A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

Normandy, Caen.

Dusk was approaching from the west. Just moments before, the sky had been streaked with copper-gold; now, it had turned to a sooty gray.

While the light lasted, the countryside scenery was still pleasant; fields and meadows grew vibrant green with the first floral scents of spring. A tall Nun, carrying a basket of laundry, walked toward a small river nearby.

A boy of about ten walked beside her. He had black hair and wore dark clothes, making him blend easily into the growing dusk. He held a dry stalk of straw, swinging it aimlessly and occasionally poking the Nun’s hand with it.

When the Nun grew annoyed, she would rap the boy on the head a few times with her knuckles. She didn’t use much force, but it was still enough to make a child’s head ache.

An armed soldier followed behind them—or rather, a Knight would be more accurate. He was there to protect them.

Upon reaching the riverbank, the Nun set down her basket. After searching for a moment in a nearby thicket, she pulled out a wooden stick and began prodding the clothes from the basket with it in the river water.

The dim, yellow twilight reflected on the water’s surface, making it impossible to tell whether the clothes were clean or not.

The Nun, however, seemed not to care in the slightest.

The boy lay on the grassy bank, waving his stalk of straw through the air.

The boy’s name was Henry, the youngest son of Conqueror William. He was not yet ten years old.

After Robert had taken London, he had found Henry. Given the boy’s young age, Robert didn’t make an issue of him, instead sending him back to Normandy to be cared for by his mother, Matilda.

Henry had originally been staying with his mother, Matilda. However, because Rouen was under attack by the King of France, Matilda had sent him to Caen to be cared for by her sister, Sesil.

”Sister, what are you doing?” Henry asked suddenly from the grass, his question seemingly out of nowhere.

”Washing clothes, of course. Can’t you see?” Sesil glanced at Henry, a little baffled.

”But why aren’t you using your hands?”

”Because this is easier.”

”It isn’t because those are a sick person’s clothes?”

”Of course not.”

”Why do we have to do this at all?”

”This is the practice of a Cultivator. It is to show Devotion to God,” Sesil said with a smile, her left hand on her hip.

”But it’s too dangerous.”

”What?”

”I’m saying you could get infected,” Henry emphasized.

”Sometimes, even if you do everything you’re supposed to, you can still get sick. Illness is a calamity sent down by God, a disaster completely beyond human understanding. So Devotion is the only thing we can offer in response.

”Besides, I’m not doing much at all. Aunt Matilda, the abbess of the Monastery, she does this sort of thing, too. She does it every single day.” Sesil turned her gaze away from Henry and went back to prodding the patient’s clothes with her stick.

”So is Devotion just doing things you don’t like?”

”What? How can you say such a thing?” Sesil stopped her work and frowned.

”Sister, do you do this every day?”

”Not every day, but at least once a week,” Sesil said, tilting her head back as she thought.

”And you get up to pray the moment the morning bells ring, and go to sleep the moment the evening bells ring?”

”Of course,” Sesil said, a little proudly.

”And you usually only wear simple clothes, and just one robe in Winter?”

”Of course! I am a true Nun, sworn in an oath before Christ.” Sesil put her hands on her hips.

”But every time you go back to Rouen to see Mother, you sleep in until noon. You never go to bed early, either. You always stay up late chatting with the other ladies and aunts,” Henry said, propping his chin on his hand and watching his sister with a faint smile.

”Uh... that’s in Rouen. When I’m in Rouen, I’m not a Nun. I’m... I’m a princess.”

”Does Devotion have anything to do with Identity? You’re just forcing yourself to do things you don’t like, aren’t you, Sister?” Henry said, waving the straw stalk.

”That’s... alright, if you’re not going to get up and help me, then you should be quiet. Haral.” Sesil was getting annoyed.

”So you are just doing something you don’t like. If you liked it, you’d do it in Rouen, too. It’s like how I love eating lamprey—I’ll eat it no matter where I am.” Henry stood up, walked over to Sesil, and poked the clothes on her stick with his straw.

”You need to be quiet, Haral,” Sesil said, using the stick to lift the soaked clothes from the water and back into the basket.

”Sister, I’ve always thought a lot of this is pointless. It doesn’t matter if what’s on the surface is different from reality. All that matters is that you look the part in front of other people. Who’s going to come running to our palace just to see if we’re piously washing clothes for the sick?”

”Aunt Matilda would not like to hear you say such things, Henry.”

”But what does it matter? Aren’t plenty of people doing the same thing?”

Henry seemed completely unconcerned. He tossed the stalk of straw into the river and dusted off his hands.

The stalk floated on the surface, drifting downstream with the current.

”...” Sesil was speechless for a moment.

He had a point. Who didn’t do the same?

But she still felt something was wrong.

”But most people don’t take it for granted, and that is what’s important, child. They all confess to a Priest when the Lord calls for them.”