Age of Faith

Episodes 10

Wulfrith unrolled the parchment scroll and lowered her gaze, but not long after Annyn breathed a sigh of relief, she looked up. “You're late.” He struggled with throat muscles that were firmer than they should have been.

"I'm afraid—" "This is all the escort your father gave you?" "Sir," said Rowan, "I'm Sir Killary, serving Baron Braose. On the way to Wulfen, we were confronted by Henry's forces.

Although all were arrested, the boy and I had the good fortune to escape two nights ago. We come directly to Wulfen.” Wulfrit. Did he see through himself and Rowan? Please, Lord— Blasphemy! Father Cornelius lashed out from afar.

God will not help in his revenge. And though Annyn forgave her plan by telling herself that she was helping God, she knew death after death would not be forgiven.

To hell he would go, a dark place that was often preached by Father Cornelius. “Why are you waiting?” ask Wulfrit. "My lord?" Annyn almost choked on the title. His nostrils are widened. “Such contemplation will make you die, Braose. I say again—” Again? "down. Your training starts now.” "But I just arrived." He moved so suddenly as if by magic he had appeared by his side.

Gripping his boots, he jerked them out of the saddle. He landed on his back. As he struggled to breathe, he looked up where he stood on top of him with his legs open. It was fortunate that he did not quickly replenish his lungs, as the words he wanted to exhale would definitely prove his ruin.

Finally breathing some fresh air, he looked towards Rowan. Despite the warnings falling from him, there was a struggle in his eyes that told him about the efforts he had made not to attack Wulfrit. As for their companion, their mouths were silent, but their eyes spoke as loud as Rowan's eyes.

Not with warning, but with entertainment. "Thank your feet" Wulfrit ordered. He stumbled upright and grabbed his hat from the ground. As he put it on his head, he turned around. Although four years had made him closer to Wulfrit's height, there was still one leg stretched out between the top of his head and his head.

Cunning and furtive, he reminded. What he doesn't see will take revenge on him. “Lesson one,” said, “when spoken to, listen carefully.” He tightened his throat muscles. "Yes, my lord." Never his master!

"Lesson two, don't ever question me." "Yes, my lord." That bastard! "Lesson three, act when told to act." I'll act, all right. "Yes, my lord." "Lesson four, watch your opponent." "Yes, my lord." That bastard! "Now to the field." Although he was eager to look towards Rowan, he knew it would not be tolerated.

Third lesson, right? Or four? As he stepped away, Wulfrit spoke to Rowan. "Tell your master that his son has been accepted." Rowan left? Surely Wulfrith would extend the hospitality one night? He saw over his shoulder a mistake. "'Circling the field ten times, Braose!" wulfrit's orders.

Curse him! And he did, over and over again until he was in the middle of the field and came back to see Rowan. When he saw her driving from Wulfen, he felt sick. He wasn't even allowed to wish him good luck.

But, then, men don't care about separation. On his fourth round around the field, he looked at Rowan last out of sight. But he'll be close, and when Wulfrith meets his destiny, Rowan will see him off safely.

He searches for her and finds her head and shoulders above the bodyguard whose height makes her appear tall. He frowned. A page? Yes, and there are many more that are smaller in stature, some looking as young as seven or eight years old.

Although it was not unusual for the courtyard to train with the bodyguards, Annyn was surprised that Wulfrith was training the boys herself. By the time he did the final lap on the field, his tunic and volume were wet and the latter scuffed.

Recalling Rowan's warning, he clenched his hands to endure his discomfort. When he reached the entrance to the training field, he gripped the aching side and bent forward. He considers himself more fit.

Although almost every day he exerts himself, either by chasing the game through the woods or learning weapons with Rowan, this hurts. Giving up on the need to sit—just for a moment, he swore—dia fell to the ground, only to give up again and lay down on the grass of the bush.

Panting, he looked from side to side. Riding gone. Was it taken to the stables? What about the package that contains a little of his belongings? She held back her worries by reminding her that there were no consequences, closing her eyes, and listening to her breathing which, according to Rowan, was the surest way to calm her down.

Clouds move across the sun, offering a sweet reprieve from the heat. "You're not too fast" said a terrifying voice. Not the clouds, but Wulfrit. He peeked at her.

Eyes reproaching. “You should do better if you want to wear armor. Wake." Thinking of him every rotten name he could remember, he staggered upright and followed him to the training field. Although the people he passed by made his senses sweat strongly and made it take him a long time to cover his mouth and nose, he suffered through it to the middle of the field where the quarterstaff was stacked.

Wulfrith swept one into the hand. "Choosing." Will he test it himself? He gritted his teeth. Instilling a dagger in him was what he wanted, not playing in a fight. “Bration!” He grabbed the stick and turned around. "You're going to train me, my lord?" He placed a two-handed grip onto his quarterstaff. “It all started with me.

It all ends with me.” “And between them?” He put his hand too close as Jame Braose might. Wulfrit's gaze fell on them. "When you have proven yourself worthy to practice at Wulfen, you will be assigned a Knight to serve."

He stepped forward, gripped his right hand, and pushed it down the quarter stick. His touch jolted, and that was all he could do not let go. "Hold it." He stuck out his chin. “Now show if you are male or male.” He raised his staff, lunged, and attacked him before he could fight.

He leaned under the punch to his shoulder and grumbled in pain. Although Wulfrith was completely restraining herself, it was not the gratitude she felt but a deep desire for revenge. "Unworthy," he sneered. "Come again." Forgetting the inexperienced young man he was, he lunged.

This time their sticks met in the middle, but as Annyn congratulated herself for fending off her punch, she arch her wand and slammed it into the knuckles of her left hand. He shouted, released the quarterstaff, and hugged his throbbing hand to his chest.