A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

"Why aren’t you talking?" Not receiving the praise he was due, Belem sensed something was wrong and looked at Eric.

Eric had a strange expression on his face.

"It’s nothing," Eric said, waving his hand dismissively.

"Nothing? Then why are you all so quiet? We’re all Franks. We all speak French, don’t we? Though Norman French might be a little different from the French in Toulouse."

"It’s nothing. I just thought of something pleasant," Eric said, clearing his throat with a couple of coughs.

"Something pleasant? We’ve been on the road for four days, and this godforsaken city is like a corpse, filled with nothing but crazed lowlifes. Trampling them lets me blow off some steam, but that’s about it.

Only plunder brings a Knight joy. When we wage war, we must first ensure it is profitable for our vassals. But the people here seem to be starving."

Belem sighed, plunging his Longsword into the wooden planks of the execution platform. The blade quivered from the force, emitting a faint metallic hum, and he sat down on the platform.

The slaughter was over, and the Knights were now searching the townspeople for valuables, collecting their spoils of war.

Soon, however, the Knights began to cease their activities, one after another, and started exchanging glances.

A Knight hurried over to the execution platform, ready to report the situation to the two Counts.

The Knight was a young man named Simon Jekyll. His Attendant was a foolish boy with a slack jaw and a bewildered gaze.

Although his family had been Knights since his grandfather’s time, and he held a fief in Evler, Normandy, he was unexpectedly poor.

His Warhorse was ten years old, hard-mouthed and swaybacked. His saddle, with a high pommel and cantle that held him fast, had belonged to his father, while his Chain Armor, a hauberk that reached from neck to knee, was his grandfather’s.

His Sword was a century old, heavy and incapable of holding an edge. His Long Spear had warped during a damp Winter, and his Helmet, which hung from his saddlebow, was an old steel cap with a worn-out Leather lining.

His Shield bore the crest of a gauntleted fist gripping a Warhammer, but it was battered and faded.

His Chain Armor Gloves were as rusted as the rest of his armor, which explained his Attendant’s red ears and terrified expression. The true cause of the rust, however, was not the Attendant’s lack of effort in cleaning the Chain Armor, but that Sir Simon could not afford the vinegar and fine sand required to clean steel.

In short, he was poor.

Therefore, he desperately hoped...

But he was excellent.

No one could deny his excellence. He had won a tournament in Brittany, earning a prize of forty Pounds Sterling. In Gloucester, his victory brought him a fine suit of armor. In Chelmsford, he won fifteen Pounds Sterling and an exquisite saddle, and in Flanders, he had nearly cut down one of the Teutons.

He had even received a gilded cup filled with coins. So where were all those prizes now?

They were in the hands of bankers, Lawyers, and merchants who held liens on Evre Manor in Normandy, which Sir Simon had inherited two years prior. In truth, his inheritance was nothing but a mountain of debt. The moment his father was buried, creditors swarmed Sir Simon like hounds upon a wounded deer.

He had been forced to sell his honor.

’Marry a rich woman,’ his mother often advised, having presented more than a dozen candidates to her son. But Sir Simon was determined that his wife must be as beautiful as he.

And he was indeed handsome—at least, he had always thought so, and some people agreed.

He would gaze into his mother’s mirror, admiring his reflection.

He had thick, golden hair, a broad face, and a short beard.

In Flanders, he had once defeated three Knights in four minutes, leading people to mistake him for a Prince, as Prince William Rufus was rumored to compete in tournaments incognito. And Sir Simon had no intention of squandering his own princely good looks on some wealthy, wrinkled old hag.

He was determined to marry a woman worthy of him, but such ambitions couldn’t pay the manor’s debts. So, to shield himself from his creditors, Sir Simon had sought a letter of protection from King Robert.

This letter protected him from any legal proceedings for the duration of his service to the King in overseas wars. When Sir Simon crossed the channel with six Lance Soldiers, a dozen Archers, and a slack-jawed Attendant in tow, his creditors in England and Normandy were powerless.

Sir Simon was also certain he would soon capture some Frankish or Italian noble, whose ransom would be enough to clear all his debts. But now, three months on, he had taken no high-ranking prisoners, and the spoils of war had been pitifully scarce.

His illustrious Lord, Eric, the Earl of Gloucester, seemed to have little need for an army of Knights.

When he had learned a few days prior that Eric intended to wage war on the Milan Marquisate, Simon had been ecstatic. The war against Milan, however, was not turning out to be as glorious as he had imagined.

All he saw was a mob of worthless peasants. While the sack of Genoa a few days ago had yielded some profit, it was but a drop in the ocean against the tide of his debts.

"What’s wrong?" Belem asked.

"Counts, I believe we’ve been deceived. There might be... an ambush." Simon looked at Belem, and then at Eric.

Belem shot up from the ground in an instant, his eyes darting around warily.

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