A Crusader with System in the Middle Ages

”My father said that in war, a proper warrior should inspire fear, not mercy.” Laila watched the Turkic woman stumble away.

”But the villagers of Chenxi Village seem to have a very good impression of your father,” Eric said, looking at Laila.

”Because they remember a musician, not a distinguished desert warrior.”

...

Bohemond was even taller and broader than his powerful father. He towered over his companions and had developed the habit of stooping slightly to speak with them more easily.

He inherited the typical Norman blue eyes and blond hair, but his skin was far luckier than his parents’. While their cheeks were always sunburned red and peeling, Bohemond’s fair skin held only a hint of a golden sheen.

He was as handsome as the statue of Saint Michael in the Church. He always kept himself very clean. When not at war, he had someone shave him daily. If he was too busy for a proper shave, he would rub his chin with a pumice stone, making it nearly impossible to tell what color his beard would be if he let it grow.

His hair was also cut as short as a priest’s so it wouldn’t get tangled or sweaty under his armor.

Bohemond was quite pleased with his appearance. He carried a small mirror—a high-quality piece he had looted from a Venetian captive, one that gave a remarkably clear reflection.

After acquiring it, he would spend a little time each day, even in the midst of war, observing himself in the mirror, searching for the slightest changes from the man he was the day before.

Recently, however, Bohemond had broken the habit entirely. Three months ago, he had smashed the mirror after being abandoned by his father yet again.

’To dedicate my heart and soul to Giscard’s grand campaign, to charge into the thick of battle, only to be rewarded with betrayal.’

’When will he ever remember that I am his son?’

Of course, Giscard was not entirely untroubled. With practiced skill, he had once again made Bohemond a grand, empty promise.

But Bohemond couldn’t swallow it this time.

The night he received the news, Bohemond felt a pain in his stomach and knew he had been struck by illness, or perhaps poison. His suspicion fell almost immediately on his shrewish stepmother, Sergita. If that were the case, his defeat was absolute.

He immediately sent for his confessor priest, so he could put his affairs in order while his mind was still clear. But when the moment came, he found he had little to confess.

He had never been subject to strong carnal temptations. He appreciated pretty girls the same way he appreciated all beautiful things, but for all his great and handsome stature, his physical desires were low.

At twenty-five, he was still unmarried. He had never been in love, nor did he have a mistress.

He was, of course, extremely greedy, but this was hardly excessive for a man of the Outville family.

He always paid his tithes on time and provided sufficient support to religious institutions. In battle, he had killed many men, but he never took pleasure in cruelty, nor did he ever torture prisoners for sport.

Overall, he kept his vows to the greatest extent possible for a man of his station.

The confessor priest asked some probing questions and was surprised by the answers.

On their deathbeds, even the greatest of lords tell the unvarnished truth.

Bohemond received absolution and was told he had little to fear in the next life.

Although the pain in his stomach remained excruciating, his spirits lifted.

Then his father arrived with a Greek doctor of great renown in Salerno.

Giscard paced around incessantly, peppering the doctor with unanswerable questions. He demanded immediate action: bloodletting, cupping, acupuncture—anything.

The Greek doctor simply said that Bohemond’s condition would likely worsen before it improved, but that there was a chance of recovery. The patient must be kept warm and cleaned immediately if he soiled himself. They could also try to give him a little warm milk.

The thought of drinking anything was so unbearable to Bohemond that he fainted, subsequently sinking into a high fever.

For many days he was delirious.

He was trapped in his dreams.

Memories, stretching back to his earliest recollections, replayed endlessly in his mind.

Eventually, he awoke and regained his senses.

Perhaps it was a miracle.

But he was reluctant to claim he had witnessed a miracle of God, so instead, he prepared to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre for atonement.

He refused to use such an excuse to hide his shame. He could have, but he wouldn’t. The truth was, he could no longer remain in Apulia.

His father might feel love for him, but that was as far as it went.

Italy was the best land in the world, especially now under Norman rule.

In the cold and damp north, he might have recovered more slowly, or perhaps not at all.

The only good thing one could say for the ancestral land of Normandy was that there, at least, the Normans were said to be the undisputed rulers.

In Southern Italy, however, the Pope was inclined to claim nominal suzerainty, while the German Emperor was always trying to supplant him.

’The ideal land would have a climate this hot, a hardworking and submissive populace, and no powerful lords coveting it.’

’Perhaps such a land existed somewhere, maybe just beyond Romania. While he was still young and vigorous, he should mount a good horse and go find it, rather than wait for his cold and cunning father to have a change of heart.’