A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

Mann was in a sorry state. William’s repeated military conquests had laid waste to the farmlands and left houses burned to the ground.

Most of the Mann People who resisted the Normans were hanged, but far more starved to death. For a long time, the stench of rot from the piled-up corpses hung heavy in the air, refusing to dissipate.

The stench did not abate until winter.

Yet disease had also begun to spread like wildfire, silent and unseen.

It killed so many farmers that there was no bread to be found, even in this fertile valley.

There weren’t enough hands to swing a scythe, not enough women to glean for the threshing, no Mill Master to grind the flour, and no baker for the ovens.

They called the sickness "the Great Death," and it passed from one person to the next, mysterious and certain, as easily as men might clasp hands, a child call a friend’s name, or two women share a look.

Now, no one looked at their neighbors, and no one spoke to them.

The rains in Mann were so constant it was impossible to bury the dead.

They lay piled outside in their filthy tunics, festering in the August sun as flies swarmed about them.

People lay dying in the overgrown fields of rye and oats, many of them delirious.

Wretchedly, they lay in the shadow of the town Church. Some crawled inside, hoping a final pious gesture might shorten their time in Purgatory. They pressed themselves against the cool limestone like trapped birds, trying to soothe their fevered heads.

Some rotted in their homes, the last of their family with no one left to carry them out. The able-bodied had fled, but the plague often caught up, hunting them down in the hills, the marshes, and the manors.

A few roving deserters came upon a donkey.

It was lame, its ribs countable. It was too weak to run from them, too weak to even bray. But it didn’t seem sick. Just old.

It watched them from under a willow tree, flicking flies with its tail, a hopeful look in its eyes.

A tall, thin deserter raised his Warhammer to smash its skull, but his dark-faced companion stopped him and pointed toward a barn.

It was smarter to lead it to the barn first, where they could get out of the rain.

The six men, clad in rags and rusted mail, hadn’t eaten a proper meal in weeks. They had survived on spoiled food scavenged from homes, Celeriac and cattail hearts from ditches, grubs, insects, acorns, and even a rotten cat.

They’d eaten so much grass their piss was green.

The deserters built a fire in the barn, which stood near a small stream and a mill that was still mostly intact.

The wood was damp, filling the chimneyless barn with acrid smoke. But soon they were carving steaks from the donkey’s haunches and eating them nearly raw, too impatient to wait for the fire to catch. They licked their bloody fingers and nodded at one another.

The setting sun glowed orange beneath a gap in the bruised, purple clouds, which were just beginning to let loose their rain.

A girl peered into the barn.

"Hello." The girl’s soft voice made the deserters stop chewing.

She was of an age ill-suited for meeting such men—too old to be safe, too young to know why.

Her flaxen hair might have been beautiful were it not plastered to her neck, greasy and damp.

"Hello,"

she said again. Then she recognized what they were eating.

"You’re eating my Celeriac!"

Celeriac, apparently, was the donkey’s name.

"It’s donkey meat. Want some?" The tall, thin deserter held up a leg and patted the rotten beam beside him.

The meaning was clear: if she wanted meat, she had to come sit by him.

"No, I tied her up in the woods to hide her, but she must have gotten loose. Her name is Celeriac," she explained.

"Well," the tall, thin one chuckled, "our lucky day. We’re not supposed to eat meat on a Friday, but Celeriac is perfectly acceptable."

The deserters guffawed.

The laughter made the girl realize something.

"Come sit by me," the tall, thin man said again, patting the beam once more.

With his free hand, he slicked back a mop of greasy black hair.

The jewelry he wore seemed out of place on such a filthy man. Her eyes fixed on a jade Cross on a gold chain—the sort of thing the lady of the manor might wear.

"I need help," she said.

"Come sit and tell me all about it."

’In times like these, no one got close to strangers.’ She was beginning to realize there was something dark in this man’s heart.

Even at thirteen, she sensed it.

But she didn’t run.

"I need you to help me put my father in his grave."

"Silly bitch, there are no graves left. We’re already in one, all of us. Just pile his bones outside. Maybe someone will come for him," the tall, thin man said.

The deserters laughed again.

"Who?"

"How should I know? It’s your pathetic little village. Maybe some Nuns or monks. In any case, that’s what everyone else is doing."

"I can’t carry him," the girl said.

"Well, I’m not carrying him. I didn’t get to my ripe old age by hauling dead serfs around."

"He wasn’t a serf!" the girl insisted.

"I really don’t care," the tall, thin man said.

"Please."

"Just leave it, girl," the dark-faced deserter said, waving her away. "Go on home."

"Alright, let’s be reasonable," the tall, thin man continued. "What do you have to offer?"

"We only have a little silver," she said. "And some books."

"I don’t want silver."

"The books are fine ones. Most are newly copied from the Saint Etienne Monastery."

"Books are for wiping your arse. I want gold!" he insisted.

"I have no gold."

"Of course you do." Then the tall, thin man pointed at the girl’s rear.

"Right there," he said. "Haven’t you got some? A little bit of gold down there?"

"That is for my husband."

"Ha!" Godfrey exclaimed, delighted by her worldly response. "And where is he?"

"I don’t know."

"He shouldn’t have left you all alone."

"I mean, I don’t know who he is. I haven’t been betrothed yet."

"Then I’m your husband."

"I think I should be going."

"We’ll all be your husbands. We’re all good husbands," the tall, thin man cackled.

The dark-faced man said coldly, "Christ on the Cross, Godfrey. Leave her be."

"Why should I listen to you? It’s fine. If you don’t want any part of it, you can just watch us. HAHAHAHA."

The girl seized the chance and slipped out the door.

"Yak, bring her back," the tall, thin man ordered a man with long hair.

The long-haired man gave chase.

He circled around the back of the barn, grateful for the cool air, whistling as he searched for her.

He stood still, scanning his surroundings carefully.

His patience soon paid off. He spotted the pale flash of her legs against a tree; in another ten minutes, the darkness would have hidden her.

’She stood by the tree, whispering, calling for her Angel to return. But she wasn’t sure if other people could see them, or if they could do anything, lift anything. She wasn’t even sure if they were real.’

’Mann had become Hell. The village Priest had said that when the world of men turned into Hell, Judgment Day would come, and the Angels would descend.’

’With Mann like this, surely Judgment Day was near.’

’Gabriel would sound his horn, and all the dead would rise from their graves. She knew it was supposed to be a good thing, but the thought of corpses walking again was the most terrible thing she could imagine. It frightened her so much she sometimes couldn’t sleep.’

’But... if the Angels were real, why had they abandoned her now?’

’Why didn’t they help the sick?’

’Why had they let her father die such a wretched death?’

And now, the long-haired man had seen her.

’Why didn’t her Angel strike this man blind, like the sinners of Sodom and Gomorrah?’

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