Chapter 11

Aleor’s Mill, Barony of Stonehill, Duchy of Kingsheart, Sidor

Gareth Bevan looked up from the row of cabbage seedlings he was carefully thinning as the trio of unwanted guests approached on their horses. As the village elder, Gareth had served as leader and advocate for Aleor’s Mill for thirty years, and it was always his duty to deal with the baron’s men on the community’s behalf. In his youth, the duty had been unpleasant, as most duties a lord requires of a commoner are, but reasonable, as such things go. The lord taking his toll, but never more than the village could handle. He had even let the village skip one year after the blight took half the harvest.

But those days were long gone. Each passing year, the baron’s men grew more demanding, entitled, and corrupt, taking more and giving less in return. And that was before the new ‘edict of travel,’ which the bailiff had brought word of on his visit the previous month. Gareth felt weary in his bones as he pushed himself from the dark soil, brushing the dirt from his trousers. Another visit so soon could only mean trouble, he thought.

The portly man wearing a fine velvet tunic at the head of the group drew his horse to a stop in front of Gareth, looking down imperiously.

“Elder, I am Reeve Myrick. We are here on behalf of His Lordship, Baron Harald, to collect your spring taxes.”

Gareth bristled inwardly at the man’s tone but kept his face neutral, “Greetings, Reeve Myrick. You all must be weary from your journey. Please rest yourselves while I gather the necessary records.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and began shuffling toward his small hut, where he kept the records their lord commanded them to keep, detailing a counting of every bundle of wheat and every sow in the village.

Returning to the group, he found the three riders had dismounted and were milling around the village center impatiently. Reeve Myrick’s doublet strained to contain his ample belly, giving him a puffed-up look that matched his imperious manner. His two bailiffs flanked him - tall, stern men with weathered faces and perpetual scowls. Not the knights or bureaucrats the previous Baron Stonehill had sent, but jumped-up cutthroats given title. The perfect men to take from simple folk.

One nudged the other and muttered something as Gareth approached. Their sneering grins made Gareth’s stomach sink even further.

“My Lord, our records as requested,” Gareth extended the scrolls with both hands. “I must inform you the past season’s yields were quite meager. The winter crops set in poorly, and a harsher-than-normal freeze killed much that did grow. With the poor harvest, I fear it will be difficult for my people to pay what the baron demands.”

Reeve Myrick snatched the records without a glance or word to Gareth. Leafing through the pages, his eyes tracked back and forth over the numbers Gareth had recorded over the long winter.

“You’re right; these figures are too low. I couldn’t help but notice when I looked over the records for your village, Elder, that you have had many such years. The baron, in his graciousness, has allowed you leniency, but that time is ending. Your duty to your lord is clear, as are the minimum taxes he requires. Those minimums have also gone up since the last season. You will just have to do without until your next harvests.”

The reeve paused, withdrew another page from his cloak, and cleared his throat officiously. “For this season’s tithe, the village of Aleor’s Mill owes a minimum of twenty-five bushels of winter wheat, thirty head of...”

He droned on while Gareth’s heart sank. There had been mention in the notice last month of a higher tax rate as well, but it had been unspecific. He’d hoped for only small increases, but this was far more than their meager harvests could support. And then came the next insult on top of the taxes.

“In addition,” Myrick commanded after finishing his list of minimum payments required by the baron. “We have been informed that six villagers journeyed from here to a village within the Barony of Harrowdale last week to sell goods, in violation of the Edict of Travel. For this violation, each man must pay a fifteen silver fine, due today.”

“Fifteen silver?” Gareth blurted out, unable to contain himself.

A trip to another village to sell goods would, on a good trip, net at most five silver. Fifteen was more than double the annual earnings of any man in the village. It was an outrage.

Reeve Myrick’s face hardened at the outburst.

“The edict is clear. Any unauthorized travel between villages warrants punishment,” he said, motioning curtly to his bailiffs. “See what stores they have and take what is required. Check every hut. These people like to hide valuables in their little hovels like animals.”

The bailiffs, hands on swords, pushed roughly past Gareth, sending him crashing to the ground, a sharp pain shooting up from his hip.

“Please, I beg your mercy,” he pleaded. “We will pay the tax, but the fine is too steep.”

“It is not your place to question the baron’s justice,” Myrick snapped.

Gareth stared helplessly as the bailiffs stomped toward the nearest huts, roughly shoving aside any of his people who got in their way. Cries of alarm and outrage erupted as mothers pulled children back and men stepped forward to block the intruders’ path.

“You can’t just barge into our homes!” shouted Eadmund, the barrel-chested man whose hut sat nearest the village center.

Behind him, his wife, Orla, covered her mouth in dismay while their young son peeked wide-eyed from behind her skirt.

“Out of the way,” one bailiff growled, thrusting out a meaty arm, pushing Eadmund.

The shouts drew other men from the surrounding fields, men carrying scythes, picks, and shovels. The bailiffs ignored them, focusing on Eadmund.

“You dare interfere with the baron’s men performing their duty,” Myrick shrieked. “Torin, seize that man.”

The bailiff reached out and put a hand on Eadmund’s shoulder, while his other hand rested threateningly on the hilt of his sword. Orla’s eyes went wide with panic and desperation as she tried to step between them, words of pleading pouring from her as she begged Torin to stop. Sneering, he reached out and roughly gripped a fistful of Orla’s hair. With a swift, violent motion, he swung her into the nearby hut, smashing her into the thick timber. She cried out and collapsed to the ground, unmoving. Little Aled let out a terrified shriek and darted past the men to his mother’s side.

A cry of rage exploded from the gathering villagers. Eadmund’s face twisted in fury, and without hesitation, he grabbed Torin’s outstretched arm and pulled him in, delivering a powerful blow with his free hand that crunched into the man’s nose. Blood erupted from Torin’s nose as he stumbled back, hand going to his shattered face.

“Stop this madness!” Gareth shouted, holding up his hands pleadingly from where he still lay on the ground.

The words fell on deaf ears, the crowd having given themselves over to the anger built up over a lifetime of hard labor and poor treatment. More villagers rushed forward, makeshift weapons in hand. Shovels, rakes, axes - anything they could grab in their fury. The bailiffs drew their swords in response.

Eadmund grabbed a nearby pole, the haft of an unrepaired axe, and, with a roar, charged the injured Torin, who barely managed to raise his sword in time. The axe handle smashed into the sword, sending Torin staggering back under the force of the blow. Eadmund pressed his advantage, swinging wildly.

The stalemate was broken the moment Orla fell, the other villagers reacted. A few feet away, one of them swung his shovel two-handed, aiming for the other bailiff’s head. It was a clumsy attack by a man not trained in combat, and the bailiff lashed out indiscriminately with his sword, slicing across the man’s chest. Enraged, two more peasants rushed in. One caught a glancing blow to the arm even as his companion smashed the bailiff’s knee with a mattock. With a howl of pain, the bailiff dropped to the ground. More peasants converged, pummeling him mercilessly with fists and clubs.

Eadmund ignored them, his fury focused only on Torin, hammering again and again at the man. Chunks of wood were gouged out of the axe handle with each blow, until it finally splintered, sending half of it cartwheeling onto the roof of the hut. Torin saw the opportunity and finally took the offensive, smashing the butt of his sword into Eadmund’s face. He staggered and Torin pressed forward with a series of swift cuts and slashes. Eadmund scrambled back, avoiding the first two strikes, but not the third which opened a deep gash across his arm. With a cry of pain, he clutched the bleeding wound and stumbled backward, tripping over Orla’s...

The bailiff raised his blade for a killing stroke, but suddenly convulsed as a long hay fork burst through his chest from behind. He sank to his knees, revealing Gnith, the young man the village used for handy work and odd jobs, holding the now bloodied farm tool. Gnith yanked it free and the bailiff slumped face-first into the dirt.

Even with the immediate threat gone, the villagers’ anger was not satiated. Turning, they saw Myrick still on his horse near the prone body of their village headman and charged, two of the men grabbing onto the reins of his horse. Panicked, the reeve fumbled with the reins of his skittish horse.

“Unhand me!” he shrieked, kicking out one finely crafted boot, catching one of the villagers across the cheek, causing him to lose his grip.

Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Reeve Myrick yanked hard on the reins, pulling the horse’s head up. As the horse reared in protest, the other villager was forced to release his hold to avoid getting trampled.

Wheeling the animal around, Myrick drove his heels into its flanks. The horse bolted, charging through the gathering crowd of villagers, scattering them. Leaning low over the horse’s neck, he pushed the animal hard, away from the village, his fine velvet tunic flapping behind him, chased by the shouts of the futilely pursuing villagers.

Watching his people slowly come back as they abandoned their chase, Gareth pushed himself up from the dirt, gritting his teeth against the sharp pain in his hip. The chaos around him was dissipating as the adrenaline faded from the villagers. Men milled about in shock, makeshift weapons now loosely held, forgotten. Women clustered around Orla’s still form, little Aled clinging to her motionless body as he wailed piteously.

Gareth hobbled over to where the village men stood over the bloodied corpses of the two bailiffs. Torin’s dead eyes stared blankly upward, a broken tine of the hayfork jutting grotesquely from his chest. Gareth felt only numbness looking at the gruesome scene. He had failed his people. This would bring the weight of the baron down on them and might even be the end of his village.

“What have we done?” Eadmund said, his voice hollow as he cradled his bleeding arm.

The other men shuffled their feet uneasily, exchanging uncertain looks.

“It doesn’t matter,” Gareth said heavily. “What’s done is done. What matters now is what comes next. Once word of this reaches the baron, he will demand vengeance.”

The men’s faces paled. They knew as well as he did the types of punishment that would rain down upon the village from the baron’s men.

“Quickly now, take what food remains and distribute it among those with the greatest need,” Gareth commanded. “Hide any surplus where it won’t be found. They will demand more taxation now, most likely taking everything we have. If we are to make it until the harvest, we must be smart.”

As the men moved to obey, Gareth put a hand on Eadmund’s shoulder. “Take your son and flee into the hills. You and any who drew arms must get away from here before more of the baron’s men arrive. Their families, too, in case the reprisals go further.”

Eadmund nodded grimly. He still had a child to look after, a duty to do as a father. Gareth looked around at the faces of his people, etched with fear and uncertainty.

“Shouldn’t we bury their bodies? If they don’t find them here...” someone started to say.

“No. The reeve will tell them what happened. Hiding the bodies will do no good and might convince the baron and his men this was planned on our part, bringing greater reprisals,” Gareth said, interrupting the man. “I will remain when the baron’s men return. I will tell them I alone am responsible for this. With luck, they will be satisfied with only my head.”

Cries of protest erupted from the villagers. Gareth raised a hand to quiet them. “We each have our part to play. Yours is not to throw away your lives needlessly. Now go, prepare yourselves as best you can.”

The villagers dispersed to follow Gareth’s instructions. Gareth stayed a moment, looking down at the bodies of the bailiffs. He mourned what was about to happen to his people, and that he would almost certainly not survive long enough to see them through the reckoning that was coming.

Valemonde Palace, Valemonde, Empire of Lynese

Princess Isolde stormed through the opulent halls of Valemonde Palace, the heels of her satin shoes clicking sharply against the polished marble floors and the sound echoing off the gilded walls.

Reaching her destination, the elegantly engraved doors depicting scenes of their ancestors’ legendary victory against the Gharnatá Sovereignty seven hundred years ago, which had established their house and control over Lynese, she normally would pause to admire the intricate carvings, tracing her fingers over the finely wrought ridges and grooves, feeling pride in her family’s history.

Today, she didn’t even notice, shoving the door open without preamble, not bothering to announce herself to the guard stationed outside. Baudric looked up in evident surprise from behind his large desk as she stormed into the room. She knew his feelings on the importance of proper manners and decorum, even when it came to his children, but today she didn’t care.

“You seem upset,” he said, recovering quickly and folding his hands in front of him on the desk.

“You know very well what’s wrong,” she said, marching straight to his desk, palms slapping down on its polished surface as she leaned toward him. “I just received word about what you did with the aid shipment I arranged for our injured soldiers being held captive in Sidor. You substituted the Disciples with soldiers, and used my mercy mission as a chance to ambush the Sidorians!”

Her father regarded her coolly. “I did what any good leader would do. Why does that surprise you?”

Isolde gaped at him. “You sabotaged my efforts to provide comfort to our country’s soldiers; soldiers wounded fighting in your war! And after I specifically asked you not to interfere. Who knows if any of those supplies will reach them now, or if the Sidorians will ever allow me to minister to captives in their territory again?”