A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

「Lincolnshire, Peterborough Monastery, the Scriptorium.」

The Scriptorium was spacious yet empty. Bookshelves lined its walls, but they were all bare.

Hildred was the only Cultivator who remained.

He sat in his seat, moving his quill, transcribing text onto the page from memory.

The Norman invasion, the brutal King William the Conqueror... almost every Saxon despaired for their fate.

The Saxon nobility had been all but wiped out. The highborn of this island were now all Normans, and the Saxons had been reduced to mere slaves.

But he, Hildred, an English Cultivator who had once lived in Normandy, saw things differently.

He was a Cultivator of Peterborough Monastery, a scholar who craved knowledge, a devout believer dedicated to understanding God’s greatness.

Norman or Saxon, he had always believed that all people were equal before God.

If God favored a certain people, then why was Jesus born? Shouldn’t the Jews, the people of the scripture, then own the entire world?

God is the God of the world, Christ is the Christ of the world, the Church is the Church of the world, and the faithful are the faithful of the world.

As it is written in the Gospel of Matthew, Christ said to his Apostles: ”Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature.”

The highborn have always oppressed the weak; it was so even before the Norman invasion.

It was just that before, the highborn were Saxons, and now they were Normans.

That incompetent king of the Saxon people, Ethelred, had bled his own Saxon subjects dry just to appease the Danish.

’What’s the essential difference?’

The quality of a man, or a king, cannot be judged by his people.

’Perhaps a good king will one day emerge from among the Normans.’

’God will arrange everything.’

’Until then, I must accept God’s trials.’

”Hildred, the Dean’s assistant is coming to do his rounds! Get out here, quick!”

The window was pushed open and a bald head poked in, speaking to Hildred in a hushed voice.

Hildred pinched out the candle, stuffed the half-used stub into his pocket, and hastily shoved the half-transcribed parchment into his other pocket. He then slid the book that had been propped on the wooden board into a drawer.

He scrambled, flustered.

Then, with the bald Cultivator’s help, he climbed out the window.

The moment they closed the window, the sound of a door opening came from inside.

’That was close.’

Hildred let out a long sigh of relief.

God had recently arranged for a terrible new Dean to be sent to Peterborough Monastery.

He hated ancient wisdom, considering it a discordant noise that disturbed one’s Devotion, the evil Magic of Heresy.

”What’s going on? Even by the usual schedule, this is far too early.”

Hildred saw Cultivators bustling back and forth all over the courtyard. The Monastery gate was open, and some of them were carrying torches, heading for the mountain path outside.

The night had not yet fully receded; the first sliver of light in the eastern sky had not yet broken through the clouds.

The oppressive gloom of night was gone, that deep blackness replaced by a pre-dawn gray. In another half hour, the sun would rise.

But it was still dark inside, and lighting the entire room would consume a great many candles.

The Cultivators would not offer their prayers to God in darkness so complete they could not even see the Holy Image.

”Brunelus is missing.”

”What?”

”Brunelus. The new Dean’s horse. That’s the name of the damned beast. He’s roused the entire Monastery just for this.

He even gave a half-hour speech about it, with some clown translating for our new French Dean. If the old Dean were still in charge, nothing so absurd would ever happen.”

”A speech? I would’ve thought that sort of thing was completely beyond him.”

”I’m giving him too much credit. You call that a speech? It was just the same old lines.

What has Athens to do with Jerusalem? What has Plato’s Academy to do with the Church?

We should obey rather than think. Heresy, heterodoxy, the Devil, Magic, blah, blah, blah...

Ha! I bet he used every word and phrase he could think of in his entire life. But for all his effort, it was still just hilarious.”

The bald Cultivator mocked the new Dean, mimicking his tone in a comical performance.

If all these Frenchmen are of this caliber, then I have to wonder if that Archbishop, the Italian sage Lanfrank, is all he’s cracked up to be.”

”All true wisdom comes from God.”

”Right. Poor Seric must not have been able to stand it either.” The bald Cultivator shook his head, expressing his disdain for the Dean.

He then noticed someone approaching them.

He quickly pulled Hildred toward the gate.

”Oh! You damned devils of Heresy, I will duel you! Return the beloved horse of our merciful and respected Dean Torod!” the bald Cultivator shouted.

Once they were away from the Monastery, both Hildred and the bald Cultivator breathed a sigh of relief.

Of course, they had no interest in finding the Dean’s beloved horse.

They planned to use this opportunity to get some fresh air outside.

Ever since this new Dean, Torod, had arrived, the Monastery felt less like a holy place for honoring God and more like a prison.

They walked along the mountain path, wandering aimlessly.

That is, until they ran into a certain respected new Dean, at which point they quickly pretended to be searching.

Hildred hunched over, trying his best to look earnest.

Until he bumped into someone.

Thinking it was the Dean, Hildred bowed even lower.

”Brother, you look like you could use some help.” A strange voice sounded by his ear.

Hildred looked up. Before him stood a tall, young Cultivator, a full head taller than Hildred himself, giving him a rather intimidating presence.

He had short, blond hair and looked like a Norman, but he spoke English without a trace of an accent.

Beside him was a much shorter, red-haired Cultivator, whose cheeks were covered in dense freckles, making them look rather ugly.

’I know everyone in the Monastery. These two are definitely not from around here.’

Hildred suddenly remembered something.

’Which means they’re...’

”Oh, I...” Hildred began to say.

But the other man cut him off.

”The horse went this way, taking the path to the right. It couldn’t have gone far, because it would have had to stop at the dung heap; it’s smart enough not to risk rushing down that steep slope...”

”When did you see it?”

”We didn’t see it at all, did we, Adso?” Eric turned to look at Adso behind him, a cheerful expression on his face.

Adso—that is, Gwen—found it a bit strange.

’I followed Eric all the way up the path and didn’t see any horse.’

’What is Eric talking about?’

”But if you’re looking for Brunelus, the horse can only be in the place I described,” Eric said, stating the horse’s name with perfect accuracy.

Hildred was shocked. The Dean required the Cultivators to maintain silence at all times as a sign of their Devotion to God. Therefore, even while searching for his beloved horse, they were not permitted to break that silence.

Hildred was certain that no Cultivator had broken the silence to shout the horse’s name along the path.