Chapter 417 - 294: The Conflict-Ridden Combined Army (Part 2)

"You old bastard, I dare you to say that again!"

"I’ll be using your skull as a bowl tonight!"

Lagman felt he had to say something. "Watch your words, Count of Pontieu. Be grateful you’re a Christian, or I would have already struck you."

"What a joke! Gentlemen, we all swore an oath before the Cross. When we received the Cross, we were all brothers. If we keep bickering like this on the road, are we going to kill our own men first when we reach the battlefield?" At this, the Count of Ghent looked at the Count of Pontieu and mocked him.

"Christ suffers in the Holy Land, while we waste our time on the march. What’s wrong with pointing that out!

Ha! Of course you’re satisfied, old Ghent, because this suits you just fine. After all, you love nothing more than abandoning your lands and people to wander about aimlessly, consorting with Iberian Heretics all day.

You should really explain those Moors in your court to His Holiness the Pope! I don’t believe for a second that you’ve come to the Holy Land to fight in earnest!" the Count of Pontieu sneered.

The Count of Ghent’s expression shifted, and he met the Count of Pontieu’s gaze with a cold smile. "Hmph, Pontieu, don’t mask your own incompetence with false Devotion. I have to ask, if you truly suffer for Christ, why do you complain endlessly about the march? Yes, I know a few Moors. At least their loyalty is more trustworthy than certain members of the Nobility who shout ’Holy War’ with their mouths while their hearts are set on seizing land!"

The Count of Pontieu gritted his teeth and retorted, "Of course, of course! And thanks to them, you’re so ’familiar’ with the customs of the Crescent Sect. Who knows, maybe you just came to the Holy Land this time to ’visit’ some more of your ’friends.’"

The Count of Ghent laughed, striking back without a hint of weakness. "That’s right, I understand them. And that makes me far better than someone like you, who just clutches a Cross and shouts slogans all day. You’ve probably killed more Christians than Heretics on this march. Shall we take a look at the battle record of this great ’Saint Fighter’? I bet it’s worse than your grandmother’s with her walking stick!"

"Say that again!" the Count of Pontieu roared.

"I’ll say it again and again!" Belem rode over on his Warhorse, whipping his riding crop through the air with a sharp CRACK. "If you truly came for the Holy Land, then you should focus on the battle ahead. Otherwise, I’ll really start to suspect that what you’ve been fretting over this whole time isn’t the Holy Land, but your own pathetic pride!"

The surrounding Knights and soldiers roared with laughter. The Count of Pontieu’s face turned crimson with rage, and he bellowed, "You bastards, all of you, shut up! Ghent, Shrewsbury! When we get to the Holy Land, I’d like to see what you’re really made of! Don’t just be all talk when it counts!"

Compared to the other Counts and high-ranking Nobility, Count Evler was much quieter. He silently coated his Sword blade with a wax ball to prevent it from rusting.

Meanwhile, at the rear of the army, Stephen was quite comfortable. The Winter sun was cool but bright, and its rays brought him a trace of warmth.

He was riding his Warhorse backward, leaning leisurely against the horse’s neck with his legs crossed. He wore a heavy Cloak, and beneath it was an exquisite fur waistcoat that perfectly insulated him from the cold. It seemed he understood the true meaning of an ’expedition’ far better than the Knights up ahead, whose faces were blue with cold.

Stephen gently tapped his fingers on his knee, humming a little tune along with the rhythm of a Lute played by a Greek Minstrel riding a donkey beside him. He had hired the man for a hefty sum in Constantinople.

The notes of the Lute echoed softly in the breeze, seeming to weave a beautiful nightscape with the distant starlight. He would occasionally take a sip of the wine he carried with him. The aroma was warm, mellow, and sweet, completely lacking the coarse scent of clashing armor and weapons from up front.

The fragrance of wine mixed with the scent of grass and trees was intoxicating. ’My heart is at peace, as if I weren’t heading to a battlefield, but on a nighttime stroll through my own garden.’

"Hmm, this wine isn’t as good as the aged cask in my cellar, but I suppose it’s better than nothing on the road," Stephen muttered to himself with an air of impeccable elegance and nonchalance.

"By the time our position charges, all the easy loot will be gone, Lord Earl," one of Stephen’s Knights complained, slapping a hand to his own face as he watched his lord’s lazy demeanor.

"From this position, we won’t even get the scraps," another Knight chimed in.

"This is the tail end of a plague army. Don’t go looting corpses for riches. Even on the wealthiest corpse, you might find something you’ll regret taking," Stephen said, waving his hand dismissively.

"My lord, don’t you think leading from the front would appear more heroic? If you relax any more, the Turkic People will mistake our arrival for a banquet, not an invasion," a Knight said, sounding exasperated.

Stephen scoffed and waved his hand. "Heroism? That’s for the brutes up front! I am the eldest son of the entire Blois Clan, the future hope of the Blois Family, how could I just throw my life... ahem..." Realizing his slip of the tongue, Stephen coughed twice, then quickly added with a serious expression, "What I mean is, you may think heroism is a blind charge, but I say, ’A discerning mind is what the Lord finds pleasing’ (Proverbs 14:15). Maintaining one’s reason on the battlefield is the mark of a truly strong man. Yes, that’s it."

With that, he waved at the Minstrel again and said, "Quickly, play a rendition of my favorite, *The Red Rose and the Steel Sword*." He then gestured to the front. "Let these tense fellows up ahead relax a bit, save them from frowning the whole way."

The Minstrel smiled and complied, beginning to strum a lighthearted melody. Stephen hummed along, even finding the mind to gently pat his horse’s neck, as if to comfort the companion who was ’enjoying the journey’ with him.

’In a little while, we should probably stop for lunch,’ Stephen mused, sizing up the Knights ahead. ’I hope these brutes learn to relax a little. I really don’t know what good all their rushing about does.’

One moment he was taking out a small knife to file his nails, the next he was stretching his fingers in the sun, fully enjoying the peaceful daylight.

For him, this position at the rear was a ’battle-avoidance’ spot made just for him.

Stephen looked at the blue sky and muttered to himself, "Ah, I do hope this journey is peaceful. If the enemy were to suddenly attack..." Stephen glanced at the mountain path in the distance and patted his mount. "...an orderly and calm retreat would be a legend in its own right."

The Knights of Blois were utterly speechless.

* * *

On the second day after the armies merged, Eric’s party officially entered Syria, in the region of Alexandretta.

To soothe the tempers of the Knights and Nobility, Eric planned to initiate a worthwhile battle as soon as possible.

On the third day, the scouting party led by Hook Eye discovered a large supply caravan.

"At least five hundred camels, fully laden with goods," Hook Eye said with a cruel smile.

"It seems the Turkic People in Syria might be planning a major move," Belem said.

Eric continued to ask, "How many guards?"

"About two hundred cavalry," Hook Eye replied. "But they’re Gulam."

"There’s no way they don’t have Cavalry Archers," Eric said.

"That’s why I didn’t dare get too close. Their Speed is greater than ours," Hook Eye shrugged.

"What did their banner look like?" Eric continued to ask.

"I couldn’t see it clearly, but I’m certain the colors were blue and white," Hook Eye said after a moment’s thought.

"It’s the army of Rom."

"With supplies this massive, Suleiman himself might be in Syria."