I now had forty-five pledges to pay ransoms in my saddlebags, a dozen of them knights, not to mention a long pack train loaded with loot, delivered virtually to my doorstep. Since these were mercenaries in Gimbal’s pay he would ultimately be responsible for the ransoms, in addition to their fees, if they tried to insist. Plenty of warlords didn’t bother to pay mercenaries who got captured.
I marked each of their faces with the Snowflake of Sevendor until their ransoms were paid, with the warning that such a mark would earn a man a hanging if he was captured in battle with my people. They marched off on foot, humiliated and defeated. They had been captured and paroled, and they could not legally take part in any future engagements against me until their ransoms were paid. Plus the embarrassment of falling asleep on duty and waking up a prisoner had made them all a little cowed. It was a small price to pay to keep their heads, I reminded them.
As easy as it had been, however, I knew that it was a portent of things to come. When your neighbors start hiring mercenaries – even the poor country knight variety – just to piss you off, you have to figure they’re serious about their dislike of you.
Sir Roncil suggested hanging a few as a warning to others, but I didn’t think they merited such a bloodthirsty approach; that sort of gesture was rarely a good idea. A bunch of vengeful families of dishonored petty nobility swearing vendettas against me was a headache I didn’t need, no matter how clear the message a gallows would send. It was enough that I was going to be sleeping in my own bed tonight without ruffians at my door. I’ll trade that for glory any day.
Besides, I got all the glory I needed when the sentries recognized me, and then the ramparts were filled with militiamen and guards shouting and cheering. The cheering got louder when the long train of horses and baggage appeared, and Sir Roncil announced that the two score of professional raiders had been defeated. That sent them into a lusty shout of victory, before they started chanting ‘magelord!’ Apparently I had been missed.
And then I was overcome, because I realized I was home – not just ‘back where your wife and stuff was staying,’ but home. It felt good.
I was impressed with what had been done to the place while I was away, too. Just looking around the bulwark and related defenses told me that the militia had been busy as beavers while they had held the site. The wall itself had been bolstered with close-set columns of stone, I saw, and there were a few scars and repairs that looked like the result of a fresh assault. I asked the gate captain, Ancient Vren, about it, after he had brought me a welcome draught of cider to wash the dust from my throat.
“Oh, that lot out beyond the frontier tried to get in a few times,” he dismissed. “They ne’er got over the wall, though, Magelord,” the old man assured me. “Oh, they hollered, they did, and tried to launch a few shafts, but there’s no way these paltry Riverland bows can best a Wilderland bow. We wounded a few of them in a couple minutes of hot work, and after that they kept out of bowshot.”
That was good to hear – I’d been worried about our defenses. I hadn’t expected Gimbal to be so openly aggressive, but I was glad we’d been prepared.
“That’s because his first two raids didn’t work,” Ancient Vren explained. “The first one happened two nights after you left, Sire Minalan. Tried to come over the wall. So we chased ‘em off an’ we made the wall higher. Tried to come through the gate the next night. We made the passageway stronger. So then they just ran down anyone who left Sevendor this way, but they never made it one inch past the gate,” he said, proudly.
Before I could regale them all with the dire news of from the war in the West, I was surprised to see Sir Cei, looking quite official in a new blue riding tunic, gallop to the Diketower at full speed before skidding to a stop on his fine black horse. His usually-taciturn face was split with a wide grin that was uncommonly boyish.
“While you are pretty enough a sight, Sir Cei, I had hoped that my lady wife was going to greet me.”
My Castellan gave me an uncomfortably knowing look. “Lady Alya decided to make herself ready to greet you in your chamber. She somehow found that more appropriate than an hour’s ride by wain or horse.”
“I defer to her judgment,” I chuckled. Yes, I was anxious to see my wife . . . and apparently she was equally as anxious. But there was the caravan of Bovali refugees to get encamped, which I inquired about before my own selfish desire for news of my wife and child.
“They started coming over Caolan’s Pass about three hours ago,” he told me quietly as we rode back toward the castle. “A little footsore, but otherwise hardy. We’ve been expecting them, and had sent a party through Caolan’s Pass to guide them away from the Bastidor pass.”
“I’m thankful to hear it,” I sighed. I had envisioned some scheme of Gimbal to ambush my people, but he was as imaginative as he was honorable. “How are they faring?”
“Almost half of them will have tents or shacks to move into on the Commons, now that the weather is warmer. The others we can lodge in the outer bailey if need be. And, of course, there is room for more at the new village,” He added, proudly, as we came to the nearby site.
I smiled at the sight of the bustling little community that had seemed to grow up like one of the spring wildflowers around it, while I had been gone. There were at least thirty small circular homes in a neatly laid-out pattern, each with a few rods of yard in which sheds and lean-tos and the foundations of barns and byres had been built. They weren’t particularly sturdy things, but then the climate here was milder. A carefully-split tree-trunk provided the exterior pillars, supporting beams of birch wands, where thatch was being laid. Bare gardens, recently hacked from the earth, were beginning to sprout beside them.
The frames and foundations of five large, rectangular buildings stood toward the center of the new village, surrounding the foundations of a much larger building, clearly a future manor house. It was an ambitious project – even grand – and I wondered how much of our funds Sir Cei had invested in it.
“That will be Boval Hall,” he said, proudly, as we stopped to survey the scene. “Two stories, with six bays and a stable. The site next to that is the Grange, and near to that is the new inn. I believe the Magelord said he wanted an inn? This near to the Diketower, it cannot help but prosper. On the other side is the smithy, and across the road next to the Grange is, with Bova’s blessing, a new creamery.” He sounded like a man possessed of a religious vision. “It is not Boval, but it is all that will be left of Boval.”
“It’s Boval enough,” I sighed. “How are we paying for it?”
“Since the domain owns the fields and the land, we’re loaning the money for construction and the settlers are pledging to repay within a reasonable amount of time. For now, each cot will owe two days a week labor to the manor for the next year, in the fields or in work parties, in addition to the day they owe the demesne.
“For that they get to cut wood from the slopes, harvest thatch from the fens, and received a shovel, a pail, an axe, and a hammer each. Every third man gets a wheelbarrow. Each cot has four rods of croftlands for garden or meadow.
“Every goodwife gets two hens and a goose, every second house gets a goat and the other a sheep. Seed and stock are provided by the manor, as are the plows and teams – three teams of oxen, two of horse. Rent shall be a half-ounce of silver a year, with payment in kind or in week-work accepted. And there is room for perhaps a dozen more cots of this size, more, if we build on that meadow above.
“Further credit has been extended on individually-negotiated terms, should a household wish a cow or other stock,” he finished.
“You have had no complaints about the terms?” I asked.
“Since the additional week-work is temporary, the Bovali are not concerned that they would become bondsmen,” he explained. A single day a week owed to the manor was normal for free peasants. More than two days, and you were usually considered a villein. “And the rents are being off-set by additional work the manor pays out for constructi
on labor.”
“As long as you’re keeping track of everything,” I agreed. “How fares Yeoman Rollo in his new station?”
Sir Cei nodded, approvingly. “The Magelord chose his man wisely. He has directed the construction of his future home with great attention. He has performed admirably in setting the allotments in the fields, with my approval over the domain’s share. He has been diligent in keeping his accounts, and does not seek to cheat the villagers. He is the first one at work and the last one to leave the fields or job; he leads the folk by virtue and example, not by demand.”
“I thought he’d do well here.” I used magesight to peer more closely around the village until I located the Yeoman. He was overseeing the construction effort, yelling instructions to a team of laborers as they erected the first roof pole on the structure’s first floor. He looked determined and committed. He didn’t look haunted. That was a good sign.
Behind the village, on the long-fallow fields the plowing season was underway. Teams of oxen and horses pulled the new plows I’d purchased through the earth in long, hard-won strips. The shapes of the fields were starting to fill in, and free Bovali and hired Sevendori villeins with hoes broke the clods apart. Some were scattering fistfuls of clay to sweeten the soil. Sowing would begin any day now.
“And what are those?” I asked, curious, at a line of saplings being planted on the shadier side of the slope.
“Apples. Two varieties suggested by Master Olmeg. He suggested that these two apples will make an ideal cider. Beyond that, pears and two types of nuts. It will be years before they are productive, but Master Olmeg is hopeful.” I could tell by the tone of his voice that he shared that hope ardently. “Indeed, he has been adept, if you will excuse the expression, at counseling the people in their plantings. The Sevendori are somewhat resistant, particularly the Genlymen, but the Bovali have no traditions to be overturned, and they abide by his counsels religiously.”
“And that building?” I asked, pointing to a minor spur of Matten’s Helm to the north of the village, where an outcropping of rock limited the usability of the land for much. The building’s foundation was round, with two small bays. A tiny cottage was being built unobtrusively behind a stand of pines nearby.
“That is the shrine, Magelord,” he explained, sounding pleased with himself. “It seems that Goodman Tevram was taken with a temple he favored near Limwell, and felt called by Huin to take holy orders. When he discovered that you had authorized a shrine in the village, he volunteered to be ordained under the Plow, and become a Landbrother to tend it.”
I didn’t remember Tevram very well, save that he had been a plowman from Malin, and that he had fought ferociously at the breach in the siege, before taking a nasty wound to his leg. “He’s earnest in his studies?” There were some who saw the clergy as an easy job, and took orders to profit. I wanted clergy who worked for the people, not for the gods – or their own aggrandizement. That’s what lords were for.
Sir Cei shrugged. “I am not the best judge of such things. But he knows his letters, he writes tolerably well, and he has studied with a few landbrothers. He has heard that there is a landbrother, a popular monk named Landbrother Mison, who runs a shrine in a nearby domain with whom he hopes to study. Should he succeed in taking orders, I have promised him three acres and the cottage for his support.”
“That would be a boon,” I admitted. One of the problems plaguing our administration of the domain was a lack of trained clergy. Ideally each village would have at least a monk or a nun in residence to teach the young, administer sacraments, and keep the villages records. “See that it happens. Bribe the other landbrother to come here and teach him, if you have to.”
“As you wish, Magelord.” He gave the site of Boval Hall one last paternal look before turning his horse to follow mine. This was his special project, I could tell, his opportunity to design and build a manor from the dirt up. He didn’t have to contend with tradition, history, or someone else’s mistakes – Boval Hall would be his journeyman work in estate administration. The fact that it housed the folk he knew the best only made his dedication more meaningful. And to keep work going when there was an active insurgency nearby . . .
“Tell me, those mercenaries – how much trouble were they, actually?”
“They have been harassing our frontier and interdicting traffic,” Sir Cei admitted. “But they have not prosecuted their attacks any further. Twice we’ve chased them away with cavalry, but they return the moment our backs are to them. You captured the lot, Magelord?”
“Through base sorcery, not skill at arms,” I dismissed. “But I captured them and took their ransoms, arms and horses, and gave them pretty snowflake mage marks, and a merry tale to entertain the servant girls in return for their service,” I nodded. “I doubt that they will continue to bother us.”
Sir Cei’s expression turned serious. “Yet their master will. Twice I’ve received letters from his castellan demanding the return of Brestal, the refund of some of our ransoms, and other nonsense. I responded tersely to the first, and ignored the second. Then those ruffians showed up. I’ve kept all traffic going through Caolan’s Pass to avoid them, but I’m pleased that won’t be necessary now.” He looked uncomfortable.
“Magelord, the bandits were a minor nuisance, not a real threat. But the way the people responded to the summons . . .”
I was surprised. “You had some who shirked?”
He was surprised. “Shirked, Magelord? Quite the contrary. I feel I should mention that in your absence the folk of Boval Hall came to the defense of the dike three times, and responded valiantly each time. The arrived in great numbers, within moments of hearing the alarm. They seem . . . almost eager,” he said, struggling for the right words, “to fight those who would take from them what you have given. Indeed, we had more men report to the wall than we had arms for.”
“That’s not a bad problem to have,” I chuckled. “It’s when you call and no one comes that you have problems. And we seem to have just accepted delivery of some forty sets of arms and armor.” And that reminded me of something important.
When I had been staying at Wilderhall a few moons ago, the ink barely dry on my patent of nobility while I waited for my fief to be selected, an old baron had taken me under his wing for a few days while he waited on a court ruling.
When he learned I was newly-ennobled, he’d given me a crash-course in what he thought was the most important thing to know about being a noble. After two days, I’d learned a lot – for example, don’t buy a drink for an old baron unless you want him to talk your ears off – but amongst the self-importance and stupidity he had occasionally let slip an actual nugget of wisdom.
I remember him grabbing my arm and making me look into both eyes – something he insisted upon only when he felt the subject was of especial import.
“There is no better way to secure a man’s loyalty, affection, and adoration than by presenting him arms,” he’d said in his smoke-stained voice. “Your sons and sons-in-law will rebel and betray you, but a man who bears a sword you put in his hand will be faithful as the dawn.”
Most of the Bovali had little left in the way of arms and armor; besides their precious bows, the armories of their former domain had given them some basic-quality arms, swords and spears of low-quality iron. Siege gear, designed for short-term use in manning the walls. Many of the swords lacked scabbards, and the spears were wrought iron, not steel. While most kept their weapons after their departure, some had to sell what they did have to keep food on the table in the South. But those mean blades had kept bandits and cutthroats at bay, and kept the Bovali together.
The mercenaries’ captured armor and weapons were not fancy, but they were leaps and bounds ahead of the cheap swords and simple spears my men now held. And while most lords were shy of common men who knew too much about weapons, I did not think I had to fear a peasant revolt any time soon. Giving the Bovali arms would be the best way to secure their loyalty. It wasn’t the way t
he average lord did business, but I was a magelord. I was making this up as I went along.
“Sir Cei, I want you to have Captain Forondo inventory and sort the new arms,” I ordered, “to the end of culling the best for his men who lack proper equipage. The rest I wish to be presented to the folk of Boval Hall. We should be able to find two dozen complete sets there, at least. They can be stored in the manor hall, for now, but then have a secure armory built for storage. If the folk closest to the Diketower are armed and ready, it will keep us from wearing out horses from the castle or Brestal Tower every time someone hazards our frontiers.”
“Are you sure that is wise, Magelord?” he asked in surprise. “Leaving arms at the disposal of the peasantry like that—”
“Do you really anticipate an uprising, Sir Cei?” I asked. “The Bovali have proven they can be trusted with arms. They are either loyal or they are not. And it occurs to me,” I said, borrowing one of his favorite phrases, “that a well-armed, loyal village ready to put two-dozen men-at-arms on the dike within minutes of being summoned outweighs the chance of a spontaneous revolt.”
“The Bovali are free men,” he reasoned. “But would that not make the other Yeomanries jealous of the prerogative?”
“Do you see Railan the Steady’s Genlymen eagerly showing up at the butts? Have you noted the lack of Gurisham folk at militia drills?” Sir Cei and Captain Forondo had been holding weekly volunteer militia practice on the commons since the Spring thaw – basic stuff, marching in ranks, how to use a spear, and basic swordplay. Few native Sevendori had appeared to better themselves, but the Bovali responded with enthusiasm. “I really can’t see them protesting overmuch. If the folk of Boval Hall wish to live here, so close to the frontier, then they should be prepared as we can make them to defend their village. And the vales behind them.”
The Spellmonger Series: Book 03 - Magelord Page 44
