Reincarnated Into The Middle Ages

"One barrel of salted meat, forty pounds of flour, three clay pots, one and a half pounds of salt..." Norn was taking inventory of the caravan's supplies.

"Ugh! The food's running out a bit too fast! We'll need to restock at the next market. But where are we going to get more spices?" Norn scratched his head in frustration.

Ever since Norn had shown off his culinary skills, everyone had unanimously decided that he should be the head chef and supply manager for the caravan.

And Norn's food-loving soul hadn't let them down, finding ways to whip up delicious meals. He introduced frying, stir-frying, and all sorts of cooking techniques to the group, who had previously only known how to roast or stew.

Even the usually gaunt-faced Padrick had gained a few pounds.

But as everyone happily enjoyed Norn's gourmet cooking, the supplies were being depleted at an alarming rate.

"We're also going to need more tableware," Norn muttered to himself, making a mental note of another expense as he watched William still licking his plate.

"Achoo!" William sneezed. "It's still a bit chilly out. Looks like I'll need to eat another bowl at the next meal," he thought to himself.

"Uncle Demor!" Norn ran over to another wagon.

Demor stuck his head out of the carriage and gave Norn a big smile.

"Our supplies are running low. We need to stock up at the next market," Norn requested.

Demor was a bit surprised at the rate of food consumption but agreed readily. "No problem at all."

"Thanks, Uncle Demor," Norn said gratefully before turning to leave.

Demor watched Norn walk away with a smile, then sighed. "While Norn's cooking is really delicious, the rate at which we're using up supplies is just too fast."

"At this rate, our travel funds might not be enough," Demor turned to find the baron, hoping to figure out a solution.

Seeing Demor head towards the baron, Norn quietly followed.

But even after a long silence and mutual glances, the two men couldn't come up with any good ideas.

"If it really comes down to it, we can sell some of the things our ancestors left behind," Baron Otto looked at the wagon storing weapons and equipment. "Norn is still a child. How can he grow up to be a great warrior if he doesn't eat well?"

Demor nodded and stepped back.

"If these two could come up with good ideas, their territory wouldn't be in such a state," Norn thought to himself. Although he couldn't hear their conversation, he could tell from their expressions what kind of half-baked plans they were considering.

"Do I have to go back to eating only hard black bread that could chip your teeth, mixed with dark, unappetizing dishes made from animal offal and flour?" Norn shuddered at the thought. "No way, I need to find a way to make some money!"

Easier said than done, though. Norn didn't have many ideas himself and could only take things one step at a time.

Ten days later, Norn and his group finally arrived at Mainz, the northern and southern hub of the Holy Roman Empire, which was neither holy nor Roman, and the suzerain of the Mecklenburg duchy.

On the outskirts of the city, as in other cities, there were shabby huts with leaky thatched roofs, where mostly sallow-faced elderly people and women lived. The young men had mostly gone out to sell their labor in exchange for daily rations.

The group displayed the baron's banner and, under the gaze of various onlookers, passed through the slums. After crossing another city gate, a completely different inner city was revealed.

Dense two-story wooden houses were haphazardly lined along the streets, with the occasional stone villa mixed in.

A variety of odd signs displayed the individuality of the shop owners. The haphazard urban planning meant that the roads were always winding. People dressed in black or dark green hurried about, but with full spirits.

At one point, a resident on the second floor casually dumped a basin of water, drenching a passerby like a drowned rat. The passerby and the resident cursed at each other, drawing a crowd.

After a while, the carriage pulled up in front of an inn called "Pig Whistle."

"Welcome!" The charming middle-aged innkeeper greeted them warmly.

"Arrange five rooms and take good care of our horses," Knight Padrick stepped forward and said.

The innkeeper's eyes lit up at the sight of the handsome man. "Rest assured, guests. Our Pig Whistle Inn is absolutely the best choice for you here."

"Our specialty, braised blood sausage, is really good. Would you like to give it a try?" The innkeeper almost enunciated the word "try" one syllable at a time.

"No, thank you. We'll be cooking our own meals," Padrick thought to himself, "What dish could compare to what little Norn makes?"

The innkeeper, undeterred by the rejection, still smiled. "Very well, please wait a moment while I have someone show you upstairs."

The innkeeper then turned around and shouted, "You there! Stop fetching water and take the guests upstairs first."

Led by a waiter, Baron Otto and Norn entered a small room on the second floor. The room had been cleaned promptly, and the air didn't have too many smells.

"Hope there aren't any lice," Norn prayed.

The next morning, Otto left early, saying he was going to visit the bishop. Bored, Norn went down to the main hall and found William and Padrick already enjoying breakfast there.

The two men had ordered a portion of fried beans with hot milk for Norn. Norn tasted it and thought it was pretty good.

While enjoying breakfast, Norn noticed occasional bursts of noise.

"There's a knightly jousting tournament this week. If you're interested, you can go check it out," the innkeeper smiled and introduced.

Upon hearing this, Norn immediately looked at the two knights with pleading eyes.

Sure enough, under the onslaught of his gaze, William and Padrick took Norn to the jousting grounds in the eastern part of the city.

An oval arena was located in the center, with colorful banners decorating the surrounding stands. People of all sorts were cheering for the knights in the field. In the central luxurious viewing area, a group of nobles dressed in fine clothes were laughing and talking loudly.

Some lovestruck noblewomen leaned on the railing, throwing their handkerchiefs at their favored competitors.

At that moment, some sharp-eyed young ladies spotted Norn and the others in the crowd and screamed.

The next moment, countless handkerchiefs from lovestruck girls and discontented wives rained down on Padrick, and Norn got hit in the face as well.

As for William, it seemed like God had drawn a circle just for him, and all the handkerchiefs avoided that spot.

Padrick gave a wry smile and waved his hand. The screaming grew even louder, with cries of "I love you, Padrick" and "I want to marry you, Padrick" rising and falling in waves.

Padrick looked at the increasingly excited crowd with a troubled expression and glanced at little Norn. Before Norn could react, Padrick lifted him up and placed him on his shoulders.

The frenzied women, seeing the handsome Padrick and the cute Norn, and their affectionate interaction, fell into an eerie silence.

"You must be happy, Padrick," Norn thought he could hear the heartbroken blessings of countless women.

Finally realizing what had happened, Norn quietly asked Padrick in his ear, "What on earth did you do to make so many women like you?"

"Nothing much," Padrick said nonchalantly, "Just won this boring knightly tournament three years in a row."

"Ugh! He's really pulling it off!" Norn gritted his teeth in frustration.

After this little episode with Padrick, the jousting tournament finally resumed.

The master of ceremonies, standing in the center, sang in a strange, operatic tone,

"He has fought fierce infidels and once strangled a wild boar with his bare hands. His bravery is well-known; he has left victorious laurels in Toulouse and Rouen." The master of ceremonies made an extremely exaggerated gesture towards a knight standing nearby.

"Now let us welcome Sir Jean de Langon from the County of Champagne in the Kingdom of France." The audience erupted into thunderous applause and cheers.

The knight was dressed in a blue surcoat embroidered with white fleur-de-lis, wearing a conical helmet with a T-shaped face opening. His fine chainmail armor gleamed in the sunlight. Sensing the attention from the crowd, he reined in his horse, making it rear up, and raised his lance in salute.

"I've heard of this man," Padrick said with a hint of seriousness. "He's won knightly jousting tournaments in many cities, including Toulouse and Dijon."

"Right, right. I told you he's the strongest among the twelve competitors today. The odds of him winning the championship are only two to one," William, who had recovered, said.

"He is strong," Padrick agreed. "But he's no match for me."

"Ugh, he's pulling it off again!" Norn and William both thought, gritting their teeth in frustration.

The master of ceremonies, seeing the applause die down, continued the introduction. "Sir Jean de Langon's opponent is Sir William Marshall from the Duchy of Normandy. May the Lord bless him with good luck." After a while, only a few scattered claps could be heard, a far cry from the earlier thunderous applause.

Norn looked at the other side. Clearly, the knight in the red surcoat was very poorly equipped. Even his warhorse looked old and was already panting heavily from standing for so long.

"No one has ever heard of this wandering knight from who knows where. There's no record of any victories, and the odds are as high as thirty to one!" William said contemptuously.

"Thirty to one!" Padrick and Norn were both shocked by the odds.

Norn thought of the familiar name William Marshall. "This is a chance to make some money!"

"Uncles, could you lend me some money?"

"Children shouldn't gamble!" William said with a fake sternness. "But if you promise to cook me some new dishes I've never had before, I'll lend you two dinar silver coins."

Padrick didn't say anything, just looked at Norn curiously.

Norn didn't know how to explain. He couldn't very well say he was betting just because of the name William Marshall.

"In any case, I'm very optimistic about this William Marshall," Norn said seriously. "Here's the deal: let's bet. The odds are the same, thirty to one. If this guy loses, whatever amount you lend me in dinars, I'll cook thirty times as many delicious meals for you."

"If he wins, I'll pay you back double. What do you say? You can't lose either way," Norn added.

"Well..." William was torn, torn between the prospect of delicious food and the visible dinars.

"If you don't believe me, forget it," Norn said, seeing that the betting deadline was almost up. He rummaged through his small pocket, found six silver dinars and thirty-one copper fenies, and hurried towards the betting counter.

Padrick, thoughtful, handed Norn a bulging purse. "Here, take it!"

"Thanks, Uncle Padrick!" Norn ran off with the purse, but suddenly stopped halfway and stuck his tongue out at William.

"Stingy William!"

This made William so angry he shouted in frustration!

"Come on, win this, William Marshall!" Norn thought as he ran.

"I've put all my money on you!"