Volume One: The Knight of the Forest Chapter Three: Driven to the Frontier

In the council chamber of Valonburg, a fierce dispute was erupting. The two vice-chancellors, along with their trusted allies, were locked in a war of words, the root cause of which was how to reward Berion. Meanwhile, the very man at the center of all this conflict among the duchy's highest administrators lay idly on a settee in the Minister of Public Order’s reception room, drifting off into a drowsy slumber.

The ruling nobility of the Duchy of Brick was divided into two main factions, their rivalry now overt. The reason for this intensification was simple: the current Lord Chancellor, Count Rolf, was preparing to retire. At sixty-five years of age and after eight years in office, the weight of military, civil, and fiscal affairs had long since exhausted him. He had requested to be relieved of his duties several times, but as the Duke’s former tutor-at-arms and longtime companion, the Duke found it difficult to entrust such a burdensome responsibility to anyone else. However, since the latter half of last year, Count Rolf had begun coughing up blood frequently, and the Duke could no longer ignore the pressing need for a successor.

Beneath Count Rolf were two vice-chancellors: Count Windholm, who also served as Minister of the Treasury, and Count Loire, the Minister of War. Both were old friends of the Duke, capable men with years of experience governing alongside the Chancellor. Choosing one of them as the next Lord Chancellor seemed the optimal solution. Naturally, both aspired to become the power behind the throne, second only to the Duke. Thus, their rivalry flared, each striving to win over the nobility with promises of future gains. Owing to regional alignments, the Treasury Minister’s supporters were mostly southern lords, while the Minister of War was backed by northern nobles. The south enjoyed a mild, moist climate, fertile fields, and prosperous trade; accordingly, the southern faction, led by the Treasury Minister, advocated for restraint in warfare, reduction of commercial taxes, and the abolition of private toll stations set up by local lords to encourage commerce and the free flow of goods.

Conversely, the War Minister’s northern faction hailed from lands where the climate was cold, agricultural yields meager, and economic development lagged behind. Many northern lords were military nobles who favored war for expansion and enrichment. They vehemently opposed abolishing their private tolls, for their incomes were already modest—taking away such a vital source of revenue would reduce their standard of living drastically. As the saying went, “There is no love or hate without cause.” Already rivals, with their vital interests at stake, it was no surprise that the two sides clashed daily.

The Minister of Public Order had brought the corpse of Sir Logan, the severed heads of the Grey and Ward brothers, and the official bounty notice to the council chamber, recounting Berion’s story as he had told it. The Lord Chancellor invited the ministers to share their opinions.

The Minister of War, after glancing at the bounty proclamation, spoke: “A young man who braves danger alone and returns victorious—such valor has not been seen in the duchy for many years. I propose he be handsomely rewarded, at the very least with several prosperous villages and estates.” He paused, then shot a contemptuous look at the Treasury Minister opposite him, adding, “If we do not encourage such courage in the sons of knights, shall we continue selling knighthoods to men too fat to mount a horse?”

It was common knowledge that the great lords of Brick sold knighthoods to wealthy merchants. The southern faction, led by the Treasury Minister, sold them readily to the highest bidder—there was even talk of a three-hundred-pound man unable to mount a horse being dubbed a knight. By contrast, the military nobles of the north considered not just wealth but merit—at the very least, a man should have seen battle. The War Minister’s words were a clear jab at his southern counterpart.

At this, the Chancellor frowned, troubled by the open hostility between his two likely successors, but as long as they did not cross the line, he chose to turn a blind eye.

Unfazed by the provocation, the Treasury Minister raised his glass and took a measured sip. “I have no objection to rewarding a hero. The merit is undeniable, and our sovereign issued an official bounty in the name of the court. How can we allow our ruler to go back on his word?”

His lack of opposition surprised the others.

“However,” he continued, “the matter of reward is another issue entirely. The provinces of Valonbray and the ducal demesne have already seen too many knighthoods granted; there is little good land left to distribute. Besides, if we bestow villages and estates for killing two bandits, what shall we give those who slay enemy knights? I propose granting him the title of knight, along with an annual stipend equivalent to the income from a five-hundred-acre estate. Of course, should any lord wish to offer part of his own lands for this reward, I would wholeheartedly support it.”

Indeed, everything before the word “however” was mere preamble. The Treasury Minister’s argument was shrewd: first, the lack of available land—while there were still some decent villages and estates in the ducal demesne, everyone wanted to reserve these for their own supporters; second, the principle of fairness—if such a reward were given for killing two outlaw deserters, what would suffice for greater deeds?

It was a fair point: there simply was not enough prime land to grant Berion. Even the Duke, faced with the heads of Grey and Ward, might regret his impulsive bounty notice; to reward with land would be to give up too much, while not to reward would break his word. The Treasury Minister’s suggestion of a cash reward, though a solution, was almost an insult. No one in their right mind would prefer an unstable stipend over hereditary land.

As expected, supporters of the War Minister quickly denounced this idea as a betrayal of the knightly spirit and a failure to honor promises, while the Treasury Minister’s faction countered that the military party was unfit for governance, recklessly granting rewards.

As the quarrel wore on, the Chancellor could bear it no longer and banged the table several times, finally silencing the assembly.

“I asked for solutions, not arguments! If you have a good idea, speak it; if not, be silent or leave!” With the Chancellor’s anger, the room fell instantly quiet—Count Rolf’s reputation and seniority compelled obedience.

Where before all had been eager to debate, now not one ventured a suggestion. The Chancellor’s gaze swept the room and settled on the Chief Scholar, who was smiling down at the map in his hands.

“Master Bryn,” the Chancellor inquired, “have you any insight?”

Chief Scholar Bryn set down his map. “My lord Chancellor, I believe I have found a solution.”

All eyes turned to him. The Chancellor nodded for him to continue.

“When I was court secretary,” Bryn began, “the late Duke once explained to me the standards by which a sovereign grants land to his vassals: great deeds earn rich and thriving lands; moderate deeds, fertile lands; lesser deeds, barren lands; the most meager deeds, only wilderness to cultivate. Our young hero Berion, though brave, is still very young and has only slain two bandits—not defeated an entire enemy force. This, I believe, counts as a modest deed.”

“So you propose sending him to cultivate the wilderness?” asked the Tax Minister.

“Precisely. Grant him a tract of wild land for him to develop,” Bryn replied.

“But which land?” the Minister of Public Order asked, puzzled.

Bryn summoned two guards to hold up a map, then pointed to a forest in the northern reaches of the duchy. “Here—the Stagwood. Most of the Stagwood lies north of the Karl River, but the southern bank covers about six hundred thousand acres.”

“You’re not suggesting giving him all of the southern Stagwood, are you? Even if it’s forest, six hundred thousand acres is a fortune!” the Tax Minister interjected.

“No, of course not, my dear Tax Minister.” Bryn circled a small area with a quill.

“Here—there’s a lake of about fifty thousand acres known as the Forest Lake, which divides the southern Stagwood into eastern and western sections. The west covers about five hundred and fifty thousand acres; the east, just over fifty thousand acres of woods and over twenty thousand acres of grassland. Two years ago, a watch post was built on the grassland east of the lake for soldiers hunting bandits.

“We all know, too, that many outlaws hide in the Stagwood.” Bryn paused, sipping his wine before continuing. “I think this land is the perfect reward for Berion: the watch post can serve as his manor, and we can appoint him deputy sheriff of the ducal demesne, charging him with clearing out the bandits. If he could defeat the most notorious outlaws, surely he can handle these lesser threats. Of course, this is only my humble suggestion—the decision rests with you, my lord Chancellor, and your esteemed colleagues.”

A tract of fifty thousand acres of forest, plus twenty thousand of grassland, was indeed vast for a knight’s fief—most hereditary knightly estates in Brick were around five thousand acres. But this was wild, undeveloped land; it might take three generations to make it productive. It was a fitting reward. Neither faction could find fault with the Chief Scholar’s proposal, and the Chancellor nodded approvingly.

“My lords, I find Master Bryn’s proposal excellent. What say you?”

“We agree—support for Master Bryn’s proposal!”

“Yes, it is a perfect solution.”

And so, while Berion napped away his afternoon, the lords of the court made him lord of the northern woods and deputy sheriff responsible for rooting out bandits.

It was already late, so the Chancellor postponed reporting to the Duke until the next day. The Minister of Public Order returned to his office without revealing the news, simply instructing Berion to come back in the morning.

Berion understood that such matters required much discussion among the great lords, so he thought nothing of it. After taking his leave, he found his uncle, Sir Rudy, at the city garrison, and spent the night at his house in Valonbray. His aunt, with his young cousins, was away visiting her family, so only Rudy was home. Uncle and nephew, reunited after so long, talked and drank late into the night.

The next day, Berion awoke near noon. Still drowsy, he was pulled out of bed by his uncle, who urged him to wash up and go to the court for news of his reward. Rudy gave him a fur cloak, insisting that a newly minted knight could not present himself in a simple cotton robe.

Thus attired, Berion returned to the office of the Minister of Public Order, who was waiting for him. The Chancellor had gone early that morning to report to the Duke, who, after seeing the body of Sir Logan and the heads of Grey and Ward, and hearing the proposal, agreed without hesitation. After all, it was merely forest haunted by bandits, yielding nothing of value—the Duke approved at once.

When Berion entered, the Minister of Public Order greeted him warmly and offered him a mug of ale.

“Berion—no, I should call you Sir Berion now. The Duke has approved your knighthood and fief as of this morning,” the Minister said with a smile.

Berion was overjoyed; he had not expected the reward to come so quickly—it was like a dream. Now he stood equal with his father, both hereditary knights of the court.

“Praise be to the great Fire God, thanks to our wise sovereign and to you, my lord. Without your support, I doubt my reward would have come so swiftly.” Grateful as he was, he did not forget his manners.

The Minister nodded in satisfaction. “You must know, Sir Berion, that securing this fief for you took much effort from the Minister of War and myself. Had we not argued fiercely on your behalf, you would have received only a title and a purse of gold, as the Treasury Minister proposed.”

“Honored lord, Berion Tuck will never forget the kindness you and Count Loire have shown me,” Berion replied, bowing deeply in thanks.

The Minister’s words were meant to steer Berion’s loyalties against the southern faction, but as a new and minor lord, Berion knew better than to get involved in the power struggles of the great. For now, he simply feigned ignorance.