"Burning villages, trampling wheat fields, imposing forced labor, violating women, and slaughtering those who resist—all for the sake of war. What do you expect them to do?"
"I am disciplining my people. What does it have to do with you? Go back to your monastery and chant your scriptures, Monk. Flaunting your smug little victory will only hasten your demise. God himself said so," EDe snorted.
"Is that so? Then I have the same words for you. 'A merciful man does good to his own soul, but he that is cruel troubles his own flesh.' God also said that. Besides, you have English blood in you. You shouldn't be so cruel to them."
Philip was not to be outdone.
The tall monk behind him tugged at his sleeve, motioning for Philip to stop.
After all, a battle of wits was no match for real steel. Not long ago, while in the north, he had seen several monks with their tongues cut out.
"I am a Norman! I'm nothing like you."
"Then you should be speaking French."
"You..."
