Cheap Mom

"...You have no idea, Gary that old bastard was on guard. He gathered several tenant farmers to protect the house, and every one of them had a club in hand."

"But we weren't afraid in the slightest. They were only a few sturdier tenant farmers."

"I kicked open the courtyard gate first, raised my short cudgel, and smashed down a big farmhand with one blow..." The green-clad thug sprayed spittle as he spoke, exaggerating himself into a valiant knight charging through enemy ranks on horseback with sword in hand.

Roger watched the man's performance with a faint, easy smile. He had already guessed most of the truth:

A bald man in green had gathered three or five island hooligans in the name of avenging the son of the Colin family's knight, then headed to Rocklanza Village in the north of Allen Island to bully a wealthy farmer-village head.

Instead, the man had been prepared. His tenant farmers gave the thugs a thorough beating, sending them scattering in all directions.

While fleeing, the thugs had not forgotten to swipe an innocent old hen from the village. Now it had become the green-clad thug's trophy for claiming credit and reward.

But Roger did not expose him. The familiar feeling added quite a bit of amusement to his leisurely "prisoner life."

After spending these days together, Roger had formed a rather good impression of this bald man in green.

Baldhead's name was Neil. Whether he was eighteen or twenty, even he could not say for certain. He lived in a flea-infested hovel on the outskirts of Brodick Town on Allen Island.

His mother had died when he was young, while his father had become cannon fodder in some battle against the English. For years, he had lived alone with his half-blind grandmother.

Strictly speaking, the fellow was not truly a bad man. He did not dare rob homes or murder and burn, and even when he stole chickens and dogs, he was often beaten black and blue.

All year round, he wrapped himself in that tattered green wool sweater, wandering about with bulging toad eyes. The islanders therefore cursed him as the "Green Toad," though lately he had acquired another nickname: "Baldhead."

Though notorious, he possessed two virtues. First, he was exceptionally filial to his half-blind grandmother. Second, he was quite loyal to his friends.

Ever since learning that Young Master Roger had awakened and been confined, he had climbed over the wall almost every day, rain or shine, to keep him company.

"The lads fought a hard battle and earned their trouble, so I made the call to roast this captured hen and give them half. I specially brought the remaining half to you, Young Master."

The bald man in green sniffed. "Why does your room smell so good?" Then his gaze fixed on the half-roasted chicken in Roger's hand, his Adam's apple constantly bobbing as he swallowed saliva.

Roger casually handed the remaining chicken to the bald man in green. "Whose salt is this? It's quite refined and tastes good."

The bald man in green stuffed chicken into his mouth and replied indistinctly, "Of course it is. This is the refined salt we stole from the kitchen of the Red Mill."

"It's boiled at your family's Salt Beach. It's all valuable merchandise sold to Irish merchants. Even the Baron's household cannot bear to eat much of it."

"Refined salt? Maritime trade?" Roger drifted into thought.

The bald man in green did not catch Roger's muttering. He swallowed a mouthful of shredded meat. "Young Master Roger, how many days have you been locked up? Isn't it time they let you out?"

"The lads are waiting for you to come out so we can get roaring drunk."

"Brodick will be holding the Wool Market soon. The taverns in town have just brought in several new prostitutes."

"While the Baron and the other lords are off the island, you have to take us out for some fun..."

"We'll see." Roger brushed him off. "Tell me what's been happening on the island lately..."

"Roger~"

A long, gentle call startled Roger awake from his noon nap. That helpless, bargain-bin mother of his had come again.

His cheap mom wore a simple dark-gray wool dress, with a fitted outer garment over it.

Though the cut was plain, the cuffs and collar were finely embroidered. A silver belt cinched her already slender body into a wasp waist, and her deerskin shoes fit her perfectly.

Behind her followed the plump woman who was forever tied up in an apron.

She was the mother of Little Horseherd Igo, the manor's cook and his cheap mother's personal matron.

His cheap mom looked well. Her once-gaunt cheeks had gained a little color. She took a tray from the cook, carrying fine wheat bread and pea-and-meat puree soup, along with a piece of honey-glazed roast meat and a large cup of barley ale.

Setting the tray on the wooden table, his cheap mother beamed with excitement. "Roger, your father sent word that in another three to five days, they should be leading the army back to the island."

"This time, your father and your elder brother captured a castle occupied by the English and seized quite a lot of spoils. The Colin family will finally have an easier year."

"Thank God." His cheap mom raised a hand and made the sign of the cross over her chest.

Her husband and eldest son had fought successfully and would soon return laden with spoils; her youngest son was studying Latin at the island church, exceptionally bright and deeply valued by the priest.

Even her second son, who had worried her the most, had abruptly changed after waking from his grave injuries. Though his behavior was quite strange, at least he had settled down and behaved himself.

"I went to Brodick Church today. The priest told me that you must have received God's forgiveness. He said..."

Roger half-opened his eyes at the middle-aged woman who kept chattering, his mind a tangled mess.

Recently, he had not dreamed much. The memories of this body's former owner had become a black-and-white film playing in his mind.

In those memories, this helpless middle-aged woman truly was his "mother."

She was the daughter of a minor noble from the Scottish Highlands, seemingly distantly related to the seventh-generation descendant of Malcolm, eldest son of Scotland's former king Duncan I, while also sharing some blood ties with one of the daughters of Gillebride, Duke of the Western Isles.

But ever since King Alexander III of Scotland had died without an heir, dozens of great and minor nobles had claimed blood ties to Scotland's royal house, with earls and barons among them by the heap.

Her thin thread of royal blood could essentially be ignored.

Every day, this middle-aged woman came to Roger's bedroom and chattered for half the day. As someone who had been an orphan since childhood, Roger truly could not stand her endless domestic trivia and nagging.

Rising lazily, Roger said nothing and walked straight to the wooden table. He sat down and lifted the cup, taking a sip of the island's locally brewed barley ale.

This barley ale was essentially the beer of this era. It had originated in Ayrshire and had now become a drink found on the tables of commoners with a little property. It was pale brown, with a faintly toasted grain fragrance.

It was much lighter than the Scottish ale Roger had drunk in his later life, but its taste was still quite good.

After half a cup went down, Roger carefully examined the pale yellow loaf of fine wheat bread on the tray. The plump cook beside him wore an expression of utter excitement.

This fine wheat bread was a product that marked an era.

Ten days earlier, Roger had finally been unable to endure that tooth-jarring hard rye bread.

Drawing on his shallow memories of leavening dough, he had Little Horseherd soak raisins in cooled boiled water in a clay jar for fermentation. Once white foam appeared, they added white flour and let it ferment. After sealing it for several days, they added another batch, and when it finally swelled into dough, they cut it into pieces, dried them in the sun, and ground them into yeast powder.

This was the plump cook's first attempt at making bread with that yeast powder. Though it was still worlds apart from the risen pastries of later generations, it already possessed the basic qualities of softness and toasted fragrance.

Its texture had made a leap across the ages.

Roger tore off a piece, put it in his mouth, and chewed twice. Rarely, he gave an approving nod to the food at the manor.

He tore off another half piece, dipped it into the pea-and-meat puree with its thick gravy, stuffed it into his mouth, and swallowed it in a few bites.

After finishing the specially prepared, lavish lunch, Roger interrupted his cheap mom's endless chatter. "I should go out now."

"What?" His cheap mom parted her lips slightly, unable to believe her ears. This was the first time Roger had spoken to her on his own initiative in all these days.

"I should be released."

Roger gritted his teeth, steeled himself, and added, "Mother."

"Oh heavens, he finally spoke to me. He even called me Mother." The middle-aged woman turned and embraced the plump cook behind her, tears pouring down like water from a spring.

"God bless us, my son spoke to me. Child, can you say it again?"

Roger's head was full of black lines...