A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

”Impossible. Absolutely impossible.”

Theo shook his head slightly, then drew his Longsword and pointed it at Eric.

”It seems there’s nothing left to discuss.”

Eric sighed and drew his Longsword as well.

Theo was about to swing his Longsword, but in the next moment, a gust of wind brushed his cheek. The blade of his Longsword rang out with a CLANG, and a tremendous force traveled up from the steel, knocking the weapon from his grasp.

Raindrops blurred his vision, but he could clearly feel a slight, stinging sensation on his neck.

It was clear he had already lost. The victor had been decided in a matter of seconds.

”Go on, kill me. I would sooner die—jump from here into the Tess River and drown—than surrender. That is my dignity as a Knight.” Theo presented his neck, looking for all the world as if he were ready to die a martyr.

”You’d rather die than yield?”

”Of course!”

”Absolutely no room for negotiation?”

”Of course! No negotiation!”

”So nothing I say will make a difference?”

”Of course! Nothing you say will make a difference! I would rather die than yield!”

”Alright then. I was just thinking you could have all of your uncle’s fiefs. And if I had the time, I could even write an epic poem for you.”

”Deal!”

Theo immediately grabbed Eric’s right hand with both of his own.

.....

「Infantry Camp.」

The Knights’ primary concern about the rain was the trouble it caused for the siege and how many more days they would have to waste here. Days extended meant days without the soft embrace of a beautiful woman or the delicious and exotic feasts of a castle.

Fortunately, the longer it took, the more opportunities they had to gain honor, and the more chances they had to ”tell” a spectacular story.

But for most of the drafted farmers, going home sooner was the best option.

For even in these harsh conditions, the noble Knights would always find ways to amuse themselves. They gave no thought to the ensuing headaches and troubles, simply dumping them all on the drafted farmers.

Declan was a victim of this mentality. He was responsible for the noble Knights’ ”rations.” If that just meant being a kitchen hand, it would have been a stroke of luck. But no, what he actually had to manage was a herd of pigs that stank to high heaven and were often caked in dung.

Perhaps this would have been tolerable, as Declan had been a swineherd back in his village. The deadly part was that this job didn’t get him out of going to the battlefield.

”Oh, Saint Vitus Salt, bring disaster upon these stupid pigs.”

Declan raised his horn and blew a long blast. He was in the Forest near the camp. He had originally wanted to get far away from the main battlefield, and he’d achieved that, but now he had an even bigger headache.

Once the pigs entered the Forest, they ran wild everywhere.

The sound of the horn had almost no effect. The stupid pigs were unmoved by the melodious notes, merely letting out a series of equally rhythmic grunts. They had no intention of obeying his command, of abandoning the sumptuous feast of fattening beechnuts and acorns, or of leaving the overgrown creek side.

Some of the more outrageous ones simply lay half-submerged and comfortable in the mud, ignoring him completely.

’First, the noble Knights had ignored his pleas. Now even the pigs were starting to ignore him.’

”Let these damned pigs and I all suffer! I bet when Lord Theo comes to inspect them tonight, the count will definitely be off!” Declan yelled.

”Go on, shout. Shout a little louder. Best let everyone, let that pack of Normans, know you’ve messed up. I guarantee you’ll lose one of your legs for it.”

The speaker wore a hat, and around it hung several small bells, about the size of those on a Falcon. When he turned his head, they would jingle. Since he was never for a moment still, the bells rang ceaselessly.

His hat was circled by a stiff leather band, the top of which was carved with a pattern somewhat resembling a Duke’s coronet.

The bells, the style of the hat, the brightly-colored purple and decent quality of his motley clothes, and his own feigned foolish expressions were enough to identify him as one of those household jesters or fools.

That is, the sort of buffoon kept in a wealthy household—a servant meant to entertain his masters with jokes and antics when they were stuck at home and bored to death.

”Fangsi! Fangsi!”

Declan ignored him, shouting at a mangy dog. It was a fierce-looking creature, somewhat like a wolf—a type of lurcher, half mastiff and half greyhound. It ran with a limp, as if attempting to carry out its master’s command to round up the disobedient, grunting pigs.

In reality, however, whether because it misunderstood its master’s signals, didn’t comprehend its task, or was just taking malicious glee in the chaos, the dog only scattered the herd further. It made the already awkward situation it had seemingly tried to salvage even more of a mess.

”You’re just going to stand there and watch, Wang Ba?! You heartless bastard! Get around the back of the hill and block their path! Once you get the high ground, they’ll be helpless. They’ll have to obey you, just like a flock of sheep, and go wherever you want.

Pigs are just that pathetic.”

”Exactly right. However, I have consulted with my two legs, and they are in unanimous agreement that for me to run into a mud pit while wearing such fine clothes would be an act of gross disrespect toward Lord Velen, myself, and my magnificent attire.

Therefore, Declan, I advise you to call off Fangsi and let those pigs go wherever they please. Even if they fall into the hands of deserters or forest bandits, it is their fate. It’s no different from them turning into Normans by morning!”

”I’d feel better if these pigs did turn into Normans. But how are they supposed to turn into Normans? I don’t quite get it, Wang Ba. Is this some new kind of riddle?” Declan looked at Wang Ba, who was perched on a rock.

”You could say that. It’s been in fashion for nine years now, after all. Let me give you a hint: what do you call these grunting beasts that run on four legs?” Wang Ba climbed down from the rock, his boots sinking into the mud.

”’Swine,’ of course, you fool. What else could it be? No, even a fool knows that.”

”Yes, and ’swine’ is good Saxon, no question about it. But what do you call it after the pig has been butchered, gutted, and carved up, hung upside down like a traitor?”

”Pork.”

”Exactly right. And even a fool knows, is not ’pork’ thoroughly Norman French? And so, when the animal is alive and managed by a Saxon slave, it belongs to the Saxon people and has a Saxon name.

But once it is sent to the castle and served at the Nobility’s table, it becomes Norman and is called ’pork’.”

”Well, I’ll be. Wang Ba, my friend, I never thought that fool’s head of yours had so much in it.”

”There’s more. When our master, the ox, is tended by slaves and servants like you, it has a Saxon name. But once it is brought before a noble mouth, it becomes a fashionable Frenchman and is called ’beef.’ The calf, too, becomes ’veal’.

When it needs tending, it is Saxon. But when it becomes a delicious delicacy, it becomes Norman.”