Shattered Helmets and Ruined Armor

The Baron of Allen Island led his troops out on campaign, leaving the castle barracks empty. After obtaining the reluctant consent of the one-armed constable, Roger had Baldhead lead a dozen or so "warriors" to temporarily stay in the barracks.

Officially, it was to let them experience the life of soldiers first. In truth, it was more to prevent these fellows who had collected their bounty from slipping away. Such things were hardly uncommon.

After settling the "warriors," Roger picked several islanders and took them to the storeroom in the watchtower to choose weapons and armor.

The watchtower stood about forty feet high, a square stone structure with thick walls and small square windows set at intervals. Judging from the passage connecting it to the Baron's residence, the tower appeared to have four floors.

There were sentry posts and arrow platforms atop the tower, while the spaced-out square windows also served as arrow slits. The foundation of the lowest floor stood above ground level, connected to the ground by six stone steps. At the top of those steps stood an iron portcullis.

For the price of a silver penny, the slovenly castle guardsman bowed and scraped as he led Roger and the others inside. Roger brought three islanders into the watchtower and reached a small storeroom on the second floor.

The slovenly guardsman fished out a key and opened the storeroom for Roger. A burst of mildew stench rushed out. The guardsman bent at the waist and gestured for them to enter, while Roger stepped in first with a broad smile.

The weapons storeroom was an important place, so naturally it had no broad, bright windows. Its sole tiny window was barely the size of a palm, leaving the room dim and gloomy.

Roger closed his eyes and waited a moment before adapting to the darkness. But when he could barely make out the whole storeroom, the smile on his face froze instantly. This so-called weapons storeroom contained nothing but several rows of empty wooden weapon racks.

He should have expected this.

The Baron of Allen Island had poured everything into his expedition to England. How could he have left many weapons and suits of armor in the castle? No wonder that lofty noblewoman had agreed so readily when Roger asked to select military equipment.

"Damn it." Roger could not help cursing in his clumsy local tongue.

Somehow, the slovenly guardsman produced a candle. Its feeble flame added a faint glimmer to the dark storeroom.

In one corner of the room, Roger finally saw the so-called weapons and armor—several rusted shortswords, nicked arming swords without scabbards, and damaged bucklers lay in battered wooden crates. Mixed among them was a weapon resembling a machete.

Roger picked it up and held it beneath the candlelight in the slovenly guardsman's hand. The shiny machete was less than thirty inches long, and its blade was no more than three inches wide at its broadest point. Its thin spine, forged from poor-quality iron, was on the same level as a fruit knife from Roger's old world. It probably could not even chop through a slightly thicker wool shirt. No wonder it had been left here.

Roger casually tossed it aside. Even street brawlers would not want to use that thing.

There were, however, six relatively intact short spears beside the crates, though the amount of iron used for their spearheads had clearly been saved down to the last scrap.

"At least they're better than sharpened sticks. Stick one in someone's belly, and it can still kill him." The slovenly guardsman behind him was already feeling embarrassed. He was wondering whether he ought to return the silver penny Young Master Roger had just rewarded him with.

"Not a single suit of armor was left, was there?" Roger could no longer suppress the disappointment in his heart.

"Armor?" The slovenly guardsman's eyes suddenly lit up. "Yes! There is! There is!!"

As he spoke, he led Roger to another corner of the storeroom and pointed at an iron chest. "Two padded armors and one coat of plates. The armorer fell ill and never managed to repair them, so they were left behind."

Roger had often traveled through Northern Europe in his previous life and possessed a little knowledge of medieval weapons and armor. The moment he heard the words "plate armor," his interest immediately rose.

"Open it and let me see." Roger impatiently had the guardsman unlock the iron chest.

He reached in and lifted out a padded armor. This relatively cheap kind of armor was a favorite among ordinary soldiers. It was made by layering linen or woolen fabric together, or by stuffing scraps of cloth and other materials between layers of clothing before pounding them into soft armor.

Not only could it offer some protection against slashing blades and light blunt strikes, but in the cold northern climate, it could also serve as a thick winter garment.

Whether the padded armor in Roger's hands could defend against blades was hard to say, but its ability to keep out the cold had likely been greatly reduced. Several fist-sized holes had clearly been gnawed wider by rats.

He tossed it aside and picked up another. It was the same sort of padded armor, with fewer holes than the first, but a long gash ran from the left shoulder to the right ribs. A large patch of dark-red staining covered the front. The warrior who had worn it last had probably already lost his life.

At the bottom of the iron chest, Roger finally saw the "coat of plates" the guardsman had mentioned, but disappointment swept over his face.

"This is fucking plate armor?" Roger could not help blending East and West in his curse.

The guardsman handed the candle to one of the islanders behind him, then used both hands to lift a suit of armor from the iron chest. It resembled a sleeveless padded armor and looked rather heavy.

Roger reached out and patted the armor in the guardsman's hands, producing a clinking rattle of metal. Its surface was covered with many neatly arranged rivets.

He beckoned for the candle to be brought closer and began examining it carefully.

The guardsman had described it somewhat incorrectly. This kind of armor was more properly called a cloth-covered iron armor, or a cloth-covered iron scale armor. As the name suggested, it consisted mainly of textile and iron plates. Dozens, even hundreds, of small iron plates were riveted to the inside of a layer of fabric. Some versions sandwiched the plates between two layers of cloth to prevent them from rubbing against the wearer's undergarments.

This armor was a transitional product before the emergence of full plate armor. Its defensive power was naturally somewhat stronger than ordinary padded armor and chainmail. Knights would usually wear a cloth-covered iron armor over their mail, and it could ward off both spikes and war hammers.

Roger did not know much about this kind of armor. He lifted its hem and turned it over for a look. More than half of the iron plates, which should have been arranged tightly like overlapping roof tiles, had fallen off. Quite a few rust-covered plates could be snapped with only a little force.

Roger forcibly suppressed his displeasure and called over the islanders behind him. "You lot, carry away every last weapon and suit of armor. Don't leave a single piece behind. Even if it's only an iron spearhead, gather it up and take it with you."

Roger had already made up his mind. If he survived this time, he absolutely would not return these "weapons." He would dismantle all this junk and sell it as iron scrap to a blacksmith's shop.

The slovenly guardsman had wanted to say something, but hearing the hostility in Roger's tone, he immediately shut his mouth. The steward had said that Young Master Roger could choose anything from the armory anyway, so it was not as though he had neglected his duty.

"Um... Young Master Roger... remember to return them..." The guardsman had not even finished speaking when Roger turned and left.

After leaving the watchtower armory, Roger went straight into the Baron's residence. In a storeroom on the second floor, he found John tugging and pulling at a pretty boy.

Roger kicked the disgusting pretty boy away, then began cursing back and forth with John. While he was at it, he also took jabs at the noblewoman who was White-faced John's mother.

In the end, Roger once again used the rogue logic of the dangerous world outside—if it would not work, they would simply withdraw—to force John into compromise. He obtained a hunting crossbow and two full sets of weapons from the prison guards in the Baron's residence storeroom.

Originally, Roger had wanted to incorporate the five guardsmen under the one-armed constable into the "Bandit Suppression Army." No matter what, these men had to be stronger fighters than those islanders. But these guardsmen were Brodick Castle's last remaining regular force, and White-faced John refused to release them even if it killed him.

Roger could only settle for the next best thing and have White-faced John release the young, able-bodied thugs imprisoned in the manor's basement, giving them a chance to atone for their crimes. Among them was the thug nicknamed Blackhide Dog. He was still wrapped in that black cloak, only now it was even dirtier.