A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

"You always idealize things, Robert, but eventually, you have to face reality."

William beckoned behind him, and a herald came trotting to his side.

The herald wore no armor, only a short outer coat of paneled blue and red, the dividing line running right down the center of his chest.

He clutched a stack of parchment in his hand and, at a signal from William, began to recite.

"To the dear friend of the invincible sun, Lord of the Normans, Crosser of the Channel, Defender of the Faith, joint master of England and Normandy—His Divine Majesty, William:

Pardon my sudden intrusion. I am aware that your recent circumstances have not been pleasant, but I still feel it is necessary for you to understand the true situation in your direct domain, the great, beautiful, and bountiful Normandy Duchy.

Your reason and wisdom will understand and, with great pleasure, appreciate my actions, for it is what the kings praised in countless epics throughout history would do. May you be as wise and steadfast as King Agamemnon. Forgive my presumptuousness, but I must declare to you: the former is more important than the latter.

If it were not for a matter of utmost urgency, I would be unwilling to perform this vexing messenger’s errand, lest people think me as bothersome as a crow on a tombstone, or like that object of incessant, loathsome chatter for the barbaric and ignorant Irish people—the banshee, dressed in black and reeking of foul odors.

It is said they have but a single nostril. Forgive my still-lacking reservoir of knowledge. I have read the works of the ancient philosophers since childhood, and out of rational thought—incidentally, everyone ought to think like Aristotle, that is beyond doubt—

Oh, right, I am currently conducting research and undertaking such mental exercises on the matter.

Alright, back to the subject at hand. In short, I believe this unreasonable biological trait is a result of the Irish people being trapped by their impoverished knowledge and imagination. According to normal biological logic..."

The letter’s preamble seemed to go on forever.

William said impatiently, "Get to the point! You idiot, did you leave your brain in your pigsty? Has Roger gotten this careless with his hiring?"

He gave the herald a slap on the head.

"The point... the point..."

The herald, stunned by the blow, grew flustered and began flipping through the sheets of parchment.

[Books are fragile things; time, earth, water, fire, wind will...]

[The four Gospel Books tell us that there is often not a great distance between fantasy and the frenzy of sin...]

[A woman’s nature is perverse, but when divinely elevated, it becomes sublime, the noblest expression of elegance...]

[God can be perceived, just as light can, in the sun’s rays, in the reflection in a mirror, in the color of all things, in the sunlight reflecting off a wet leaf—]

[...]

The herald was sweating profusely.

From the first sheet, the second, the third... all the way to... the very last sheet... the very last paragraph.

The herald let out a sigh of relief.

"’I am a humble, sincere person, and one unwilling to flaunt my rhetoric, as that is a sign of immaturity and irrationality. So let’s make a long story short:

The vile and cunning King Philip of France has launched an attack on Normandy. Return at once!

Sincerely, the Viscount Ivry, whose health remains poor, and the Viscountess, whose health remains excellent!’"

The herald let out a long sigh of relief.

He had never read such a long letter in his entire life.

Incidentally, he was a new herald.

The letter was signed by Viscount Ivry, but everyone knew his wife had written it. The Viscount had suffered from mental problems for a long time and was no longer able to manage his affairs; the matters of the Earl’s Domain were handled by his wife.

Viscount Ivry was a dear friend of William’s father, Robert. He was also the father of William’s supporter, Robert de Beaumont, the Lord of Leister. At the same time, he was a direct vassal to the King of France, which allowed him to serve as William’s informant deep within the Frank Kingdom.

"Why do you think that little brat in Paris is on your side? Because you’re wise and mighty? Because you’re some peerless genius? You’re always blind to the people around you!"

William snatched the parchments from the herald’s hands. The sudden movement sent the sheets scattering across the ground.

The herald hastily squatted down to pick them up, lest they fall into the river.

William, however, paid him no mind. He tossed the last sheet of parchment—the one with the actual message—to Robert.

Robert caught it and glanced over it.

’This long-winded style is definitely the Viscountess’s handiwork.’

"Now that I stand here, I have no intention of leaving myself a way out. This isn’t for my own selfish reasons; it’s because the warriors who followed me across the ocean have already lost too much.

Only by conquering all of England can we prove their sacrifices were worthwhile.

I also believe my father has absolutely no intention of backing down.

The great Conqueror would never allow any stain on the latter half of his life, would he?"

Robert tossed the parchment back, then said no more. He pulled on his reins and spurred his warhorse back toward his own camp.

"You should at least worry about your mother."

"My mother has my uncle to look after her. No need to trouble yourself."

William also rode his horse back to camp.

A young man on a warhorse rode up to greet him. He wore a beret with a feather stuck in it and no armor, just a short coat. The blue woolen tunic was faded, and he had a refined aquiline nose.

He was William’s staunch supporter, the Lord of Leister, Robert de Beaumont. But his attire was clearly not that of a Knight; he looked more like a traveler on holiday.

"That boy is completely stubborn," William said with a sigh.

"That’s normal. Robert is at that age where he’s young and full of spirit. But he’ll soon pay the price for it."

"Let’s hope so."

"By the way, why is your mother so wordy? Don’t you get tired of reading her letters?"

"Perhaps. You only need to read the last paragraph. In a way, it’s quite concise. That’s why I usually only give you the last sheet."

"..."

...

Robert returned to the camp and dismounted.

Arno came up to greet him.

"A letter came from Eric."

"Where is he?"

"He’s still on his way. Near Oxford."

"I see."

"What did the King say?"

"The King of France has attacked Normandy. He wants to make peace with us."

"Did you agree?"

"Of course not."

"To be honest, our chances aren’t good. We have at most two days’ worth of food. After two days, even if they don’t attack, we’ll have lost." Arno was pessimistic about the situation.

"Send out the order. The camp followers and unmounted Knights are to advance and set up camp on the riverbank. Make them think we have no intention of crossing.

The mounted Knights will be split into two groups. You will lead one east. There’s a shallow ford there where you can cross.

I will lead the remaining group. At dusk today, I will charge their front. When you hear my horn, cross immediately and strike their flank."

...

Not far from the two camps.

From a large tree, a pair of eyes watched the two armies, poised on the brink of battle.

"Brother Eric, when are we going over?" It was Belem’s voice.

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