xymnovel Chapter 167 Talking about Henry Henry
Chapter 167 Talking about Henry Henry
Chapter 167 Speaking of Henry, Henry Arrives (Part 3)
Lyon frowned, but couldn't find a rebuttal for the moment.
The Crusader states are indeed in an increasingly awkward position in the Western Christian world. They need the support of the West, but are often ignored or taken advantage of by the West.
"Perhaps the messenger just hasn't arrived yet," Leon offered a weak explanation, then quickly steered the conversation back on track. "Let's not talk about that. Why are you going to participate in Redbeard's competition? What do you plan to do there?"
A terrible thought crossed his mind, and he lowered his voice: "Do you intend to—take this opportunity to assassinate the emperor and avenge your father?"
Henry seemed to have heard an extremely absurd joke. He first widened his eyes, then burst into loud and cheerful laughter, even bending over with laughter.
"Assassinate—assassinate? My good prince, you overestimate me, and you underestimate me too much!"
He finally managed to stop laughing, wiped his eyes, and his expression became incredibly serious, even radiating a sense of sternness: "If revenge must be taken in such a shadowy, underhanded way, what difference is there between that and the atrocities I hate—the massacre of civilians in Milan? That would be the greatest insult to my father, to any soldier!"
He straightened his back, like a knight about to go to war: "What I want is to stand upright on the field, under the gaze of all the nobles, all the knights, and all the spectators, and in a manner that conforms to the rules of knighthood, defeat Redbeard's two precious sons, and those arrogant German knights he has defeated one by one!"
I will wrestle them off their horses in the spear duel, humiliate them in the sword match, and take away the glory that rightfully belongs to them, amidst the cheers of the crowd and the emperor's gaze! I will make Redbeard watch as a blacksmith's son from Milan, a city he once trampled upon, defeats all his pride on the stage he so carefully built for his son!
“But,” Lyon asked, “why do you insist on participating as my subordinate? You could go as Alberto da Giuzano; your reputation is good enough to get an invitation, isn’t it?”
Henry shook his head, looking at Lyon as if he were a fool: "Your Highness, are you truly foolish or just pretending? Redbeard may be old, but he's not foolish, and neither are those around him. The name 'Alberto da Giuzano' is too well-known in northern Italy, especially in the cities of the Lombard League. So well-known that the mere sight of me will immediately attract the most intense scrutiny and precautions. They won't give me a fair chance to compete; they might even find an excuse to shut me out, or create some kind of accident."
He shrugged. "But a little-known young knight named Henry from the distant Kingdom of Jerusalem? Who would pay him any attention? To Westerners, knights of Jerusalem are probably just roughnecks who only deal with pagans, completely ignorant of the essence of noble knightly jousting. That's the perfect disguise."
Lyon had to admit that Henry's considerations were quite thorough.
He looked into the unwavering determination in Henry's eyes and knew that this was the other party's core condition, leaving no room for negotiation.
Bringing someone who intends to humiliate the emperor's son on the field to the competition would undoubtedly pose a potential diplomatic risk to the Kingdom of Jerusalem, but compared to the strategic benefits of gaining the legendary hero's assistance to the empire and consolidating the alliance, this risk seems to be bearable.
If something really goes wrong—we can just cut it off.
Lyon pondered for a moment, then confirmed one last time: "Henry, are you sure you just want to play the game, and only want to win within the rules? You won't do anything—anything beyond the bounds of the game that would have serious diplomatic consequences?"
Henry placed his right hand on his chest and performed a perfectly standard knightly salute, his expression solemn to the point of holiness: "I swear by the soul of my father, by the sword in my hand, and by the little knightly honor I have left, that I, Henry, am going to Mainz solely for fair competition and to win the glory of knighthood. Any act that violates the spirit of chivalry and the rules of the game will tarnish my original intention."
His vow sounded incredibly sincere.
Although Leon knew that this guy's "chivalrous sense of honor" might be a bit unusual, he was willing to believe in the weight of an oath made on such a solemn occasion.
"Alright." Lyon finally nodded, making his decision. "I agree to your terms. Next year, I will find a way to take you to Mainz. However, from now until we return from the battlefields of the Balkans or Anatolia—if God allows us to return—you will be Henry of Jerusalem, my personal knight and military advisor. Your primary task is to help me complete my mission of aiding the Roman Empire. You must first solemnly promise this to His Majesty the King."
Henry's face broke into a radiant smile, a smile of triumphant satisfaction as if his scheme had succeeded: "As you wish, my lord."
Leon, too lazy to argue with him any longer, turned to Sibylla: "Sister, it seems we need to adjust our itinerary a bit. Knight Henry will be traveling with us back to Jerusalem to meet the King."
Sibyl looked at Lyon and Henry, who had quickly reached an agreement, and was filled with emotion.
She nodded and smiled at Henry, "Well then, Sir Henry, I wish you a safe journey and that you may achieve your goals in both the East and the West."
Henry bowed deeply: "Thank you for your blessing, Your Highness. Your smile will be the brightest guide on my journey."
The two mounted their horses and, surrounded by guards, left Jaffa, slowly making their way along the hilly road leading to Jerusalem.
Lyon tugged at the reins, urging his horse to ride alongside Henry, then suddenly turned to ask, "Henry, honestly. Even someone like Robert, who's traveled all over the Lombard Merchant Guild and is used to negotiating tables, doesn't have your ability to make people dizzy with just a few words. Where did you learn this art of conversation?"
"Your Highness," Henry stretched his shoulders in the saddle and chuckled, "haven't you heard that there's something in this world called talent?"
Seeing Leon raise an eyebrow, he immediately raised his hands in surrender: "Okay, just kidding. How could a child who grew up listening to the sound of hammering in a blacksmith's shop and staring blankly at red-hot iron all day be born eloquent?"
His gaze fell upon the rolling hills in the distance, as if he were flipping through his memories.
"After adopting the alias Alberto da Giuzano, I slept under the bridges of Venice, squatted in Genoese taverns, and followed mercenary groups that traveled from the Irish tundra to the Khitan Silk Road. Among them were Sardinian charlatans who could talk the dead back to life, Norman veterans who could settle a brawl with three proverbs, and Syrian monks who claimed to have moved desert tribal chiefs to tears with hymns—to survive among these people, and even to make them listen to you, a sword alone is not enough."
He paused, then made a fleeting gesture with his finger in front of his lips, like a magician performing a magic trick.
"So I listened, learned, and tried. At first, I imitated, then I dissected the courage, compassion, cunning, and vanity in a sentence, peeling it away piece by piece like dismantling armor. And then—I don't know from which day it started—language was no longer something I needed to painstakingly organize. It became my breath, my heartbeat."
"My mouth," he said with a smile, pointing to his lips, "is as if it has been gently enlightened by some being—let's just say God. Now it often runs faster than my brain, grabbing a few words from the air and twisting them into threads, weaving them into a net, or—twisting them into a lock-picking tool, a tool that can pry open the locks of everyone's hearts."
Lyon listened, somewhat lost in thought. What kind of divine metaphor was this?
"So, when you meet the King later, are you ready with your 'self-generating' mouth to say something?"
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Henry suddenly reined in his horse and looked toward the faint outline of the city walls that appeared in the direction of Jerusalem.
"Uh, Your Highness," he began, his voice so soft it was almost a soliloquy, "have you ever seen the iron tools on the anvil when a blacksmith is forging iron? It doesn't know whether it will be shaped into a knife or a sword; it simply changes shape with the blacksmith's whistles and hammering. A true blacksmith holds the memory of every piece of iron in his fingers, but he doesn't predetermine the purpose of each piece before he touches it."
He turned his head.
"I did not go to the king with prepared words. The words would spontaneously spring forth from the air between us at the moment they were needed, like a sword or armor crafted from nothing by a blacksmith."
He gently kicked the horse and continued onward.
"So the answer is no, Your Highness. I haven't prepared any words. I've only prepared myself—a blacksmith and knight named Henry. As for what I'll ultimately say—"
He suddenly laughed, a laugh that was both clear and profound: "That will be the only genuine work that the king and I will instantly forge together in the furnace of language."
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