"Er... I actually wrote this."
His uncle must have slipped the Vice Abbot so money, because Eric was assigned to the library the mont he entered King’s Bridge Monastery, becoming the administrator for both the library and the scriptorium.
It was called a library, but its collection barely exceeded thirty books—and this was supposedly one of the most prominent monasteries in Western England.
Since Latin was a gift from the system’s novice package, he had no trouble reading. Within a few months, Eric had devoured all the books.
However, the Latin gifted by the system only granted him reading comprehension; his writing skills had to be honed through practice. So, after copying a few Latin works, he decided to transcribe *Don Quixote* into Latin to work on his penmanship.
Of course, that wasn’t all he transcribed. He also worked on Aquinas’s *Summa Theologica* and Aristotle’s *Organon*. He only carved out portions of them, though. They were far too long, and it was just for practice.
The scriptorium’s parchnt was incredibly precious. If he used it for practice, the Vice Abbot would have his hide. So, he could only carve on the walls.
"You wrote this?"
Emma’s lovely brows furrowed once more.
"Do you have any proof?" Emma hugged the book to her chest, as if afraid he would snatch it away.
"I believe I only got to the part where Don Quixote fights the windmills. He says, ’Fortune is guiding our affairs better than we ourselves could have wished.’"
Eric loved that line; it was a hope he often shared.
Everyone is Don Quixote.
Because right when he carved up to that point, the drunken Vice Abbot had burst in. Seeing the walls covered in writing, he thought so kind of cult ritual was taking place and nearly had Eric burned at the stake.
Luckily, the Vice Abbot sobered up in the end (after Eric tied him to a tree and threatened to burn *him* at the stake). Afterward, however, he made Eric’s life difficult and had him kicked out of the library.
"..."
"What’s wrong? Was I incorrect?"
"Actually, I haven’t gotten that far yet," Emma said, slightly embarrassed, poking her index fingers together before scratching the back of her head.
"So what happens to Don Quixote in the end? Does he succeed?"
"Of course not. You could have guessed that from the beginning. His dreams are shattered, and he dies in his sickbed."
"Ah, that’s so tragic! How could you be so cruel? Can’t you just let him succeed? He’s already so pitiful."
"Alright, fine. In the end, Don Quixote and Sancho lived happily ever after, never worrying about food or clothing, and they even had a lovely child."
"Thank you. You’re a wonderful storyteller."
Emma could naturally tell that Eric was talking nonsense. She stood up from the wooden chest, stretched lazily, and revealed her beautiful curves.
Her slightly wavy, pale golden hair shimred in the sunlight. She wore a pale blue, form-fitting dress.
Just then, the door to the room opened.
"Emma... Huh? Eric, what are you doing here?" The newcor was Fitz.
"I..." Just as Eric was about to explain, Emma’s words cut him off.
"Father, how many tis have I told you to knock before entering my room?" Emma sounded quite displeased.
"Yes, yes, I forgot. I’ll be careful next ti, Emma." Fitz waved his hand apologetically.
"Never mind. You never rember anyway. Was there sothing you needed, Father?"
"Sothing urgent has co up; I must go to Hampton," he said. "I was planning to go to Saint Martin Village today to investigate a dispute, but now I can’t get away. Could you go in my place?"
"No problem."
"There’s a serf there nad Gaston who is refusing to pay his rent. It’s clearly a protest."
"Alright, alright, dear Father, it’s not the first ti I’ve handled sothing like this. Go on and take care of your own business." Emma pushed Fitz out the door.
Before leaving, Fitz glanced at Eric again, as if expecting so kind of response.
But Eric was just staring at the ceiling, whistling.
’This ceiling is truly the pinnacle... of ceilings.’
As the door clicked softly shut, Emma suddenly slapped Eric’s shoulder.
"Still playing dumb? He’s gone. Aren’t you going to thank ?"
Emma tilted her head back, showing off her fair neck.
"You know my father? Are you the new secretary? Mr. Francis has been quite overwheld with tasks lately, and he’s been clamoring for an assistant. He ntioned recently he was going to the Monastery to pick soone. That wouldn’t be you, would it?"
"Sothing like that... Well, since you have important matters to attend to, my lady, I’ll just be taking my leave—" Eric imdiately bolted for the door.
"If you dare leave, I’ll imdiately tell my father you broke into my room."
"Then... then what do you want?"
Emma advanced on Eric step by step. He retreated unconsciously until his back was against the door.
"My soul belongs to God, and I would never sell it... At most, I’ll sell my body."
"Who’d want your few pounds of spare ribs?"
Emma shoved Eric aside, then pulled the door open and walked out.
"You’re coming with to Saint Martin Village now."
...
Downstairs in the castle courtyard, an attendant had already prepared a horse for Lady Emma—a bay Norman Horse.
Beside Emma’s horse, a grim-faced, middle-aged Priest was already mounted, seemingly waiting for Lady Emma. Judging by his appearance alone, he looked like an old fossil who would be incredibly difficult to get along with.
Eric had a pretty good idea why Emma wanted him to co along. ’She’s not going to make deal with him, is she?’
’Spare . I’ve had enough of grumpy old n.’
Emma grabbed the hem of her dress and gave it a hard tug. The long, ankle-length skirt ca off, revealing not pale white thighs, but riding breeches. The skirt was detachable. A nearby attendant tied up her trouser legs and fitted her with golden spurs.
With a practiced leap, she swung herself onto the horse.
"So, where’s my horse?" Eric walked up to Emma.
"Oh? You don’t have a horse?" Emma propped her chin on her hand, watching the flustered Eric with great interest.
"I’m a Monk, for goodness’ sake. How would a Monk have a horse?"
"Is that so? If you hadn’t reminded , I’d have forgotten you were a Monk. The kind of Monk who suddenly appears in a woman’s room? No matter. You can just trot along behind like a little puppy."
"Alright, alright. Perhaps I was mistaken. rciful lady, please lend a horse."
Eric’s mouth twitched. ’What is this, so kind of BDSM training session?’
He placed his right hand over his chest, bowed slightly, and perford a standard courtly bow.
’Don’t let get the chance. Next ti I’ll steal your underwear right off you.’
"Well? How about this one of mine?"
"That’s not a funny joke. I am a devout servant of God."
Eric held up the Cross on his chest.
His gesture seed to provoke the Priest at the side. The Priest frowned, shot Eric a disdainful look, and spurred his horse away from him.
"I see. I still think following behind is more in line with a servant’s role."
Emma chuckled, flicked the reins, and her horse started forward, heading out the gate.
"I’ll fuck your ***********"
User Comments
0 comments from readers