Visiting the Prison

Twenty days later, the world was still the same world, and the room was still the same room, but its layout had changed.

The hard plank bed in the room had been replaced with sun-dried, soft rushes, covered with a patchwork sheepskin cushion and a brand-new wool felt blanket.

The old, broken three-legged chair by the bed had become a leather-upholstered armchair. In the open space behind it sat a large wooden tub big enough for an adult, with two clean linen tunics draped over its edge.

In the corner of the room, a stack of fresh, tender leaves the size of palms lay beside the freshly cleaned chamber pot.

A hemp rope had been tied to the beam running through the middle of the room. A leather bag filled with fine sand hung from it, covered in fist marks and nearly torn apart.

On the low square table against the wall beside the sandbag sat a neatly arranged set of tableware and two jars of barley beer. Several pages of a copy of Beowulf written in Old English and a Latin Bible lay open.

The only two books in all of Milkhouse Manor were gathered on this wooden table.

Beside the two books, a wooden-handled hunting knife that had just cut meat rested on an oak chopping block. Its blood-streaked blade had been polished to a shine.

On a stool near the fireplace beneath the chopping block sat a young man dressed in loose knee-length breeches and a sleeveless short tunic.

The large scar on the man's head had already scabbed over, while the smoke from the fireplace had narrowed his long eyes to slits.

He held a long-handled wooden spatula, using its other end to occasionally stir the contents of a frying pan over the flames...

The time since waking up had been the most comfortable period Roger had enjoyed in all these years.

As a child, he had been alone and destitute, wandering everywhere and surviving on begging, sometimes full and sometimes starving.

As a teenager, he had run wild, committed all manner of misdeeds, and gotten into fights until he was black and blue.

As a young man, he had finally come to his senses. With government support, he had managed to attend school, only to seriously injure someone in a fight and end up in juvenile detention. By the time he got out, he had already fallen off the straight path.

At twenty, he had followed an older brother he met in juvenile detention into smuggling. After ten years of fighting and clawing his way up, he had made quite a name for himself, only to bring murder upon himself by ruining a rival's business.

Looking back on his short previous life, it had truly been miserable...

The creak of the door opening jolted Roger out of his memories.

The freckled young man had half a piece of ginger tucked in his hand.

He set the ginger on the chopping block as though it were a treasure, then proudly said to the man frying pork fat by the fireplace, "Young Master Roger, the spice you wanted is here."

Without even looking up, Roger said, "You only got it back now? The pork fat in the pan is fucking close to drying out."

"My mother locked it in the cabinet. She wouldn't let me take any until the steward approved."

The man said impatiently, "Hurry up and shred it, then throw it in the pan."

The freckled young man looked startled. "All of it?"

Roger looked up at the knuckle-sized piece of ginger. "With this little bit, are you planning to eat it for a year? Stop babbling and hurry up."

"It cost a whole seven pence! That's my mother's wages for a week..." The freckled young man picked up the hunting knife, tears nearly welling in his eyes.

The freckled young man shredded the ginger, then scraped the bits into his palm with the hunting knife and carefully added them to the pork in the frying pan.

A moment later, Roger poured the sliced pork from the chopping block into the hot oil. Flames surged up, and the room was instantly filled with fragrance.

Roger kept stirring with the wooden spoon, tossing the slices of meat back and forth in the frying pan.

The freckled young man's eyes had gone wide. He had never imagined food could be prepared like this, and drool was already running from the corner of his mouth.

"Did you find what I asked you to look for?" Roger sprinkled a pinch of coarsely ground salt into the frying pan.

The freckled young man never took his eyes off the meat in the pan.

"There's no world map like the one you wanted anywhere on the island. The steward went to the church several times, but they only had some hand-drawn maps of the world."

"The priest said that everything east of the holy city of Jerusalem was wilderness, a hell ruled by devils and heathens."

The meat in the pan had already changed color, so Roger quickly pulled the frying pan away from the fireplace flames, picked up a slice, and chewed it twice.

"Peh!" Roger spat the meat into the fireplace. "It tastes fucking awful!"

He saw the coarse yellowish-brown salt crystals that had not dissolved in the pan. "This salt is garbage."

Roger casually tossed the frying pan onto the square table and said with a roguish grin, "Tell the steward that if he can't get me a map, I'll go out and get one myself."

The freckled young man waved his hands repeatedly, his face full of terror. "Young Master Roger, you mustn't go out. The steward said that if you escape this bedroom, he'll break my legs."

"How about I go out tomorrow and look again? Maybe the baron's residence has those things."

Recently, Roger had been throwing his weight around throughout the manor. Whenever he threatened to escape the bedroom, that bitter-faced steward immediately gave in and satisfied every unreasonable demand he made.

With a smug expression, Roger walked over to the leather-upholstered armchair and flopped down into it. Looking at the fellow staring at the meat in the iron pan, he waved a broad hand. "It's yours."

The freckled young man treated it like treasure. He grabbed the frying pan and grimaced as it burned his hands.

"Slow down. Don't get yourself burned to death."

The freckled young man had already stuffed a large piece of fried meat into his mouth.

Roger looked doubtful. "Is it really that good?"

The freckled young man did not care that the saltiness stung his nose. "It's meat. I'm lucky if I get to eat it once a year."

Roger did not believe him at all. "Your mother's a cook. Don't tell me you never steal a bite."

Caught out, the freckled young man forced an embarrassed smile through his mouthful of meat.

Roger did not care. "Fine, it's all yours. Take it outside and eat."

"Tonight, have your mother boil a few more buckets of hot water. Your young master wants a bath."

The freckled young man swallowed the unchewed meat in his mouth. "Young Master, you just bathed ten days ago. You want another one already?"

"Get out and do as I say."

The freckled young man ran out of the room with the frying pan as though fleeing for his life, not forgetting to lock the door behind him.

Roger got up and went to the square table, lifted a clay jar, and poured himself a large cup of beer. He brought the barley beer, topped with pale brown foam, to his lips.

After downing several cups, he heard several dogs barking outside the window.

"Finally."

Holding his cup, Roger strolled to the window and stuck his head out. The bald, green-clad thug was climbing up the wall pillar, half a roast chicken clenched between his teeth.

Ever since the Baron of Allen Island had led his troops off to war, this thug had come to visit Roger almost every day.

But the bitter-faced steward had driven him away with a stick several times, so now he only dared to come by climbing the wall.

With his patchy bald head, the green-clad thug expertly climbed to the square window of the attic bedroom on the third floor. He reached one arm through the window frame to grab hold, leaving his body hanging diagonally against the outer wall without seeming at all bothered by the awkward position.

He took the half roast chicken from his mouth and held it out to Roger, who was drinking beside the window. "Young Master Roger, we've avenged you."

Roger accepted the half chicken with one hand. Two uneven rows of bite marks on the golden-brown meat were particularly revolting. He handed his wooden cup, with a little dreg-filled beer remaining inside, to the green-clad thug, then tore off a drumstick from the untouched side and cautiously put it in his mouth.

The chicken was crisp outside and tender within, and the faint taste of a few grains of fine salt was just right. It tasted far better than the ginger-shredded fried pork he had spent an entire afternoon making.

The green-clad thug had already licked the last of the beer from the cup clean. His right arm, hooked over the window frame, waved lightly as he vividly embellished the glorious tale of how he had led Allen Island's band of "rangers" to Rocklanza Village that day and dealt with Gary, the wealthy peasant village chief, showing off before Young Master Roger, who had suffered so much at Gary's hands.