Rafael once again heard the slow, distant chanting of a woman’s voice in his dream. Waves pushed forward one after another, crashing against the foam suspended on the rocks. Raindrops pounded on the glass window, creating a high and low accompaniment. The ethereal and gentle singing echoed, causing him to sink deeper and deeper into the dream, as if descending to the most primitive beginning of life, into the warm amniotic fluid of a mother’s womb, wrapped in silence and an eternal sense of security.
All memories were cut into fragmented pieces floating up and down, forming an illogical ring circling around Rafael. He hugged his body with his arms, like a baby protecting itself in the womb. He didn’t open his eyes to look at those shattered memories, but just kept sinking in the intoxicating and soothing song.
Rafael had a rare good night’s sleep, meaning he wasn’t awakened by any nightmares in the middle of the night, nor was he disturbed by any sudden events outside. He slept soundly from ten o’clock in the evening to six o’clock in the morning, a full eight hours, absolutely perfect.
Such sleep was a luxury for him, so much so that when he woke up, Rafael still felt the illusion of being held by the song and a swaying embrace. This made him too lazy to move, and he buried his face in the blanket, trying to hold onto the fleeting comfort. Unfortunately, the elusive song was like sand slipping through his fingers, quickly erased from his memory as soon as he became conscious.
Ten minutes after he fully woke up, he had completely forgotten everything he had heard in the dream.
“It seems you had a good dream.”
Lucrezia, who had just entered the room, was carrying a large tin jug filled with fresh, hot milk. The little girl was dressed in a cotton dress that reached her calves, with a lace apron tied around her waist. She had even wrapped her hair in a pristine white scarf, looking quite serious.
The little girl, dressed as a maid, placed the milk pot on the carpet and lifted a corner of her skirt towards the pope on the bed, giving a wobbly curtsy: “Good morning, Your Holiness. Today, your servant is Lucrezia.”
Speaking these words clearly took all the shy little girl’s strength. Her face flushed red, and her big eyes looked at the ground in a loss, until she heard a short, suppressed laugh from the young man on the bed.
Lucrezia didn’t hold any official title, but as the child who followed the Pope, she was tacitly acknowledged by everyone as His Holiness’s adopted daughter. Coupled with her naturally endearing personality, the Papal guards and the monks and nuns showered her with affection. However, they soon noticed that the child was overly shy and introverted.
This wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. For a noblewoman, gentleness and obedience were the highest virtues expected of her. But Rafael didn’t want Lucrezia to be so shy and reserved. At the very least, she needed to learn how to present herself confidently in front of others.
It’s unknown which fellow had come up with the idea of encouraging Lucrezia to play role-playing games, ostensibly to help the naive little girl interact with different types of people and naturally become more confident.
Rafael was noncommittal about this playful exercise, but watching Lucrezia seriously take on different roles every day, he occasionally found it… quite amusing.
Yesterday she was a knight, the day before a nun, and today a maid. He wondered what surprise she would bring tomorrow.
At the age of twenty-three, Rafael was getting a taste of the joy that new fathers would experience centuries later.
“Yesterday’s idea came from Sir Redrick,” the little girl answered promptly, always eager to share everything with the Pope she respected. “And the sword was also a gift from Sir Redrick. He said it was once a treasure of Vitalian III, used to teach children swordsmanship. It even has the initials ‘DA’ of the previous owner engraved on it. I really like that font.”
“Is that so? You could try learning it. The nobles of Calais are quite fond of innovative fonts. I hear François IV is a master calligrapher. If you get the chance, you could ask him for guidance. As Sancha’s fiancé, he’d probably be delighted to have such a lovely student like you.” Rafael remarked casually. Sancha adored Lucrezia. Perhaps because she had no siblings of her own, she showed great enthusiasm for the little girl Rafael raised by his side, wishing she could give Lucrezia all the good things she used when she was a child. Rafael was naturally happy to see this.
They had arrived at Hawthorne Castle three days ago. A messenger from Calais had informed them that their emperor would take two more days to arrive, so the castle became Rafael and Sancha’s domain. However, the small border town offered little in the way of entertainment. The vast forests and fields stretched as far as the eye could see, and the two spent their days idly riding out to camp and wander, passing the time and growing closer in the process.
After having breakfast with Lucrezia, Rafael changed into more practical attire, fastening the buttons on his sleeves as he walked downstairs. Sure enough, Sancha, dressed in her riding outfit, was already waiting for him in the hall.
Seeing him come down, the dashing princess grabbed the riding whip beside her and waved to him lightly: “Hurry up, you didn’t catch anything yesterday, you can’t go back empty-handed again today, right?”
The Pope, who wasn’t particularly skilled at hunting, paused for a moment, a thoughtful expression on his face.
Seeing that he seemed about to turn around and leave in the next second, Sancha couldn’t help but chuckle: “Alright, Your Holiness, let me say one last thing—the teacher who taught you marksmanship should be banned from teaching forever. I’m serious, he’s really not suitable for this job.”
Rafael glanced at her silently, raised his chin, and walked past her expressionlessly, like a proud big cat with purple eyes, full of confidence and extremely arrogant.
Sancha giggled, finding the whole situation utterly amusing. The seemingly omnipotent Pope, who could strategize and command with ease, was surprisingly inept when it came to martial skills. This stark contrast only made him more endearing to those who favored him.
It was like the affection a burly man capable of lifting an eighty-pound hammer might feel for a delicate, helpless baby.
Sancha, who could indeed wield a sabre weighing dozens of kilograms with ease, was currently viewing the “delicate and helpless” Pope through a peculiar lens of affection.
The two, accompanied by a small group of knights, swept out of the castle like a gust of wind, racing along the familiar path into the outskirts of the forest. After entering the forest, the surrounding light dimmed significantly. There was a newly opened road in the center of the forest, one they had carved out themselves on their way in. Fresh sap oozed from the broken tree stumps on both sides, and it was clear that without subsequent intervention, this place would soon return to its former lushness.
After entering the forest, their speed slowed down. Rafael rode lazily on his horse, following behind Sancha. The energetic princess chased after the traces of prey in front, her brass long gun ready to fire at any time. But their group made a lot of noise, and those sensitive little animals had long since run away to other places. Sancha couldn’t possibly shake off all the knights to chase after them, so she could only hope to find a lone fool who hadn’t had time to run far.
And then she really found a lone fool.
A glossy-haired stag was raising its neck to eat the tender leaves on a tree. Sancha held her breath, slowly raising her rifle to aim. Her finger curled around the trigger, the mechanism inside the barrel clicking into place. A louder noise then drowned out the sound of the stag tearing at the leaves.
“Your Highness! Your Holiness!”
Sancha fired quickly, but it was too late. The agile deer, hearing the noise, took off running at the first moment. Sancha’s bullet missed its intended target, leaving a gray-black trace of gunpowder on its back.
“What’s wrong?” Sancha frowned, her face looking rather unpleasant. Rafael, instead of her, looked at the flustered messenger. “What happened?”
“…A letter from His Majesty the Emperor’s convoy. Last night, His Majesty was assassinated on the way, in a village sixty miles from here. Half of the knights were killed. They implore us to send reinforcements to protect His Majesty.”
The irritation on Sancha’s face vanished as if washed away by water. She exchanged a meaningful glance with Rafael, both of them wearing thoughtful expressions.
An assassination attempt at this time… Had the Duke finally lost his patience?
“Then let’s gather our men and go rescue my poor fiancé,” the princess said with a smile, coiling her whip in her hand.
They didn’t return to the castle but instead set off directly toward the location where the young emperor was staying and waited for the knights to catch up. Rafael’s horsemanship was quite proficient. In Julius’s words, “You may not be able to defeat all enemies in a frontal battle, but you must at least be able to escape from an encirclement.”
The group galloped along the only road toward Calais, kicking up a cloud of dust. By teatime, they finally reached the heavily guarded village. A makeshift barricade had been set up at the entrance, and the lion flag symbolizing the Calais royal family fluttered above the barn. Knights and attendants moved about, their actions tinged with a barely perceptible tension.
Rafael’s eyebrows slightly raised. Judging from the situation, it seemed that Francois IV was injured in the assassination, but the situation shouldn’t be too serious, otherwise, they wouldn’t be waiting here so peacefully for reinforcements.
The guards at the entrance had long since noticed their arrival. After confirming their identities, they let them in. Rafael noticed that the passing servants were all looking at them discreetly and curiously, so he casually pulled up his hood, revealing only a bit of his snow-white chin and golden hair.
With the hood on, the gazes on him indeed lessened a lot. Sancha followed the guide and soon arrived at the open area in the center of the village, where the Calais emperor’s tent stood.
As expected of the extravagant style of the Calais royal family, the tent could easily be described as a mobile miniature castle, excessively luxurious, adorned with gold and red banners and ribbons everywhere. At the top stood a pure golden lion statue, and in front of the tent, they had even managed to carve out a small garden.
Both Rafael and Sanxia’s gazes lingered on the small garden for a moment. The flowers were packed tightly together, still glistening with fresh dew, clearly high-quality specimens cultivated in a greenhouse. Transplanted into this relatively crude garden, they gave off an oddly incongruous feeling.
“Your Holiness, Your Highness,” a young aide-de-camp came out of the tent and saluted them with a straight face. “His Majesty, hearing of your arrival, is very pleased and has sent me to welcome you.”
Rafael noticed that his clothes were extremely plain and simple, with only a golden tassel hanging on his chest and a few small medals below.
Well-bred, a veteran of the battlefield, and around the same age as François IV—this was likely one of the young emperor’s close confidants.
They followed the young man into the tent and took their seats one by one. After taking off his hood, Rafael suddenly frowned slightly—he had that feeling of being watched again. An unknown gaze fell on him, more oppressive than all the previous ones.
Rafael moved his eyes imperceptibly. There was no one in the tent. The maidservants poured tea for the guests in an orderly manner before retreating, and no one acted out of line.
The drooping curtain was lifted again, and a young man walked in with his head slightly lowered. He was tall, with thick, fluffy light brown long curls like a sheep’s thick wool, draped softly on his back, adding a bit of harmlessness to his extremely handsome face. His light brown eyes, slightly rounded at the corners, gave him a harmless, almost deer-like appearance. Perhaps because he was still young, his face, which bore a strong resemblance to Duke François, lacked the imposing majesty of his uncle. Instead, he seemed approachable, even a bit soft and unassuming.
Seeing Rafael and Sancha, he smiled, his eyes quickly glancing over Sancha’s face before retracting, a faint blush rising on his cheeks and behind his ears, like a young boy seeing his sweetheart, not knowing where to put his hands and feet, and could only look between Sancha and Rafael, stuttering, “Welcome, Your Highness Sancha.”
Before Sancha could respond, he hurriedly shifted his gaze to Rafael’s face.
This time he seemed much calmer. His light brown eyes curved, forming fox-like crescents on his pale face. His full lips curled into a smile, and the joy in his eyes was so intense that it was a bit uncomfortable, like a small animal seeing a trusted companion, trying to squeeze and rub against the other’s soft fur: “Welcome, Your Holiness.”
Compared to his nervousness when greeting Sancha, his voice was now perfectly normal, the soft lilt at the end of his words clearly conveying his fondness for Rafael.
…A highly unguarded emperor. Rafael almost wanted to laugh or cry. The young man might as well have had “I’m an open book” written on his forehead. It was hard to understand how someone like him had managed to grow up under Duke François’s watch.
“Good day, Your Majesty. I hope we’re not too late. We heard you encountered some trouble,” Rafael replied.
The young emperor focused his gaze on his face. Rafael frowned very slightly. He didn’t particularly like being stared at like this, but the little emperor seemed to notice his discomfort and quickly looked away.
“Of course, of course, it’s not a big problem,” Francois looked at the patterns on the carpet, feeling his heart beat faster and faster. A dizzying intoxication and crazy joy collided in his brain. He had to use all his strength to restrain his disobedient hands and eyes, to restrain himself from breaking into an odd smile. His ears caught the faint tremor in his own voice as he spoke. “…You’re not late at all. In fact, I’m very glad to see you… both at this moment.”
The young emperor of Calais lowered his head, revealing the greedy smile of a hungry beast.
The young emperor [hiding behind the tent, peeking]: Let me take a look at my future wife… Wife, hehehe… Wife…
Rafael: [Who’s watching me?] Creepy.
Sancha: …Is he serious about planting flowers here? Does he like gardening? Oh no, we might not have anything in common.