I ask your name?” he asked.

“Bede, sir. My name is Bede.” The old man was a little flustered.

“Just call me priest. I am a servant of the Lord, not a noble.” Corleon corrected.

“I need your help to start a fire and cook a pot of porridge. I believe everyone needs to eat something now.”

Hearing this, their eyes lit up.

In times of hunger and fear, food brings a sense of security.

“Yes, sir—no, I mean, yes, Priest Corleon.” Old Bede quickly said.

…

Lori Village was the fief of Knight Borien.

George had returned to his birthplace, though he held no particular sentiment for it.

If it weren’t for noble law, he’d have fled to another place long ago.

Although, likely, he would’ve ended up as some beast’s dung by the roadside.

George felt something odd—the village atmosphere was tense.

“Sir, may I ask what brings you to Lori?” A beautiful young woman approached and spoke to him.

Yara Daniels, the most beautiful girl in Lori, with flowing golden hair.

More than half the village’s young men longed to marry her—George had once been among them.

But that had always been just a fantasy.

The Daniels family wasn’t a commoner household in Lori.

They owned a grain mill and held the post of tax official.

Even before Knight Borien arrived, they were already the most prominent and wealthy family in the village.

Now that this was Knight Borien’s fief, by custom, the Daniels family would likely serve as his stewards.

In a sense, the Daniels family’s power would only grow.

With such a background, Yara would either marry into a family of equal standing or take in a Knight’s Squire as a live-in husband.

Of course, villagers speculated she would eventually marry Knight Borien.

That knight who was nearly her father’s age.

“I’m George, the militia conscripted by Knight Borien.” George replied, ignoring Yara’s curious gaze.

George, who upheld the Commandment of ‘Purity of Self’, had no interest in matters between men and women.

He believed such things defiled a baptized body.

Thus, his reaction to his former dream girl was calm.

Yara looked puzzled.

She had heard about Knight Borien conscripting a bunch of village scum as militia.

She even knew it was the Daniels family who had hidden the strong men and handed over only able-bodied scoundrels to the knight.

She’d even handpicked a few of them—men who had once looked at her with wicked eyes.

Yet, she couldn’t associate the clean and sturdy—though slightly limping—man before her with those scoundrels.

Still, more than wondering about George’s identity, she cared about the person George had mentioned.

“Then, where is Knight Borien? The village is in danger—we need his protection.” Yara asked.

“Unfortunately, Knight Borien was captured. His squire and the others were all killed. I’m the only survivor.” George said.

“Knight Borien was captured!? By that Lord Lundex?” Yara asked, disbelief in her voice.

“Yes, we were ambushed.” George nodded, extinguishing the sliver of hope in Yara’s heart.

“I came back this time to inform the families of the militia about what happened.”

“Captured… captured…” Yara murmured, dazed, and turned to run without responding to George.

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