Travis Starnes
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In the Shadow of Lions - Chapter 11
🕑 Added 2024-02-25 14:00:07 +0000 UTCAleors 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 village elder, Gareth had served as leader and advocate for Aleors 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 head of wheat and 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. 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 group 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 the 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 Torin 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 the Torin to stop. Sneering, he reached out and roughly gripped a fistful of Orla’s hair. With a swift, violent motion, he thrust 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 out of 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!” he 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 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 gashing 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 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 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, the broken haft 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 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 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, and 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?”
“Spare me your naive outrage,” Baudric said dismissively. “No guarantee existed whatsoever that the Sidorians would have given any portion of those medical provisions to our men, captive or not. More likely, they’d have kept every measure for themselves. I simply ensured that if anyone was to benefit, it would be us.”
Isolde gaped at her father in disbelief.
“The Disciples would have told me if the supplies weren’t reaching our men. They would have no reason to lie to me. They serve no king or country, only the tenets of their faith.”
“Which wouldn’t change the reality of the situation. The supplies would still be gone, taken by the Sidorians, for no gain on our part. I simply turned a disadvantage into an advantage.”
“And you think nothing of what your violation will cost us in the long run. The Acolytes are protective of their rights and traditions, and this might be the greatest betrayal of those since the great alliance. The Gray Isles are bound to retaliate.”
“A necessary risk for the greater good,” Baudric replied dismissively. “I’m not concerned with mystical politics. My duty is to our people here and now.”
Isolde threw her hands up in exasperation. “But your actions betrayed our people! Our injured soldiers will suffer without those medical supplies.”
“I want to help our people too, my daughter. But the only way to truly do that is to defeat these invaders and get them off our land. If you hadn’t noticed, the war goes poorly for us. The Sidorians’ bridge they are constructing to cross the Chasol grows longer by the day. Soon they’ll be over the river and loose in our heartland, raiding and pillaging.”
Pushing his bulky frame out of his chair, he began to pace behind his desk, something he did often when he lectured her.
“It’s my duty as Emperor to protect those people from such devastation, and the only sure way is to defeat the Sidorians before they gain that chance. If I have to deceive them once to save thousands of Lynese from their violence, so be it.”
“What about brokering for peace?” she interjected, cutting him off mid-sentence.
Baudric stopped pacing and turned to face her, scowling.
“Peace? With the Sidorians?” He let out a derisive laugh. “There can be no peace with those savages.”
“But isn’t it worth trying?” Isolde pleaded. “This war has raged for over a year, with tremendous loss of life on both sides. Wouldn’t it be better to at least attempt negotiations before sacrificing more soldiers?”
“You speak of things you do not understand, but I can forgive you your youthful innocence. The Sidorians cannot be trusted. The moment we show weakness and agree to talks, they will see it as an opportunity to press for more concessions while giving up nothing themselves.”
He came around the desk, standing before Isolde with his hands clasped behind his back. Though she stood taller than him by several inches, he had a way of making her feel small.
“I’m proud you wish to involve yourself in the art of ruling,” he continued, his tone softening. “But you still have much to learn about the reality of power. There is no room for naiveté or weakness on the throne. A leader must be shrewd, cunning, always prepared for others’ self-interest, even if it means being self-serving himself. Honor and morality are luxuries of the powerless. For those with authority, the only true duty is to accumulate and hold power by any means. That is the Great Game all rulers play, though few have the courage to admit it.”
“That’s ... barbaric.”
“So is the world. I know these words seem cold to you now. But in time, you’ll understand it’s the only way to secure our people’s wellbeing. I look forward to the day you’re ready to lead our people. But clearly, today is not that day.”
As he lowered himself back into his chair, ignoring her once more, her eyes blazed with fury. She longed to unleash a torrent of curses at him, to slam her fists upon his desk, to tell him exactly the sort of cold, heartless ruler he was. She also knew it would be pointless. With one last smoldering glare, she whirled around and stormed out of the study as angrily as she had entered it.
***
Starhaven, Kingdom of Sidor
Serwyn paced the council chamber, crumpling the message in his fist until his knuckles were white with rage.
“This is outrageous!” Serwyn seethed.
Edmund remained seated calmly, steepling his fingers on the table before him, watching his nephew stomp back and forth across the chamber.
“I understand your outrage, Your Grace, but we knew some pushback was to be expected. The smart thing for us to do now is let Baron Stonehill deal with this.”
Serwyn whirled to face his uncle. “I will not tolerate those peasants defying my authority! I will raze their pathetic village to the ground, kill every last one of them! Let it serve as an example to any who would dare oppose me.”
Edmund held up a placating hand. “A show of strength is often necessary, I agree. But...”
“You think I should let their treason go unpunished?” Serwyn interrupted, his lip curled in a sneer.
“Not at all,” Edmund replied smoothly. “The perpetrators should face justice, without question. But it would be best to let Baron Stonehill dispense it. He rules that land; those are his people. Allowing him to handle the matter puts the responsibility for it on him, and not you.”
“I thought Stonehill was loyal. Why would he allow such blatant disobedience?”
“He is loyal, Your Grace. But even loyal vassals can have unruly subjects from time to time. If you intervene directly, it allows the situation to be used against you, painting you as a tyrant, even if you’re only doing what must be done. Part of the reason they put these laws into place, and the onus for enforcing them on the barons, was to lessen the popularity of the Barons. It is important the crown is seen as a refuge to the people and the barons as the source of their troubles.”
“Don’t they know the edicts came from the crown? And the new taxes?”
“Some do, maybe intellectually, but it isn’t your men taking the taxes and enforcing penalties, it’s the Barons. People put blame on whoever enforces the rules, not on who made them. In fact, we could play this smart,” Edmund said, leaning back, looking at the arched ceiling as he considered. “Perhaps we instruct Baron Stonehill to raze the village, but at the same time we dispatch our own men, someone with enough authority to stop the reprisals. Give the village a reprieve, settling for only the heads of the instigators. You will be their savior, the Baron their tormentor.”
“Wouldn’t that turn Stonehill against us?”
“No,” Edmund said, waving the idea off dismissively. “He understands what’s happening. I’ll send him a message privately, explaining it. He won’t like the plan, but he won’t go against us either. We must remember that the other Barons will be watching. They will see our actions for what they are, and take them as a warning. It will make them less likely to allow this kind of thing in their own lands, for fear of reprisals.”
“Fine. I still want someone to play, but if you think your games will have an effect, uncle, then you can play them. I still would prefer a more direct course of action,” Serwyn said, throwing himself down into a chair, his anger faded some.
“I know you would, and I appreciate that you still heed my counsel. Besides, we have greater concerns as well.”
“What greater concerns?”
“This uprising may be more than just disgruntled peasants,” Edmund said. “I worry there is more to this.”
“What do you mean? Speak plainly, Uncle.”
Edmund was quiet for a long moment, considering.
“It’s possible... not certain, but possible that this was not a natural reaction, but one orchestrated by outside forces to push back against the crown,” he finally said. “I have received reports of increased wyvern traffic between certain barons in the last few weeks.”
Serwyn’s eyes narrowed. “Between which barons? We should march on them at once for this treason!”
“Patience, Your Grace. The wyvern traffic alone is only an indication that something might be occurring, not proof of treason. And it is not the only concerning matter of late.”
“There’s more?”
“Yes. The barons here in Sidor are not the only ones with increased wyvern traffic. There have also been an unusual number of messages from some of these same barons to our forces in Lynese. Now, messages to and from the front are expected, of course, and all of the barons in question have sent their men with the armies. But the timing and frequency here are... suspicious.” Edmund waited another moment, letting that sink in before continuing. “I worry that some of the unrest here may be spurred on not only by local barons, but by those serving under your uncle in Lynese. Some of those men are very ambitious, and have given the throne a covetous eye for years. Fear of your father kept them in place, but now...”
Edmund spread his hands out suggestively, as if to say ‘things have changed.’
Serwyn looked almost wounded. “But Uncle Aldric has always been loyal. He supported my father his whole reign.”
Edmund nodded. “Aldric is loyal, although that loyalty is because of his love for your father more than any duty, which has never been something your uncle has held in high regard. However, I think it more likely that other barons in his command, Baron Pembroke for example, might be the issue. They are loyal to my brother, and they were loyal to your father, but they have always craved more power than their titles and family station have allowed them. I know Pembroke has hoped this war would elevate his status, but... if things are not going as he’d like them, there is a chance he might see a faster road to the power he craves.”
“I assume we can’t do anything about them either,” Serwyn said sullenly.
“Not directly. But that does not mean we are powerless,” Edmund said. “We must send a message, let these treasonous barons know that we are watching their actions closely.”
“Which means what? Since you said we can’t do anything about them directly.”
“Which means we do something indirect. My first thought would be to cut funding and support for our armies in Lynese. If they cannot adequately feed and supply their men, the generals will have no choice but to slow down operations and turn their focus inward. They will be too preoccupied with managing their forces to continue stirring up unrest here at home.”
He paused, considering his next words. “I believe the prudent course is to cut off support to the armies in Lynese. Reduce the supplies and gold we send.”
“What?” Serwyn blurted out. “We can’t win the war that way!”
“If it truly affects the war effort, we can restore the funding,” Edmund said smoothly. “But this will put pressure on those barons supporting the unrest. Force them to turn their attention away from fomenting chaos here and towards supplying their own men.”
Seeing the king still looking unconvinced, Edmund said, “You must remember, Your Grace, this war has already been extremely costly for Sidor in both gold and men. Even if we win, we cannot realistically conquer and hold the entire continent of Lynese. There are simply too many people over too vast a territory. The civil unrest from such an occupation would bankrupt us, and the amount of manpower required would bleed this kingdom dry.”
“But, they have to be taught a lesson.”
“They are being taught a lesson. We entered this war to teach the Lynese a stern lesson, to stop their meddling and supply of arms to the Alchmaran raiders who plague our coasts. In that regard, we have already succeeded. The Alchmarans’ attacks have lessened considerably thanks to your father’s decisive action and we’ve shown Baudric that we can take his land from him when we want. He will think twice about interfering a second time.”
“But the Alchmara are still raiding our coasts?” Serwyn said. “We get near weekly wyverns from Baron Sinclair complaining about it.”
“Only because so many of our soldiers are committed to the war in Lynese, leaving our coasts vulnerable. Once we bring our men home, the coast barons will be more than able to defend themselves. The Alchmara only test us because they know our armies are away and the cost to them is low. Once we have men back, they will rethink their actions. Yet another reason to end this war sooner rather than later.”
Serwyn didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pushed himself out of his chair and began pacing again, like a caged animal. Although the cage in this instance was the one not allowing him to just do what he wanted. Edmund felt for the boy, but he needed to learn sooner, rather than later, that in politics, the quick emotional response is rarely the right one.
“I understand your hesitation, Your Grace,” Edmund said gently. “But we must think of the long game here. Sacrifices are sometimes required for the greater good.”
“Fine, you win again, Uncle. Cut the funding as you see best.”
“Serwyn, it isn’t about winning or losing. I am not against you in this. If you truly wish to march our men onto the barons’ land and start a war with your vassals while the majority of our people fight overseas, of course we can do that. As my king, I am yours to command. I simply offer alternatives for you to consider.”
“Don’t do that, Uncle. I appreciate your loyalty, but don’t treat me like a child. If I ordered our loyal vassals to turn on the traitorous ones, you would send wyverns before mine ever left, suggesting caution and promising to deal with it yourself. I can feel your hands on my strings.”
“Serwyn, if I ever gave you the impression...”
“I’m not chastising you, Uncle. I know I have a lot to learn, so I put up with it, because of course you’re right. An all-out civil war is not the answer, and that would almost certainly be the result if I had my way. Just know that one day I will not need your guidance, and when I truly ask it, your machinations must end.”
Edmund resisted a frown, but only just. Serwyn’s sudden self-awareness was a surprise. In other times, it would be a welcome one, but Edmund would have preferred it directed at someone other than himself.
“Of course. As I said, I only want to see your rule be long and prosperous. We are blood, you and I. You will always have my loyalty.”
“Thank you, Uncle. Back to the matter at hand. If we do this, I don’t want to just guess. We need men in these people’s houses. You said the increased wyverns were not proof of treason, so get me proof. I’m tired of waiting and reacting to whatever the barons may do next.”
“As you command, Your Grace,” Edmund said, bowing.
