Roger lay in bed, yet sleep would not come.
His aches and pains were one reason—but more troubling were the whispers that drifted through the corridors:
: "They say Roger's blood brought the dead back to life."
He crept through the castle late at night, searching for the source of the rumor. Beneath every shadow, servants whispered to each other:
"Young Master Simon lay motionless… until Roger leaned over and spit his blood into his mouth—and he came back to life."
"Yes, yes—two spits! I counted."
"I saw it too."
"Is it really true?"
"Of course—it's more miraculous than a virgin birth."
"They say it happened in the sacred hall, beneath the cross."
"Blessed be the boy."
"Hallelujah!"
The rumor spread like wildfire.
Sometimes, it was framed as a blessing—other times, it was naked, unfiltered wonder.
Roger heard every word… but could do nothing.
---
Morning came.
Roger walked through the castle—familiar, yet entirely changed.
Of course nothing looked different—but everything had shifted.
This was Simon's castle now.
Roger was no longer the second son. He was a guest—honored, but nothing more.
And worst of all were the looks in everyone's eyes.
They stared at him like he was Christ walking among them.
He saw devotion, hands pressed to chest, bows given.
But behind the devout exterior, he saw darker truths:
Greed. envy.
"If only I had his blood…"
He listened to their prayers, their line:
"Eat the man!" they whispered.
He laughed bitterly.
So, I've become a holy figure—revered for my powers, mocked in my heart.
Belief born from ignorance… ignorance born from belief.
At least, he thought, he still had one true friend.
---
"Gift, time to eat!" he called to the chestnut colt.
Like a breeze, Gift bounded over and nudged him.
Roger stroked the horse's neck.
"I'm glad you're here."
After feeding it, Roger returned to the stonehouse. A servant summoned him to the study.
Outside, he overheard Simon muttering:
"You make all the decisions—what am I even Count for?"
Lady Adelaide's voice snapped in response:
"Simon—I will not hear these words again.
By your father's will, I shall act as regent until you come of age.
Your only job: sit quietly at the Count's seat."
---
In the study, he was greeted by many well-known faces.
His mother swept him into her arms, kissing his cheek:
"My sweet boy, I will do everything I can to protect you.
But the castle is unstable—no one is fully loyal yet.
I don't know who can be trusted.
I've placed you in Rollo's care. He is faithful."
She stepped back, her tone growing cold:
"You must complete your knightly education. Now you may go."
Roger surveyed the room:
The silent maid…
The loyal Captain…
The timid intelligence chief…
The studious court physician…
The strict head cook…
At the door, he heard Simon whisper:
"I wish I could trade places with him."
Roger left the study and crossed the courtyard, his gaze falling on Baron Rollo—soft-hearted Rollo.
He thought:
People… they really can change.
He remembered two stories whispered by the returning Crusaders about Rollo:
One:
"He's killed more men than any of us."
Even more chilling:
"He has slain unarmed peasants—with his own hands."
---
By late morning, Roger and the party departed Messina, heading south along the great road.
The so-called "road" was mostly a beaten dirt track—animal carts, travelers, and merchants tramping it day after day.
Roger lay in the straw-lined cargo cart, watching horses and carts pass:
Flatbed wagons, goods tied tight.
Covered coaches bringing travelers.
He knew this road led south to Syracuse, north to Messina—and west along the coast to Palermo.
It was Sicily's main artery.
Side-roads snaked into the mountains—but they were risky and confusing for any unfamiliar traveler.
The road sometimes hugged the sea cliffs, sometimes wound through mountain passes.
Looking east from the cart, he could see the Mediterranean's blue stretch out—but the cliffs were too high to reach the water.
"Camping as before?" the forester asked, tapping his quiver.
"May scout ahead for a spot…and maybe hunt fresh game."
"We're not in a rush," the coachman suggested.
"Let's find an inn tonight."
The blacksmith stayed silent.
The priest countered,
"Let's find a church or abbey. Warmer—and free shelter."
Baron Rollo made the decision:
"Let's stay at Ruffo Castle. I have ties there."
"Castles are drafty!" the coachman grumbled.
"Fine, your call, my lord."
They continued southward. By afternoon, they spotted the castle.
Perched above a bend in the road, Ruffo Castle overlooked both the highway and the village.
But they only arrived by dusk.
True to the coachman's warning, the climb was long and circuitous.
What embarrassed the Baron most was this:
the castle gates were closed.
"We're terribly sorry, my lord," the gatekeeper said.
"The master and mistress are in Messina. No one here dare admit you without orders."
The priest touched his spiked mace and argued—but to no effect.
Roger thought: Truth lies only within the reach of thrust and strike.
The blacksmith hammered at the gate. The forester nocked an arrow at the battlements. The defenders at the top drew bows in response.
There was nothing left to do.
As night fell, coachman turned the cart around.
They followed the setting sun, heading downhill.
---
By the time they reached a small village, darkness had fallen.
There was one inn. Long locked. The coachman persuaded the keeper to reopen.
Despite their swords and weapons, the Baron's emblem and the priest's cross proved enough credibility—they were not bandits.
"But we have no rooms," the keeper admitted.
"You may sleep in the common hall by the fire… or the stable."
They have no choice but to accept.
The four others squeezed by the hearth.
Roger and the coachman went to the stable.
After looking after the horses, Roger nibble on cold rations and found a pile of straw to sleep on.
And there, beneath the stable rafters, he fell into a restless slumber.