A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

Hugh was being relentless, stubbornly repeating his initial question.

"Is my answer so important to you? My meager wisdom fails to see the necessity in answering. It has not the slightest bearing on the outcome of this war."

"I don’t know of a single man in the history of Normandy who shed his armor before a battle and still won God’s favor. Before you think of victory, you should consider how to become a true Norman Knight.

The greatness of Normandy was built upon countless outstanding Norman Knights. Normandy possesses traditions superior to any other land, which have made us the most powerful warriors in the entire Frankish realm.

And you, Cousin Beaumont, are trying to make me believe that a clown from a Roman theater could defeat an exceptional Norman Knight."

Hugh folded his arms and ambled toward Beaumont, a mocking smile on his face, making no effort to conceal his derision.

He then glanced at the "King" and "Beaumont" standing behind the real Beaumont.

"I’ll admit, the clowns are dressed quite convincingly. Perhaps you could open a theater in Canterbury, one just like they have in Rome. Let’s see... ’Depravity,’ ’Greed,’ ’Arrogance,’ ’Lust,’ ’Jealousy’—you could run those plays all year long.

The only shame is that the citizens frequenting your Canterbury theater wouldn’t get free bread, since you’re not as wealthy as the Holy See.

Oh, and you could hire a few Greeks as playwrights. They’ve always been good at that sort of thing—you know, your Aristotles, your Epicuruses, spinning all sorts of fanciful tales.

Just like their Empire—magnificent, grand, brilliant, and dazzling, yet utterly feeble. Cowardly and timid, but also greedy and envious, capable only of begging for the protection of stronger peoples.

Can you imagine, an Empire relying on foreign Mercenaries to survive? If I recall correctly, they’re paying tribute to the Normans in Sicily these days, are they not?"

"Ah, yes. Trying to reclaim the knightly honor you lost to Robert by playing word games with me. I sincerely and wholeheartedly believe this must be perfectly in line with the traditions of Normandy."

Beaumont’s tone was placid. He didn’t spare Hugh a single glance as he replied matter-of-factly.

This was his way.

"Tradition? History? Hugh, don’t forget that our ancestors came from the far north. As for God... ah, my dear Cousin Hugh, I believe our ancestors prayed to Odin far more than they prayed to God.

Men feared the courage of the Vikings, but they were more terrified of their cunning and intelligence. How do you think that legendary adventurer, Heystein, sacked Rome City?

As for this so-called ’Knightly Spirit,’ you make me laugh, Cousin Hugh. It’s nothing but a foreign import, something the weak Franks our ancestors defeated now scramble for.

You hold it in such high esteem. I wonder who, then, is truly betraying our traditions."

"You..." Hugh was speechless.

"As I see it, the tradition of Normandy—the tradition of our ancestors—is simple: keep what is useful and discard what is not. You want to cling to tradition? Then you should go visit our kin who stayed behind in Scandinavia."

"We’ll see how long you can keep talking so tough."

Hugh snorted, then turned and walked away.

Beaumont finally turned his gaze to watch him go, shaking his head slightly.

Hugh returned to his camp. His army was positioned to the west, responsible for the flank.

Hugh was several years older than Beaumont. Like him, Hugh had served William at Hastings nine years prior. Moreover, his military achievements in North Wales over the years were dazzling; nearly half of the region was already under his control.

’And him? Beaumont? After Hastings, he’d had no notable victories. Even at Hastings, Beaumont had been a mere Infantry Commander.’

’He spent his years assisting William with affairs in northern England, but the Danish problem in the north was far from solved.’

’Yet Beaumont had actually advised the King to bribe the Danish commander, promising them leave to plunder the north as compensation for their sailing expenses.’

’It was absurd. The man treated Norman honor as if it were nothing.’

’And yet, this was precisely the sort of man King William doted on—even more so than himself.’

’And now, command of the army had been given to Beaumont, not to him, despite his distinguished military record.’

At first, Hugh had only wanted to poke fun at Beaumont. He’d even planned to warn him about the new tactic Robert had used to defeat him.

But now, fuming, all he wanted was to see the man fail.

"Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!"

Back in his camp, Hugh began cursing Beaumont’s name.

Before long, an attendant came running from the main camp, the crest of the Beaumont Clan emblazoned on his tunic.

"Lord Hugh, His Lordship instructs you to watch the west..."

"Watch my ass!"

...

Beaumont’s Camp (The main encampment, under Beaumont’s command).

Beaumont’s attendant returned.

"Was the message delivered?"

"It was, my lord. But it seems Lord Hugh has no intention of following your orders."

"It doesn’t matter. If he loses his life, it will be of no concern to me. Not even His Majesty the King will have cause to blame me."

"Ah? But my lord, didn’t you say Prince Robert would most likely attack from the west? Lord Hugh’s army is responsible for that flank. If he doesn’t follow your orders, and if Prince Robert..." The attendant, confused, couldn’t stop himself from pressing further.

"That is precisely what I want."

A smile, the first in a long time, spread across Beaumont’s placid face.

He raised a finger to his lips, silencing his attendant.

"Whether it is the God of the Franks, the Odin of the Vikings, or the Zeus of the Greeks—to win their favor, all of them require a sacrifice."

...

「The wait stretched from morning to afternoon, and then to dusk.」

The twilight made the soldiers, who had been waiting all afternoon, drowsy. The men on both sides were utterly exhausted.

Robert finally launched his attack.

Robert suddenly ordered his knights to mount. He led a company of mounted and dismounted knights in a charge toward the only bridge across the river.

The scouts in Eric’s camp quickly noticed Robert’s movement.

Belem, who had spent the afternoon plucking leaves out of boredom, finally stirred. He scrambled up a large nearby tree to its very top and looked out over the battlefield.

Eric followed close behind.

The height and angle of the tree were perfect. The two of them had a clear view of the battlefield.

Robert was leading his men across the bridge, attempting to force a crossing of the Trent River.

The King’s Army, however, reacted swiftly. Just as Robert’s men were about to come off the far side of the bridge, they were met head-on and successfully blocked.

"A frontal assault is their only option now. The longer this drags on, the more it favors the King. Eric, let’s go!" Belem said, looking at Eric beside him.

"No. We wait," Eric said, waving a hand at Belem to calm him.

’William, that old fox, definitely has another move to play.’

’He’s not the type to fight a simple war of attrition.’

’Only the King of France enjoys fighting such simple-minded battles, relying solely on a Knight’s charge.’

’He must have a reserve force.’

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