Medieval: Kingdom Come: Deliverance

Chapter 173 Fame Spreads Far and Wide

Chapter 174 Fame Spreads Far and Wide

Kutenberg, Suchdor Castle.

Sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows, illuminating the restaurant like burning amber.

Marquis Jobuste reclined languidly in his carved oak chair, a jewel-encrusted gold glass slowly swirling between his fingers, the deep red wine swirling within, reflecting his shrewd and worldly face.

"News from the north spread like wildfire throughout Kutenberg. Many are waiting to see the von Polgár and Rosenberg families make fools of themselves."

Sir Peter Pisek sliced ​​smoked meat with a silver knife, the aroma of meat and wine mingling in the air. "That young man with royal blood flowing through his veins—Red-haired Peter—like a newborn lion, he brought three arrogant lords to their knees with three brilliant victories, and his territory expanded wildly like weeds after the rain."

"Isn't this a gift from God?"

A happy smile appeared on the Marquis of Jobuste's lips. He looked out the window, his voice as mellow as aged mead, "The more dazzling he becomes, the more he will be a beacon for us against the tyranny of Sigismund. Those who once questioned his bloodline and mocked his origins should now carefully consider their words."

Yobst set down his glass, picked up his knife and fork, and put a slice of smoked meat into his mouth, chewing it slowly. "I've decided to extend an invitation to this young lion to come to Kutenberg and attend our alliance gathering. With the strength and courage he's shown so far, he fully deserves this honor."

"But, Your Grace," Sir Pisek wiped the oil from his fingertips, "will he accept this invitation? After all, Trossky has just emerged from the ravages of war, and everything is in ruins."

Marquis Jobuste let out a soft laugh, a laugh that carried the arrogance and certainty characteristic of the nobility.

"Which illegitimate child doesn't yearn for legitimate recognition? Which young man with royal blood doesn't aspire to the glory that belongs to him?"

I invited him in the name of a member of the Luxembourg family and promised to legitimize his bloodline. He would have come running over like a mad dog smelling meat.

I understand all too well the desires of those illegitimate children.

Sir Pisek frowned slightly, not quite agreeing with Jobust's arrogant analogy, but ultimately nodded and said, "As you wish, I will send my most capable messenger to deliver this invitation, which carries hope and glory, to Troski."

In his bedroom in the main tower of Malesov Castle, Count von Polgao was like a trapped wild beast.

When he finished reading the battle report sent by his spies and learned that Seinitz Rosenberg's army had retreated without a fight at the Trostsky border, a fire of anger exploded in his chest.

"Useless! All of you are useless!" His roar made the tapestry on the wall tremble slightly.

He abruptly overturned the heavy oak table, shattering the silver candlesticks, painted pottery, and Venetian glassware on it, and the wine spilled onto the carpet like blood.

He grabbed a porcelain plate with a gold rim and smashed it against the stone wall. The sound of shards flying everywhere was like his shattered pride.

In the cell in the adjacent tower, young Hans and the self-proclaimed tactical mastermind, the Frenchman Václav, are trapped in a guest room.

From the wall came von Polgar's furious roar, and Hans couldn't help but burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the luxurious bedroom. He was like a bird trapped in a gilded cage.

"Did you hear that, Waquerin? That's the power of Lord Peter! He doesn't even need to raise his sword to strike fear into the hearts of those arrogant nobles!" Hans's voice trembled with excitement.

Waquerin, a self-proclaimed veteran of the Kosovo War, winner of the Knights' Tournament, confidant of the King of France, and commander of the Battle of Kutenberg, stroked his greasy hair: "This is the Peter Griffin you always mention? The legendary bastard?"

"It's him!"

Hans's eyes gleamed in the darkness. "We're friends. I've always known he had noble blood flowing through his veins!"

Waquerin puffed out his chest, the chains creaking harshly. "Ha! What's this small-scale skirmish? I once served under the great King of France in battles against the British—of course, before I was wounded and retired—commanding troops of tens of thousands. If I were there, I would have shown that Peter what real tactics are!"

"You're amazing too, my friend Waquelin."

Hans was deeply impressed by these bold words, and in his young mind, Waquerin's image suddenly became much larger.

Only Waquerin himself knew that his so-called "participation in the war" was nothing more than serving as a clerk in the logistics unit, and that most of his boasted "glorious achievements" came from stories he heard in taverns.

Inside the stone hall of the Kutenberg City Council, candlelight flickered on wrought iron candlesticks, casting the shadows of the attendees onto the mottled walls like dancing ghosts.

Municipal official Jerome Naz stroked his neatly trimmed goatee, his voice barely audible: "News has come from many counts and barons in the north that the red-haired Peter who occupied Trostsky is becoming increasingly arrogant. Some are even spreading rumors that he is the illegitimate son of King Wenceslaus!"

Royal Mint Officer Vavank sneered: "King Wenceslaus? That incompetent monarch who couldn't even have a legitimate heir? Now, suddenly, such a valiant and skilled illegitimate son appears. Isn't this a carefully orchestrated conspiracy by the Seidleitz family?"

Nicholas Crandall, the armorer, a burly man with calloused hands, joined the discussion in a gruff voice: "I heard that Sir George, heir to the Seidletz family, personally led his elite cavalry to Troski. Perhaps those so-called glorious victories were nothing more than a performance orchestrated by the old griffin behind the scenes."

"Who knows? I don't believe that illegitimate children can achieve any great results; that doesn't conform to God's teachings," Boshke Kustart sneered.

Widow Anna sat quietly in the corner, wearing a dark blue velvet dress with silver embroidery that shimmered faintly in the candlelight.

Like Boseck, she came from a very wealthy family in the Kutenberg region, but her family tradition was not one of martial prowess.

So they can be described as neutral, wavering and observing, joining in on meetings from either side.

Her slender fingers gently caressed the pearl necklace hanging at her chest, her mind racing. Regardless of whether Peter's bloodline was real or not, his demonstrated abilities were undeniable.

In this chaotic world, investing in such a rising star may be the best choice to protect one's family business and restore glory in this turbulent era.

Prague, the Rosenberg family residence. Henry III Rosenberg stood in his spacious study, reading the letter sent by Senetz, the muscles at the corner of his mouth twitching slightly.

"—Your Excellency, the situation has exceeded our worst expectations. Peter of Trotsky, his bravery would put ancient knights to shame, his strategy would impress even the most cunning fox—therefore, I implore you, either to temporarily abandon this operation, or to dispatch at least twice the planned force, equipped with sufficient siege equipment; otherwise, the goddess of victory will never smile upon us—"

Henry III snorted, crumpled the parchment letter into a ball, and threw it into the fireplace. The flames instantly engulfed the timid words, making a soft crackling sound.

"I originally thought Senitz would be a promising talent for developing the north!" His voice was as cold as a winter wind. "I never imagined that a mere bastard would terrify him. It seems his talent and magnanimity are nothing special."

He turned and walked towards the floor-to-ceiling window adorned with the family crest, overlooking the endless rooftops of Prague. Could the centuries-old legacy of the Rosenberg family be shaken by a suddenly appearing illegitimate child?

Trossky's claim to the claim was firmly in his hands; when and how to claim it was entirely up to him.

"Let you be arrogant for a while longer, kid."

He muttered to himself as he looked out the window, "When you become complacent and careless, you will realize that the power of the Rosenberg family is like the Danube River, long and deep, far beyond what a nouveau riche like you can compare to."

von Olitz strode quickly through the red-carpeted corridors of the Prague Royal Palace, the clanging of armor and swords echoing in the empty passageway.

He had just received news that King Sigismund had finally agreed to meet him.

Inside the throne room, Sigismund sat languidly on the ornately decorated throne, his fingers tapping absently on the armrest.

After listening to von Olitz's detailed report on Peter's rise, a strange light flashed in his eyes.

"You're right, my dear friend."

Sigismund's voice carried its own unique rhythm: "I am also tired of the endless bickering and hypocrisy of these Prague nobles. The Prague City Guard must be rebuilt, and as soon as possible."

He leaned forward, the jewels on his crown glittering: "I'll give you 100,000 Groshen troops, plus unlimited conscription rights within Bohemia. Anyone you deem suitable, whether noble, commoner, or even a mercenary, can be recruited."

I have only one request: complete the troop assembly within two weeks. Then come with me to Kutenberg, where the chaos has exceeded the limits of tolerance.

In reality, Sigismund had other considerations in mind.

The Prague nobles have been stirring up trouble lately, with frequent secret gatherings, and the situation is slipping out of his control.

He urgently needed to travel to Kutenberg to join the main Hungarian forces stationed there.

He could only feel truly safe under the protection of his own army.

von Olitz knelt on one knee: "Your Majesty, I will obey your command. I will do my utmost to build a loyal and powerful guard for you."

Count Wojtek Seidletz of Seidletz Castle stood on the highest terrace of the castle, the evening breeze ruffling his silver hair like snow on a mountaintop. His wrinkled hands gripped the stone railing tightly.

The battle reports from the north pleased him—Peter's performance far exceeded his expectations; the young man truly possessed the blood of a king.

But another piece of news plunged him into despair: his only son, George, the family heir, had vanished without a trace after attending a noble gathering in Prague.

"George, my child, where are you now?"

The old count gazed at the setting sun gradually sinking below the horizon and murmured to himself.

The distant forest gradually blurred in the twilight, much like the increasingly complex political vortex in Prague, obscuring the truth.

He turned and walked toward the study, the flames in the fireplace dancing in his aged but still sharp eyes.

The Seydletz family has already placed a heavy bet on this game of power, and it's too late to back out now.

He could only pray that Peter's rise would bring new hope to the kingdom in chaos, rather than further disaster.

Peter, oh Peter, I long for the day you return to Prague!