Chapter 448: Norman Adventurers

Eric’s sudden use of Frankish surprised the men on the opposite bank, lessening their caution. They moved closer to the river’s edge.

They saw Eric and his companions, just as the Knights saw them. Both sides quickly determined they were strangers.

Of the six men, four were older, around thirty years old, all with thick beards and wearing Chain Armor. The other two, clad in leather, were youths of fourteen or fifteen; the swords in their hands seemed as foreign to them as plow handles.

Four of the men were undoubtedly of Norman appearance, with the characteristic short hairstyle of the Normans. The other two were Armenians.

“Esteemed lords,” the leader, who was also the eldest, spoke up. “You can call us rootless night ravens, wandering wild wolves, shattered travelers, lonely souls in the wasteland. Whatever you call us, we have cast aside our past. Now we are merely drifting shadows, with no one to pledge to.”

As he spoke, the leader proactively sheathed his Longsword. Whatever the other party’s intentions, with over twenty well-equipped men, they stood no chance of resisting.

He had also noticed Eric’s Norman French, which bore the familiar grammar of the nobility from Normandy.

Reyno, displeased with the man’s phrasing, barked, “Watch your tongue! Is that any way to address a Lord?”

The leader sneered, his sharp gaze sweeping over Eric and his companions. “Lord? Do you high and mighty nobles think your titles and empty names place you above us?”

Another Norman beside him brandished his weapon at Reyno, his expression disdainful. “Give it a rest, my lord. You have no domain in this distant East. If you want to flaunt your authority, go back to Normandy and do it in your pitiful, rundown manor. Hmph. Don’t think we’ll grovel like cowards. We are Warriors, too—we fight for honor and survival. Our Armor is every bit as good as yours, our longswords just as sharp, and our prowess on the battlefield is in no way inferior. We’re no different from you, and we are certainly not your inferiors. If there’s any difference at all, it’s that we earned our glory through blood and sweat, not by inheriting it while lazing about in a castle.”

“You… arrogant…” Reyno was about to lash out, but Eric stopped him with an outstretched arm.

“Meeting fellow men of Normandy in this Exotic Realm should be a cause for joy,” Eric said.

“Oh, please, my lord. You’re probably just thinking about how to turn us back into country serfs.”

“And is that worth being angry about?” Eric asked.

“Of course it is! Do you think being a serf is something to be…”

“I mean, are there any sons of serfs here?” Eric asked, exceptionally calm as his gaze swept over the men on the other bank.

One of the men on the far bank tried to say something.

Eric spoke first:

“Let’s stop this silly fairytale. Do you really think I’d believe that the son of a common serf could cross the entire Mediterranean Sea, come to the East—a land swarming with Heretics—and become a Warrior? A cavalryman, no less. Even if those knight-issue Helmets and knee guards were purchased, your gait gives you away. You unconsciously keep in step with one another. Among the Franks, only Norman cavalry moves like that. No one would spend so much money to train the son of a serf, even if he were exceptionally talented. I’ve seen too many such serfs lose their lives worthlessly in Anatolia. But you are undoubtedly well-trained Warriors, and among the finest at that. I am honored to meet you, for you have undoubtedly drunk deep of glory in the East. You are more worthy of respect and praise than any ordinary Knight.”

Though their fine Armor was likely not a family inheritance, but something they had purchased or crafted themselves.

But Eric noticed small scratches and custom adornments on their Armor, showing that these men not only had some financial means but also the ability to forge or repair their own equipment.

This kind of self-equipping was not common among the lower classes, seen more often in those who yearned to raise their status or had special motivations.

The Helmets they wore had unique designs, with neck guards and intricate decorations, displaying a high level of craftsmanship. Such helmets were more common among cavalry, used to provide better protection on the battlefield.

Furthermore, the longswords they held were of moderate weight, with small gems embedded in the hilts, indicating they were not only practical weapons but also carried a certain symbolic meaning of Identity.

More importantly, their stances and movements revealed signs of rigorous training. Each man’s movements were coordinated, their steps steady. Even when not on horseback, they displayed the characteristic confidence and authority of cavalrymen.

Their Armor clinked crisply as they moved, showing their familiarity and control over their equipment.

Additionally, Eric noticed the bracers and knee armor they wore were designed not just for protection, but also to provide flexibility for a cavalryman in combat.

All these details indicated that they had professional military training, and were not just ordinary farmers or craftsmen.

Any Norman who left Normandy for the East lived by the sword.

The leader on the opposite bank laughed and nodded. He then swung his Shield from his back to his front and pointed to the device on it for Eric to see. It was a line of Latin, and on it was written ‘Knights Without Inheritance.’ “Your perception is keen. You’re right, we are all sons of the Nobility.”

“Now that’s more like it. A perceptive lord really is a different breed.”

“There will always be arrogant fools, but there will also be wise men with piercing insight.”

The other Norman Warriors also nodded, clearly pleased by Eric’s compliments.

[Persuasion successful. Wandering Norman Adventurers: Favor +15]

“Any Warrior brave enough to leave Normandy and campaign abroad has the qualities of a hero. I am certain of this, for I am also the son of an adventurer, and I never cease to admire the Courage my father possessed,” Eric said again.

“And who might your father be…?” the leader asked, almost unconsciously.

Guy spoke up for Eric. “The world may have forgotten his Name, but his legend thunders across the Mediterranean Sea: Giscard, whose glory is eternal. And yet, the lord who stands before you today has already built a legacy to rival his father’s. Listen well! Before you stands the Earl of Gloucester of England, the Marquis of Tuscany, Eric De Outremer.”

The Norman adventurers took a step back. “You are Eric? The one who serves King Robert? The one who drove the Heretics from Cilicia?”

“Yes.” Eric nodded, though he was puzzled as to how they could have heard this news.

“My Lord,” the leader said, lowering his Sword. One of the other Normans touched his Cross and fell to his knees.

The third Norman sheathed his Sword, and the others, deeming it wise, did the same.

“To whom do you owe your allegiance?” Eric asked, sliding his own Thrusting Sword back into its scabbard.

“We pledge allegiance to no one but ourselves. However, we do occasionally entertain the counsel of a certain Armenian—though only entertain it. We used to serve his father. Like us, he’s another poor soul with no land to his name.”

“And who was his father?” Eric pressed.

“Philaretos. An Armenian General. He was once the master of Antioch, the Byzantine Governor of Syria. Two years ago, Antioch was taken by the Turkic People from Anatolia. It was a brutal war, and Philaretos died a glorious death in battle. His sons fled to Edessa and took over their father’s remaining lands.”