A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

"Eric, what are you doing? Get up here!"

"This swamp is fake. The King’s army must be nearby."

Hearing Eric, Belem dismounted and stepped into the swamp himself. The ground only gave way so much before holding firm.

"It really is fake. Maybe we should inform Robert."

"Hold on, no rush. We should pinpoint their exact location first. A small group has its advantages; with more men, we might be detected."

Eric pushed down hard with his leg and, sure enough, felt the solid bottom.

This so-called fake swamp was just a trench filled with mud.

He pulled his leg out with a bit of effort.

The mud had only been put there a few days ago, and with no rain since, it wasn’t particularly viscous.

However, the trench was fairly deep, which, combined with the mud, made for a surprisingly convincing deception.

As he continued forward, he felt the ground beneath him begin to slope upward.

He quickly walked through the "swamp" and reached the other side.

The fake swamp was surprisingly narrow, only three or four steps across.

Beyond the trench, there was just a thin layer of mud covered with bushes and other green plants that had been crudely torn up and scattered on top.

It had clearly been thrown together in a hurry.

Still, just digging a shallow trench of this length must have taken several days.

"This fake swamp isn’t very wide. With a bit of effort, the horses should be able to..."

Just as Eric was about to signal for Belem and the other Knights to cross, a horn blast echoed from the Forest.

That wasn’t the horn he had given to Leif. It was...

"That’s Robert’s horn! The gates are open! Damn it all! Now Arno will get all the glory!" Belem blurted out.

Eric waded back through the swamp and immediately vaulted onto his horse.

"I’m afraid it won’t be that easy. I hope we’re not too late."

"The main event will be over by the time we get there. We should focus on finding the King’s camp instead. That makes more sense."

Belem waded through the swamp as well, but he didn’t mount his horse right away. Not yet grasping Eric’s meaning, he began unhurriedly wiping the mud from his clothes.

This was probably for the best, as it at least diluted the stench of feces clinging to him.

"Do you think the King set up this swamp just to go on vacation?"

"You mean... Damn it. God save them. I hope Arno and Robert aren’t too unlucky." Belem quickly scrambled onto his Warhorse.

There’s no better time to ambush an army than when it’s passing through a gate.

...

「Outside London City, in a nearby thicket.」

The scout, Thomas, shook his head as sleepiness crashed over him.

He hadn’t slept for a full day and night.

This scouting post was supposed to be manned by two men in shifts, but his partner, Philémon, had an upset stomach today. Thomas should have been relieved this afternoon, but Philémon had made five or six intermittent trips to the latrine.

The scouting duty fell entirely on him.

Thomas was thirty years old. He’d left home to make a living at fifteen, and his first and only job since then had been as a soldier.

As the youngest son, he had no claim to his father’s meager inheritance. He had no trade and no desire to become a tenant farmer. There weren’t many options left for him; in fact, being a soldier was the only respectable choice.

He considered himself a lucky man. In fifteen years of service, he hadn’t lost his life, not even an arm.

For a long time, he was just an insignificant, low-ranking Infantryman. A few years ago, he’d gotten lucky and become a scout, a position that didn’t require him to fight on the front lines. Fifteen years of service had allowed him to save some money. He had actually left the army once, but he came back soon after.

He’d discovered that aside from the Skills of war, he knew nothing else. More importantly, of course, he had absolutely no desire to become a tenant farmer in England.

England had been in chaos for those fifteen years. The supreme Lord he served had changed several times. Thomas could only remember their names; he couldn’t tell them apart or understand what they were trying to achieve. But as long as there was a war to fight, it meant he had an income.

Even though Thomas knew war was never a good thing.

A moment later, the bushes behind him rustled. A soldier’s instinct instantly snapped Thomas awake. He gripped the Long Spear in his hand and aimed it at the sound.

Then a familiar face appeared before his eyes.

It was his partner, Philémon.

Thomas turned back around and resumed watching the city gate.

He didn’t bother complaining. It was pointless.

Not everyone was as lucky as he was. He’d long since lost count of how many partners he’d had throughout his military career.

"Thomas, go get some rest. I’ll take over. I’m really sorry about today. I must have eaten something bad."

"I’m not that tired. If you’re not feeling well, just lie down for a bit. I told you before, the stuff those high-and-mighty Knights eat isn’t all that great. Even when they’re throwing food out, they don’t like us picking through their scraps."

"It’s because of all the sawdust they mix into our black bread. My mouth is still full of that taste. The quartermasters might as well just make us chew on wood. That way, they could stuff their own pockets with even more money."

Philémon lay down.

"Just make sure you only say things like that around me."

"Of course, I know. I just needed to vent. No matter what happens to those lordly Knights, someone will be there to ransom them. They fight their wars drinking ale and singing songs.

Sigh... But us poor sods... a common soldier like me dies on the battlefield, and that’s it. Nobody cares.

Too much work, not enough pay. They get leave, we work every day. Low wages, lots of trouble, and far from home. I guess the one good thing is we don’t have to pay land tax... because we can’t afford to buy any land in the first place.

Thomas, tell me, why did we even become soldiers?"

"Because it’s better to be the one doing the killing than the one being killed. Besides, you can save a bit of money, and England hasn’t been peaceful these last few years."

"Yeah, these nobles always have a pile of reasons to go to war. What’s this one about again?"

"Something about the King’s son wanting to be King."

"Am I misremembering? What was the last one about?"

"The king-before-last’s paternal nephew wanted to be king."

"And the time before that?"

"The king-before-last’s brother-in-law wanted to be king."

"And the time before that one?"

"The king-before-last’s father-in-law wanted to be king."

"Sigh... Suddenly this war feels so damn pointless. We bleed and die all day long for the family squabbles of these nobles. Can’t they just be happy being nobles? They already have everything they could ever want, why do they have to be King? You tell me, aren’t these nobles just stupid...?"

Before Philémon could finish, Thomas held up a hand, silencing him.

Peering through the bushes, they saw that the drawbridge outside London City had, at some point, been lowered.

The instant the drawbridge was down, a troop of Knights burst from the nearby Forest, holding Torches and spurring their Warhorses toward the city.

The defenders on the gate spotted the Knights and returned fire with Crossbow Arrows.

The Knights were only the vanguard, however. Close behind them, dense formations of Crossbowmen and Lance Soldiers poured out of the Forest. They exchanged fire with the defenders on the walls, providing cover for the Knights to enter London City.

A number of the Lance Soldiers and Crossbowmen tried to follow the Knights into the city, but without horses and under harassing fire from the defenders, they were much slower.

"We have to report this to the King."

Thomas got to his feet and turned to run back through the bushes, but he hadn’t made it far before he froze.

Several hundred Knights holding Torches were halted right in front of him. At their center was a portly, middle-aged man. A Crown was set into his Helmet. He paid Thomas no mind, speaking to a nobleman beside him in a language Thomas couldn’t understand.

No one paid him any mind, as if he didn’t even exist.

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