A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

The Normans, so skilled in warfare, would soon lose patience with the citizens of Tuscany.

Yet Eric had just effortlessly resolved the citizens’ discontent and provocations.

He was neither irritable nor ill-tempered. He had even fulfilled his promise the moment he made it to her.

What was more pathetic was that she had started to harbor a despicable desire—a desire to see Eric fail.

The thought startled her.

It was a vile thought—so vile it made her feel disgusted with herself.

Matilda shook her head, trying to push the thought away.

She looked ahead at Eric as he worked with Glorio.

Eric proved himself a skilled Falconer. Under his handling, Glorio’s flight was both majestic and beautiful.

He was overjoyed watching Glorio soar and dive. The Falcon caught several rock doves, then a fat cock pheasant.

Eric grinned and stuck a tail feather in his hat.

He was so full of life. A man brimming with confidence, not arrogance.

They stopped for a picnic by a small stream. Eric handed Glorio to an attendant, who tethered the falcon to a perch.

Matilda handed her husband a cup of wine to wash down the bread and cheese he was devouring.

"How do you plan to deal with Cesare?" Matilda asked suddenly.

"Tell me your thoughts," Eric said, taking a sip of wine.

"The Heretics in the East have raised their tariffs, so Tuscan merchants must now bear a heavier cost. Their chaotic wars are making it increasingly difficult for us to acquire their goods.

That is why the Tuscan elites have been so irritable and disobedient lately. The decrease in goods has affected their income, making it impossible for them to maintain their status.

The status of these elites depends on Money, not blood," Matilda explained.

"Are you suggesting we let Cesare go?" Eric asked, looking at Matilda.

"When the merchants are short on goods, the dockworkers lose their livelihoods. Without consumers, wool merchants and weavers are forced to cut production, leaving masses of wool and textile workers idle. So, they’ve been talking about heading into the Tuscan Forest to find some way to survive.

They’re a resource we can use; they’ll do anything for pay. We cannot let Cesare return to Pisa. His performance today—his eloquence—proves how dangerous he is."

"He came to Tuscany alone to provoke us. Isn’t he worried about retaliation?"

"The merchants have their own networks, even in Canossa. If anything happened to him, word would reach Pisa immediately. He’s looking for a pretext—a pretext for us to move against him."

"Then killing him would mean falling right into his trap. It sounds like he has a bit of a martyr complex, which is almost tragic. Still, it would have been strange if they hadn’t sent someone important for the wedding." Eric went along with Matilda’s train of thought, giving her the floor.

"I never said we should kill him." Matilda lifted her chin, her mood beginning to brighten.

She liked this feeling very much.

"I’m all ears, my wife." Eric took a large gulp of wine.

"We stage a bandit attack. We don’t kill him, but we force him to retreat to Canossa and seek our protection."

"And what if he kills himself?"

"Do you think he would? After how you terrified him today? It takes a certain Courage to be killed by another, but it takes an even greater Courage to kill oneself."

"Alright. But is it really worth such a great risk for this Cesare? He’s the Administrative Officer of Pisa, after all." Eric continued to indulge her.

In Pisa, the post of Administrative Officer was nearly the highest one could achieve, a position similar to the Governor of Venice.

"Perhaps someone promised him something better. I know a little about this Cesare de’ Lanfranchi. He’s been the Administrative Officer of Pisa for thirty years. He even purchased a noble bloodline for himself.

These elites are all of merchant origin, unlike the true Nobility. He lacks hereditary capital, and a business cannot last forever, especially in these bleak times.

He hopes to keep that position in his family forever. He’s fifty years old, and he has a thirty-year-old son."

"You mean..." Eric feigned ignorance.

"A tyrant," Matilda said, tapping the wine cup in Eric’s hand.

"So certain?"

"Even if he isn’t one now, we can make him one." Matilda poured herself some wine and clinked her cup against Eric’s. She seemed utterly delighted.

The gloom that had clouded her had vanished completely.

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