A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

"The... the small gate on the east side has been..."

The one who spoke was one of Sir Theo’s Attendants, who came galloping over in a hurry on a light horse.

The rain was still drizzling. Although it had lightened considerably and the raindrops falling on his Helmet were faint, the damp, clammy feeling would eventually spread, leaving one uncomfortable and bedraggled.

The rain blurred the Attendant’s vision, and in his anxiety, he failed to control his horse’s Speed. Its hooves struck a muddy puddle, splashing dirty water right onto Baron Velen’s face.

With his vision obscured, the Attendant had no idea what he had just done.

Fortunately, Baron Velen didn’t seem to mind, casually wiping the mud from his cheek.

"Breached?"

"N-no... not breached... it was opened. The people inside the city opened it!"

’Could there have been some turn of events inside the city? They were so unyielding the other day.’

Baron Velen frowned and was about to wave for the Knights beside him to follow him.

Whatever was happening in the city, it was bound to be a good thing for him.

"No, Baron, they have no intention of parleying. And..."

"And what?"

"I believe any gentleman would be overcome with rage if treated in such a manner. Even the Anjou People, whose conduct is nauseating, praise Lord Theo for his fairness and tolerance. He treats even the poorest peasant with humility and equality.

Thus, his good name and honor are celebrated far and wide, from Aquitaine to the Levant...

He undoubtedly possesses a mercy that would move God Himself. But when he went alone to engage the city’s representatives in a proper parley, to display his unquestionable knightly grace, those shallow and jealous townsfolk..."

"Speak plainly," Baron Velen said, drawing the Longsword from beside his saddlebag.

"Sir Theo was doused with manure."

Before becoming an Attendant, this fellow was a Minstrel.

Ever since the Normans successfully conquered England, some Norman Knights had taken a liking to hiring all sorts of odd people as Attendants.

In truth, some Knights did so to save money. After all, with the prolonged wars in the north of England, many Knights could barely support themselves, let alone their Attendants. So, they saved wherever they could on hiring them.

Sir Theo, however, was an exception. He preferred being fawned over and liked to bring a Minstrel with him everywhere, occasionally having the Minstrel recite a few stanzas of his own terribly written "poetry."

"And then?" Baron Velen had a good idea of what his nephew did next.

"He led his men and charged in."

"I knew it."

Baron Velen quickly waved to the Knights behind him, signaling for them to follow close.

’It’s obviously a trap.’

’I hope I’m not too late.’

The distance between the two gates was neither far nor near.

But by the time Baron Velen arrived, the fighting seemed to be over.

The Knights had set up a simple camp not far from the small gate. A flag was planted before it, bearing three golden fists—his nephew Theo’s family crest.

Southampton was quite a distance from London, and besides Count Moretan, there was almost no Nobility in the southwest who supported Prince Robert. The city was therefore highly unlikely to receive reinforcements anytime soon. All the Knights were well aware of this, which was why they acted with such impunity.

They had removed their armor and were resting in their tents. A look around revealed no wounded men, only the corpses of a few Warhorses outside the tents, along with some injured horses kneeling on the ground, gasping for air. The stench of horse blood was almost completely washed away by the rain.

The Herald saw Baron Velen’s banner and jogged off to inform Sir Theo.

A moment later, Baron Velen saw his nephew limping out of a tent.

Theo had just opened his mouth to greet his uncle when a resounding slap struck him across the face.

"You fool! How could you fall for such a low-level trick to lure an enemy into a trap?"

"It... it wasn’t my fault! It was them..."

Theo instinctively started to explain, raising his hand to point at the surrounding Knights, but he quickly noticed his uncle, Sir Velen, giving him a look.

"Fine, fine. It’s my fault. It’s my fault. Christ above, forgive my transgression."

"Merely begging for forgiveness? As the army’s Commander, what losses have you caused?"

Baron Velen jabbed Theo hard in the chest with his scabbard. The sudden force nearly knocked Theo off his feet; he stumbled back several steps before regaining his balance.

"Speak!"

"Uh... I-I am guilty. I am a sinner. I have endangered the entire army, squandered a strategic opportunity, and failed the trust my uncle placed in me. I am willing to accept any punishment."

Although Theo was very reluctant, he didn’t dare defy his uncle. His tone was laced with resentment, creating a contrast with his words, which was precisely the effect Baron Velen wanted to achieve.

"Yes, of course you are guilty! As a military Commander, you disobeyed the Commander-in-Chief’s orders and acted recklessly—something the King strictly forbade back in Normandy. After this campaign, I will report this matter to His Majesty. Even if he strips you of your fief, you will have no grounds to complain!"

Baron Velen raised his voice so all the surrounding Knights could hear him clearly.

He then grabbed Theo by the scruff of his neck and shoved him into the main tent nearby.

The moment they entered the tent, Theo could no longer contain his emotions and was about to shout at Velen.

But before he could make a sound, Velen clapped a hand over his mouth.

"Keep your voice down. Do you understand, you fool?"

Only after Theo nodded in agreement did Velen let go.

Velen felt something sticky and gooey on his hand.

"Uncle, it really wasn’t my fault this time. It wasn’t me, I was..." Theo said, keeping his voice low.

"What? Did I appoint a second-in-command?"

"I’m sure you heard from my Attendant. Those townsfolk doused me in manure. Then the Knights beside me started jeering and charged right in. It didn’t matter how much I yelled. Fortunately, there weren’t many losses, just a few dead Warhorses." Theo shrugged.

"Is this you?" Velen moved closer to Theo, his eyes narrowed as he scrutinized him.

"I didn’t have time... I mean, I mean, I mean, I’m guilty."

Theo gave an awkward laugh and tried to brush it off.

The sound of the rain outside grew louder, drumming against the tent canvas.

"But, speaking objectively, I really didn’t order them to attack. Even if I were judged before the King, it shouldn’t have anything to do with me... right?"

"Did you think those words I used to berate you just now were for you?" Velen noticed the Lyre on the table and frowned.

"They... they weren’t?"

"You..." Baron Velen sighed. "Never mind. You can’t even control the Knights under your command. A Commander who can’t even control his own troops will never achieve victory.

Recklessness solves nothing. Courage is only valuable when matched with cunning..."

Before Velen could finish, he heard a melodious sound—the sound of a Lyre.

"You should get rid of all these Minstrels at once. This is a battlefield, not a place for entertainment."

"Wait, Uncle, I only brought one Lyre! I didn’t give it to anyone." Theo’s expression changed slightly. He picked up the Lyre from the table and waved it at Velen.

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