Chapter Four: The Fugitive Master

Thirty miles southwest of Lyon, beside a small creek at the foot of the Ramel Mountains, a ragged, gaunt old man, as withered as dry wood, was stumbling northwards along the stream.

Before reaching this creek, the old man had been trekking along the Ramel range for over a month. There were no pursuers behind him anymore. For a month, he had passed through dense forests and deep mountains, limping along deserted trails, circling castles and villages, enduring wind and dew, drinking frost and eating snow, avoiding all signs of human presence. He had survived on a small sack of black beans and some roots and mountain mice until now. One more day ahead, crossing the barren plain before him, and he would reach the southern border of the Duchy of Burgundy.

“Damn weather,” the old man murmured as he took another step toward a pile of giant stones in the snowy plain. His bare toes were cracked and oozing pus, and the wounds on his back seeped dark blood…

About twenty miles south of Lyon, Art sat astride a blue mule and took down the water skin hanging from the front saddle. He took a gulp of clear water mixed with beer. He was in good spirits; last night he had nestled into a haystack beside a farm field and had a good night’s rest, and the mule had enjoyed a free hearty meal.

On his way back, Art had taken a detour through the Lyon estate. He noted the steward’s grudge but preferred not to stir trouble now.

The mule’s endurance did not disappoint Art. By the evening of the day after leaving Tinetz, the pile of giant stones he had passed on the way there appeared again on the snowy plain. He planned to make camp among the stones tonight.

The snow sky grew grayer and darker. Art dismounted, took down the saddle blanket and a bundle of firewood tied behind the saddle, unloaded the gear, removed the bridle, and laid a bunch of dry grass under one of the stones. The mule grazed beneath the rocks, while Art gathered dry wood to find a sheltered spot behind the stones to build a fire and keep warm.

Just as he rounded a boulder, Art’s eyes caught a shadow. Startled, he stepped back quickly, dropped the firewood, and drew his hunting knife from his waist.

There, curled up at the corner, was a dark figure.

“Wolf!” Art thought, heart pounding. Pressing his back against the rock, knife raised before his chest, he cautiously peered around… After a long moment, he slowly lowered the blade.

“Bastard!” Art cursed heavily.

...

Art approached the figure lying among the stones slowly, half crouching and tapping his shoulder with his short sword. Receiving no response, he parted the man’s tattered clothes and took down a half-sickle with a worn linen handle from his belt.

The snow had ceased. The fire blazed brightly, casting a ruddy glow on the stone pile. Art sat with his back against the rock, holding a piece of scorched rye bread. The unconscious old man lay beside the fire.

Art examined the old man: barely breathing, his back covered in bleeding wounds, swollen ankles, purple feet, toes oozing pus... In the grain pouch at his waist was only a frozen mountain mouse, its head bitten off, and a few pine nuts.

Art dragged him closer to the fire, gave him a few sips of hot water, then stopped further aid. He was no god; he could not pull back a man on the edge of death.

By early dawn, as Art prepared to leave, he did not check the old man’s pulse again.

After packing, Art placed half a piece of rye bread and the broken sickle beside the old man and gathered the dying embers together. Having done all he could, Art swung onto the mule and strode away.

“I’ve done all I’m supposed to do. I cannot carry a dying old man back to the valley to waste food…”

“I did not abandon him; the old man was already gone…”

“God is merciful. Maybe he regained consciousness, ate the bread, and left…”

All morning, Art’s mind was haunted by the old man’s image. He had to admit his past life memories had softened his heart somewhat.

“Damn it!!”

Art reined in the mule sharply, turning it around.

...

One month later.

At the fence of a small wooden cabin in the Nameless Valley forest, Art led his blue mule back from a canyon five miles away. On the mule’s back was a wild goat with all four legs tightly bound, bleating softly.

“Master, you’re back!” An old man with a ruddy face, wearing a short tunic, trousers, and a sheepskin jacket, greeted him, taking the reins and lifting the goat down.

“Cooper, don’t call me master again. I told you, I’m no master. Just call me Art,” Art corrected the stubborn old man named Cooper Alfred once more.

“All right, Master~” Cooper bowed slightly.

A month ago, Art’s mercy had saved this old man’s life. After carrying him back to the valley cabin, Art used his three years’ worth of knowledge to crush some useful leaves and roots and plaster them on Cooper’s wounds. The old man was tough; with hearty broth, fresh water, the grass bed by the door, and the stove inside, he was pulled back from death’s door. Within ten days, Cooper could rise from the grass bed to make fire and cook for Art; within two weeks, he repaired the cabin inside and out and reinforced the fence with hemp vines.

Old Cooper was taciturn and never spoke of his past. Art did not pry; everyone has shadows they prefer to keep hidden.

But Art could tell the old man’s past had been hard. Once healed, Art casually asked if Cooper planned to leave.

“The outside world is a hell that devours men. Here is the true world,” Cooper shook his head.

“As long as you let me stay, I am willing to serve you,” Cooper said sincerely.

Art neither agreed nor refused. He could not afford to keep idlers but was unwilling to drive away a poor old man.

The following winter, Art witnessed Cooper’s skills and was glad he had not left the old man to wolves on the plain.

Three years ago, Art had built this log cabin with a thatched roof—seventeen feet long and fifteen feet wide. For years, he had only loosely fenced the cabin to keep wild beasts at bay. It was very simple.

After recovery, Cooper constantly hammered, shaved, and cut wood. He plastered thick clay mixed with straw on the cabin’s exterior walls, built a small wooden lattice window by the sunlit door; since nights were smoky from the stove, Cooper made a stone and clay fireplace with a chimney on the wall to the left of the entrance. Art began to admire this capable, stubborn old man.

As winter deepened and forest animals became scarce, Art rarely went hunting except to check a few traps with his mule. On clear days, Art hunted wild chickens and rabbits, while Cooper collected pinecones, beech nuts, acorns, hazelnuts, and edible roots and greens in the nearby woods.

Simple tools bought in Tinetz transformed into the craftsman’s hands of God in Cooper’s work. By day, he helped Art gather fodder or worked on the cabin; by night, he made small tables, stools, wooden bowls, and spoons by the fire.

“Master, can we dismantle the east fence and expand it?” Cooper paused his work and asked Art while he skinned a rabbit.

“Why?” Art thought the fence was sturdy enough.

“I’ve cleared the thicket east of here. I want to expand the fence, moving the stable and sheepfold inside. I worry about the mule and the goat; lately, I’ve seen wolf tracks nearby,” Cooper said worriedly.

Art was convinced.

Thus, in the following days, Art became Cooper’s able assistant.

...

The ice on the creek began to thin under the gentle breeze, and the clinking sounds of work around the cabin quieted after a winter’s labor.

On the north side of the creek, the scene had changed.

A flat clearing about fifty feet long and thirty feet wide was enclosed tightly by a one-and-a-half-person-high pointed birch fence, with the gate facing the creek.

Inside the gate, to the right against the wall stood a stable with a thatched roof and wooden rails; beside it, a sheepfold where the blue mule and goat grazed.

To the left of the gate, the old fence was completely removed. A cobblestone path led from the gate to the original cabin, opposite which a new thatched hut about ten by eight feet had been built. Between the two cabins was a ten-foot-wide passage.

On the wooden table before the main cabin’s fireplace, a large platter of tender cooked lamb emitted a savory aroma; two large wooden cups filled with watered-down beer stood ready; on the wooden roasting rack by the fire, a honey-glazed roast rabbit sizzled.

Despite diluting the beer, Art felt slightly drunk after a large cup, while Cooper was even more intoxicated.

“Master, today is the happiest day I’ve had in years,” Cooper burped and said.

“Yes, you are a capable and stubborn old man. In just three or four months, you’ve changed this place. Now you have your own house; you are the second resident of this nameless valley,” Art said joyfully.

Cooper tilted his head back and drained his cup.

“Master, is that line on the wall your family motto?” Cooper squinted at the writing behind Art.

“Until the lamb becomes a lion,” Cooper murmured.

Art wondered if he was hearing things, staring in surprise at the old man.

“Yes, Master. I can read and write,” Cooper’s eyes shifted lightly toward Art.

“Please forgive me for hiding my past. I should have been honest with you…” The old man, fueled by drink, began recounting his history.

...

Forty-five years ago, Cooper Alfred was born in the Alfero Monastery in southern Provence. Yes, he was the illegitimate son of a monk.

Cooper grew up in the monastery, receiving systematic theological education.

At thirteen, the monk died, and the underage Cooper was expelled. For seven years, he begged, stole, worked as a bartender managing food but not money, toiled as a dock laborer, and served as a clerk in a merchant shop.

At twenty, his life changed.

Following a caravan to Genoa, he met an old craftsman repairing the cathedral. The old master saw Cooper's literacy and took him as an apprentice in construction.

Thanks to his talent, after only three years, Cooper became an excellent craftsman, and soon married the master’s daughter.

Having endured hardship, Cooper valued hard work. Over the next ten years, he built stone houses for merchants, designed manor castles for knights, and helped build churches and monasteries.

By thirty-two, Cooper was a young master craftsman in Genoa.

At thirty-seven, he independently designed and supervised the construction of the Bussara Monastery, earning recognition from Genoa’s guild and widespread fame.

But then life took a sharp downturn.

The year after becoming a master craftsman, a monastery in Rapallo collapsed. The chief designer committed suicide out of guilt. Cooper, having worked on the design, was made the scapegoat. The ecclesiastical court found him guilty, confiscated all his assets, and the guild revoked his credentials, banning him from construction for life.

Filled with anger, Cooper left Genoa with his wife and child, returning to Alfero. There, he cultivated an unclaimed wasteland.

Diligence paid off. Five years of sweat turned barren land into fertile fields.

Just as life seemed hopeful, the neighboring lord and county tax officer began frequent visits. The lord demanded the “return” of the land he claimed; the taxman pressured Cooper for five years of back taxes.

Unable to bear the oppression, Cooper argued his case but angered them both. They colluded with bandits to raid Cooper’s farm; the bandits killed his wife and daughters and beheaded his son.

Barely escaping with his life, Cooper hid and waited for revenge.

Last summer, the Lombard Duchy invaded southern Provence, plunging the region into chaos.

Cooper seized the chance to slip back to Alfero, assassinated the tax officer, and severed the lord’s only son’s head from the bed of the lord’s mistress with a broken sickle.

Thus, the lord began a thousand-mile manhunt for Cooper.

This was when Art rescued him during his flight.

...

“Also fleeing! The world is indeed perilous,” Art sighed.

“Master? I don’t understand,” Cooper said, puzzled by Art’s “also.”

“Nothing. Cooper, just stay here safely; your enemies won’t find this place,” Art comforted him.

...

Spring returned, and all things revived.

Downstream from the creek in front of the cabin, a half-acre clearing lay smoldering in a thin gray ash layer, where grasses once grew over a person’s height. Art held a light plow in his left hand and a long whip in his right, driving the blue mule in a proper manner.

“Master, you should stop. You really don’t have the knack for farming,” old Cooper hurried over and took the plow from Art.

“Your uneven, inconsistent plowing method would tire even the strongest draft horse, and your wheat seedlings will grow unevenly,” Cooper smiled, accepting the plow.

“How come the plow that works like an arm in your hands feels like a rusty hoe in mine?” Art glanced back at the crooked, uneven furrows, scratched his head, and muttered resentfully.

A month ago, just after winter, Art had ridden to Tinetz with silver coins and returned with two large sacks of hulled wheat and rye bread, a lightweight single-furrow plow, several iron hoes, rakes, short sickles, and a bag of barley seeds in the front saddlebag. The grain and bread were for food—they couldn’t eat meat every day. The seeds and tools were bought at Cooper’s earnest insistence.

Art had seen farmers sow fields in both his past and present life but had never worked the soil himself. He did not believe in relying solely on farming; the valley and forest provided enough game to sustain them. Even with Cooper, the hardship was manageable. Yet, after discovering a patch of open wasteland south of the valley, the stubborn old man begged Art to let him try to cultivate it.

Unable to refuse, Art agreed.

Art knew that half a day’s journey south of the Nameless Valley, beyond a low valley, lay a vast flat plain nestled between two north-south mountain ranges. The valley’s creek extended into that plain, forming a gently flowing river. When Art first arrived, he and his father explored that wild, uninhabited expanse.

But Art had no intention of telling Cooper about this. Otherwise, the stubborn old man would insist on turning the entire valley plain into fertile farmland at once.

As the days warmed, barley seedlings in the wasteland sprouted and grew. Looking over the lush green fields, wrinkles on old Cooper’s face smoothed day by day.

Having just finished surrounding the barley field with thorny brush and dry branches, the old man busied himself feeding the animals.

Three days ago, Art had gone hunting with his bow, hoping to catch some partridge or rabbits for a change. Hunting was rare in spring and summer, but months of smoked meat and thick broth had grown tiresome.

In a tree hollow, Art found seven or eight recently weaned wild boar piglets. After ensuring their mother was away and it was safe, he quietly took three piglets.

Back at the cabin, excited, he handed the piglets to Cooper, asking him to glaze them with wild honey and roast them for a feast.

But the old man’s eyes gleamed as he stared at the piglets.

“Cooper, it’s useless. I’ve tried raising them before, and they didn’t survive,” Art said, pulling out his knife, ready to end their lives humanely.

“Master, wait! Let me try. I’m sure I can raise them,” Cooper stepped forward to stop him.

The old man was stubborn again. So, beside the sheepfold holding two wild goats, a pigpen with three sleeping piglets appeared.

...

“Master, don’t you think the sheepfold is too empty? Should we try to catch a few more wild goats?” The stubborn old man brushed stray grass leaves from his chest and approached Art.

“Do you think those are your sheep? Those creatures have gotten too clever; they never fall into my traps anymore.” Art, disappointed at missing out on honey-glazed roast suckling pig, was in low spirits. He had no intention of living his whole life hiding in the valley, dealing only with livestock and crops. He needed farming but not like this.

“Well, I might try my luck tomorrow…”

“Suit yourself!”

...

Summer’s heat gradually faded, early autumn approached.

All summer, Art seemed idle. Normally, during spring and summer when hunting was scarce, he would maintain his bow and arrows, make snares and traps. Mostly, he repaired the cabin, cleared drainage ditches, and reinforced fences. This summer, he was mostly superfluous. Except for helping Cooper with the barley harvest at summer’s end, he spent much time making autumn hunting gear or riding the mule to explore the valley depths.

Early autumn in the Nameless Valley brimmed with harvest joy.

The reclaimed land Cooper had carefully tended yielded centuries of accumulated fertility. Fifty pounds of barley seeds sown in spring had produced three hundred fifty pounds of grain. The wild goats in the sheepfold gave fresh milk continuously. The lone piglet that survived had grown bigger and fatter than two goats. The cabin’s surroundings were planted with wild celery and cabbages.

For a long time to come, they could be self-sufficient.

“Maybe hiding out in the valley isn’t so bad after all.”

“Don’t forget your vow,” a thought that arose was quickly extinguished.

...