A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

Snow suddenly began to fall. The flakes landed on his face and melted instantly, leaving only a chilling trace to mark their fleeting arrival.

"Alright, fine. Since you’re so full of opinions, why don’t you find me a sufficiently wealthy heiress to be my wife."

Eric had heard enough. He clapped Belem on the shoulder and, without waiting for a reply, walked into the Tower of London.

With its vast grounds, the Tower of London was practically a small city unto itself.

It housed just about everything imaginable: blacksmith forges, carpentry workshops, tanneries, a Bakery, a private Church...

The guard shift, just coming off an all-night duty on the watchtower, was preparing to change over. The guards recognized Eric; their Commander was a Knight who reported directly to Belem.

They greeted Eric, marveling at how God had protected him and praising the courage and wisdom of this hero from the Outville Family.

Many among them sensed, to one degree or another, that the Cultivator before them was destined to become a powerful figure in the Anglo-Norman Kingdom.

Eric exchanged a few pleasantries with them out of basic courtesy before heading into the main keep.

The keep was the heart of the castle and its tallest structure. It was where the Lord lived, rested, handled political affairs, and held audience with his Vassals. Typically situated in the center of the castle grounds, it also served as the final "fortress."

The windows in the keep were exceptionally narrow. Though it was nearly noon, scarcely any light penetrated the interior. Torches hanging on the walls remained the primary source of illumination.

The smell of burning soot mingled with the damp air, reminding Eric of King’s Bridge Monastery. The confinement cells there always had the same strange, mixed odor.

Eric wasn’t fond of this Romanesque style of architecture; he much preferred Gothic. At least it wasn’t so oppressive.

He followed the spiral staircase to the third floor, finally stopping before the largest door in the hallway.

The hallway was completely unguarded.

Eric reached out, subconsciously preparing to knock, but he froze as his hand began to descend.

He heard a voice.

"My sin is heavy, I should be lost; / The Savior died and opened life’s gate.

Called by the Lord to find salvation, / O Lord, to you I come, to you.

My sin is heavy, yet I may find grace / To comfort my heart, to save my soul.

The Lord’s kind words I must believe, / O Lord, to you I come, to you..."

Eric pushed open the door.

"How many times have I told you, no one is to distur—Eric!"

Angered by the sudden intrusion, Robert scrambled to his feet. But when he turned, his eyes fell on Eric.

His anger melted into joy.

"Oh, Eric, I knew you were still alive! God has protected you." Robert embraced Eric, his voice thick with emotion.

"Yes, by God’s grace, we meet again. I hope I haven’t missed anything important."

Eric patted Robert on the shoulder.

Robert then released his embrace.

"Of course not. In fact, your timing is perfect."

"Just in time to hear your confession? Then it seems my insistence on wearing these robes was a wise choice. It is always good to be able to help my King."

"Sigh, perhaps I do need that. I may not be suited to be a King." Robert sighed, pressing a hand to his forehead. He glanced down at the Bible in his other hand.

He understood the implication in Eric’s words, of course, but he was truly struggling to control his emotions.

"I think you should be speaking with the Archbishop, not me. A visit to Westminster Cathedral might ease your anxieties. While the scriptures forbid the worship of Holy Images, the sight of them can certainly bring peace to the soul.

It might be difficult to accept, but in the real world, redemption often depends on the atmosphere. Westminster Cathedral and the Archbishop can provide that for you."

"Er... actually, he’s already here."

Robert lightly tapped his head with the Bible, then pointed.

To one side, an old man in green robes and a small skullcap was asleep in a large chair, a light snore escaping his lips. Someone had thoughtfully draped a small blanket over him.

The fireplace next to Lanfrank cast a warm glow, its light flickering across his aged face, making him seem peaceful and gentle.

"He fell asleep less than two minutes into my confession, though," Robert said with a shrug.

"That’s probably because your Latin is terrible," Eric said, looking at Robert with a light chuckle. "That said, should we lower our voices?"

"The Archbishop is a heavy sleeper. He won’t wake for at least three hours, so there’s no need to worry." Robert glanced at Lanfrank. "The Archbishop says he’s getting old and wants to retire. He wants to return to his homeland."

"At his age, he might not survive the journey."

"Yes, he said if he can’t make it back to Italy, then Normandy will do. England is always raining, and he doesn’t like damp places."

"We promised to yield the right to appoint the Archbishop of Canterbury to the Holy See," Eric reminded him. "We’ll have to petition them on this matter."

"Yes, but the Archbishop said he would write to the Holy See himself, and that they would take his opinion into consideration."

Eric walked over to the desk. Unlike the narrow slits on the floors below, the square window behind it was large and wide.

This was not a formal audience chamber but a private study, the desk flanked by shelves crammed with books.

"And what of the old King?"

Eric knew Robert was reluctant to speak of it, but the matter was too important to ignore.

This was no time for indecision.

"He... I unhorsed him..." Robert sighed and looked at Eric. "He was wounded. They say he’s still confined to his bed."

"And?"

"Edgar of Wessex came to our aid at the critical moment. The old King’s main force was crushed, and after the battle, many of his lords defected to our side. He’s now in Chester City, with Arno’s troops laying siege. The war is lost for him.

A week ago, Roger of Montgomery personally delivered a peace offer, along with my brother, Henry. I’ve since sent Odo to Chester City to negotiate the full terms of surrender on my behalf."

Robert said it all in one breath, and the feeling of melancholy only deepened.

It felt as though his memory was still stuck in Rouen, in the days of raising an army. He never imagined he would win the Crown he had yearned for so quickly.

He seemed at a loss. He had certainly craved the Crown, but now that he had it, he felt he had lost so much more.

"Am I a sinner, Eric? Perhaps this snow is an omen. It’s nearly April; it shouldn’t be snowing. Maybe God is sending me a warning. Maybe He is angered by my actions." Robert walked to the window and watched the light snow drift past.

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