Not Sad

The fine rain filling the sky had already stopped, but dense clouds still blanketed the heavens above Allen Island, pressing down so heavily that people could scarcely breathe.

In the wet, glistening pier harbor, the Baron floated alone. Several sailors were washing the mottled bloodstains from its deck into the sea, where a faint crimson had already spread through the surrounding waters.

The sailors did their best to focus on their work, so that the sky-shattering wails drifting over from Baron Castle in the distance would not pierce their ears quite so painfully.

When Bitter Melon Face hurried Roger on horseback toward Brodick Castle, the castle was already packed three layers deep inside and three layers deep outside. Nearly half of Allen Island had gathered there.

Bitter Melon Face led his gray mule through the crowded throng ahead, while Roger jumped down from his horse and followed close behind, leading it by the reins.

The three manor tenants trailing behind the mixed-breed horse were already weeping quietly. All of them had relatives who had marched out with the army.

The closer they came to the castle, the louder the crying and shouting became.

On the way there, Bitter Melon Face had already roughly told Roger the news of the defeat that he had learned from the messenger. Of Allen Island's expeditionary force of more than a hundred men, fewer than half had returned, and nearly every one of them was wounded.

Every village on the island had people who had died or been gravely injured, and almost every islander had friends or family who had perished on that fatal journey.

At the castle gates, the watching islanders saw Milkhouse Manor's steward and the devil young master behind him, and they parted to make way.

Lately, "Young Master Roger" had become a high-frequency phrase in Allen Island's rumor mill. Especially among those islanders who had enjoyed Brodick's free lunches, no three sentences passed without mention of the great bandit-suppression feat they had taken part in.

Not to mention the dozen or twenty people who had personally participated in the bandit-suppression battle.

"Young Master Roger" was now not only wicked beyond measure, but also a man who killed without blinking.

Roger ignored the occasional pointing and whispering from the crowd, his face dark as he stepped into Brodick Castle.

Most of those inside the castle were relatives of wounded soldiers. They gathered around the injured men in the open space before the church, sobbing softly. Some soldiers who had lost hands or feet might be crippled for the rest of their lives.

Even more heartrending wails came from inside the church as the families of the dead cried themselves hoarse. Several lightly wounded soldiers and their accompanying relatives kept trying to comfort them.

The usually empty church was now occupied by more than a dozen corpses. The fat priest and several assistants were sweating profusely as they cleaned the bodies, then covered them with curtains and coarse cloth hastily found nearby.

These soldiers who had died in battle were fortunate. At least they had returned to their homeland, rather than being stripped naked by the enemy and left in the wilderness for wild dogs to tear apart.

Roger entered the church. The corpses, with torn sinews and broken bones, bellies split open and intestines spilling out, made his stomach churn faintly. This was not battlefield slaughter, without the rush of adrenaline; ordinary people found it hard to remain calm and composed.

Fortunately, in his previous life, Roger had seen the gruesome aftermath of gang brawls: ruptured bellies, pierced guts, severed limbs, and chunks of flesh scattered across the ground. Though sick at heart, he managed to suppress the nausea.

At the innermost side of the church hall, a coffin sat beneath the altar. Baron John Campbell of Allen Island wore a short woolen tunic, a belted tartan kilt, and a tartan plaid slung diagonally across his shoulder, fastened there with a silver ring clasp. Its lower edge was cinched by an exquisite cowhide belt. The red, blue, and white saltire pattern on the kilt and plaid was the Campbell Lineage tartan.

This was traditional Scottish attire. Roger also had a cheaper version, though he preferred his own lightweight farmer's robe.

In recent years, Allen Island had been increasingly permeated by English culture, and traditional clothing had steadily fallen out of use. Yet on solemn occasions such as this, people still returned to tradition.

Baron John stared gravely at the young corpse in the coffin. The baroness beside him had tears streaking her face, and even that "White Face," whom Roger loathed beyond measure, hung his head in silence.

That gave Roger a slightly different impression of his nominal aunt and his sodomite cousin. At least they mourned the deaths of their relatives.

Before Roger could approach, Bitter Melon Face rushed forward ahead of him, threw himself beside the coffin, glared inside, and immediately burst into loud sobs.

This old steward had served the Colin family for most of his life. He had watched the Colin family's three sons grow up, and the eldest, Colin II, had been upright and valiant—a model knight in everyone's eyes, and the pride of the entire Campbell Lineage.

Now, the eldest young master he had watched grow up had become a cold corpse. Sir Colin, whom he had served for half his life, had not even returned with a body. Grief welled up in the old steward's heart, and his sorrow was boundless.

Baron John's chief steward came over and offered a few words of comfort, helping the old man, who was crying so hard he could barely catch his breath, to one side.

Baron John then turned his gaze toward Roger, who had lagged slightly behind.

To be honest, Roger had no real feelings toward either the corpse lying in the coffin or the one that had failed to return.

Since coming into this world, he had only encountered them twice in total—once each.

His righteous "elder brother," Colin II, had held little affection for his wicked younger brother. Thus, he had only come to see him once before Roger awakened, which was much the same as never having met. His "father," Sir Colin, had indeed met him once in haste, but at the time he had been blazing with fury, wishing Roger had already been beaten to death.

After that, his "father and brother" had gone off to war, and when he saw them again, they had already become corpses. There was simply no emotion to speak of.

Thus, Roger did not display the heartfelt grief of Bitter Melon Face, nor did he intend to put on an act.

Roger stepped two paces closer. The coffin had clearly been found in haste and was slightly shorter than the body, leaving Colin II's legs faintly bent.

More than a dozen corpses had suddenly appeared that day, and there were nowhere near enough coffins on the island. Only because Colin II was a squire and a member of the Campbell Lineage had he received such special honor; the bodies of the common soldiers could only be wrapped simply in white cloth.

The riveted chainmail had been removed from the body and set aside. There were wounds on his cheeks, neck, and arms, but his sunken chest showed that he had been killed by a heavy blow from a blunt weapon. The fine riveted chainmail had blocked the enemy's blades, but it had failed to stop a war hammer striking him squarely in the chest.

"You devil, don't you have even the instinct to grieve? He was your elder brother, after all!" The baroness squeezed out a thread of fury through clenched teeth, her voice thick with tears. This time, she was not condemning Roger's past wickedness; it was clear that she had truly loved this "elder brother."

Roger remained expressionless and answered in a low voice, "Baroness, grief will not bring back my father and brother."

The baroness choked on his reply and was about to step forward and scold him again.

"Enough." Baron John's low roar cut off the noblewoman's words.

At that moment, a stocky middle-aged man draped in a bloodstained woolen cloak walked over. With a thump, he dropped to his knees before Roger, lowered his head, and said painfully, "Young Master Roger, I was useless. I failed to protect the two knights, and I failed to recover Sir Colin's body. Please punish me."

Roger examined the man on the ground. The blood on his head had already clotted, matting his brown hair into a solid mass. Clearly, he had been injured as well.

Thinking back, this man was the strongest fighter under his "father," and the only old soldier who had followed his "father" through every battle against the English. His survival of this crushing defeat was certainly not mere luck.

"Ma'en was valiant. The enemy had overwhelming numbers then. He risked his life to recover your elder brother's body and your father's sword. He had already done all he could." Baron John actually spoke personally to vouch for this humble common soldier.

Ma'en was usually a man of few words. Hearing the baron personally testify for him only made him feel even more guilty. He could only press his kneeling body lower, until his head nearly touched the floor.

Roger naturally admired such a loyal and valiant man. He took half a step forward, bent down, and helped the kneeling soldier Ma'en to his feet. "Thank you for risking your life for my father and brother. The Colin family will never forget your loyalty and valor."

The moment those words were spoken, not only Soldier Ma'en, but even Baron John, his chief steward, and the others behind him stared in astonishment. This did not sound like something Devil Roger would say.

Yet this was, after all, a place of sorrow, and no one voiced their amazement.

Baron John wiped the surprise from his face and said solemnly, "Though I do not wish to admit it, you are now the only adult man left in the Colin family. I called you here to ask whether your elder brother's body should be taken back to Milkhouse Manor for burial, or buried in the church cemetery."

Roger had no desire to bring a corpse back to the manor and spend more effort burying it, but he could not say so outright. After considering his wording, he looked at the cold body and replied, "He fought for Allen Island. Though dead, his honor lives on. I think he should be buried with all the glorious Campbell ancestors. His grave should become a monument for future Campbells to revere."

Once again, his words startled everyone.

"Very good." Baron John offered a soft word of praise, though it was unclear whether he praised Roger's words or the glorious corpse.

"We will discuss the remaining matters another day. First, take your father and brother's belongings back with you, and bring Milkhouse Manor's soldiers and wounded back as well, settling them properly. Tomorrow afternoon, I will hold a funeral in the castle church for your father and brother, as well as all the heroic souls who died in battle. Bring Louis with you."

"If your mother is too heartbroken, she need not come. I cannot bear to see her weeping to heaven and crying to earth."

After saying this, Baron John raised a fist to his mouth and coughed softly several times, then left the church with the baroness and chief steward supporting him.

White Face John cast Roger several complicated glances before following them out of the church.

Steward Bitter Melon Face had already stopped crying, but he kept his head lowered, ceaselessly wiping the tears from the corners of his eyes. Soldier Ma'en also remained silent, his eyes fixed steadily on the corpse inside the coffin.

"Old Budd, Soldier Ma'en." Roger called softly, and the two raised their heads at the sound.

"Gather the belongings. Find a few ox carts and take our people back to the manor." They had left in too much of a hurry that day to think of bringing carriages.

"Young Master Roger, where are we supposed to find ox carts today? We might as well carry them back."

"How you find them is your business." As Roger spoke, he took several silver pence from his sleeve pouch and tossed them to Bitter Melon Face. "Offer a high price."

"Ah?" The two exclaimed softly in unison.

"Do as I say."