Chapter 50: That Man Is the Bishop of Pisa

Along the narrow mountain path, a rush of hoofbeats echoed, swift as a storm sweeping through. Before the sound could fade, another wave followed, tearing up roots buried deep in the muddy earth.

The knights of Lorraine had lost their former pride. Their velvet cloaks hung from their shoulders like tattered rags, blood blooming across them like grim flowers of death.

“Hurry, hurry!”

Bearded Geoffrey repeated the word over and over, as if sheer will might urge his steed faster. Leo and his companions gave chase, galloping relentlessly along the mountain road. They clung to the Lorraine knights, drawing ever closer.

Exhaustion plagued not only the riders, but also their mounts. Geoffrey faced this grim reality; no matter how fiercely he pressed his heels into his horse’s flanks, the animal could not go any faster. Foam flecked its mouth, its labored breathing growing louder.

Leo’s group noticed this, and so they pressed their pursuit harder.

Rainier glanced back at their pursuers, then at Geoffrey. At that moment, he knew a decision must be made. For years he had served under Geoffrey, his uncle, enjoying privileges others were denied. Even when scorned by others, Geoffrey had protected him.

Now, it was his turn to repay that debt.

“Turn around, hold them off!”

Rainier’s command rang out, and all the Lorraine knights pulled their reins tight, wheeling their horses. Determination shone in their eyes. These personal guards had been raised, one by one, by Geoffrey himself. To him, they were family, the foundation of his rule—whether in war or in taming nobles. Losing them would mean the ruin of all Geoffrey had built.

As they turned, Geoffrey looked back in surprise, watching his guards recede farther and farther behind him. Regret welled up within him.

If only he hadn’t coveted Tuscany…

“Prepare for battle!”

Rainier and his knights drew their swords, ready for a desperate fight with Leo. Seeing the Lorraine knights turn, Leo snatched up his lance and charged. At such a critical moment, there was no time for drawn-out combat.

“Charge, knights!”

“Break through!”

Led by Leo, the Tuscan knights struck like a spearpoint at the Lorraine knights. There was no room for maneuvering; in a single clash, six Lorraine knights were pierced by lances, their bodies falling like severed kites, stirring dust as they hit the ground.

The Tuscan knights thundered past the Lorraine guards. They had no time to tend to the fallen, not even a glance—only corpses left behind in the desolate valley.

Leo discarded his broken lance and took up another from his attendant. Just one more bend in the road, and Geoffrey would be in sight…

Turning the corner, Leo’s eyes fell upon the vanguard he had seen before. Geoffrey was among them, withdrawing toward the far end of the battlefield, shielded by several knights.

Blocking Leo’s path were dozens of fully armored knights, prepared for battle, as if waiting for him.

In an instant, the two forces collided.

That brief pause shattered Leo’s hopes. Though he unhorsed one knight, another stepped forward, sword drawn, engaging Leo in combat.

Leo could only watch Geoffrey retreat, unable even to extricate himself.

“Clang!”

Two swords crashed together, the sharp sound ringing out from the forceful blow.

As a traveler from another world, Leo could rely on luck to fell one or two foes during a charge. But in close combat, he was no match for these knights. His opponent’s swordsmanship was expert, parrying Leo’s attacks and dragging the blade across his chainmail, leaving a pale streak.

Cold sweat broke across Leo’s brow. Without armor, he would have already met his end.

He quickly swung his sword, knocking aside the opposing blade, then deftly reversed his grip, letting go of the reins with his left hand to grasp the sword by its blade.

The knight’s eyes widened in surprise.

Before him was the pommel—a weighted ball at the end of every European longsword, providing balance. In traditional swordsmanship, the pommel was often used as a blunt weapon.

In technique, Leo was ignorant. But in strength, he was not lacking.

Seizing the knight’s moment of hesitation, Leo swung his sword like a hammer, smashing the pommel into the side of his foe’s face.

The chainmail offered scant protection; the impact resounded dully. The knight screamed, clutching his face, losing any chance to counterattack.

Leo flipped the sword and thrust it into the knight’s face, the blade piercing like an awl. The knight fell silent instantly, tumbling from his horse.

Lowering his sword, Leo realized the situation was dire. Though the Tuscan knights fought valiantly, the Lorraine knights were clearly superior. Their numbers gave them the advantage, pressing back the Tuscans and even threatening to defeat the pursuers.

The tide must not turn.

This thought filled Leo’s mind.

“Retreat, retreat!”

Without hesitation, Leo waved his sword and ordered the knights to withdraw. The knights obeyed immediately, breaking away from the battlefield and falling back further, wary of pursuit.

Fortunately, the Lorraine knights did not chase. Seeing Leo’s retreat, they turned back as well, leaving Leo puzzled.

What was happening?

...

On the main battlefield, a group of knights sat on the ground, breathing heavily. They clutched flasks, drinking the last drops.

These Lorraine knights, after fierce resistance, had chosen to surrender. Now, they enjoyed their final moments of peace.

Among them, the highest-ranking noble, Count Emo, naturally became their spokesman, standing before Matilda.

“Your Grace, Duchess,” Count Emo bowed, “as a vassal of the Duke of Tuscany, it is an honor to meet you here…”

“I have no need for your honor.”

Matilda’s voice was cold, dismissing Count Emo. Slighted, Emo said nothing more, lowering his gaze and quietly observing Matilda’s actions.

Matilda’s attention was on her mother. Beatrice, clad in black robes, stood among several Tuscan knights, seemingly engaged in conversation. Upon noticing Matilda’s gaze, she tugged her hood forward, reluctant to be seen by her daughter. The knights dispersed at once.

“Hmph.”

Matilda turned away. She knew well what her mother was doing.

Beatrice was a noblewoman from Lorraine. After Matilda’s father died, she sought security in Lorraine, marrying its duke. Later, she consented to Matilda’s betrothal to Hunchback Geoffrey.

Relying on Geoffrey brought Beatrice temporary peace, but at the cost of Tuscany’s integrity—in Matilda’s eyes, the duchy’s downfall.

No matter how she changed, Geoffrey was an outsider. His eldest son, Hunchback Geoffrey, even more so—a crippled, volatile stranger.

Now, Beatrice had returned. Her presence in Tuscany attracted ambitious knights, seeking to use her to overthrow Matilda.

“Your Grace,” Count Emo, noticing Matilda’s distress, spoke again.

“Beatrice lacks ambition; her vision is limited. Even in Lorraine’s court, she never offered constructive counsel. Yet she meddles constantly, and our duke sometimes grows weary of her.”

“Weary of my mother?”

Matilda, imitating Leo’s arrogance, responded coldly.

“No matter what, she is my mother. Do you presume to meddle in our family’s affairs?”

“Of course not, not at all,” Count Emo apologized repeatedly, then shifted the topic to ransom.

“Your Grace, may I make a small request? Could my attendant carry a letter home? My family will gather the necessary ransom for you.”

“We’ll discuss that later.”

Matilda waved him away.

Count Emo, bewildered, tried to approach, but was blocked by Matilda’s guards. He could only watch from afar as a bloodied knight, leading a dozen others, returned.

As the foremost knight arrived, Matilda went to his side. He dismounted and removed his helmet, revealing short, disheveled hair. He spoke and laughed with Matilda, who listened quietly; their relationship seemed anything but formal.

“Who is that?” Count Emo asked, pointing.

“That one?” The Tuscan knight who barred him glanced back, then smiled at Emo.

“That’s the Bishop of Pisa.”