A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

Outside Southampton City, in the main infantry encampment.

The King’s edict had been issued so hastily that Baron Velen had no time to hire professional infantry. That was a secondary concern, of course. The main reason was that Baron Velen simply couldn’t scrape together the extra money to pay for Mercenaries.

As a result, his infantry mostly consisted of old farmers conscripted from the villages under his jurisdiction.

Generally speaking, ordinary conscripted farmers were next to useless in a fight. They were there to bulk up the numbers and perform engineering tasks. The only saving grace was that among these conscripts were a good number of hunters, and hunters made for decent archers.

A skinny, middle-aged man clutching a wooden stick was shouting at a group of conscripted farmers.

He was speaking English, not French. He was clearly an English man, likely some sort of Little Commander. His attire was also different from the average conscripted farmer. He wore a set of relatively new Leather Armor and had a fine-looking Longsword hanging at his waist.

He was directing a group of conscripted farmers as they calibrated a Catapult.

They had been at it for a long time, and many were already drenched in sweat. In the damp, rainy weather, the rain mixed with their sweat, sending shivers down their spines.

Consequently, many of the men had grown to despise the babbling Little Commander. But intimidated by his authority, they dared not speak up. They could only shoot him hateful glares when his back was turned or mutter a few curses under their breath.

The most important reason for this was that the true masters of these conscripted farmers, the Norman Knights, couldn’t be bothered with them.

Firstly, the Norman Knights didn’t speak English. Even if they wanted to interact with the men, they would need to rely on English Little Commanders like this one to act as intermediaries. And since the conscripted farmers didn’t speak French, they had no way to appeal to the Lords when they were bullied by their English commanders.

Secondly, influenced by the military traditions of the European Continent, infantry were considered mere auxiliary troops for the Knights and thus unworthy of much attention. Many Knights wished they could stay as far away as possible from these mud-caked peasants, believing their stench would taint their noble souls.

Thus, English Little Commanders who were fluent in both English and French were in high demand, thriving as they navigated the space between the English and the Norman Knights.

Sometimes, many of them forgot they were English themselves.

"This angle is all wrong, you idiots! At this angle, are you planning on using this Catapult to hit the stupid fish in the river?"

"Get the Catapult up on the high ground and raise the angle! Did you hear me? I don’t want to repeat myself. You stupid pigs!"

"Put some muscle into it! Lift it! Dragging it will wear out the Catapult’s ropes! If you ruin the Baron’s siege plan, you’ll be in for a world of hurt!"

"..."

When they raised the angle, he said it needed to be lower.

When they lowered the angle, he said it needed to be higher.

Once they got the angle right, he complained that the Catapult’s position wasn’t precise enough.

When they painstakingly carried the Catapult to the high ground, he said that perhaps placing it on the low ground would be better.

In short, no matter how perfectly they executed his orders, he always found something to criticize.

"Forget it, you pack of idiots. Just put the Catapult back where it was. With your stupid heads, moving it around will only cause trouble."

The Little Commander said to the men in a reluctant tone, as if he were making a great concession.

This remark thoroughly provoked the men. A few of them were about to lose their temper, but thankfully they were held back by others nearby.

Venting their frustration with their fists would be satisfying, but ultimately pointless.

Unless they could kill him, he would eventually make their lives a living hell.

But murder was a risky business, and no one was willing to take the lead. Although every one of them wished someone would step up and kill the unscrupulous Commander, they all hoped the killer would be someone else.

But such a person never appeared. They could only pray for the war to end soon so they could return to their villages in time for planting season.

And so, they bit their tongues and endured.

After a short while, another man, also dressed in Leather Armor and clearly another Little Commander, walked over. He was carrying two skins full of ale and whispered a few words in the first Commander’s ear.

"All of you, stay put and watch the Catapult. I have some business to attend to. I’ll be right back. Don’t let me catch you slacking."

The Little Commander brandished his wooden stick at the men a couple of times. Then he turned, slung an arm over the other man’s shoulder, and they headed toward the nearby Forest, quickly disappearing from sight.

The men sat down on the ground and breathed a sigh of relief, all hoping the two bastards would have the misfortune of being eaten by wolves in the Forest.

They waited a long time, but there was no sign of the two men coming out of the Forest.

The men didn’t mind one bit. As far as they were concerned, it would be best if the two never came out.

After a good while longer, some began to speculate that the two had been eaten by wolves. Someone even guessed they’d gotten addicted to sneaking up on each other’s asses in the Forest.

However, their speculations were soon dashed when they saw the two men emerging from the Forest.

To be precise, they were being carried out, which was at least something to be happy about. The ones carrying them were a group of men dressed much like themselves. Were they Recruits from another camp?

’Don’t tell me they were having an orgy in there.’

"We’re from another camp. We found these two drunk in the Forest."

The one who spoke was none other than Eric.

He had been looking for a way to infiltrate the infantry camp, and these two had just fallen right into his lap.

"Oh, I see. Thank you for your trouble."

A short, rather old man smiled and nodded at Eric, though his smile was quite forced.

At this, the men behind him broke into hushed, rustling whispers.

"Dammit, who asked him to be a busybody?"

"Exactly. It would’ve been better if the wolves had eaten them in the Forest."

"Does this bastard think sucking up like this will get him anywhere?"

"There are too many people like him. That’s how the Normans came to rule over the English. Now ordinary English men live like dogs, and everyone wants to be a sycophant."

"..."

"Alright, there’s no need to be so harsh on someone who doesn’t know the situation."

The short man waved his hand at the crowd behind him.

He seemed to hold a fair amount of respect among the men.

The murmuring subsided but didn’t disappear entirely. Many still shot hateful glares at Eric.

"Did those two do something? I was just passing by," Eric said, feigning ignorance.

"Their harsh behavior just made people a little unhappy, that’s all. The men’s words are just words, just a way to vent. We still respect the two of them. In fact, we just worked hard to complete the task they assigned us."

The short man waved his hands hastily, trying to explain the situation to Eric.

"We’re going to kill them one of these days," an unknown voice shouted from the crowd.

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