Chapter 46: Oathkeeper - Duncan!

A drizzling rain fell endlessly.

The weather on the British Isles was indeed far from pleasant. Just as the frontline had finally stabilized, a continuous, overcast rain set in for two or three days.

A troop of knights was hurrying along a muddy road.

"This won't do."

"The stone-paved roads built by the Empire back in the day really need to be repaired."

Duncan gazed at the distant fortress, reined in his warhorse, and said, "Let's rest for a moment and take shelter from the rain."

The British Isles lacked grand, arterial highways.

In many places, there was only a dusty track; in better areas, there were stone-paved roads, but after decades of neglect, they had practically turned back into muddy paths. Whether an empire was prosperous or not could basically be understood by looking at its roads. The Central Plains dynasties of the East placed immense importance on official post roads and relay stations.

The eight-hundred-li urgent dispatches were the ultimate test of a road system.

Cligan led the Sarmatian riders to guard Duncan’s flanks. He looked up at the sky and said, "My lord, we should be able to arrive before dark."

With that, he cast a subtle glance at the men around him.

Several Sarmatian riders immediately began handing out food and water to the others, mainly the elite guards who had sworn loyalty to the Duke of Tintagel.

Cligan said in a deep voice, "My lord."

"Your subordinate has already made covert contact with them, and quite a few are willing to pledge their loyalty directly to you!"

The weather is turning cold.

Time to add a cloak for my lord!

Cligan's meaning was blunt: if Duncan wished to seize the seat of the Duke of Tintagel, the vast majority of the men would support him.

The position of Duke was there for Duncan to take whenever he pleased.

Duncan glanced at him indifferently and replied calmly, "I know."

All decisions rested with him alone.

Although Cornwall was the ancestral home of the Duke of Tintagel and there should still be many loyal to him, if Duncan truly wanted to usurp the title, likely no one could stop him.

A true man makes his name on the battlefield!

Duncan's military exploits and prestige were more than enough to awe and forcefully subdue any dissenters.

Yet doing so would undoubtedly tarnish his reputation. How long had Duncan even been on the British Isles before seizing the title and foundation of the Duke of Tintagel?

Some might not say it aloud, but fear and apprehension would inevitably linger in their hearts.

A military coup with the yellow robe placed upon one's shoulders brought a poor reputation, and Duncan harbored entirely different plans of his own.

He intended to display his magnificent magnanimity to the entire British Isles!

To borrow a phrase from the Three Kingdoms: "A true hero cherishes grand ambitions in his chest, harbors brilliant strategies, possesses the capacity to contain the universe, and the will to swallow the heavens and the earth."

As dusk gradually fell, Duncan led his cavalry back into Cornwall before nightfall. His return sparked a wave of cheers atop the city walls. Many soldiers had heard tales of his formidable reputation, and now, with the Duke of Tintagel critically ill and on the verge of death, everyone felt panicked and uneasy, desperately needing a central pillar to step forward.

"Immediately summon all lord-knights, and gather the military commanders of centurion rank and above into the castle."

Clad in full armor and radiating an overwhelming heroic aura, Duncan strode into the castle. The guards on both sides lowered their heads respectfully, awed by his legendary prestige, with more than a few dropping to one knee.

The Raven Queen, Triss, stood near the front to welcome him. A look of joy graced her face as she sensed that Duncan had already firmly grasped the hearts of the people here.

"Yes!" Cligan responded, his expression stirred with excitement.

He did not know what Duncan intended to do, but the order made his blood race.

"Light the torches!"

"Gather everyone in the great hall to hold council!"

Duncan nodded slightly in acknowledgement to the Raven Queen, Triss, noticing another figure standing just behind her—a three-star silver-gray witch, likely one of the founders of the Witch Coven. She wore a veil, and her bright eyes currently gazed at Duncan with curiosity.

"Bring the Duke of Tintagel over, and bring the Duchess and her three daughters as well."

Duncan issued commands in rapid succession, and the others hurried off to obey.

***

A flurry of footsteps echoed through the hall.

Duncan walked straight to the lord's seat at the head of the great hall. Unable to lift the dying Duke of Tintagel, a group of attendants had no choice but to carry him in chair and all, placing him on the dais just below Duncan.

After many days had passed, the complexion of the Duke of Tintagel was utterly ashen, shrouded in the aura of death, barely clinging to his final breath.

His clouded eyes gazed up at Duncan seated upon the lord's throne. A trace of desolate grief crossed his face—his heart was entirely dead, as if he had anticipated this outcome all along.

This fellow was also a pitiable man: his wife had cuckolded him, and his lands, estate, and ducal title were all slipping from his grasp.

Inside the great hall, people began to trickle in one after another. Some knights caught sight of Duncan occupying the master seat, and their expressions shifted instantly; others wore angry looks, while many cast gazes filled with pity toward the Duke of Tintagel, remembering that he was, after all, the man to whom they had once sworn allegiance.

Yet Duncan's terrifying renown hung heavy in the air.

Not a single person present dared to make a rash move.

The Raven Queen, Triss, consciously stepped behind Duncan, flanked by the two witches. They were ready to suppress any unrest at a moment's notice, and combined with Duncan's personal might, forcefully cutting down everyone in the room would be no difficult task.

The torchlight flickered.

Duchess Igraine appeared, trembling as she led her three terrified, young daughters. She wore a worn, faded gown, utterly stripped of her initial elegance and beauty; bruised skin was even visible on her exposed arms.

Her eyes turned toward the immobile, dying form of the Duke of Tintagel ahead of her. Her expression carried a trace of grievance, a trace of hatred, a trace of pity, and a lingering shred of affection—emotions so complex they were impossible to decipher, for she, too, was merely a victim.

What wrong had she done in wholeheartedly serving the husband who returned from the battlefield?

King Uther had transformed into the likeness of her husband; how could an ordinary woman have known?

Even so many guards had been deceived.

That King Uther was a decrepit old man in his fifties; upon learning the truth, she had lived in terror day and night, nearly vomiting several times and scrubbing her skin countless times in desperate attempts to cleanse herself until she nearly rubbed it raw.

Yet what could she do?

The moment her husband accidentally discovered the truth, he imprisoned her without hesitation and even beat her.

Upon whom should she vent the grievance and resentment harbored in her heart?

When all was said and done, she was merely a weak woman incapable of choosing her own destiny. Merlin had deceived her with ease, and her husband could just as easily put her to death.

Hiss!

Upon catching sight of Duchess Igraine, the Duke of Tintagel grew violently agitated, his eyes burning with intense hatred. That he had been reduced to this state was naturally blamed entirely upon his wife.

From a God's-eye perspective, Duncan's expression shifted slightly. He spotted a mark denoting a "Familiar" on his map.

True to form, Merlin was indeed watching everything happening here.

The Duke of Tintagel's emotional surge nearly cut off his final breath. The surrounding lord-knights also turned their gazes toward the beautiful Duchess, their expressions varying—some held disdain and contempt, while others showed sympathy and pity. By now, rumors were flying wildly outside, with all sorts of tales in circulation.

In the most salacious rumors, the conduct of Duchess Igraine was described as utterly disgraceful.

Finally, the Duchess, whose own eyes were equally clouded with despair, raised her head to look at Duncan upon the lord's throne. With the man sitting in the seat of power, his intentions required no further explanation.

In full view of everyone, she slowly knelt down and opened her arms to embrace her three young daughters standing beside her.

This was a plea for mercy!

Not for herself, but for her children.

Duchess Igraine lowered her head in utter humility, showing submission to the man before her while begging him to spare her children.

Clang!

Amidst the firelight, Duncan drew the Oathkeeper sword from his waist.

He descended the steps, glanced at the speechlessness-stricken Duke of Tintagel with resolute eyes, and at the moment their gazes met, the Duke seemed to understand something, his breathing abruptly growing much steadier.

Duncan walked up to the eldest little girl and said in a deep voice, "What is your name?"

The little girl cowered fearfully in her mother's embrace. She was only around seven or eight years old, holding her two trembling younger sisters, and whispered, "Morise."

Duncan held his sword horizontally and said, "Kneel."

A stir ran through the assembled lord-knights, many exchanging bewildered glances, for the gesture with which Duncan held his sword reminded them of something significant.

A spark of brilliance suddenly ignited in the eyes of Duchess Igraine!

She pressed down on her eldest daughter's shoulder, signaling her to kneel.

Morise was merely a child and did not fully understand, dropping immediately to both knees. Duncan reached out at once to pull her up, commanding in a low voice, "Kneel on one knee."

An uproar swept through the great hall as everyone stared in shock at the scene unfolding before them.

Morise seemed to realize something as well.

The seven or eight-year-old girl looked up at the heroic and majestic Duncan, not even daring to draw a full breath. Her two younger sisters looked up as well; one of them had lively, sparkling eyes and was even marked by the system as a one-star witch unit. Duchess Igraine certainly had hidden depths to have birthed a natural-born witch—and later, she would give birth to King Arthur.

"In the name of God and the gods!"

Duncan laid the Oathkeeper flat across Morise's small shoulders. This sword, bearing the name "Oathkeeper," was now making its way into the lore whispered among the Britons.

He looked down upon everyone present and stated in a resounding voice, "I, the Lord of Southampton, the slayer of the King of Kent, the leader of the coalition that defeated Horsa, and the commander who successfully repelled the Saxon raiders invading the British Isles,"

"Do hereby formally enfeoff Morise, the eldest daughter of the Duke of Tintagel, as the next Duchess of Cornwall!"

"The county of Cornwall shall remain her fief and domain."

"She shall inherit the estate of the Duke of Tintagel by lawful right, including the castle, manors, lands, and all appurtenances."

Duncan did not strike the little girl a blow with his hand as was customary when knighting someone; that would have been far too brutal.

Dead silence fell over the entire great hall.

Not only Duchess Igraine, but even the dying Duke of Tintagel managed to push himself upright. His breathing grew rapid, as if experiencing a sudden, miraculous return of vitality. He fixed his gaze upon Duncan, his face filled with utter shock, as if he had never expected Duncan to be so magnanimous.

King Arthur might not have been his son, but these three daughters were unquestionably his own flesh and blood.

As long as Duncan claimed the military power and the army, the property of the Duke of Tintagel could remain untouched, and the title of Duke of Cornwall would be inherited by his eldest daughter—likely making her the first underage female duchess on the British Isles!

"I know some of you thought I would seize the ducal title and misappropriate the property of the Duke of Tintagel."

Duncan offered a dismissive smile and slowly continued, "But everything I desire, I shall take with my own hands upon the battlefield!"

"Since the covenant still stands, let Oathkeeper bear witness to all that happens today!"

In the great hall, Cligan's expression blazed with excitement. He led the Sarmatian riders in dropping to one knee, and one after another, the lord-knights who had sworn allegiance to the Duke of Tintagel similarly dropped to one knee.

The Raven Queen, Triss, breathed heavily, her eyes never once leaving Duncan's figure.

Beside her, the masked witch's eyes instantly flared with brilliant light!

Below the dais, Duncan took Morise's small hand and led her up to the lord's throne. Instead of letting her sit, he kept her standing by his side.

The various lord-knights bowed their heads slightly and proclaimed, "Duchess Morise, my lord!"

They knelt on one knee to Duncan, but before Morise, they merely offered a slight bow of their heads to show respect for her position as Duchess.

The curtain fell on the affair.

With a final glance toward Duchess Igraine, the Duke of Tintagel's expression seemed to harbor a trace of release. His hand slowly dropped, and in his final moments, his gaze rested upon Morise standing by Duncan's side, a final, comforting smile touching his lips.

A true hero claims the realm from horseback; why would he ever need to bully orphans and widows?

Following the sudden death of the Duke of Tintagel and Duncan's formal enfeoffment of his eldest daughter Morise as the next Duchess of Cornwall right there in the great hall, the events of the day spread across the entire British Isles like a rising wind.

——Oathkeeper Duncan.

King Uther never even had the chance to lay a finger on anything here; Duncan had effectively taken complete control of all the territories belonging to the Duke of Tintagel.