Chapter 7

Felix and his sister Aire walked out of the cemetery and stood on a prominent hill, overlooking everything from above.

When Aire saw Gaun beating the old woman Durand with oak branches like rain, she almost burst into tears. She grabbed Felix’s sleeve, “Oh my God, the nobles are all so despicable, all of them!”

“What should I do?” At this moment, Felix was the most anxious.

Out of a sense of justice, he still moved forward to support the priest Estuni.

“Release the fledgling.” Looking up and seeing Estuni running down, Gaun quickly said.

The attendants pushed the old woman Durand’s granddaughter to the ground. The girl, only twelve or thirteen years old, rolled on the ground twice and then screamed as she leaped up, barefoot, running through the forest and the mountain path, flying towards her village.

“She is a thief, and her whole family are thieves, priest! And I, Gaun de Brantôme, a noble granted by the royal decree, have the natural right to hunt in this forest. Peasants are not allowed to cut down valuable timber here; they are only allowed to pick up fallen branches. Those who violate this must accept severe punishment.” Gaun, holding the oak branch, pointed at the furious Estuni and said.

“But beating an old woman is not your privilege.”

“There is no old woman here, only a gang of thieves.” Gaun finished speaking and viciously struck the oak branch on the old woman Durand’s shin, almost causing her to faint from the pain.

When Felix approached, he saw this rural noble, Gaun de Brantôme. This noble was not tall, dressed in the style of the previous century, wearing a ruffled round-necked garment, a wide-brimmed felt hat, and turned-up boots, with his family’s coat of arms on his chest. If he had not appeared in this era, people would almost think that Lord Gaun was a musketeer of Louis XIV’s royal guard who had traveled through time.

Gaun had a deep scar on his left cheek, and his prominent forehead was hidden by his hat, making him look very fierce and combative. In fact, rural nobles in the provinces were mostly like this: isolated and ignorant, possibly never leaving their province, but extremely arrogant and willing to fight to the death for honor or power. In the eyes of the locals, they were lions ruling the mountains, small tyrants who acted without restraint, whose roars made everyone tremble in fear. In the eyes of the Parisian nobility, they had a nickname: “kestrels,” a small bird of prey that faced death with courage but often engaged in ridiculous and despicable behavior.

When Gaun saw Felix, he showed a hateful smile, “Your grandfather is an outsider, and a Huguenot. Stay out of the affairs of Saint-Denis. Without my father’s permission, no girl from this town was allowed to marry a man from outside the parish, but your grandfather managed to marry a girl from here, truly a stroke of luck. But sooner or later, I will drive the Gaudin family out!”

Felix remained calm and rational, then he extended his hand and proposed to Gaun, “I am willing to pay fifty livres to have this old woman Durand released.”

Gaun replied with disdain, “You are truly a young master of the Gaudin family. But there are no fewer than two hundred households of peasants who frequently steal wood and poach here. I think you and your father’s wealth will soon be insufficient to pay the compensation.”

Felix was speechless.

At this moment, Estuni seemed to realize something. He trembled and said to Gaun, “Although I am deeply saddened by the tragic death of your forester, there is no evidence that the Durand family did it. You must not use violence arbitrarily, you must not!”

“Priest, my name is Gaun de Brantôme. In this town, I not only have power over my own fief but also have undisputed hunting rights. The hunting range is determined by the distance a castrated rooster can fly from the top of my castle (though it is just a manor, Gaun still likes to use the term 'castle'). The entire wasteland forest is within this range. If any lowly peasant dares to encroach, let them come!” Gaun answered coldly and arrogantly.

“A castrated rooster, how can it fly over this entire forest?” Not only Felix, but even Aire, who had come to protect her brother, angrily accused Gaun.

Gaun, seeing the exotic “Abyssinian princess,” politely removed his hat and bowed, “Allow me to explain. The castrated rooster, raised on sheep’s milk by my wife, is very strong and can fly much farther than a pigeon, from Saint-Denis to the Port of Grace (the mouth of the Seine, Le Havre). Now, please step back, gentlemen and ladies. The charade of justice is over.”

Several attendants in livery immediately began to push Estuni and Felix and others roughly, “Don’t be foolish, noble Brantôme. Peasants are naturally weaker than you. Shouldn’t the strong forgive the weak in this world?” Estuni struggled to warn, but they were pushed to a two-wheeled cart loaded with hay.

“No, in this town surrounded by forests and rivers, the strong and the weak are in a relationship of mutual slaughter. A wolf can hunt a pig, but a group of pigs can also tear a lone wolf to pieces.” Gaun put his felt hat back on, took a deep breath, turned around, and looked down at the forest path where the old woman Durand’s granddaughter had run.

The mist between the tall trees had already dissipated, and the noon sun burned through the dense canopy. When the wind blew, the flames of the sun flickered, accompanied by a rustling sound, like a whisper.

From the village at the end of the path, the sound of a bell rang first, followed by a loud commotion. Felix, passing by Gaun, saw a crowd of ragged peasants, moving through the thin mist, coming in a chaotic manner. What surprised Felix was the short stature of the French peasants, which was closely related to their hard lives. Dilapidated huts, meager farmland, heavy taxes, and a diet of buckwheat bread and vegetable soup made most adult men less than 1.6 meters tall. To make up for their lack of height, they held their weapons—pitchforks and sickles—high above their heads. Felix also saw some of them holding hunting rifles, probably for hunting wolves.

When Gaun and the group of peasants were about twenty feet apart, the peasants stopped, and the situation became tense.

“Did you kill my forester, Roars?” The rural noble Gaun, with his hands on his hips, asked directly.

The scene was silent.

A slightly taller peasant with a purple face, his hair and beard matted together, stepped forward, clenched his fists, and said to Gaun, “It has nothing to do with us. Release my mother quickly.”

The sun slowly moved to Gaun’s right shoulder, casting his face into shadow, making him even more indistinct. He pointed at the peasant Durand, speaking slowly, “Roars, this Creole (a mixed-race descendant of Europeans or Africans and local Native Americans), saved my life in the French aid to the American War of Independence. When I returned to France, I brought him back and swore to be his protector forever. But just three days ago, he was ignobly shot while patrolling the wasteland forest.”