Roger returned to the house and hurriedly finished his now-cooled dinner.
He remembered the baron had said they needed to talk, but seeing that the main hall was still noisy with drinking and laughter, he slipped upstairs—more precisely, to the attic—to arrange the bedding.
There was no bed in the attic, only two mattresses of different sizes. Each was made of straw lashed together with rope and laid directly on the wooden floor, covered by a single sheet.
The baron, as kind as his nickname suggested—"The Soft-Hearted"—never once made Roger sleep in the noisy hall with the rest. Instead, he welcomed the young page to share the attic with him, and even indulged Roger's little quirks—like giving him his own mattress.
Eventually, the clamor in the hall died down.
Roger came down and saw the women clearing the table before leaving with their husbands.
With nothing else to do, he wandered into the hall again and saw the baron's usual easy smile had vanished.
Baron Rollo spoke gravely:
"Your father, Count Roger, is not doing well. The court physician says there's nothing more to be done—only to await God's call."
Roger listened in silence. He had known this day would come.
"Your mother, Lady Adelaide, has sent word. She's asked me to bring you home. We leave tomorrow. We'll likely stay in Messina until… everything is settled."
Roger nodded and accepted the arrangement without protest.
The baron took up his sword, and the two of them went upstairs to sleep.
Roger obediently lay down. The baron slid his sword beneath his pillow before lying back, and in mere moments, his snoring began.
But Roger couldn't sleep. He turned on his side and gazed at the baron with quiet sympathy.
This soft-hearted man had to clutch his sword to fall asleep every night.
Roger knew what this was: post-traumatic stress. But there was nothing he could do about it.
His eyes remained open, his thoughts drifting into memories of the past.
---
"Rollo! My strongest brother-in-arms! Conqueror of Jerusalem! Welcome home."
Count Roger beamed as he greeted Baron Rollo, holding little Roger in his arms.
The child stared curiously at this travel-worn, somber-looking man. He hadn't seen him at the feast where the Count had hosted his vassals—this man must've been absent.
"My lord, please forgive my late arrival to Amalfi and my abrupt departure," Baron Rollo said formally.
"And please, don't call me conqueror. I was merely one among many, following the orders of Tancred."
The Count chuckled, understanding.
"You're not like the others. I know why you joined the Crusade. After your wife… passed from childbirth… you needed redemption."
He gestured for Rollo to sit.
"So tell me—did you find it?"
"That's… not an easy question."
The Count nodded solemnly.
"What you need is a woman."
"No. I still… can't forget."
"Ah, love…" the Count sighed.
"There's real magic in it, isn't there? Even now, I can't forget my first wife—my eternal love, Judith."
A heavy silence fell between the two men.
Little Roger sat quietly on his father's lap, eyes wide.
Wait... his true love... wasn't my mother?
The castle was full of gossips and rumors, but not once had anyone mentioned a woman named Judith. It felt like he'd just stumbled upon a sealed vault in his father's heart.
But soon, the men turned to lighter topics—war stories, tales of the Holy Land.
Once the wine started flowing, they spoke of everything and anything—boasting like only warriors can, until it seemed they'd boast the very world into ashes.
Roger had no interest in any of it. He wriggled on his father's lap, eager to leave. Lately, he'd been busy raising a horse. Who had time for drunken nonsense?
His fidgeting didn't go unnoticed. The Count placed a hand on his shoulder and shifted back to seriousness.
"I've written my will. Everything is arranged… except for this child—my son, Roger."
He paused.
"I want to entrust him to you. Protect him. Guide him. Teach him to become a true knight."
Hearing that he was the subject, Roger stopped squirming and sat quietly, awaiting judgment.
The baron stood and raised two fingers to his temple.
"In the name of God, I swear…"
Roger's memory faded as sleep overtook him.
The wooden house was silent. Peaceful.
---
Sunlight filtered into the attic. Roger awoke naturally. Another day had begun.
He already knew the baron would be in the courtyard practicing swordsmanship—he always rose early to train.
He also knew the women would be coming soon to prepare breakfast. If the baron didn't get hungry after training, Roger might've forgotten breakfast even existed.
After washing up, he went to tend the horses—his own Gift, and the baron's warhorse.
When he returned, breakfast was ready. He and the baron ate together.
A simple meal, the same as usual—just reheated leftovers from last night.
They packed what little they needed. Not much—mostly dry rations. After saying goodbye to the women, they prepared to set off.
Everything felt… natural.
Roger rode behind the baron on his warhorse, with Gift trotting cheerfully alongside.
As they passed the gates, they encountered the coachman.
He called out casually,
"Thinking of heading to Messina to find some work. If you're not in a hurry, mind if I tag along?"
So Roger dismounted and climbed into the cart, thick with straw.
Again—so natural.
They passed the church. Father Poppo had a spiked mace tucked into his belt. He climbed aboard without hesitation.
"I have a few theological matters I'd like to debate with the bishop in Messina," he explained.
Roger thought, He must be right. Anyone with truth strapped to their waist is bound to win any argument.
Then they passed the blacksmith's forge. The smith wordlessly tossed his hammer into the cart, then sat down without a word.
From his expression, Roger could tell what he didn't say:
"I'm just an anvil. Do what you want with me. This is who I am."
At the village gate, the forester joined them.
He was on horseback, with a bow on his back and a wild duck in hand.
"Bagged a rare duck," he said.
"Thought I'd see if I could sell it for a good price in Messina."
And so he joined them. Just like that.
The baron smiled.
Roger thought he looked ridiculous.
So much for the send-off feast last night.
Men always say dumb things when they're drunk.
They traveled all day without pause. The duck was eaten somewhere along the way.
The only one excited was Roger's colt, Gift, who darted around the cart, occasionally teasing the worn-down draft horse.
The older horse, long ground down by life, ignored the taunts completely.
Roger chuckled.
Looks like you finally learned some tact.
He thought back to life in the castle—back when Gift, brash and arrogant, once dared to provoke the Count's warhorse.
That ended with Gift fleeing for his life, bleeding from a vicious bite on his back.
The chaos the two horses caused had turned the whole keep upside down—chickens flying, dogs barking, chaos everywhere—until the Count finally shouted:
"Fine! Dinner tonight—raw horse meat!"