A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

The Arab Cavalry moved down, fluid riders who easily navigated the slippery scree slope. The man in the lead, who wore a black head-wrap, spread his hands, clearly showing he was unarmed and wanted to talk.

The Arab Cavalry were well-equipped, and I felt a chill as they drew near, stopping only when the man in the black head-wrap was a few paces from the Norman Knights.

The horse was large and strong, and the man in the black head-wrap sat it with an easy grace. He carried a gracefully Curved Bow. A Quiver was strapped to his left hip, angled back with the arrow shafts exposed—for a faster draw, I saw.

On his other side, the man carried a Sword—not a Curved Saber, but an almost straight Blade. An axe and a Nail Head Hammer with a head shaped like a strange animal hung from his saddle, and a conical Helmet was suspended from the saddle straps, a Chain Armor coif tucked neatly inside.

He also wore Chain Armor, with proper padding beneath it, but his legs were unprotected, clad only in baggy black linen trousers—’So, aim for their knees.’ He had a Small Round Shield faced with Metal, and his horse was barded in Leather scales, decorated with Colored Wool Tassels and gilded medals. A black Cloak covered most of his back and the horse’s rump.

All of them were equipped much the same, the only difference being that the others also carried Long Spears.

The Norman Knights did not rush to mount. Instead, they stood in a dense formation among the Crossbowmen, their Longswords raised and pointing toward the Arabs just opposite.

The Crossbowmen were on either side of the dismounted Norman Knights.

The Saxon Shield Soldiers formed the front rank, raising their Shields.

This was all per Eric’s prior instructions, a formation they had rehearsed many times back in England.

Many of the Norman Knights had never seen Arabs before, and they brazenly sized up this supposedly wicked people. The Arabs had dark skin, neatly trimmed black beards that clung to their faces, and eyes like two chips of obsidian.

The man in the black head-wrap shouted in Arabic.

Eric had originally intended for Leif to translate the Arabic, but the Shepherd Boy stepped forward first and translated the Arab’s words into Greek.

The Shepherd Boy stood there, his shoulders trembling under my palm like a whipped dog. The Arab spoke again.

”I am Faisal Ibn Sadik,” he announced. ”Who trespasses on the lands of Emir Faruk?”

”The Earl of Gloucester, a Norman Lord from the Kingdom of England,” Eric replied. ”We act on behalf of the Emperor of Constantinople, to restore and exercise his authority.”

The Shepherd Boy relayed all of Eric’s words. Faisal’s—the man in the black head-wrap—eyes widened slightly. ”Normans in service to the Greek Emperor? HAHAHAHA! The honorless Greeks and the treacherous Normans? How much did the Emperor pay for your cheap loyalty? You’ll rebel eventually anyway. Your loyalty, like a Greek’s promise, is more false than a whore’s compliment.”

Faisal made a dismissive gesture. ”We were masters here long before these Greek boys arrived,” he declared arrogantly. ”We acknowledge no one above us. I have heard of England, an island at the edge of the world. You are a Count from this insignificant island, with a Monarch of your own. Why do you kneel to the Monarch of the Greeks? The Emir would not be stingy in bestowing some favor upon a few poor Normans.”

”We are going to the Church in Jerusalem,” Eric said, ”to make a pilgrimage and speak with the Saints.”

He looked Eric up and down, then said a few words that the Shepherd Boy hesitated to translate. Eric gave him a gentle push. The boy looked up at me miserably.

”He says he has heard of the men from the north, that they are not followers of Christ, but idol-worshipping sons of dogs,” the Shepherd Boy stammered. ”He says...” He stopped, licking his lips.

Eric nudged him again.

”He says you and your pork-eating friends can go do your business elsewhere, but do not defile the lands of the great Emir, protector of the faithful... Forgive me, Lord Eric, but that is what he said...”

Eric squeezed the boy’s shoulder to silence him, then looked directly into Faisal’s dark eyes. Behind them, I could hear muttered curses from the listening Normans; Priest John had been translating the Shepherd Boy’s Greek for them.

”Tell him,” Eric said, ”that we are Normans, and we bring an age of swords, an age of axes, an age of fire. He has our pity for his pathetic life. Tell him we will go where we intend to go, and if he dares to stand in our way, I will slaughter every one of his men, then wrap his own guts around a post and make him walk circles around his own entrails until he’s all wound up.”

The Shepherd Boy’s eyes widened, but he composed himself as he turned to the Arabs. Filled with his own hatred for them, he translated everything Eric had said.

A flash of anger crossed Faisal’s dark eyes, and he sat up straighter in his saddle. Then, he snapped a string of harsh words at the Shepherd Boy, who turned to Eric. Before he could translate, Eric raised a hand to cut him off.

”Tell this goat-fucking dog of a Knight to fuck off. I have no more time to waste on him. Either he fights, or we’ll see him squat like a woman. The choice is his.”