Morning, April 12th, Anno Domini 1200The Keep of Falkenstrand
The raw chill of another Falkenstrand morning did little to cool the methodical fire in Alaric's mind. He stood on the wooden gallery overlooking the bailey, his cloak drawn tight, observing the garrison's second day of intensified training. Willem and Rolf, his personal guards, stood a respectful distance behind him, their presence a silent testament to his new status. Below, Ser Kaelan, his voice already hoarse, was attempting to instill the rudiments of a shield advance into the weary, aching bodies of the keep's fighting men.
There was a subtle difference from the previous day. The outright sullenness had diminished somewhat, replaced by a grim, reluctant obedience. Muscles screamed, limbs protested, but the fear of Alaric's displeasure, and Kaelan's increasingly stern enforcement of it, seemed a more potent motivator than their discomfort. They moved with a fraction less clumsiness, their shields forming a slightly less ragged line. It was a marginal improvement, an almost imperceptible chipping away at years of ingrained sloppiness, but it was movement in the direction Alaric willed.
"They look as though they've wrestled bears all night, my lord," Kaelan commented, approaching Alaric as he called a brief halt to the drill. The old knight's face was etched with fatigue, but also a grudging respect for the men's endurance, and perhaps, for Alaric's unyielding demands.
"Pain is a stern schoolmaster, Captain," Alaric replied, his gaze still fixed on the heaving men. "It teaches lessons the body does not easily forget. Maintain the pressure. Their resentment now is preferable to their deaths later." He turned to Kaelan. "The scouts you selected for the Whisperwood? Are they prepared?"
"Aye, my lord. Two young men, Tam and Huon. Good trackers, both quiet and quick-witted enough. They know the forest edges better than most. I've instructed them as you commanded: observation only, no engagement. They carry provisions for three days and will depart within the hour, under cover of the morning mist."
"Good." Alaric nodded. Action on the bandit front, however small, was a relief. "Ensure their report is brought to me the instant they return. Any information, any trace, could be vital." He paused. "And the census lists, Kaelan. Have you had a chance to review them for any men with skills beyond farming or basic woodcraft? Anyone with a hint of literacy, or experience as an apprentice in a useful trade?"
Kaelan frowned in thought. "Literacy is rare, my lord, as you know. Young Father Michael, who assists in the chapel, is the most learned, but his duties are to God. Amongst the commonfolk… perhaps one or two of the older village elders can make their marks and read simple script, but their eyes are failing. As for trades, Thorin's apprentice is but a boy. There was a cooper who died last winter, his son moved away. We have need of many skills we lack."
Alaric had expected as much. The lack of a skilled artisan base was a crippling deficiency. "Continue to search the lists. Question the men. Any hint of useful knowledge is to be noted. We may need to cultivate talent from the rawest material."
Leaving Kaelan to resume the morning's torment, Alaric returned to the solar, where Reeve Gregor awaited him, looking as though he had wrestled with demons all night, and lost. Piles of unevenly cut parchment covered the table, marked with Gregor's increasingly desperate attempts at Arabic numerals.
"My lord," Gregor began, his voice thin and strained, "the inventory… it progresses, but slowly. So many small holdings, so many items unaccounted for in any formal way for years…" He gestured to a particularly messy sheet. "This is my attempt at the grain tally from the northern hamlets, using the… new figures."
Alaric picked it up. The numerals were still malformed, some reversed, the columns wavering like drunken soldiers. Yet, there was a discernible effort. "You are struggling with the concept of zero as a placeholder, Gregor, and the positional value of each digit. We will address that." For another hour, Alaric drilled the reeve, focusing on the very basics of the decimal system, using pebbles to represent units, tens, and hundreds, trying to visually impart the logic that so eluded the man. Gregor sweated, sighed, and occasionally looked on the verge of tears, but Alaric remained implacable.
"This is not arcane magic, Reeve," Alaric stated, his voice firm but devoid of ridicule. "It is merely a tool, like a well-made axe. Sharpen your mind to its use. Your position, your very utility to this Barony, depends upon it." The veiled threat, as always, lent a certain focus to Gregor's efforts.
By the time Alaric was satisfied that Gregor had grasped, however tenuously, how to write a three-digit number and perform a simple addition, the reeve looked utterly spent. "The inventory, my lord," Gregor said, gesturing to his chaotic notes. "I have discovered… discrepancies. The count of woolen fleeces from last year's shearing, recorded in the old ledger, does not match the number Trader Hannekin is said to have paid for. There are fewer by a good score."
Alaric's eyes narrowed. "A score of fleeces? That is not insignificant. Who handled the fleeces after shearing? Who dealt with Hannekin?"
"The demesne shepherds brought them to the keep storehouse, my lord. I… I oversaw the tally then, as always. And I dealt with Trader Hannekin myself." Gregor's face was pale, his gaze shifting.
"Then the discrepancy arose under your oversight, Reeve Gregor," Alaric said, his voice dangerously quiet. "Find out where those fleeces went. Question the shepherds. Review your own memory of the transaction with Hannekin. Present me with an explanation, a plausible one, by tomorrow evening. Or present me with the value of twenty fleeces from your own purse."
Gregor looked as though he might faint. "My lord! I am an honest man! I would never…"
"Honesty, Gregor, is proven by accurate ledgers and full coffers, not by protestations," Alaric cut him off. "Investigate. Now."
The terrified reeve scrambled to gather his papers and departed. Alaric watched him go, a cold resolve hardening his features. Whether it was theft or gross incompetence, the result was the same: Falkenstrand was poorer for it. And he would not tolerate it.
His attention then turned to the smithy. Thorin's complaints about poor charcoal and lack of manpower were valid. Good weapons required good steel, and good steel required intense, consistent heat.
He summoned Thorin. The burly smith arrived, wiping soot from his hands on his leather apron. "Thorin," Alaric began, "the charcoal you use. It is made here in the Barony?"
"Aye, my lord. Woodsmen burn it in pits in the forest. The quality varies. Much smoke, not always the hottest fire."
Alaric nodded. He knew of pit burning; it was inefficient, producing inconsistent results. "There are better ways. We can build earth kilns, designed to control the airflow and burn the wood more slowly, producing denser, hotter-burning charcoal. I will provide you with the design. Select a suitable patch of woodland, not too distant but away from dwellings. I want two reliable men assigned to this task, under your general supervision. They will learn the new method. Good charcoal is the lifeblood of your forge."
Thorin blinked, surprised. "Earth kilns, my lord? I have heard tell… but never seen one."
"You will see one built," Alaric assured him. "And you will benefit from its output." He then addressed the manpower issue. "Ser Kaelan is identifying men from the census who might be trained to assist you. For now, I want your apprentice focused on mastering the basics. And I want a clear accounting of every piece of iron and steel you use, and every item you produce. Reeve Gregor will provide you with the method for this accounting."
Thorin grunted, clearly unhappy about the prospect of more paperwork, but the promise of better charcoal and potentially more help seemed to mollify him somewhat.
Later that day, Alaric sought out Old John the Miller. The granary was still in a state of disarray, but John and two reluctant-looking garrison men were sweeping a clear space in one corner.
"Master Miller," Alaric said, his tone crisp. "Your plan for the granary's reorganization?"
John, looking flustered, produced a piece of parchment on which a few crude lines were drawn. "My lord, as you can see… new bins here… a separate area for seed grain… regular turning…"
Alaric studied it. It was rudimentary, but it was a start. "The vermin control, John? The current state is unacceptable."
"Cats, my lord," John said promptly. "We need more cats in the keep. Good mousers. And I've tasked the men with sealing any obvious holes in the walls."
Practical, if simple, solutions. Alaric nodded. "See to it. And the tallies of grain entering and leaving are to be precise. Reeve Gregor will be inspecting your records. Your bonus depends upon your diligence."
The miller, still clearly wary of his new Baron, nonetheless seemed to respond to the directness and the clear, if conditional, promise of reward.
The afternoon brought another lesson for Gregor, this time focusing on subtraction and the rudiments of a double-entry system Alaric was simplifying for immediate use. He also reviewed the first properly categorized inventory lists the reeve, with the help of a young guard Kaelan had found who possessed a surprisingly neat hand, had begun to produce. The lists were still full of gaps and questionable figures, but they were an improvement over the single, chaotic ledger of before.
Lady Mathilda found Alaric in the solar as evening approached. She carried a small, embroidered pouch. "Alaric," she said, her voice quiet, "Reeve Gregor came to me. He is… distraught about the matter of the missing fleeces. He swears his innocence."
"I will know whether he is innocent or culpable by how he accounts for this loss, Mother," Alaric replied, his tone leaving no room for sentiment. "I am not accusing him of theft, yet. I am demanding accountability. There is a difference."
"He has served this house faithfully for many years," she persisted.
"And perhaps that long service has led to complacency," Alaric said. "The ways of the past are insufficient for the needs of the present." He looked at the pouch in her hand.
She held it out. "This is from my personal coffer. Twenty silver marks. The approximate value of the missing wool, Gregor said. If it will… alleviate his distress and prevent injustice while he seeks an explanation…"
Alaric looked at the pouch, then at his mother. Her compassion was a weakness, yet her desire to protect an old servant, even one potentially culpable, was… noted. "Your generosity is admirable, Mother. However, this is not a matter to be settled by your personal funds. It is a matter of baronial revenue. Gregor must find the fleeces, or their value, or a satisfactory explanation for their absence. Keep your silver. But tell Gregor his Baron expects a resolution, not a bailout."
His mother's expression was a mixture of disappointment and that now-familiar, troubled understanding. She withdrew the pouch. "You are… a hard young man, Alaric."
"I am what Falkenstrand needs me to be, Mother," he replied, his voice flat.
As the day drew to a close, Alaric felt the immense, grinding weight of his endeavor. He was chipping away at a mountain with a teaspoon. Yet, there were small victories. The training was progressing, however painfully. The inventory was, likewise, inching forward. He had addressed the granary and the smithy's charcoal. Scouts were out. Gregor was, however reluctantly, learning.
The first contingent of village levies was due for their initial training tomorrow. That would be another test, another potential point of friction. But Alaric felt a grim readiness. He was forging new tools, both human and systemic. And with those tools, he would reshape this barony, piece by painstaking piece.