The so-called manor was the most basic unit of production in the Middle Ages.
A manor was typically held by a single noble and managed by a steward. It was protected by a surrounding wall, and within lived a few craftsmen like blacksmiths and carpenters, who maintained the daily tools and provided weapons and equipment in times of war. There were also a few yeomen, a stable for the noble's warhorses and livestock, and, in addition to all that, a large number of tenant farmers, commonly known as serfs.
Serfs had no personal freedom. The land they tilled belonged to the nobility and the Church. They could not leave the manor, marry, dispose of property, or conduct other affairs without permission. A serf was an ancillary piece of property attached to the land itself. Their masters would force them to farm, and in their spare time, they had to drive pigs, shovel manure, repair walls, run errands, or tend to flocks. Serfs even had to pay a tax to get married.
Typically, in a manor, about forty percent of the arable land belonged to the noble, thirty percent was controlled by the Church, and the remaining thirty percent was tilled by yeomen, craftsmen, and their families.
This did not mean, however, that the latter group was wealthier than the serfs. Lords preferred to give land to serfs to cultivate in exchange for taxes in kind and head taxes. Furthermore, a lord often had no feudal obligation to protect a free farmer, so the free farmer might willingly apply for the lord's protection, thereby becoming one of his serfs.
Abbot Skork possessed a great deal of territory in the vicinity. This was because although he was a member of the Church, his family was part of the local nobility.
Following the medieval aristocratic principle of the eldest son inheriting the family estate while the younger sons were sent to the Church, Skork and his brother Howard had seized power in their respective systems, allowing the two brothers to collude for their own nefarious ends.
"Burn! Burn! Burn!"
The few guards at the main gate stood no chance against the furious volleys of the elite longbowmen. A few salvos were all it took to slaughter Skork's dogs.
Horten knew that the manor housed several hundred families and that knightly families in the nearby villages might come as reinforcements. He had to find evidence of Skork's past villainy with the utmost speed. So, he threw a torch onto the courtyard wall, starting a massive fire to divert everyone's attention.
With the proverbial city gate on fire, the people, rallied by the steward's frantic beating of a gong, quickly gathered to extinguish the flames.
Meanwhile, Horten, having already collected the arrows, led his men on a roundabout path toward Skork's residence.
A medieval countryside residence was like a large, earthen fort. Built on high ground and enclosed by earth walls, it was a cramped little fortress where the noble family lived, constantly on guard against invasions from neighbors, raids from bandits, and the cunning tricks of their own subjects.
Horten, being a monk who ran errands here daily, was familiar with both the faces and the roads. He arrived at the entrance with practiced ease.
"Horten? You again?" a guard asked, looking down strangely.
Horten smiled faintly. "There's a fire at the manor gate. I'm here to find people to help put it out."
The guard, believing him, opened the gate and called for a group of men to come out.
Who would have ever suspected that a mere nobody working for the abbot could actually muster an army for a sneak attack?
But as they ran out of the gate, they were met with the sight of dozens of longbowmen aiming directly at them.
"You can't blame me for this. Who told you to work for Skork?" Horten said with a note of regret, taking a step back. Dozens of sharp arrows flew, riddling them and pinning them one after another.
It was a grimly satisfying sight for the teeth-gritting Horten. Every time he brutalized Skork's underlings, he felt as if he were kicking the old man right in the face. He had now eliminated the manor's standing armed force, meaning one of the enemy's small armies was now neutralized. With the enemy weakened and his own power growing, Horten felt he was another step closer to victory.
He stormed through the gate. Ahead were narrow houses, and to the right was the noble's stable. The three-story building clinging to the high wall was Skork's personal house.
The maidservants were in a panic, while other servants and attendants hid in their rooms, trembling, too afraid to move. The steward who managed the estate was nowhere to be seen.
From a second-floor window, Horten caught a glimpse of Skork's mistress and his bastard son, supporting each other as they fled toward the watchtower at the highest point.
They were in complete disarray.
Horten immediately ordered his Crusader Longbowmen and some of the Pilgrims to charge up the stairs toward the tower.
The mistress's name was Marian, a charming woman in her thirties who still possessed a mature allure. She was originally the wife of a local noble. After that noble was killed in battle, she got involved with Skork and bore him a son. As Skork already had a wife, this child was an illegitimate bastard with no inheritance rights.
Horten, spear in hand, charged directly for the tower. After knocking aside two foolish servants who got in his way, he kicked open the door.
With a loud bang, the door flew open. Marian let out an involuntary scream, while three half-grown boys actually dared to counter-attack Horten with swords!
Horten, a full-grown man, sent them flying with a single swing of his spear shaft.
"No! They are nobles!" Marian cried, hastily gathering the children into her arms and pleading with Horten. "Young man, they are respectable nobles! We are willing to pay a ransom."
Horten observed them with cold eyes.
Nobles were people of status, respectable people. Marian's son was a bastard, at best a half-noble. But the other two boys were dressed in fine clothes, their skin fair and tender. They were clearly the legitimate sons of a great family.
Horten didn't have to think hard. He could guess with his gut that these two boys had to be the sons of Skork's brother, the leader of the rebellion, Howard.
"Your father is Howard, correct?" Horten asked coolly, stepping closer.
The wind howled past. As the moonlight streamed into the room, Marian screamed in terror. "Don't say anything!"
The elder son, with his rosy lips and white teeth, snarled back at Horten. "That's right, you lowlife! You will be killed by my father!"
Smack!
Before Horten could even act, the bowmen's leader, Greb—who had been persecuted and exiled by a noble himself—reacted viscerally. He stepped forward and slapped the boy so hard he fell to the floor. "You little piece of shit!" Greb roared. "You dare be disrespectful to Chaplain Horten?"
In his mind, Greb had completely conflated Howard with the noble who had persecuted him.
Horten didn't stop him. Instead, he barked at Marian, "Open Skork and Howard's treasury for me! I know you have the key!"
Seeing Howard's sons hiding in Skork's house, Horten suddenly understood.
Did Howard feel no fear when he rebelled and set a trap for Canossa?
Of course he was afraid.
According to the strict hierarchical order among nobles, Howard was betting his entire life's reputation on this rebellion. If he failed, he would be utterly ruined. He would certainly have prepared a way out.
He hid his children and his fortune at his brother's home. Even if he fell, wouldn't his brother still be there to look after them?
And so, as for Howard and Skork's fortune, Horten would be happy to relieve them of it!
By now, the moon was high in the sky.
The people of the Countess of Göttingen's court were still hiding behind the collapsed hill, shivering in the cold wind.
The knights, having lost all hope, were suggesting they simply flee and seek refuge with the Duke of the Duchy.
Canossa, who was extremely unwilling to marry her cousin, was trapped in a desperate situation.
Even her own knights no longer supported her.
That impertinent monk, the ordinary yet strangely confident Horten—could he really help her?
Would he even come back?