Chapter 26: Stir the water to make it cloudy

The hall of Simis Castle was filled with traditional Irish decorations. Compared to other Western European castles, the Celtic-style wooden castle was far more comfortable than stone buildings. However, its defensive capabilities were significantly inferior to those of stone castles.

Jacques and his two attendant knights followed the castle steward, listening to him recount stories about the castle.

The steward spoke Saxon, so conversing with Jacques and his men posed no problem.

"You must have come a long way from Dublin," the steward remarked, making small talk. "And it's winter. Did you encounter any difficulties on your journey?"

"No," Jacques replied. "We didn't encounter any trouble on the way."

The steward nodded. "That's good to hear."

The midday winter sun made one feel lethargic, but the gently blowing cold wind quickly revived the senses.

"Our master should be napping at this time," the steward said as he led Jacques and his men to a small room that appeared to be a reception area. It had a small table and several chairs, as well as two beds.

Jacques pulled up a chair and sat down. "Thank you for your hospitality. Once your master wakes up, please bring us to see him."

The steward handed them a jug of wine, pouring it as he spoke. "Of course, of course. Lord Caimán is quite approachable most of the time. He is a wise lord, and I hope you will show him respect."

"Naturally," Jacques replied, accepting the wine cup with respect. "I will definitely give your master the respect he deserves."

After some pleasantries, the steward left the room, leaving Jacques and his two attendants. As an envoy, Jacques took a small sip of wine before lying down on one of the beds for a brief rest.

When Jacques finished resting, the diligent steward returned to the room and led them to Lord Caimán's hall.

As Jacques entered the hall, he observed the peculiar architecture. It was different from the castles in England and unlike the monasteries. The building resembled the lord's halls in Northern Europe, with long tables and a large fireplace. The trophies hanging on the walls were particularly eye-catching.

Lord Caimán sat at the end of the hall, resembling the great lords of Northern European legends who were known for their keen insight. The only difference was his fiery red hair, unmistakably marking him as Irish.

"Friends from Dublin, welcome," Caimán's voice boomed powerfully, matching his chiseled features.

The two attendants felt a bit uneasy, intimidated by Caimán's imposing presence. But Jacques, maintaining his composure, approached Caimán and spoke directly:

"Thank you for receiving us, Lord of Simis. We represent the goodwill of the Plantagenet royal family. The esteemed Prince of England, the Earl of Lancaster, John, sends his regards."

"The reason for our visit is to discuss a matter of great importance: the overthrow of High King Rodri's tyranny."

Jacques' statement piqued Lord Caimán's interest. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands, a hint of joy in his expression. Noticing this, Jacques continued.

"High King Rodri has ruled Ireland for decades, but his reign is unstable. He cannot lead the Irish lords in repelling foreign invasions, cannot guide them to glory, and cannot even ensure the stability of the local lords' rule. What is the point of having such a High King?"

"So, you're saying High King Rodri is a burden to us?" Caimán asked.

"Exactly! High King Rodri is corrupt and incompetent, focusing solely on his dominion in the northwest of Ireland, ignoring the rule of lords in other regions. He is unworthy of being High King."

Jacques' resolute words echoed through the lord's hall, accompanied only by the crackling of burning wood.

Caimán stroked his beard, contemplating Jacques' words with a serious expression. The envoy's points were valid—High King Rodri did not deserve his position. However, the problem was that this envoy represented the Plantagenet royal family of England, who were, in essence, invaders.

The very act of sending someone to lobby was like a weasel paying a New Year's visit to a chicken—it carried no good intentions.

"Go on," Caimán chose to deflect.

This evasion made Jacques feel a bit troubled. He had considered many scenarios beforehand but had not anticipated Caimán's reaction. By doing this, Caimán was essentially forcing Jacques to openly declare his stance and advocate his viewpoint. Everyone knew that directly preaching to others was the least effective way to persuade, but Caimán had seized on this very point.

Jacques had no choice but to continue, despite the awkwardness. "Our prince hopes that you will support his cause to overthrow the tyranny of High King Rodri…"

"And who will be the new High King after that? Your prince? Or the son of Longbow Richard?"

Clearly, Caimán had identified a critical flaw in Jacques' proposition.

The atmosphere in the room plummeted to freezing point, as if the cold wind from outside had blown into the hall. Caimán's attitude toward Jacques had noticeably shifted, his anger evident in his expression.

Jacques realized he had misspoken but couldn't say anything detrimental to John in front of his two attendants. The two sides remained in this tense standoff for half a minute until Jacques spoke again.

"The High King should be the person with the most prestige and virtue in all of Ireland, not merely the one with the most power."

Many years ago, the Capetian dynasty of France had risen to power by promoting the idea that virtue was more important than bloodline, toppling the Carolingian dynasty established by Charlemagne. This kind of deception played out across Europe, and every ambitious person was eager to believe it because it muddied the waters and created opportunities for personal gain. If they managed to emerge victorious in this power struggle, the rewards would be immense.

"My master hopes you will join him in challenging the authority of the High King…"

Before Jacques could finish, Lord Caimán slammed the table with force.

"Get out!"

Lord Caimán's fury made him look like a lion, and the three members of the envoy felt their legs turn to jelly. They hurried out, standing in the snow outside, unsure of what to do next. Although their lives were spared, their mission had failed.

Inside the hall, once the three had fled, Lord Caimán returned to his seat. He felt he understood the English prince's intentions—to enlist his support, or at least to stir the pot.

Caimán had no desire to be anyone's puppet. He wanted to write his own legend.

"Summon someone—"

The lord called for his own messenger, beginning to plan his own future.