Volume One: The Forest Knight Chapter Six: Money Is the Messenger of God in the Mortal World

On the Sacred Flame Square, Berion, clad in full armor and gripping his sword, had spent the winter night huddled around the holy fire. By dawn, he was nearly at his breaking point. Fortunately, Sir Rudy arrived early the next morning with several teaching knights. They escorted Berion to Valon Castle and allowed him to rest in a special chamber. Berion had thought this was a privilege reserved for himself, but later learned it was due to a past incident where a knight, after standing vigil all night, fell asleep during the investiture ceremony. Now, newly appointed knights were permitted a period of rest after their vigil to avoid such embarrassing mishaps.

After nearly two hours of sleep, Berion was awakened by a teaching knight. He washed his face with cold water and proceeded to the palace hall for the investiture ceremony. For someone of Berion’s humble noble status, the ceremony was not presided over by the Duke himself but by the Grand Knight, Count Hao. The audience was limited to apprentice knights and knight squires, making for a modest occasion.

Led by Count Hao, Berion knelt on one knee and recited the knight’s oath: “I, Berion Tark, swear before the God of Fire to be loyal to my sovereign, to serve unto death; to oppress not the weak, to act with humility; to fear no foe in battle; to speak honestly and uprightly, preferring death to deceit…”

Once the oath was proclaimed, Count Hao took the Duke’s sword from a nearby knight and tapped Berion’s left and right shoulders with the blade, declaring, “By this, I appoint Berion Tark as a Court Knight of the Principality of Brick, bestow upon him the title of Executioner, grant him the Norenton Outpost and fifty thousand acres of surrounding woodland as his fief, which shall henceforth be named Norenton Castle District. I award him twenty serfs, twenty weapons, ten suits of armor, ten gold coins, exempt his fief from taxes for ten years—after which taxes will be levied based on the actual cultivated land—and grant him the right to build a castle…”

At these words, Berion knew the money he had given the Minister of Justice had been well spent—serfs, weapons, ten years of tax exemption. These were excellent conditions for him, especially the tax exemption, which would save him a fortune. Clearly, no matter the society, gifts remain the best way to solve problems, Berion mused inwardly.

After the ceremony, it was customary for the Duke to host a banquet. However, given Berion’s lowly rank among the nobility, only the teaching knights dined with him for a simple luncheon. That afternoon, accompanied by a teaching knight, Berion took his documents to the Heraldry Institute, as he was now a lord with an independent fief, entitled to his own coat of arms.

Meeting the heraldic officer, Berion handed over his pre-designed sketch, requesting it be followed. The herald examined it and asked curiously, “Esteemed Sir Berion, what is the meaning behind this design?”

Berion smiled and replied, “Honorable herald, my family’s crest is a hunting eagle. I have chosen the eagle again to signify my lineage. To distinguish mine, my eagle bears two heads, one facing left and one right, symbolizing constant vigilance. Each talon holds a sword and a book—the sword is a knight’s blade, representing bravery; the book is the Holy Scripture, signifying my eternal obedience to the God of Fire, who shall forever bless me and my family.”

“A brilliant explanation and ingenious design! Sir Berion, you are not only brave but wise,” the herald applauded.

“You must pay twenty denars for the creation of your signet ring, seal, and banner. It will take about a month,” he added, businesslike after his praise.

“Can it be done faster? A month is too long—I need to assume my post on my fief soon,” Berion asked.

“If you are willing to pay a hundred denars, we can finish within a week, and include ten black cloaks embroidered with your crest and two surcoats, plus paint your arms on your shield,” the herald offered.

Berion took a pouch from his pocket, weighed it, and handed it over. “Here are one hundred sixty silver coins. I want it done in three days, and at least five banners, twenty cloaks with my crest, and five surcoats. Also, my shield.” With that, he placed his shield on the table before the herald.

The herald rose and bowed deeply. “As you wish, esteemed Sir Berion. In three days, you may send someone to collect them.”

Next, the teaching knight arranged for an apprentice knight to guide Berion to an estate on the outskirts of Valonbray. The serfs and weapons awarded to Berion were to come from this manor.

After announcing their arrival, the estate’s guards led Berion to the corpulent steward. Upon seeing Berion’s knight investiture document and the rewards list stamped with the court’s seal, the steward invited Berion to sit in the reception room while he selected the serfs for him. At this, Berion thought, This simply won’t do. I must choose my own serfs—otherwise, what use is it if they hand me a bunch of old and infirm folk?

“Honored steward, let me accompany you in the selection. After all, they are to be taken to my fief, and I would prefer to choose personally,” Berion said with a smile.

The steward looked troubled. “Sir Berion, that’s not possible. There’s no precedent for such a thing. We always select them for the lord, otherwise, if all the strong laborers are chosen, how will my estate manage? We still need people to till the fields and herd the cattle.”

Before he finished, Berion shoved a pouch into his hand. “My friend, the Duke has already approved the grant of serfs to me. What harm is there in letting me choose? After all, these serfs aren’t your property. Why take it so seriously?” Berion patted him on the shoulder.

The steward opened the pouch, stunned to find thirty silver coins inside. His previously troubled expression instantly turned obsequious. Smiling, he said, “Sir Berion, had it been anyone else, I would never agree. I swear by the God of Fire, truly so. But for you—a great and admirable knight—I’ll have the guards gather all the serfs for you to choose.”

Seeing this, Arn silently reflected, “Indeed, money is the god’s messenger among mortals, driving people to madness and abandon their principles.”

Soon, all the serfs were assembled in the manor’s open yard—over three hundred people. Though it was the cold winter, most wore thin clothing, many lacked proper footwear, with only scraps of animal hide wrapped over straw sandals. They stood vacant-eyed, shivering in the wind, waiting for the steward’s orders.

Berion felt a pang of pity, but knowing he could not yet protect others before securing his own position, steeled himself and proceeded to select his first subjects as if choosing merchandise.

Accompanied by the steward, Berion climbed onto a large wooden crate and addressed the crowd, “Women, children, and those over fifty, step aside.” With the manor guards’ urging, they withdrew to the surrounding sheds. Berion did this mainly out of compassion, not wanting to see the vulnerable suffer in the cold.

About a hundred remained in the yard. Berion continued, “Those who have fought in battle, worked as craftsmen, or possess a skill, step forward. The rest, step back.”

This eliminated about two-thirds, leaving thirty people. Berion had the craftsmen stand to the right, the battle-hardened to the left. There were ten craftsmen—five could drive carts, plus leatherworkers, carpenters, stone masons, though no blacksmiths, as Berion knew that in this era, blacksmiths were too skilled to be made serfs.

He then approached the left, all sturdy men who had seen combat. Yet Berion wasn’t sure if any were maimed, so he devised a test: “All of you, raise your hands above your heads and jump in place.” As expected, a few with battle injuries revealed themselves. Unable to take them in his current situation, Berion had the guards remove them, leaving twenty-five men.

Berion leaned close to the steward and whispered, “I want all of these men.”

The steward’s eyes flickered. He whispered, “For each extra, fifty denars. Otherwise, I can’t explain it to my superiors.”

Berion nodded, pulled out three gold coins, handed them over, and whispered, “Could you also give me a few strong women? My fief will need people to cook and wash.” Though male labor was vital, Berion didn’t want his land to overflow with masculine energy. Some young women would provide balance, and he planned to use marriage grants to win over the best among the twenty-five men.

The steward’s eyes glazed at the sight of the gold coins. Cheerfully, he said, “Brother Berion, I’ll let you choose ten women and five children.” He patted Berion’s shoulder. “You’ll also need children and youths as squires—a lord’s manor must have them, trained from young for loyalty.”

Money had brought them closer. The steward kindly reminded Berion of some practical matters. Berion nodded, and with the steward’s help, selected ten robust women aged twenty to forty and five boys about twelve or thirteen.

After completing the formalities and receiving the contracts, Berion had the manor guards gather his serfs in an empty granary, sheltered from wind and snow, much better than outside. The steward stood atop a large crate, read the notice of transfer aloud, and the serfs knelt to Berion, swearing their loyalty.

When they rose, Berion stood on the crate and addressed them: “You are now my subjects. I won’t say much. You need to know only three things: First, obey me, follow my orders, and complete your tasks, and you will have food, shelter, and clothing; second, betray me, and there is only one end—death. Laziness or wrongdoing will be severely punished; third and most important, so long as you do not betray me and work diligently, five years from now, I will grant you freedom.”

The first two points were commonplace among lords, but the third delighted the serfs. No one wished to remain bound as a serf; everyone yearned for freedom. The moment Berion spoke the third point, the previously vacant eyes of these people lit up—hope had returned to their lives.

Berion gave the steward an extra thirty denars to provide food for the serfs these next few days, instructing him to make sure they ate well, as they would soon travel long distances, and their current health was worrisome. The steward, now thoroughly won over by Berion’s wealth, readily agreed. When Berion went to the armory to select weapons, two gold coins sufficed to settle matters.

Berion took ten spears, ten battle axes, five swords, five leather-covered round shields, ten suits of hardened leather armor, fifteen iron-plated helmets, and, most importantly, discovered two crates of crossbows in the armory, from which he brazenly took five crossbows and two hundred bolts. With these weapons, fifteen combat-experienced serfs, himself, and Iom, they should be able to handle most bandits on the road.

Having settled the serfs and armaments, Berion asked the steward for two guest rooms—he and Iom would stay at the manor until the heraldry was ready, training their new soldiers for the journey ahead.

Leaving the manor, Berion returned to Valonbray. He went first to Wine Street, to the tavern called Sugg’s, where he found Iom.

It was already evening. Iom was eating in the tavern’s first floor. When Berion arrived, he ordered roast rabbit and a large mug of ale.

Over dinner, Berion outlined his plan to Iom. “Iom, I need to buy warm clothing. The serfs are dressed far too lightly—even in southern Valonbray it’s insufficient, let alone the northern lands. We also need grain for the journey and the early construction phase; tools like hammers, saws, nails, plus fabric, pots, and other household goods. We’re not heading to a fertile area, but to a northern forest, with nothing but an outpost.”

Iom tore off a rabbit leg, eating as he spoke, “With so much stuff, we’ll need a few carts.”

Berion nodded, “Not just carts—we need horses too. I have only three, which I took from the bandits, but they’re all warhorses, unsuitable for hauling. We need packhorses.”

As they pondered how to procure everything, Sir Rudy entered the tavern. He knew Berion had arranged for Iom to stay here and guessed Berion would come after the investiture. Berion ordered more roast rabbit and ale, then shared the conversation he’d had with Laurence.

Sir Rudy grinned, “No need to worry. I know a place where you can get everything cheaply.”

Berion and Iom were startled. “Where?”

“Go to the Saltfish Market in the lower city. It’s a black market—thieves, robbers, and bandits all fence their goods there, and prices are lowest. But newcomers are likely to be swindled; they don’t care if you’re a noble,” Rudy said, sipping his ale. “Tomorrow I’m off duty, so I’ll go with you. I’ve been in Valonbray for years and am in charge of city defense; those people respect me.”