Midday, April 11th, Anno Domini 1200
The Solar, Keep of Falkenstrand
Gregor, the reeve of Falkenstrand, was a man who seemed perpetually stooped, not by age, though he was well into his fifties, but as if carrying an invisible burden of worries. He was thin, with watery, anxious eyes and ink stains on his fingers that even the harshest lye soap could not entirely erase. He clutched a worn leather-bound ledger to his chest like a shield as he was ushered into the solar by Willem. Rolf, Alaric's other new guard, remained impassively by the door.
Alaric was seated at the heavy oak table his father had used, the same one where he had spoken with his mother the previous day. The spring sunlight, filtered through the glazed window, illuminated dust motes dancing in the air and cast a stark light on the Baron's youthful yet increasingly severe countenance.
"Master Gregor," Alaric said, his voice devoid of warmth but not overtly hostile. It was the tone of a superior addressing a subordinate from whom precise information was required. "Be seated. You have been summoned to discuss the economic state of this barony. The ledgers you maintain, I presume?" He gestured to the book Gregor was hugging.
Gregor's Adam's apple bobbed. He bowed, a quick, jerky movement, and scurried to the indicated chair opposite Alaric, placing the ledger on the table with a reverence usually reserved for holy scripture. "Lord Baron. Yes. These are… the accounts. Such as they are." His voice was thin, reedy.
"Such as they are?" Alaric picked up on the qualifier immediately. "Explain."
"Well, my lord," Gregor began, nervously wetting his lips, "your noble father, Baron Manfred, may the Saints preserve him, was not… overly concerned with detailed tallies in his latter years. More with… the broader strokes. And before him, Baron Otfried, he mostly kept things in his head, or so I am told. I have endeavored to maintain records since my appointment five years ago, but the system is… traditional."
Alaric's internal assessment was already forming: 'traditional' was likely a euphemism for haphazard, inconsistent, and ripe for leakage. He maintained an impassive exterior. "Open the ledger, Master Gregor. Let us examine this tradition."
With fumbling hands, Gregor untied the leather thongs and opened the book. The pages were thick, uneven parchment, filled with cramped, spidery script and columns of figures that often failed to align. Alaric leaned forward, his grey eyes scanning the entries. It was, as he had suspected, a mess. Entries for 'Wool sale to Trader Hannekin,' 'Tolls from Falken Pass – Whitsun week,' 'Purchase of salt from Dorfen merchants,' 'Repair to mill roof.' The figures were in Roman numerals, cumbersome and prone to error. There were no clear balances, no systematic tracking of income versus expenditure over consistent periods.
"Walk me through our primary sources of revenue, Gregor," Alaric commanded, tapping a finger on a particularly inscrutable entry. "Start with the tolls from the Falken Pass."
Gregor visibly relaxed a fraction, moving onto more familiar, if still uncomfortable, ground. "Ah, yes, the tolls, my lord. We levy a charge of one silver penny per cartload, half a penny for a laden pack animal, and a farthing for unburdened travelers on foot, unless they are local smallfolk. The collection is… overseen by Old Man Hemming, who lives by the pass. He has held the post for thirty years. He brings the collection to me quarterly."
"Overseen by one man? Who brings it to you quarterly?" Alaric's voice was dangerously soft. "And how do we verify Hemming's collection is accurate? Does he provide a tally of travelers?"
Gregor shifted uncomfortably. "Hemming is… an honest man, my lord. As far as anyone knows. He makes his marks. The amounts have been… fairly consistent over the years, save for this recent trouble with bandits, which has seen a downturn."
Consistent because Hemming likely pockets a consistent portion, or simply doesn't bother with rigorous counting, Alaric thought. "Fairly consistent is not a precise measure, Reeve. We will address Hemming's methods later. Continue. Wool."
"Our sheep, my lord," Gregor said, brightening slightly. "Falkenstrand wool is of decent quality, if not the finest. Most of the flock is owned by the demesne, grazed on the high pastures. The shearing is done after Pentecost. We sell the raw fleeces primarily to Trader Hannekin of Oakhaven, who comes each year. Last year's sale brought in… forty silver marks."
Forty silver marks. Alaric made a quick mental calculation. A mark was typically eight ounces of silver. It was a sum, but hardly a fortune, especially if it was a primary annual income. "Raw fleeces? We do not weave or process it here?"
"We have some local women who spin and weave for household use, my lord, and for their own families. But not for large scale trade. We lack the looms, the skilled weavers… and Trader Hannekin prefers to buy it raw."
Alaric filed that away. Value was being lost by selling raw materials. "Timber."
"The southern forests, my lord. Good oak and beech. Woodsmen are permitted to fell trees for a fee, payable to the Barony, or by providing a portion of the timber for the keep's use. Larger scale felling for trade… has been infrequent. It requires much labor, and transporting the logs is difficult. Lord Steinthal's… interest in those forests also makes men wary of working too deeply within them."
Another resource underexploited, partly due to external threats. "The quarry."
"The stone is hard, durable, good for building, my lord. But again, mostly for local needs. The keep walls, the village foundations. Transporting dressed stone is costly and slow. We lack the skilled masons to produce finer work that might fetch a higher price further afield."
Alaric leaned back, his fingers steepled. The picture was one of meagre returns, inefficient practices, and a crippling lack of skilled labor or investment in value-added production. "And our expenditures, Gregor? The upkeep of this keep. The wages or sustenance for the garrison, small as it is. Any other significant costs?"
Gregor flipped through a few more pages, his finger tracing lines of script. "The garrison… they receive daily rations of bread and ale, a small portion of meat or cheese when available. Some receive a few pennies on feast days. Ser Kaelan manages their direct needs from the stores. Repairs to the keep are… constant. The roof of the granary last autumn. Reinforcing the well-head. Purchase of salt, as I mentioned, essential for preserving meat. Iron for the smithy, though we try to trade timber or wool for it when we can." He sighed. "There is rarely much left at the end of any season, my lord. We are… not a wealthy barony."
"That is abundantly clear, Reeve," Alaric said, his tone dry. "Now, the most critical matter: food stores. Grain, salted meats, preserved vegetables, if any. What are the exact quantities currently held within this keep?"
Gregor turned to a different section of his ledger, his anxiety deepening. "The granary holds… perhaps one hundred and twenty bushels of wheat, my lord, and eighty of barley. The oats are for the horses, what few we have. Smoked and salted meats… enough for the garrison and household for perhaps two months, if strictly rationed. The root cellar has some onions, turnips, and carrots remaining from the winter, but they dwindle daily. The spring planting… the rains were late this year, my lord. The fields were sown, but the yield is in God's hands."
Three hundred bushels in total, if one included barley for human consumption in dire need. Alaric knew from his historical readings that a bushel of wheat could produce roughly sixty pounds of bread. Daily consumption per person, even on meager rations, was at least a pound. The keep's household, including the garrison, his mother's retinue, servants like Elara and Tom, and now his own small guard, likely numbered around fifty souls, perhaps more. Even with strict rationing, the current grain stores would not last many months. And this did not account for feeding the village in an emergency, or the needs of an expanded fighting force.
"The situation is dire, Gregor," Alaric stated, his voice devoid of emotion, which somehow made it more chilling.
"Yes, my lord," Gregor whispered, looking down at his stained fingers. "It has… always been a struggle. Baron Manfred often said Falkenstrand lives on a knife's edge."
"A knife's edge from which it is about to fall, unless fundamental changes are made," Alaric corrected him. He rose and paced the small solar, his new guards, Willem and Rolf, subtly adjusting their positions to keep him in view and cover the door. Gregor watched him with apprehensive eyes.
"Your methods of accounting, Gregor, are insufficient," Alaric declared, stopping before the reeve. "They invite error and, potentially, dishonesty. Your oversight of resources is lax. From this day forward, this changes."
He began to issue directives, his voice sharp and precise. "First, a complete and detailed inventory of every tangible asset belonging to this Barony. Every bushel of grain, every side of bacon, every tool in the smithy, every bolt of cloth in storage, every sheep and cow in the demesne flock. I want it written, clearly, with standardized measures. You will oversee this personally. I want the report on my desk within three days."
Gregor's jaw dropped. "Three days, my lord? That is… an immense task. The measures… they vary from village to village sometimes…"
"Then you will standardize them," Alaric cut in. "A Falkenstrand bushel will mean one thing, and one thing only. Find the largest common measure and make it the standard. I care not how, but it will be done. Incompetence or delay will have consequences."
The reeve swallowed hard, nodding quickly. The veiled threat was unmistakable.
"Second," Alaric continued, "all financial movements, both income and expenditure, will be meticulously entered into a new ledger system. Daily. With clear attribution. No sum, however small, whether an earning or an expense, shall go unrecorded. You will learn to use Arabic numerals for this; they are more efficient for calculation. I will instruct you. There will be cross-referencing."
Gregor looked utterly bewildered by the mention of Arabic numerals and duplicate tallies. This was beyond anything he had ever conceived.
"Third, you will conduct a thorough survey of the southern forests. I want to know the extent of mature timber, its types, and the most efficient and sustainable way to harvest it. Similarly, the quarry. What is its full potential? Can we improve the quality of the stone cut? Report back in one week."
"Fourth, no demesne resources – wool, timber, stone, excess grain – are to be sold or bartered by anyone without my direct, written approval. All transactions will go through you, and you will bring them to me beforehand."
This was a direct assertion of central control, stripping away layers of informal dealings and customary arrangements that had likely existed for generations. Alaric could almost feel the invisible structures of Falkenstrand's medieval economy groaning under the sudden pressure of his modern, systematic approach.
"My lord," Gregor stammered, his face pale, "these… these are changes that will… disrupt many things. People are accustomed…"
"People will become accustomed to the new ways, Reeve," Alaric said, his voice like chilled steel, "or they will find themselves outside my favor. Falkenstrand is fighting for its survival. There is no room for comfortable tradition when that tradition leads to ruin. Is that understood?"
Gregor, looking thoroughly cowed and overwhelmed, could only manage a weak nod. "Yes, Lord Baron."
"Good." Alaric returned to the table. "You have your directives. Begin immediately. You may consult with Ser Kaelan for men to assist with the inventory, but you remain responsible. Report your progress to me daily, each evening before sunset." He paused. "And Gregor… ensure your own hands are clean in all this. I value competence and loyalty. I have no tolerance for theft, however small."
The reeve flinched as if struck. "My lord, I have always served Falkenstrand faithfully!"
"Then you have nothing to fear," Alaric said, though his expression offered little comfort. "Now go. There is much to be done, and the days are short."
Shaking, Gregor gathered his old ledger, bowed again, and practically scuttled from the solar. Alaric watched him go, his expression thoughtful. He knew he was asking for a revolution in local administration. He knew it would cause resentment, fear, and resistance. But it was necessary. The Barony was bleeding resources through inefficiency and lack of oversight. He had to stanch the bleeding before he could even think of healing the patient.
The reports from Kaelan, the dire state of the armory and the fighting men, and now Gregor's confirmation of their near destitution, painted a grim canvas. Yet, within that grimness, Alaric saw opportunity. He had a free hand, a sovereign territory, however small. He had knowledge these people could not comprehend. He would use it to forge Falkenstrand into something new, something strong. The cost, he suspected, would be high, not just in resources, but in the comfortable illusions of the past. And perhaps, in a part of himself he was rapidly leaving behind.