The group of Viking Warriors failed to catch up with Eric and his party. They were lucky on the first day.

But their good luck was short-lived. On the second day of the voyage, they were hit by a violent storm.

"Lower the sails! Lower the sails! Quickly! Quickly! Quickly!"

They lowered the sails in time, but one of the three ships was still destroyed. Though Eric and his men did everything they could, they only managed to save four people.

They drifted at sea for three whole days. They ran out of food on the ship; even the extra rations Eric had prepared beforehand, including the spoiled parts, were eaten completely.

The storm only lasted for half a day, but a drizzling rain persisted. Since the Viking Longship had no shelter, they had no choice but to endure the rain.

By the fifth day, hunger and disease began to ravage everyone on the ship.

For the first time, Eric grew to hate the ocean. He had now experienced its true fury and cruelty.

Finally, on the seventh day, they saw a glimmer of hope.

"Finally... we’ve finally made it ashore. Blessed be the Lord of Heaven..."

Exhausted and starving, the men had no energy left to thank God.

Eric was in relatively good condition, but even he was nearing his limit.

Eric found a fisherman’s home on the coast and knocked on their door.

"Who is it? Can’t sleep in the middle of the night? You motherf..."

A burly, bearded man opened the door and stuck his head out.

He was about to let fly a stream of curses when he saw the wretched state of Eric, who was still dressed as a Priest.

"My apologies, Priest. Do you need help?"

"Can you tell me where we are? My men and I were shipwrecked. We need food and a place to stay. I was wondering if you could possibly..."

Eric once again marveled at the convenience of being a Priest.

At the same time, he recognized the man’s language. It was French—Norman French, to be precise.

He never expected that, through a bizarre twist of fate, they had actually reached their destination.

"This is Caen. If it were just you, Priest, I’d have no issue. But there are so many of you... my little hut can’t house you all. Besides, it looks like you need more than just a roof over your heads."

The man glanced at the group behind Eric; some had even fallen unconscious.

"Tell you what. Head west for about half a league. There’s a Monastery there. They might be able to help you. It’s a convent for women, though."

"Very well. May God bless you."

Eric extended his hand. The man dutifully lowered his head, and Eric placed his palm upon it.

"God be with you, Priest."

Following the man’s directions, they headed west.

The great Frankish kingdom was nothing like England. Even here in the countryside, the roads were well-laid. Eric had had more than enough of England’s muddy tracks.

Eric had lived in Normandy until he was thirteen, raised by a relative—his uncle, Ambel. Uncle Ambel was several years younger than Eric’s father, Robert, and originally had no chance of inheriting the Outville family’s territory in Normandy.

But then he heard that his second uncle, Iron Arm William, had made his fortune in Southern Italy. And so, all the uncles with a stronger claim than Ambel, including the eldest, had either died or gone to Italy.

And so, uncle Ambel had inexplicably inherited their grandfather’s small fiefdom.

Life was just that dramatic.

Eric truly wished his own life could be so dramatic.

At the end of the path stood a massive stone building. A light rain was still falling, and dark clouds obscured most of the moonlight. Eric strained his eyes and could just make out the wall of a Church on one side and the wall of the Monastery on the other, with a small tower nearby.

Eric hurried forward and knocked on the Monastery’s wooden door.

A moment later, he heard a voice from within. "Who’s knocking?"

It was a woman’s voice.

"Good Sister, I am a traveling brother. My party was caught in a storm, and we need shelter and food. Father in Heaven, may You be our light in darkness, and protect us from all the perils and dangers of this night!"

Eric quickly recited the prayer, pulling the Silver Cross from his collar.

The door opened, but not all the way. A thin woman of about forty with pale blue eyes peered out.

She stuck her head out, sizing up Eric. Her gaze locked onto the Cross on his chest and his standard Monk’s Robe, then drifted to the motley crew behind him.

"Dear Brother, if it were just you, I’m sure it would be fine. But this is a convent... and there are young ladies here."

"The Lord said, ’I will never leave you nor forsake you.’ I have faith that under the Lord’s gospel, every sister here is as full of Devotion as Mary of Magdala."

Eric gave her a slight bow.

But the thin woman still looked troubled, which made Eric’s temper begin to fray. ’Is there no one devout left in this world? Even the Nuns are like this!’

He sighed, then took a golden badge from his coat and discreetly pressed it into her hand.

The thin woman stared at the badge, stunned, then shut the door.

A moment later, the door opened again. It wasn’t the thin woman, but a beautiful young woman, who looked even a little younger than Eric. Her slightly curly, golden hair was tied up in a bun and covered by a wimple, but her fair complexion was marred by two large, dark circles under her eyes, giving her a comical appearance.

She looked languid, as if she hadn’t gotten enough sleep.

"Come in, Brother." Even her voice was listless.

She led them into the Monastery. It was bright and clean, a world away from King’s Bridge Monastery, with none of its damp chill.

The unconscious were carried to rooms, while the rest were led to the main hall. Before long, a few Nuns brought them several basins of stew containing beans and turnips, along with a dozen loaves of black bread.

Having starved for days, the men descended on the food like rabid dogs, nearly coming to blows.

Eric suddenly felt a little ashamed. He turned his head, trying to pretend he didn’t know them.

Then, he noticed a pair of large, amber eyes staring intently at him—no, not at him, but at the black bread in his hand.

It was a little girl of about six years old. Her clothes were covered in patches. He had no idea when she had appeared at his side; perhaps he was too faint from hunger to have noticed.

"Do you want some?"

The little girl, chewing on her finger, nodded.

"Here, you can have half." Eric broke the black bread in two and gave her one of the pieces.

But instead of eating it, the girl waved to one side, and a dozen other children dressed in similar rags swarmed over.

She broke the bread into tiny pieces, giving one to each of them.

"Little Mary, what are you doing here! And the rest of you—it’s time for bed!"

The Nun with the dark circles under her eyes ran over, pushing them on their backs to herd them back to their rooms.

"Wait. Here."

Eric broke off a piece of his remaining bread for himself and handed the rest to the little girl.

The little girl took the bread without a word and gave him a small bow. The other children mimicked her. Then, hurried along by the Nun with the dark circles, they scurried out of the hall.

"Are those the Monastery’s shepherd children?"

Eric asked, looking at the Nun with the dark circles.

"No, they’re orphans."

"Orphans? All of them?"

Eric was slightly surprised. Caen was the second-largest city in Normandy after Rouen.

In this era, infanticide was common; there should never be this many orphans and foundlings. The only reason could be...

"There are far more than this. They’re mostly from Mann and Alençon. Which story do you want to hear first?"

The Nun with the dark circles shrugged.

"I get to choose? What happened to the Mann People?"

"The Mann People opposed Duke William, so the Duke had them massacred."

"And Alençon?"

"The Alencon People supported Duke William, so they were taxed into bankruptcy."

Eric: "..."