Westwood and Caolan’s Pass were another matter. Yeoman Kyre of Westwood was responsible for administering Sevendor Forest in the western end of the vale. Sir Cei told me that they were considered a mysterious folk by the other Sevendori, descendents of the original pre-Lensely settlers of Sevendor. Their manor, Westwood Hall, was near to the castle by distance but separated by landscape and culture.
Carkan was the Yeoman in charge of keeping Caolan’s Pass, the only other way into or out of Sevendor Vale beside the northeastern low pass, open and guarded.
In addition to his tiny farmstead and patch of teabush, a rickety wooden tower allowed his folk to look out over the wood and see any signs of fire and ring a rusty old bell if they did. He was in charge of all of the high-ridge cots that dotted the northern ridge. Most of them barely scraped by on trapping, fishing, and small plots of maize and beans.
Neither one made it to the village often, and only occasionally sent their folk. They preferred a remote existence, and Sir Erantal had not been plagued with enough ambition to confront them about it.
I’d only met the headmen of the Sevendor Village and Gurisham Hamlet. Sir Cei had introduced himself to the other Yeomen, and he was refreshingly frank in his terms – something I appreciated more than his literacy.
“Yeoman Jurlor had no love for Sir Erantal,” Cei informed me, “indeed, he hated the man after the loss of Brestal. He lost a lot of people, and was all but in rebellion against him. As good a man as I’ve seen in this valley, though not a handsome man,” he admitted. “His hall is sturdy and well-repaired, his walls were well-kept, his fields were the best tended I’ve seen, and he kept a proper guard.
“Yeoman Farant was similarly ill-disposed toward the knight, though his reasons were more personal: his wife apparently slept with the man in an attempt to become the lady of the land. She had no more luck than a whore, however, and Farant took offense. Sir Erantal threatened his position and he backed away, but they haven’t spoken face-to-face in three years, and that time nearly ended with bloodshed.”
As free landholders, yeomen were permitted to carry swords, just like any noble. That didn’t mean that they were able to lawfully challenge with them. That also didn’t stop them from doing so.
“He’s going to be a problem, Sire,” Sir Cei said, after gathering his thoughts. “Farant is a schemer, if I am any judge of a man’s character, and he seems closer to the regime in Brestal than Sevendor. But he claims he’s interested in seeing how you will rule, and he’s requested an audience at your convenience. I would not trust him overmuch myself, my lord. I found him mean-spirited.”
“I trust your judgment,” I nodded. Well, about this at least.
“The Southridge Yeoman, Ylvine of Southridge, is also a schemer – but he was loyal to Sir Erantal. He threatened to write to the Duke and protest your investiture, but when I invited him to take the message personally, he relented. If Farant is close to the West Flerians, then Southridge is even closer.”
“And the other two?”
“Carkan of Caolan’s Pass prefers the remote nature of his Yeomanry, and sees doing his duty on the frontier as his primary purpose. He is loyal to Sevendor, not to any lord – at least not yet. But he keeps to himself and his folk do, too. He could be well-disposed to a new lord, I believe, but his trust would have to be earned.
“And Kyre of Westwood, of all the Yeomen, seemed to be the most enthusiastic about your investiture. He is a young man, newly raised to his position on his father’s death, but he seems as capable and as canny as he is eager.”
“Enthusiasm is rare in Sevendor these days,” I nodded. “We should husband his carefully. As for the others, Yule is but a few days away. Command them and all their folk to come to the castle to feast at the expense of the Magelord . . . where they may also swear their oaths to me anew.”
That was a very specific requirement of a Yeoman: to swear an oath of loyal service to his lord, and to renew that oath every year, if possible. A Yeoman who didn’t risked loss of position or even a removal and execution, if his offense was grave enough.
“Only Southridge, Sevendor Village and Gurisham swore last year, though all sent a token tribute,” Sir Cei nodded, scratching his beard. “Of course Sir Erantal had neither the men nor the will to enforce his rule.”
“Then what better way to demonstrate that their fortunes have changed with their lord than a fine Yule feast?” I reasoned. “The next wave of Bovali will be arriving about that time, too. Promise them a feast as lavish as Erantal’s were miserly. But get them to come.”
“I . . . can we spare the expense, my lord?” Sir Cei asked, troubled. “We’ve already spent a thousand ounces of gold of the treasury to get our people here, and another thousand to buy supplies . . . and we will likely spend another ere the goddess of spring graces the valley. I know that His Grace was generous, Sire, but surely he was not that generous!”
I smiled. “Calm yourself, Cei. I knew we’d be spending some gold. It’s just gold. I have irionite – that’s worth much more.”
“Then let us hope our creditors will take it in trade,” he mused.
“You just wait, Cei. In a year’s time, Sevendor will be the prosperous envy of all the Riverlands. The first of the magelands will be the most fruitful. Even if we have to pour gold into it until we’re walking on gilded pavers.”
“It occurs to me that my lord is an optimist.”
Sir Cei wasn’t the only one concerned with the expense – Alya was getting uneasy about the state of the strongbox I kept in my chambers. It had arrived abrim with silver and gold, and now it was near two-thirds empty. She wanted a new gown, apparently, and didn’t feel right indulging when the people around her were often dressed in rags. I told her essentially the same thing I’d told Sir Cei . . . and she responded just as he had.
“Look,” I told them both at breakfast the next morning, as we warmed ourselves by the fire, “this estate is never going to be prosperous selling grain. We’ll have more people than we can grow wheat, barley, oats or maize for. But I never intended Sevendor to be a farming estate. The wealth of this land will be its people – and magic. I chose it very carefully,” I added, smugly.
They weren’t convinced. But they did both concede that an abundantly festive Yule celebration would go a long way towards breaking the months and months of terror and confusion the Bovali had suffered through, and the Sevendori natives had not seen the kind of grand entertainment I envisioned in their lifetime.
“Sir Cei, you mentioned the fallow lands yesterday, particularly the ones between Sevendor Village and Gurisham. What kind of grain could be grown there?”
“Oh, the land itself might someday be suited to crops, if well managed,” he admitted. “But the gods’ truth my lord is that I am no farmer. And the Sevendori are of mixed mind, as well. I am soliciting advice on just what to grow – the locals favor corn and barley, of course, but they say the soil is too fair for wheat. We can use it as cow pasture for a while, of course, but there must be something . . .”
Alya snorted. I always included her in these meetings, if she wished to attend, and as the days got colder and she got fatter, she had done so more and more. From the very first I had made it clear to Sir Cei that while I was Lord of Sevendor, Alya was the Lady of Sevendor, head-of-household until I returned. She therefore needed to be included in these briefings.
For the most part Sir Cei paid Lady Alya the respect her title was due, in addition to some grudging admiration in her ability to administer. They weren’t close, by any means, but they were developing a cordial working relationship.
“That’s the worst possible place for a cow pasture,” she said, authoritatively. “I’m no farmer, but I know cows.”
“Consider orchards and nut groves,” I suggested. “And pigs. A few years as a piggery, that soil will be a lot richer.”
I could tell the suggestion intrigued him – there were few swine in the valley, and only a few groves of fruits and nuts. Tho
se sorts of trees were usually among the first to be burned in a raid, and Sevendor had had several.
But then something occurred to him. “My lord, if we have orchards, we’ll also have to find some bees.”
“It’s on my list,” I agreed, disparagingly, “right under a potter. The stream bank has a decent clay deposit, if I’ve been informed correctly.” Since it was a spell that told me, I was pretty certain I could trust it. “I’ll try some experiments this spring and see if it’s worth trying to fire. A pottery industry might help improve prosperity.”
“It might,” Alya agreed. “But that enterprise will likely have to wait until next year. And the Bovali are herders, Min, not potters. And these are not the best pasturelands for cows,” she said, reluctantly.
Boval Vale had been famous across the Five Duchies (well, the western half, at least) for its delicious cheese, of which there was now none left in the world. It had been their chief export, their staple food, and their pride. The Bovali knew cheese the way a sailor knows the tides.
“The Bovali will find a new cheese,” I promised. “If not with cows, then with sheep or goats or llamas.”
“It won’t be the same,” she sulked.
“Of course not,” I soothed. “It won’t be the same. That doesn’t mean it will be bad. It will just be . . . different. Maybe even better.”
“How is this place better than Boval?” she asked, almost a snarl. “Before the Dead God moved in, that is.”
I shrugged. “You’re sleeping with the lord of the land, now. That’s got to be some kind of benefit.”
“But is it worth giving up the cheese?” she asked with mocking exaggeration. “Yes, I know, it will be different and it might be better. I just . . .”
“It could have turned out a lot worse,” I observed.
She shuddered, and I regretted bringing it up at once. “Yes, this place isn’t too bad, I guess,” she nodded, her face more ashen than I’d prefer.
“If the Bovali need to learn to make cheese from goats and llamas, so be it,” pronounced Sir Cei. “If they must learn to craft pots, then so be it. We are alive, and by all rights we shouldn’t be. They learned the soldier’s trade at need, easily enough.”
“Well, those who survived,” I pointed out.
He shrugged, as if it hadn’t made a difference. “They will adapt. The folk of the Mindens are hardy. They will do well in these mean little mountains. It is a fair land, if not yet bountiful. And it is an empty land, in need of a people. But before we get any more refugees, we must see to housing the ones we have. Will you be joining me to visit Journeyman Baris, my lord?” Sir Cei asked, deftly changing the subject.
“I’d like to – saving my lady has need of me.”
“Oh, I can spare you,” she sighed in resignation. “Goody Hela is going to help me set up the nursery in the tower.”
“We have a nursery in the tower?” I asked, not recalling us building one.
“Well, we can’t very well hang the baby on a hook until it’s ripe, now, can we?” Alya asked, a little viciously. “We’re setting up a cradle and table on the far side of the bedchamber. We’ll hang a few tapestries to divide the room, and it will just have to do for now.”
“When is the baby due . . . my lady?” Sir Cei asked, hesitantly. He was only slowly growing used to treating the peasant lass he’d watched grow from a bratty girl as a noble of his own rank – and his employer. Still, he always remembered to add her title now, I’d noticed.
“Between Yule and Briga’s feast day,” she sighed. “This is only two or three hundred years away.” She’d enjoyed being pregnant, when she wasn’t in fear for her life. But the last few weeks had been steadily more challenging for her. She was at a point where she could not get comfortable no matter what position she was in. “Unless Min has a spell to speed up the process,” she grumbled.
“What? And miss out on even one day of this glorious blessing from Our Mother Trygg?”
Before she could react, Sir Cei quite adeptly changed the subject yet again, this time steering it toward my duty. “Lord Minalan, we should depart for the carpenter’s. We simply cannot house people any faster than we are unless we get more wood. The commons already looks like an encamped army. The locals are starting to get nervous. Some of that is natural suspicion, of course, but they will be clearly outnumbered with the arrival of our next caravan.”
“More bribes,” I instructed, after considering the matter. “No one gets too suspicious with a full belly and a dry cot.”
“There are the rumors that you will require them to sacrifice village maidens to you,” he added, dryly. “I’ve done my best to squash such rumors, of course, my lord, but you know how the common folk gossip . . .”
I grimaced. I knew he was teasing, but still . . . “Anyone who has a serious problem, we can deal with it. I’m too busy to handle rumors. Until a fight or two starts, I’ll leave it for you to handle.”
After that Alya and I quit baiting each other, and Sir Cei was able to get through breakfast. We were just teasing each other good-naturedly, but the intimacy embarrassed our Castellan and amused me.
“Cei needs to find a woman,” Alya whispered to me, after the knight rose to gather his things for the ride into the village.
“I’ll add it to the List,” I whispered back, grinning. “Would he know what to do with one?”
“He’s never touched a peasant girl, to my knowledge,” she agreed. “Too stinkin’ noble to dip his wick in common oil.”
“You have a common and dirty mind, for a noblewoman,” I murmured back. “I like that.”
* * *
Traveler and Sir Cei’s mount were brought around to the front door, and Alya made a point of wrapping an unnecessarily large fur cloak around me before kissing me and sending on my way into the chill. If Sir Cei was envious, he concealed it adeptly.
Our business meeting wasn’t ended by the short journey down the hill. As I waved at the two attentive-looking sentries in the gatehouse huddled around a stone brazier for warmth, their bows sheathed against the cold, Sir Cei brought my attention to matters of defense.
“Captain Forondo has completed his assessment of the castle defenses, Magelord,” He began.
“And?”
“He believes that it can be brought up to minimal standards by late spring, if he’s given a free hand and a large purse. That would not include preparations for a prolonged siege, of course . . .”
“I’ve had all the prolonged sieges I care to, actually,” I said, dryly. “What does he need?”
“Oh, some weapons, mostly arrows and spears, armor, helms, boots . . . he has proposed a full castle garrison of twenty, with another ten men serving as guardsmen in the village. And then a squad to guard the frontier with our neighbors . . . perhaps five more. That does not include any knights the Magelord should wish to retain in his service,” he added.
“Fifty men? Not a bad plan,” I agreed. “We’ll need guards in Sevendor, before long. And more frontier guards, eventually. And after we take back Brestal, we’ll need a garrison of at least fifteen there, as well.”
“We may have more than that, if we can’t find sufficient employment for the new Bovali,” he added, darkly. “I did not want to broach such a delicate subject in the hall in front of Lady Alya, but it occurs to me that even with all of the new projects, we will have far, far more manpower here than we have positions for. If we put spears in those hands, it could be we take the Brestal fort back sooner than planned.”
I could tell the prospect pleased him.
And why wouldn’t it? Castellans and country knights lived for the constant warfare that characterized feudal life in the Duchies. It was what they were trained for – hells, it was what they were bred for, a sport as much as a career.
After fighting goblins and herding peasants, I’m sure that a nice clean scrap against fellow knights and men-at-arms had a lot of appeal to Sir Cei. A scrap in the name of a righteous cause was even better. And a s
crap that combined a righteous cause with the redress of an injustice? That was like putting a kid in front of a candy jar, to a knight.
“Those plans will have to wait,” I said, carefully – I didn’t want to dampen his enthusiasm. “Let us secure the administration of this vale before we add another.”
“I only seek to restore what is rightfully—”
“We’ll get to it, Sir Cei,” I interrupted. That was a noble’s prerogative, and one I didn’t use often enough sometimes. “I am as eager to re-take the Brestal Vale as you are. But we must have our pieces in place, or even a victory could prove disastrous.”
“My Lord is wise,” he murmured, clearly unconvinced. I chuckled. Somehow I don’t think that was the first word that sprung to his mind.
We made our way down the grade and east along the track that passed for the road, across the small, recently-repaired stone bridge that spanned the stream, and into Sevendor Village, proper. It hadn’t gotten much better than it had been when we’d ridden in a few weeks ago, but there were beginning to be some signs of life.
Three of the abandoned foundations already had the beginnings of framework being erected around them, and there were crews of two or three working on each, but it was a slow process even in good weather. The cold, rocky ground made digging a struggle. We stopped so I could magically warm the earth to help out, which drew cries of appreciation and thanks. It’s good to be a magelord, sometimes.
The village’s common green was down on the floodplain of the stream, a broad, relatively flat stretch of fertile land that provided pasturage of the village’s beasts in summer. Now it provided a place for the first thirty Bovali families to camp.
Most had stretched sailcloth over poles stretched between wagons, heating them with tiny fires inside. Some had overturned their wains, using them as makeshift lean-tos against the cold. It wasn’t ideal, but then Sevendor’s winter was mild compared to where they were from. In Boval there would have been at least six inches of snow on the ground by now.
The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord Page 7
