Autumn 1083, Derbyshire.

Angus had never felt so, his delicate countenance was concealed by a filthy appearance, and as for his two retinues, no one could tell the difference between them and the beggars.

When he heard that the King of England was going to hold a grand horse race north of Mercia, he had the idea that he would see his destined enemy.

It was a greener and warmer time than later generations, and the early autumn weather was still quite pleasant, but nothing was more important to the three hungry little beggars.

The well-lit grass was littered with twinkling figures, and a makeshift racecourse not far away was even more imposing than the one in Kent, with four bookkeepers alone. However, dignitaries did not enter from here, and most of them had just enjoyed a delicate snack at the hospitality of the Earl of Mercia, and in this fashion they indulged in the warm fragrance of the graceful Welsh ladies in their respective tents.

"Where can I find food?" Maeve really couldn't stand it, she had never been hungry in her life, even during the hunger strike when she was forced to marry, there was always a grandmother who secretly brought her hot oatmeal.

"I don't know, we don't understand the nonsense of the Anglos." Gillick replied angrily that Maeve was the only one of them who knew English, and that it was she who had heard people on the road say that there would be free food here.

They came to a large gate of black wood decorated with the heads of majestic horses, and saw many people toasting at the oak tables there.

"Let's have a drink first." Gilic squeezed in first, took a horn cup, and took a big sip before the fat old man could fill it.

He almost didn't vomit the bile, and the liquid in the cup almost spilled on the floor.

"Don't waste good beer!" The old man shouted in a language that Gilic did not understand, without raising his head the whole time.

Perhaps because they had been hungry for too long, the three children ended up drinking two pints of beer.

Just as Angus began to feel the effects of alcohol, the sound of a bull's horn was heard in the distance, reminding him of the roar of a stag he had heard in his dreams, with the majesty of a king.

An ornate banner fluttering behind two knights' horses, with a white double-headed eagle depicted on it, immediately reminded Angus of the beautiful illustrations in the glowing books of his adoptive father's castle, only the real person in front of him was more striking than the paper. He couldn't help but wonder to himself, could one of the two knights be the king?

"The Mercians." Gillick was already drunk, but his good education still had an effect, "This sign was used by the Earl of Mercia in the past, and I have seen in the church the donation of the Count of Leofric, which has an exact stamp on it. ”

Angus's footsteps were scattered, getting closer and closer to the flag, his eyes were only fixed on the winged helmet knight, the magnificence of the other's saddle stirrups and the majesty of the mount were certainly amazing, but what shook his heart even more was the armor on this man's body—it was a cold and compelling whole body armor, unlike any iron armor Angus had ever seen in his life, the finely woven locking rings only took up a small part of the head, hanging from the side of the winged helmet like a skirt until it covered the entire chin and throat, and the cuirass below the neck was as smooth as a mirror. The black leather buckle above ties the diamond-shaped belly armor with arabesque, and below the dome is a four-fold armor skirt with no visible gaps, the rounded shin armor sets off the graceful calf shape, and the sharp iron boots add three points of edge.

The Winged Helmet Knight's equipment made the chain mail of the right knight on his side look a little shabby, but the shields of both of them were open, and they would occasionally laugh.

As Angus lost his mind, the tall Spanish horse came down like a dark cloud, and he was almost completely overturned to the ground, and the shock made the drunken spirit dissipate in an instant.

"!" The knight in chain mail whipped it, but was caught by Angus with a backhand.

"You're freaking out the little one, Northman." The Winged Knight laughed, "Looks like it's still a female." ”

The Norseman knight looked closely, and the wrist on which Angus grabbed his horsewhip showed a white complexion, and his coarse clothes and mud could not hide his delicate appearance.

"Don't look at it, we don't have time, we still have to see your father."

"For such a woman, of course, there is time." Northman didn't look back, turned over and dismounted, and the gesture of this scoundrel revealed a kind of elegance.

Angus couldn't understand their language, but he heard the familiar obscene tone, and his anger was accumulating, and he didn't want to be looked up by a knight like a slave, so he took the initiative to look up, and his eyes shot with hatred.

"Huh." It was the Winged Helmet Knight, "Northman, who do you think he looks like?" ”

"Like a *** bitch." The Mercian knight continued to close.

There was no one nearby, and Gillick tried to rush up, but was pressed against the oak table by the old man who poured the wine.

Northman also had an iron glove pressed on his shoulder.

"Don't worry, Robert, she'll be yours when I'm done."

"It's a boy." There was a hint of mockery in the winged helmet's voice, Angus's figure was so slender that even he was confused at first, but on closer inspection, it was not difficult to tell the difference between his real life.

"Whatever." Northman still didn't want to give up, but the iron glove was firmly on his shoulder like a pincer, preventing him from moving forward.

"What do you want to do?"

"Let him go, don't forget, I'm your cousin."

"Robert Mallett, you're just a prisoner." The Norsman was so angry, he couldn't believe that this Norman dared to compete with him?

"Don't ask for trouble, bastard, you're no match for me." Robert Mallett's voice carried a hint of menace, "Now I say, you can't touch this kid." ”

The Norseman knight had never suffered such a humiliation, still in front of a group of peasants, his father was the Earl of Mercia, but he was only an illegitimate child, and Robert openly uncovered the scar, and at one point, he almost wanted to draw his sword.

But he knew that the Norman was right, that he was no match for the other side.

"Wait and see!" Mercia's bastard son left a threatening message and went away.

Robert Mallett did not leave, he grabbed Angus's left hand and dug a dagger from under his arm.

"How long have you been studying?" Robert looked at the boy with interest.

No response.

"Ah, a barbarian." The Norman knight immediately saw that the other party didn't understand what he was saying, "Your eyes are very accurate, and you have been staring at that guy's vital point, but it's a pity that even if you kill him, you won't be able to escape a hundred yards." ”

As if to find it a little boring to talk to himself, Robert Mallett let go of Angus's right hand, and the coolness of steel remained between the boy's phalanges.

The knight waved his hand and motioned for him to leave at once, and only after Angus had galloped away did he pull out the dagger and study it carefully.

"Your Excellency!" Gillick held the sleeping Maeve with one hand and shouted, "It's okay if you're okay, if it weren't for this old fellow, I would definitely fight with them." ”

Conversation and laughter resumed at the table, and the old man continued to fill the wine glasses for everyone, as if that scene had never happened.

"We need to get out of here right now." Angus whispered.

Gillick wasn't a fool, and he realized that the knight just now wouldn't give up.

"Where do we go now?"

"South." Angus replied, having made up his mind, "I'm going to be a mercenary, as Master Kenneth once said." ”

Gillick's face immediately began to glow red, and the mercenary's adventure had obviously filled him with all kinds of romantic hopes: "But we don't have any money, how can we get weapons?" ”

"Sell my armor." Angus had already figured out that although this was the only relic of his adoptive father that he had now, his body was growing, and if it was another year and a half, the chain mail would no longer fit, and he needed more practical equipment than a luxury souvenir.

Gillick had been carefully tucked away the iron suit, wrapped in the same horse skin he had obtained in the Welsh camp and strapped, and no one would have imagined that a little beggar would have something of such value on his dirty back.

Maeve was awakened by the deafening cheers from the direction of the racecourse, and she wiped her saliva away in embarrassment and explained to her two companions in a serious manner: "They are shouting 'Long live the King.'" ”