A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

"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..."

EDe’s face flushed red.

His father was a Norman loyal to Edward the Confessor and held no lands in Normandy. EDe himself had been born in England and had only visited Normandy a few times, so his French was atrocious.

Because of this, he couldn’t fit in with the young Norman nobility. They mocked his terrible accent whenever they had the chance and treated him like a joke, which infuriated him.

That was why he initially thought Emma disliked him—that his poor French had led her to some misunderstanding.

"Say whatever you like. You can’t stop any of this. The King himself granted me this right, and not even God can stand in my way."

The thought of Emma brought back that awful memory, and his frustration flared up again.

"You have no right to levy taxes in the spring. This is the planting season. That is not a right the King granted you."

"It’s a war tax. The King needs money."

"No, *you* need money. Levying a war tax requires a writ from the King! If you have one, show it!" Philip pressed, refusing to back down.

EDe waved a hand at the two knights behind him.

The two knights cracked their knuckles and advanced on Philip. They had clearly had enough of the babbling priest.

"Only a fool would attack a servant of God! It would damn your souls to eternal Hell, where you will burn in fire for all eternity!"

Philip tried to remain composed, though he was terrified they would actually attack.

Fortunately, the two knights did indeed stop.

It wasn’t because of Philip’s threat, however, but because of a somewhat unfamiliar voice calling out from a short distance away.

EDe turned his head as well. The voice was, in fact, quite familiar to him.

The man calling to him was his father, a stout, middle-aged man with a perpetually red nose—"Red Nose" Savary.

His red nose wasn’t natural. The story went that, as a young man, he had stolen and drunk an entire barrel of wine from a monastery, and his nose had never been the same since. That was also the day his father and mother first met.

Every time he got drunk, he would mutter about how terrible the wine was, though sometimes he’d say just the opposite.

"What is it, Father?" EDe asked, running up to Savary.

Savary sat atop his warhorse, his red nose making him look as if he were drunk.

"I should be asking you that. What are you doing here? You disappeared first thing in the morning, and I’ve been looking for you all this time."

"A few serfs were resisting the tax, so I came to teach them a lesson. You’re the one who told me mercy doesn’t put food on the table."

"But you can’t be so direct about it, like a fool. Especially not with a monk present. Not every monk is as cunning as your uncle, but there’s still no need to pick a fight with them.

Be a little friendlier to our new subjects. At the very least, wait until their memory of the old lord has faded."

Savary tried to appear gentle, smiling and waving at the villagers in the distance.

Few, if any, responded in kind.

"But Father, this makes you look like a fool."

"The one who can’t even control his own emotions is the real fool. You have a long way to go before you become a true nobleman. Remember, it doesn’t matter what others say about us. What matters is what we can actually take for ourselves. It’s best if they see us as nothing more than insignificant dust.

Get on your horse, my boy. We have more important things to do. Word came from London this morning. The King has been defeated. London City now belongs to Prince Robert."

"What? So Prince Robert is going to win?"

"No, this is only the beginning. The King is unharmed. Besides, just yesterday, the combined forces of Walter, Baron Langwell, and Velen, Baron Sari, defeated Count Mortain, breaking his assault on Winchester.

As long as Winchester doesn’t fall, there’s still time. Having abandoned London City, the King will certainly head for Oxford City to join forces with Beaumont, the Lord of Leister. From there, they can pin down Prince Robert’s reinforcements.

Prince Robert has no strong supporters in the west. He used to have the powerful Earl of Hereford, but I took care of him. Now, there’s no one. If Count Mortain can’t hold out for reinforcements and chooses to surrender, Prince Robert will lose the initiative.

Furthermore, the longer the war drags on, the more it favors the King."

"So, Father, are you preparing to support the King?" EDe asked, noticing the retinue of knights behind his father.

"No. The outcome of this war is still uncertain, and I have a feeling it’s going to last for a very long time."

"What? So you’re going to side with Prince Robert? But we just defeated Hereford! They won’t..."

EDe was stunned. The Earl of Hereford had supported Prince Robert, and their own justification for overthrowing him had been to crush the rebellion.

"No. I will be the one supporting the King. You will go and support Count Mortain."

...

「London City, Westminster Abbey」

On Eric’s orders, soldiers had crammed some two hundred citizens into Westminster Abbey, cutting them off from all food and water.

Many of the knights, Belem in particular, had suggested using violence and were eager to do so.

To ensure no incidents occurred, Eric had remained outside Westminster Abbey for the past few days, having his own warband take over guard duty.

On the third day, they received a message from Lanfrank, the Archbishop of Canterbury.

Eric and Prince Robert entered with their men. The candles inside had all burned out, leaving the magnificent carvings cloaked in shadow. Only a few slivers of light pierced the gloom, barely illuminating the religious frescoes on the walls.

The other rooms had been sealed off, forcing everyone into the main chapel.

The chapel was packed with the citizens who had been forced inside—old people, children, men, and women. Yet it was completely silent. ’Perhaps because they’re in a chapel,’ Eric thought, ’or more likely, they’re too weak from hunger to make a sound.’

Before the central Holy Image of the chapel, a gaunt old man sat on the steps. He leaned on a Shepherd’s Staff, his head bowed, so motionless he seemed to have stopped breathing.

"Alas... May he find his way to Heaven in God’s embrace..."

Prince Robert grew somber, even though he had never liked the stubborn old man.

Eric waved Hessin, who was beside him, forward, gesturing for him to check on the man.

Hessin nodded and hurried over to Lanfrank.

He reached out a hand toward the Archbishop’s nose, but yanked it back almost immediately.

"He... he’s..." Hessin’s face was a mask of terror.

"Was he murdered!?" Prince Robert demanded.

"He’s... he’s..."

"His body has been switched!?"

"He’s... he’s..."

"He’s performed a miracle!?"

"He’s asleep."

Eric and Prince Robert: "..."

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