When Roger woke up in the morning, he finally noticed the cart parked on the open ground in front of the stables—a four-wheeled, covered wagon with a coachman still asleep inside.
After feeding the horses, Roger joined the coachman and headed into the main hall.
The baron waved them over for breakfast. "We've got something tasty—plenty of black pudding left from last night. The innkeeper made a whole batch."
On the table, Roger saw steaming barley porridge, rock-hard rye bread, and reheated black pudding—a dish made from pig's blood mixed with finely chopped animal organs and oats, seasoned and then boiled into a dense, black sausage.
Roger followed the others' example, soaking his bread to soften it.
At that moment, a man and woman stepped out of the guest rooms. The man was dressed like a Saracen merchant, and the woman, wrapped in Arab robes with only her eyes visible, clearly came from the same background.
As they passed Roger's group, a strong fishy smell trailed behind them, yet they still wrinkled their noses in distaste at the sight of everyone eating the black pudding.
Roger didn't care. He hadn't eaten enough the night before. A hot meal, no matter how odd, was still a blessing.
"Roger, let me tell you," the baron said, chewing as he spoke, "you might not have noticed when you were living in the castle, but life on the road is nothing like home. Eat when you can, fill up whenever there's food. During the Crusade, we even ate horse meat."
Roger instinctively glanced at the door. Gift wasn't there. But the Saracen couple had come back.
"Got it, Baron Rollo. But maybe don't say that in front of Gift." Roger said.
"Yeah, yeah. You're always defending him," the baron chuckled, taking a swig of beer thick enough to pass as soup. "You spoil that thing like a wild colt. Let's see if you can ever ride it."
The coachman threw in a teasing remark: "Is that how all nobles raise their horses?"
"Not really," Roger said with a tinge of embarrassment. "It's just me."
"I'm an odd one out," he added with a wry smile, poking fun at himself.
He thought back to his behavior at the banquet and felt like he didn't belong anywhere.
The priest burst out laughing between bites of black pudding and pointed at the baron. "He's the real odd one!"
The blacksmith paused, wide-eyed. The forester looked up from his cup and sneered.
"What day is it, Father?" the coachman asked, looking puzzled.
"Friday," the priest answered without hesitation.
Then he noticed the silence—everyone was staring at him.
Scratching his head, he asked, uncertain, "Did I get it wrong?"
Laughter erupted.
Everyone except the priest laughed. Even the Saracen couple was grinning.
"Water, please—hic," the Saracen man gasped, nearly choking from laughing so hard.
Roger noticed they were now holding white bread, likely fetched from their cart.
"You're right—it is Friday," the innkeeper sighed as he handed over a cup of water. "Why else do you think I gave away the black pudding at half price?"
Roger didn't quite understand and looked questioningly at the baron.
"Ah… The coachman and innkeeper remembered it's Friday," the baron explained, scratching his head. "It's a fasting day. No one dares buy meat from the priest on a Friday. Better to sell it to me cheap."
"You got a real bargain," the innkeeper muttered. "That black pudding is good stuff. I never offer discounts."
"Peasant food," the Saracen merchant scoffed, shaking his head in disdain as he dipped the white bread into his water.
"I think black pudding tastes great," Roger said. "Maybe even the king would like it someday."
"Hah! Now that's something I like to hear," the innkeeper laughed. "Even if it's unlikely, I love the sound of it."
"This isn't something we eat every day, you know. I only made it because I happened to have all the ingredients yesterday."
Pouring a beer, the innkeeper generously pushed it toward Roger. "Here—on the house, for that lovely comment."
Roger eyed the thick beer—it looked more like soup than ale and had no foam. He hesitated.
"No, no, he's still a kid," the forester clucked like a mother hen, reaching out to take the cup. "I'll drink it for him."
"Who says I can't drink?" Roger slapped the hand away, stood up, and drained the mug in one go.
With gusto, he declared, "Ask around—who in Messina hasn't heard of me? I'm Roger the Boozer! You think I can't hold my liquor?"
Feeling proud, he caught the eye of the merchant's wife. She was watching him intently, intrigued. He raised his empty cup to her with a cocky grin.
The cart swayed as it moved forward. The coachman was slouched lazily in the front seat, clearly tipsy, humming a tune off-key and barely paying attention to the reins.
Roger curled up in the straw, feeling his stomach twist. He wasn't sure whether it was the black pudding or the beer—or both—but it was making him nauseous without being able to throw up.
A four-wheeled carriage rushed past them. Roger saw the Saracen merchant again, sitting up front beside his own coachman.
"Are we still on the right road?" the forester asked, riding up.
"Relax. There's only one road—you can't miss it," the coachman replied confidently. After a pause, he added, "Straight ahead is Roccalumera."
"Where's that? Never heard of it."
"Don't start with me. My tongue's gone numb. It's a small town. From there, follow the coast all the way to Santa Teresa di Riva. There's a fishing port and two mountain roads, but we'll stick to the coast road all the way to the Castle of Sant'Alessio Siculo."
The coachman paused, then turned to the baron. "We should reach it by nightfall. My lord, do you know anyone there?"
"I've got some connections," the baron said, stroking his goatee. "I just hope the lord is in."
This time, he'd learned his lesson. He asked, "Is there an inn near the castle? If the owner's away, we'll need a place to stay."
"Nope. Next town is Taormina. The castle lies between Santa Teresa di Riva and Taormina—half a day's travel either way. No one would open an inn out there."
"That's going to be tricky," the baron muttered. "If he's not there, we'll have to travel at night or camp outdoors."
"It's your call, my lord. We can slow down and stay in Santa Teresa di Riva, push forward and try to make Taormina—though that might be tough—or roll the dice on the castle. Worst case, we camp."
"Hmm…" The baron scratched his head. "Let's discuss it again later."
Since the baron couldn't decide, no one else wanted to take the lead.
In the end, the one to make the decision was the humblest of the group—the coachman's nag.
It didn't stop moving, so neither did they. However fast it went, they followed.
Roger found it rather ironic, but didn't argue.
His stomach pain faded, and in the sweltering Sicilian summer, as the cart rocked and swayed, Roger finally drifted off to sleep.