Chapter 48 Where is everyone?

Ressalit replied:
"Yes, the seigniorage—the fee the king collects from silver to cover minting costs—rose by 25% this year alone."
He swirled the wine in his goblet, spilling a few drops onto the table.
"Still, it's all to defeat those damned Englishmen, hmph!"
At this, Ressalit slammed his cup down onto the table with a loud *clatter* and stood up, swaying slightly.
With a grand wave of his arm, he raised his voice and shouted:
"Everyone! I am Sir Ressalit, and we Frenchmen have sent those Englishmen running with their tails between their legs! To celebrate today, drinks in this tavern are on me! Eat and drink your fill, cheers!"
"Hooray!"
"Thank you, My Lord!"
"To the victory of France!"
The crowd cheered in unison, leaping from their seats and forcefully clinking their cups together in the air. The resulting *clinking* and *clattering* sounded like a joyful, grand celebratory chorus.
The people in the tavern began chattering once more about the recent amusing events in Boulogne, tossing comments back and forth, punctuated by bursts of hearty laughter.
They laughed heartily as they wolfed down their food.
Children chased each other around the tables with giggles, their innocent laughter and cheerful footsteps bringing even more vitality and life to the bustling tavern.
It felt as though this were the happiest place on earth.
The night drifted slowly by inside the Rudder and Lighthouse Tavern, like a calm river carrying the joy and anticipation of the people toward an unknown tomorrow.
Everyone in the Rudder and Lighthouse Tavern was enjoying their own moment, refusing to think about what tomorrow might bring or to worry about future troubles.
At this very moment, they were all immersed in this joyous atmosphere, as if time had stopped, leaving behind only the laughter and warmth before them.

The next morning, Roberto woke up slowly amidst a hangover headache, his brow furrowed, his face a mask of confusion and vexation.
Fumbling frantically around his messy bedding for his clothes, he muttered continuously:
"Where is my gold coin? I clearly remember placing it right here. Damn it, I really drank too much yesterday. Did I remember incorrectly?"
Last night's tavern had been exceptionally lively, a veritable wild feast. Lord Ressalit had been remarkably generous, and various fine wines had been hauled to the tables barrel after barrel like flowing water.
The people in the tavern drank to their hearts' content until every drop of wine in the Rudder and Lighthouse Tavern was completely exhausted, finally bringing the revelry to a close.
In the midst of this chaotic drinking session, nearly everyone had lost a portion of their money to varying degrees.
Oh, except for one exception: the penniless Luca Griffith. Since he had nothing to begin with, naturally he had nothing to lose.
As for Charles, he sat in a corner with a hint of craftiness in his eyes and a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth, pondering quietly to himself:
"Hehehe, this is more than a hundred times better than the mercenary camp in Brabant! Back in Brabant, every day meant chewing on hardtack tough enough to double as a brick, or listening to rough men braying curses like donkeys—life was boring enough to drive a person mad. Unlike here, where there's good food everywhere. The fragrant roast meat, the sweet wine—I am thoroughly enjoying myself! Plus, the people here speak so nicely. Best of all, there is money to be earned here! I simply adore this place! This is absolute paradise!"
As he thought this, he gently stroked his coin-filled pocket with his hand, the smile on his face deepening.

Annoying as it was to lose a gold coin, Roberto had more important matters to attend to now; he tracked down a church friar.
Roberto addressed the friar with an urgent expression:
"Father, I have a letter here. Could I trouble you to deliver it to Florence? Here is the agreed-upon reward—two Tourps tournois, please take them."
The friar accepted the coins and nodded slightly:
"Rest assured, though the journey is long, if there is a reply, you will likely have to wait until next year."
Roberto sighed helplessly:
"I suppose that will have to do. Thank you very much."

After lunch, Carlo, Ressalit, and a party of five packed their belongings and mounted their tall steeds.
Their horses' hooves tapped briskly against the ground, making a rhythmic *clack-clack* sound as they traveled along the rural paths in late September.
The sunlight cascaded gently across the earth like golden threads.
In the fields on either side of the road, the swaying heads of rye and barley hung heavy, resembling an undulating golden sea, while the breeze carried the fragrance of ripened grain.
Free from the smoke of war, it was as peaceful and idyllic as a utopia.
They planned to visit the villages of Guesnes and Sours first to assess the situation before making further plans.
Carlo reined in his mount, slowing his pace to ride alongside Ressalit. He turned his head toward Ressalit with curiosity shining in his eyes:
"Lord Ressalit, we've been through so many battles together, yet you've never spoken to us about your family. Now that we've made it this far, we finally have a chance to hear about them, don't we?"
Ressalit tilted his head back slightly, gazing into the distance with a warm smile playing at the corners of his mouth, his eyes seeming to drift into fond memories.
Mentioning his family, the usually stern and formidable knight unusually began to chatter on.
"Haha, Carlo! Before this, the battles came one after another, and everyone's nerves were stretched taut—who had the time for such domestic chatter?"
He paused, his smile growing softer.
"My eldest daughter, Lucy, is already seventeen and has blossomed into a fine young woman. When she was little, she always loved curling up in my arms, acting coquettishly and begging softly for bedtime stories. As she grew older, she would quietly leave small drawings she made herself on my desk—crooked and clumsy, yet full of heart..."
When mentioning his young son Raphael, a flash of indulgence crossed Ressalit's eyes.
"My son Raphael just turned twelve. His head is full of novel ideas; he spends his entire day darting around the stables and the armory. Last time, he crafted a colorful set of reins for his war horse with his own hands, then proudly led the horse in circles around the courtyard, shouting for the whole family to look—such a triumphant little fellow..."
Yet, his tone abruptly shifted, his expression turning desolate as he let out a long sigh.
"But once this war broke out, utterly helpless, I had no choice but to send Chloe and the two of them to take refuge with her family in Provence. When I sent them away, Lucy's eyes were red as she pressed a handkerchief she had spent ages embroidering into my hand. Raphael clenched his fists, holding back tears as he promised he would patiently wait for me."
At this point, Ressalit furrowed his brow, his tone rising with fierce determination:
"I am a knight of France! I am the steadfast shield of the kingdom! The armor and surcoat I wear confer not only glory upon me, but a heavy responsibility as well. The fires of the Englishmen trample wantonly over our homeland, burning away our peace—how could I ever retreat? Even if longing is like a knife scraping at my heart and lungs, and every thought of my children's tearful eyes and my wife's worries nearly suffocates me with pain, I must still grip my lance and charge into a hail of arrows and gunfire! So that the smoke from the chimneys of France may rise as usual, and so my family may return to their homeland, what does it matter if I am smashed to pieces? As long as I draw breath, I will slaughter the invaders to the last man!"

Carlo's eyes had grown moist while listening. He raised a hand and wiped fiercely across his face, forcefully suppressing the surging emotions within him.
He did this, firstly, because he did not want others to witness his unseemly composure slipping.
Secondly, he couldn't bear to see Lord Ressalit—usually as unyielding as steel and invincible on the battlefield—plunged into an abyss of sorrow and unable to pull himself out due to longing for his family.
Initially, Carlo had been filled with sympathy and heartache for the lord's plight.
On the battlefield, Ressalit was always an iron-willed tough guy charging ahead without fear of life or death.
Who would have expected that when speaking of his wife and children back home, he could be so tender-hearted yet utterly helpless.
This stark contrast struck Carlo's heart like a heavy hammer, making his eyes smart.
Carlo also knew that if Ressalit were left to wallow in it, this majestic knight might shed tears in public.
Given that the lord bore the glory of France and the safety of the domain, he would surely reproach himself with regret afterward.
Besides, now that the fighting had paused, it was time to look forward and anticipate a reunion.
A passionate light rekindled in his eyes as he stepped forward and said:
"My lord, Provence is truly a blessed land! I've heard passing merchants talk about it—lavender covers the mountains there, and when it blooms, it forms rolling purple waves whose rich fragrance drifts for miles. It's a breathtaking sight rarely found in this world. Since we aren't fighting right now, once we sort out the affairs of the fief, we can go and bring your family back! When you go to fetch them, I beg you to take me along! I am willing to serve you and ensure all the trivial matters along the road are properly handled."

Ressalit burst into hearty laughter, his voice echoing across the empty fields:
"Hahaha, good! I will certainly take you. Originally, I only planned to find someone to deliver a letter informing them that I am safe and sound. Do you know the city of Marseille? It is the largest city in all of France besides Paris, exceptionally bustling and lively—though it is quite a distance from here, and I've only been there once."

Roberto listened quietly from the side, thinking silently to himself:
War truly is a terrifying thing.
It ruthlessly shatters peaceful lives, dragging both Carlo and himself into its vortex, forcing them to hover daily on the brink of life and death.
He had never imagined that someone as powerful as Lord Ressalit, whose inner core he assumed was forged of steel and dedicated solely to combat, would possess such tenderness and bitterness, openly displaying his longing and guilt for his family without a shred of pretense.
Still, once they reached Marseille, Florence would be considerably closer.
Yet along this road, who knew how many troubles still awaited them?
However, when he finally spoke, his words were laden with emotion:
"It certainly is far away."

The villages of Guesnes and Sours lay to the north of Boulogne, somewhat closer to Calais, meaning the actual distance was not great.
The group arrived there by evening.
First, they entered Ressalit's village of Sours.
The afterglow of the sunset bathed the village; the houses and fields appeared orderly at first glance, but the entire village was enveloped in a deathly silence, pitch-black and utterly devoid of any trace of human life.

Carlo knitted his brows, his eyes filled with doubt:
"Why is Sours Village so deserted? It looks like a ghost town."

Ressalit also frowned, gritting his teeth:
"Come, let's go in and take a look."

They cautiously stepped into the village.
Suddenly, a white cat bolted out from one of the houses with a sharp "meow," startling Carlo so badly he nearly jumped into the air as he yelled:
"Goodness! You scared the life out of me, I thought some terrifying monster had suddenly popped up!"
The others were also badly startled and began cursing and muttering angrily.