A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

He looked at Eric, who had reached the other end of the field. Eric had already replaced his lance with another practice one and was watching him with a faint smile.

He suddenly felt a pang of fear.

The spectators near Eric’s end of the lists also faltered. Their raucous cheers died down; it seemed today’s tournament had just gotten interesting.

”Are you ready?” This time, it was Eric who shouted the words.

The irony was palpable.

The middle-aged Knight didn’t respond. He just flicked his reins, guiding his Warhorse to the other end.

He hadn’t been unhorsed, so he still had one more chance.

This time, he didn’t wait for the herald’s horn and trumpet call, charging straight for Eric.

Eric, unperturbed, charged forward as well.

This time, however, the middle-aged Knight felt his mount slow beneath him. He cursed and spurred it on, but the Warhorse’s speed continued to drop.

The Warhorse seemed to sense the impending danger from its opponent. The memory of the tearing pain in its mouth made it shy away.

This infuriated the middle-aged Knight, who savagely dug his spurs into the horse’s flanks, forcing its speed back up.

Eric’s figure loomed closer. The middle-aged Knight’s nerves stretched taut as he repeatedly told himself, ’Faster than last time.’

His opponent’s form grew sharper.

Now!

”CRACK!”

Splinters flew. The Warhorse shrieked in pain again, but this time, the Knight’s luck had run out. The violent pain and concussive force sent both man and horse tumbling to the ground. In an instant, the taste of blood surged from his throat, flooding his mouth.

But the pain was his alone. The nearby spectators, filled with delight and surprise, erupted in cheers for the victor.

Though they weren’t quite sure what they had just witnessed, it was a spectacular performance nonetheless—complete with a winner, a loser, and most importantly, blood.

....

A round consisted of ten Knights, with five emerging victorious. These five would then hold the field, accepting challenges from the remaining Knights.

Of course, a victor could also choose to temporarily withdraw to rest if fatigued. His place would then be filled by a Knight who had not yet competed.

Each Knight had a maximum of eight chances to challenge, which meant they could afford to lose three times.

Given the scale of roughly one hundred participating Knights, winning five bouts—successfully defending one’s position five times—was generally enough to be declared the day’s champion.

Winning five in a row was even more impressive.

”You’ve got to be kidding me. If I’m not mistaken, that was his sixth match.”

”And he hasn’t even taken a break.”

”Is he some kind of touring champion? I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before. And I know every top contender from the past few years.”

”I’ve never seen him either. With a build like that, maybe he’s one of the Teutons.”

”Oh, come on. The Teutons only look intimidating because of their height. Their Knights are nowhere near this skilled.”

”Exactly! We Franks are the true born Knights. He must be a Frankish Knight. Only the Franks produce such exceptional Knights.”

”Perhaps he’s from the south. Maybe he’s from Toulouse.”

”...”

From a lavishly decorated, elevated platform, Rufus’s eyes were drawn to the dazzling performance of Eric in the tournament.

Eric’s movements were unbelievably fast. He had already witnessed four of Eric’s matches and still hadn’t been able to clearly see his technique a single time.

This irritated him. He had competed in tournaments in Normandy before, achieving respectable results, a fact he took pride in.

And while he had faced some strong opponents, Rufus always felt they weren’t that much better than him.

But this Eric... he was on another level. Rufus couldn’t even follow his movements.

It made him fume.

Just as his agitation was peaking,

an angry shout shattered his thoughts.

”Christless dog!”

The voice belonged to an old man standing beside the special platform.

His robes were tattered, suggesting poverty, yet the sword, dagger, and golden chain he wore proved he held a certain status. ”You she-wolf’s whelp! How dare you jostle a Christian—a Norman Gentleman of the Montdidier family?”

The brutish reprimand was aimed at a middle-aged man dressed in a fur-trimmed leather robe that was not merely well-off but outright luxurious. However, he wore the small, square-topped yellow cap prescribed for Jews to distinguish them from Christians.

He was accompanied by... his daughter, presumably, a beautiful young lady. They were meeting at Ashby, and he was now trying to find her a seat in the front row below the stands. The daughter, seeing him push relentlessly toward the front and draw the crowd’s displeasure, clung to her father’s arm in fear.

However, at large gatherings such as this, Jews were nominally under the protection of common law. Even if this protection was unreliable, there were usually a few nobles who, out of self-interest, were willing to act as their patrons.

Rufus recognized the Jewish man. He was a wealthy merchant in the lending trade. The Italian bankers had a poor opinion of Rufus and refused to grant him loans, leaving him to seek funds from Jewish moneylenders. But for some inexplicable reason, the Jews in and around Normandy, including this man’s peers, had all refused his requests.

They had all gone to ground early, hiding within Normandy.

This man was one of the few Jewish merchants who had been willing to offer him funds.

”I swear on Abraham’s bald head, that little Jewish lass is a true beauty! She must be the living image of the siren who bewitched the wisest King of all ages! What say you, Your Highness the Prince?”

”I’d stake the Temple of that great and wise King—the holy Jerusalem Temple itself—that she is the bride from the Song of Songs!”

”The rose of Sharon, the lily of the valleys!”

Count Hugo of Mann, who had been lounging in his chair, suddenly shot to his feet and exclaimed excitedly in Rufus’s ear.

He was a young man with curly brown hair and a handsome mustache. Listless since the start of the tournament, he had suddenly come alive with excitement.

Her figure was graceful and well-proportioned, and the Eastern-style garments she wore only enhanced her beauty. Her yellow silk turban complemented her slightly dusky skin perfectly. Her eyes were luminous, her brows like arched crescents, her nose high-bridged, and her teeth as white as pearls.

And her hair, a cascade of glossy black curls—like a torrent of spiraling ringlets, it tumbled down from her crown, draping over her lovely neck, spilling across the bodice of her colorful Persian silk tunic, and falling upon the vibrant, lifelike flowers embroidered on the purple garment.

In short, it all formed a delightful picture that made her so lovely, even the most beautiful maidens in her vicinity could not compare.

Indeed, feeling the heat, she had unfastened the top three of a row of pearl-studded gold buttons on her outer vest, which ran from collar to waist, an act that only amplified the aforementioned effect.

The diamond necklace and its very precious pendants thus became all the more conspicuous.

An ostrich feather, fastened to her turban with a jeweled clasp, was another of the beautiful Jewish maiden’s distinctions. It drew the scorn and ridicule of the arrogant ladies seated above, who, while pretending to disdain such finery, were inwardly green with envy.

”Don’t forget, no matter how beautiful she is, she’s just a little Jewish girl. You should pay more attention to things a true Knight ought to care about, Hugo. Or are all you Italians like this?” Rufus snorted.

Rufus thoroughly disliked the Italian. If he didn’t still have a use for him, he wouldn’t even bother to acknowledge the man.

’He has no Knightly Spirit or bearing whatsoever. Riding Skill, Lance proficiency, Swordsmanship—he’s inept at them all. All he cares for is attending plays, feasting, and chasing women.’

’The Mann People were truly blind to have chosen such a man as their Count.’

’Still, it works in my favor. Once I take Normandy and defeat that detestable older brother, my hands will be free. The next step will be to seize Mann.’

”Don’t be so uptight, Prince William. The Normans have their way of life, and the Italians have theirs. There’s nothing wrong with that. They may be different, but they’re both ways of survival. Look, aren’t we both standing here, alive and well?”

”We in Italy dislike all the fighting and killing. We detest real war, preferring our wars to be fought on the surface.” Hugo shrugged nonchalantly, then sank back into his chair. He resumed his look of utter boredom and had a maidservant feed him a piece of fruit.

”Fool,” Rufus muttered under his breath. He then descended from the high platform. The individual bouts were drawing to a close, and he intended to go and test that Knight himself.