The Knight Without a Coat of Arms

"A knight's duty is to protect the people of his lord's domain."

"Ah... yes, of course..."

Joseph had passed beyond bewilderment into sheer disbelief. He had certainly heard knights of high standing spout such rhetoric before — but never once had he seen a man actually take those words seriously.

It was nothing more than pretty decoration. Verbiage dressed up to explain why knights were nobler than commoners.

"I'm joking. I never thought anything like that. Besides, it's not even my fief, so what would I be protecting?"

"...?"

"You taught me things, so I'm paying them back. I received, therefore I return."

"!"

For a moment, Joseph had to fight down a surge of emotion rising hot in his chest. He had spent his whole life looking sideways at knights and nobles alike, yet now he had no choice but to admit it.

The young knight before him was the genuine article.

"Thank you... truly."

"Oh, it's nothing."

He had said it with plenty of bravado, but Johan fell silent afterward. The truth was, he had no armor. Had he been missing a weapon as well, it would have been genuinely humiliating — but at least he still owned a longsword.

"You're asking to borrow a horse and equipment?"

It was a modest manor, but a fief nonetheless. The Eitz family did not manage their lands with family members alone. Slaves Gesen had brought with him and wealthier serfs were selected as servants to assist with the administration.

In a larger estate there would have been a professional steward to run the domain, and even armskeepers to tend the weaponry, but that much was beyond them. The servants handled everything themselves.

Which meant the servant in charge of the armory at the lord's residence could hardly stand up to Johan. No matter that Johan was merely an awkward noble wedged in the middle of the family hierarchy — a noble was still a noble. There was a gap in station that could not be crossed.

Go tattle to Philip, the eldest son, or to Lady Eitz? That would be madness. True, Johan would be humiliated on the spot — but afterward, if Johan crept into his room at night and snapped his neck, he would be a corpse forever. Johan, for his part, would suffer nothing worse than a scolding and a brief period of house arrest.

And looking at Johan's frame, there hardly seemed any need for a midnight ambush anyway. The servants working the lord's residence ate better than the serfs and were well-built men, yet next to Johan they looked almost frail.

"I promise you. I won't damage anything. The knights who've come to the fief invited me on a hunt, and I can hardly go along empty-handed, can I?"

"Haah... well, that much is true..."

The servant sighed and nodded. He could hardly refuse anyway, so there was no sense in needlessly souring Johan's mood.

"Please handle it with care. Please..."

"I know. I know."

His voice was so earnest that Johan had no choice but to nod along. Gesen cared little for anything else, but he was particular about the equipment stored in his residence — particular to the point that nearly every coin of the impoverished fief's money flowed into it.

And equipment was a consumable. Without constant maintenance and attention, it fell apart quickly.

If it came back damaged, Gesen's fury would come down on the servant's head.

"I'm not Fern or Yan, so don't worry."

At Johan's words, the servant's face eased, if only slightly. Unlike his brothers, who came around constantly making demands and being a general nuisance, Johan was at least courteous to the servants.

"That I'll grant, my lord. You're nothing at all like those two."

With the servant's help, Johan dressed for war. First came a thick linen shirt, then a padded coif over his head, and over that a coat of chain mail. The helm was an open-faced design that left his features exposed.

No need for a gambeson on top of this, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I suppose.

A well-made linen shirt and a cloth garment like a gambeson were not so very different. The gambeson was simply thicker and puffier.

He hadn't known it before coming to this world, but for a knight the most important thing was neither swordsmanship nor chivalry — it was armor. The quality of one's armor marked one's rank, and at the same time kept one alive.

As a boy, he had dreamed of owning a suit of plate armor — full harness that sheathed the entire body in steel — but Johan had quickly learned the reality of it.

In this world, plate armor was far more precious than it had ever been on Earth. It was an art form produced exclusively by dwarven master smiths working steel and rare metals, and unless you were a knight with a kingdom-wide reputation, you couldn't wear it even if you owned it. It was a world where the joke that a single suit of armor cost as much as a castle actually landed.

Ordinary knights wore leather or a thick padded gambeson beneath their mail, layered chain mail over that, and finished with a surcoat worn on top. Even that much put them a world apart from common soldiers. Wealthier knights doubled their mail, reinforced it with hardened metal plates, or replaced it entirely with scale armor. Scale, with its individual metal scales riveted on one by one, cost more than mail but was far tougher.

And if a knight had slain a monster, armor tanned and woven from its hide was an excellent choice. Monster hide was vastly tougher, stronger, and longer-lasting than ordinary leather — and if it carried some special property, the price leapt tenfold or more.

None of it applied to Johan, of course. He had no money and no monster hides. Being allowed the armory's standard kit at all was a small mercy.

"It suits you well."

The servant meant it. Johan had been handsome to begin with, and fully armed, he looked every inch a knight — the sort who would have graced any court in the land.

"Though... why is there no crest on the surcoat?"

The surcoat that knights wore over their armor shielded them from sun and heat, but it was fashion too. Knights painted their family crests upon it and wore them proudly, proclaiming to all the world which house they belonged to.

Yet this surcoat bore no crest at all. Nothing but a drab, unbroken color. The servant looked embarrassed.

"The dyer kept quoting us an outrageous price, so we've put it off for the time being."

"...I see."

Johan suppressed a hollow laugh. How very fitting for the House of Eitz. The servant shrank into himself, bracing for a scolding that never came.

"Thank you. Thanks to you, I can go and return in one piece."

Full battle dress felt unfamiliar, but Johan adapted quickly. The armor weighed on him somewhat, yet it did not change the way he moved.

"Are you comfortable, my lord?"

"Fine. Not much of an inconvenience at all."

Chain jingling softly, Johan tugged at the gorget under his chin. The other horsemen wore kit much like his — the only difference being that theirs looked better maintained, almost new.

"Well now, I didn't know Lord Eitz had such a brave son."

One of the horsemen said it with a wide grin. The words were respectful enough in form, but the content was a jab at the Eitz family.

Johan paid it not the slightest mind. Mock the House of Eitz, piss on ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠its crest — none of it could wound him. He had decided to play the part of a green young fool from an obscure knightly house.

"Haha. Our house is so small it's hardly known at all. I'm glad to ride out with you like this. My father never gives me a chance, you see. My dream is to take the field and win glory, even so."

"You harbor such a dream, my lord?"

"Born into a knightly house — isn't it only natural? That's why you all impress me so. Serving alongside a knight as great as Sir Karamap, earning war merits and all."

At Johan's words, satisfied smiles spread across the horsemen's faces. Few men disliked flattery — least of all when it came from a nobleman's son.

Commoners and serfs bowed and scraped before them, but their own station was barely a step above a peasant's. They had not been born into knightly houses, had never received the investiture — they were simply men of mercenary origin.

It was only because they served under a powerful figure like Sir Karamap that they counted for anything; without him, they would have been indistinguishable from any other sellsword or bandit. And here was a genuine noble heaping praise upon them — how could they not preen?

"Haha! Well said, my lord! There are no finer men than us. Sir Karamap trusts us a great deal, you know."

"Is that so? Perhaps I've heard your names from the minstrels who visit the fief. Where do you hail from?"

"Have you heard of the Aquitaine Wolves? That's where we come from. Sir Karamap hired us personally."

The lords of this region did not keep large standing forces. Even when war broke out, battles numbered in the hundreds or a few thousand men at most. Johan, accustomed to tales of tens of thousands clashing — even hundreds of thousands — had quickly learned that the reality here was quite different.

Keeping soldiers on the payroll year-round was fiscal madness — they were money-devouring hippos. No one could afford it.

But fighting required soldiers, and the ones who fought in a lord's stead were mercenaries.

Calling them in when trouble arose cost far less than maintaining a standing force. And so companies and free companies of every size roamed the continent, sniffing out battlefields and chasing silver. The more the continent fractured and filled with war, the more the mercenaries smiled.

The Aquitaine Wolves were a sizable mercenary company out of the Kingdom of Erance. Even Johan had heard of them.

Kit like that, and mounted besides — I figured they weren't pushovers, and it seems I was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠right.

A mercenary's quality could be judged by what he wore. The pricier the gear, the longer the man had been rolling in the mud of the trade, and the better he was at staying alive. And these men were mounted on top of it all.

So what exactly is Karamap here for?

He hadn't come alone — he'd arrived with an armed company of mercenaries in tow. Supposedly he'd come to see Lord Gesen, but frankly, it didn't look like friendly intentions.

Could he have a grudge?

He couldn't imagine how a rural knight like Gesen could have earned Karamap's enmity — but if it were a grudge, it would explain the retinue well enough.

Say he's nursed a grudge. What does he want, then? A duel? Humiliation?

It did seem like rather a lot of trouble to go to, dragging an entire mercenary company along. A man like Sir Karamap could manage alone. Gesen had a handful of retainers on the fief, sure, but the moment Karamap drew his sword, they would all be men running for their lives.

"The Aquitaine Wolves! Is there any need to bring the Wolves of Aquitaine to a quiet little place like this?"

"...Haha. Even Sir Karamap cannot ride the roads alone, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠can he, my lord?"

Johan saw it plainly — the flicker of panic that crossed one mercenary's face.

"He has servants, doesn't he?"

The retinue a noble traveled with was a fighting force in its own right. Soldiers were nothing special, after all. Arm a man and he became a soldier. Give him a few lessons, and he'd outperform any half-trained sellsword.

"And how would servants chase down bandits, my lord? That work falls to us. Besides — would it not be an insult to make a man like Sir Karamap swing his own sword at common brigands? That's why we came along."

As they talked, the party pressed deeper into the forest. The path between the densely packed trees grew narrower and narrower. Joseph rode at the very head of the column, leading the way.