Volume One: The Knight of the Forest Chapter Nine: The Growing Company

When dining at home, there was little need to drink; though Berion and Iomer accompanied their father, Sir Auray, for a few glasses, the amount was modest. Early the next morning, Berion rose before dawn, and not long after breakfast with his parents, the three village chiefs arrived. Sir Auray explained the situation to them, urging their full cooperation with Berion. Thereafter, Berion and Iomer followed the village chiefs and departed.

Berion’s recruitment terms—promising land, food and lodging, and a stipend in denars—quickly attracted a crowd. Yet, once word spread that the task was to reclaim wilderness in the remote northern borderlands, far fewer volunteered. By midday, after visiting two villages, they had managed to recruit only five self-sufficient farmers who, being second sons without inheritance rights, were eager to join. Frustrated, Berion and Iomer made their way to the tavern in the marketplace—the only tavern in Frondo Hold—for a drink.

The tavern was managed by none other than Mark, the steward’s second son and one of Berion’s childhood companions. Mark had seen Berion last year when accompanying his father on errands to Wallonbray. Recognizing Berion, he greeted him warmly; since the tavern was quiet at noon, Mark played barkeep himself, serving them food and drink, and sat down to converse as they ate.

After hearing Berion's purpose, Mark pondered and then asked, “Young master Berion, besides farmers and soldiers, do you need someone who can handle accounts?”

Berion’s spirits lifted instantly. “Of course I do! I need someone literate and numerate to help manage the estate.”

He smiled knowingly. “What is it, Mark? Do you wish to come with me? My fief is a desolate place.”

Mark sighed. “I’m not afraid of desolation, only of living each day in grievance.”

“You’re the steward’s son; who would dare bully you here?” Iomer asked curiously.

“Is it your elder brother?” Berion inquired.

Mark nodded. “Ever since he married, he targets me often. He fears Father might entrust me with the only tavern in Frondo Hold, so he tries to find fault with me. As the second son without inheritance, Father would leave me little more than a few acres and thatched cottages. I don’t understand his concerns.”

Berion patted his shoulder. “Because you’re smarter and more capable than he is, he’s jealous. I was bullied by my own brother for the same reason—you know that, don’t you? It’s all because I was brighter.”

Their shared childhood memories brought a smile of mutual understanding.

Berion grew serious. “Mark, I’m delighted you wish to come, but if you do, you’ll no longer be just my childhood friend. You’ll be my steward, and you must pledge unconditional loyalty to me. Can you do that?”

Mark replied solemnly, “Young master Berion, I’m willing to serve you, assist you in managing your estate, just as my father serves yours.”

“Excellent, Mark. From now on, you are the steward of Norland Keep. Let’s drink to our partnership!” Berion was filled with joy at Mark’s joining.

“Our Norland Keep is gathering a complete team—artisans, soldiers, now a steward,” Iomer added, equally pleased.

Berion and Mark exchanged smiles. Berion addressed Mark, “My steward, your first task: how do we recruit more people, especially skilled ones like yourself?”

Mark thought for a moment. “Self-sufficient farmers are shrewd. Unless faced with war, they won’t abandon their homes for a distant lord; at best, they’ll send their second sons who have no inheritance, since they’d be driven out eventually.”

Berion nodded for him to continue.

“The best method,” Mark went on, “is for your father to grant you some serfs. As slaves, they won’t dare escape easily. Moreover, as you’re doing now, you can motivate them by restoring their freedom. But most serfs here are family units; so you’d need to take whole families. That’s actually good—they’ll settle more easily with kin.”

“That’s fine,” Berion agreed. “Taking a few serf families shouldn’t be a problem. I can pay Father for them, if necessary.”

Seeing Berion accept his advice, Mark felt a sense of accomplishment and continued, “As for skilled people, I can recommend a few, but you’ll need to approach them yourself.”

Berion smiled. “If they’re talented, I’ll personally invite them.”

Mark smiled back. “First, there’s a pair of hunter brothers and their companions—five in all. They came from elsewhere two years ago, rent rooms in my house, and spend their days hunting and trading furs. Not only is their archery exceptional, they’re expert trackers. I heard in the tavern that, after wounding a wild boar, they traced its blood trail for six or seven leagues to its lair and wiped out the whole family.”

“Such capable men are exactly what I need—not only for hunting, but as scouts in war,” Berion said.

Perhaps talking so much left him thirsty; Mark took a sip of ale before continuing. “There’s also a mercenary captain, leader of a squad. He and his nephew came here this summer to recover from wounds. After healing, the lord hired them to train the castle’s infantry. They don’t earn much, but their meals are covered, so it’s comfortable. They’re both experienced fighters and know battle formations and tactics.”

Berion struck the table in delight. “Mark, you’re my lucky charm! Let’s finish this ale and go visit them.”

After another toast, Mark summoned his mother to tend the tavern, then led the others to meet the hunters.

At Mark’s home, they found the old steward present, while the leader of the hunters, a burly man, was arguing with him over taxes.

The steward addressed the five hunters sternly: “Our lord permits you to hunt in Frondo Hold, but you don’t pay the proper taxes. I have no choice but to order you to leave within three days.”

The lead hunter looked regretful, pleading, “Steward, we’ll pay up thirty denars more, let us stay until spring? It’s bitter cold now, and driving us out would be harsh.”

“Hmph! Either pay fifty denars in taxes, or pack up and go—no discussion!” The steward was clearly angry.

“Steward, let me pay their taxes for them. Don’t trouble them further,” Berion interjected.

Seeing Berion approach, the steward quickly bowed. “Young master Berion, what brings you here? Weren’t you recruiting in the villages?”

“I ran into your son Mark and thought I’d stop by,” Berion replied, producing a pouch and counting out fifty denars for the steward.

The steward looked anxious. “Young master Berion, I can’t accept your money. If the lord and lady find out, they’ll never forgive me.”

Berion pressed the coins into his hand. “Take it, register it as tax. It’ll be fine.”

At that, the steward pocketed the silver and smiled. “Young master Berion, you’re truly merciful—a lord who cares for his people.” And with that, he departed.

Once he’d left, the lead hunter approached Berion, bowed deeply, and said, “Sir knight, thank you for your help. Hunter Barin and my brothers will never forget your kindness.”

Berion quickly bid him rise. “No need for thanks—helping those in need is a knight’s duty.”

“There are few nobles who truly live by chivalry,” Barin said.

Berion felt a flush in his cheeks; it was a small act of kindness, yet their gratitude was overwhelming. But in the cold, everyone’s cheeks were rosy, so it went unnoticed.

Berion asked, “Barin, why did you come to hunt in Frondo Hold? Why not stay in your homeland?”

Barin sighed. “Sir knight, our homeland was laid waste by a feud between two barons. Aside from the five of us, our kin either perished in war or vanished. For years, our hunting skills let us wander from place to place, hoping to settle somewhere, but merciful lords are rare.”

Berion nodded. “After leaving Frondo Hold, where will you go?”

Barin shook his head. “We’ve no plans—just take each day as it comes.”

“I am lord of Norland Keep and deputy sheriff of the direct county. I’m recruiting for my new post. Will you come with me?” Berion asked sincerely.

The sudden invitation surprised Barin and his companions. Barin hesitated, then said, “My lord, I must consult with my brothers.”

Berion nodded. “Very well. If you choose to follow me, come find me at Frondo Hold.”

He turned to leave, but paused and added, “I can’t promise you wealth or land, but if you work hard, you’ll receive weekly wages, and I’ll provide for your needs. If you become my subjects, I’ll reward you with land and homes according to your merit. Above all, I promise kindness to my people—I won’t let anyone in my domain go cold or hungry while I feast in the castle.”

With that, Berion departed, Iomer and Mark following. Before they reached the gate, Barin called out loudly, “Sir Berion, the five of us will follow you!”

Berion turned back, approached Barin, and said joyfully, “Good! Our camp is beside Frondo Hold; gather your things and join us. Here are five denars, your first week’s pay.”

He handed over a pouch with five silver coins, but Barin refused. “Sir Berion, we follow you as your subjects, not as mercenaries. Loyalty to one’s lord requires no wage.”

“That may be so elsewhere, but in my domain, every man’s labor is valued.” Berion pressed the pouch into his hand and walked away, leaving Barin and his companions stunned.

Outside, Mark said to Iomer, “I used to doubt the bard’s claim that some men are born leaders, but today I believe it. With a lord like young master Berion, how could one not pledge their life?”

Berion, hearing them whisper behind him, halted and asked, “What are you two talking about?”

Iomer grinned. “We’re saying we must serve Sir Berion well, so we too may have homes and land someday.”

“Get lost, you two rascals,” Berion laughed.

After some banter, Mark led them to visit the mercenary Bes. Arriving at the fenced yard where Bes lodged, Berion saw a middle-aged man instructing a youth in swordplay—the boy looked about fourteen or fifteen.

Noticing Berion’s party at the gate, the two halted. The man asked, “Mark, you’ve brought friends—what brings you here? I don’t owe you for ale, do I?”

Mark chuckled. “Brother Bes, this is Sir Berion Tucker, second son of Sir Auray, court knight and lord of Norland Keep, and his squire. Young master Berion has just been granted his fief and appointed deputy sheriff to suppress bandits. He needs skilled men like you, so I’ve brought him.”

Bes regarded Berion thoughtfully. “So Dawnblade is your teacher? I’ve heard your father mention him.”

Berion nodded. “Yes, Sir Logan, famed as Dawnblade, is my mentor.”

“In that case, if Dawnblade’s pupil can best me, I’ll join you. After all, I once lost to Dawnblade himself,” Bes said, with a hint of sorrow.

Knowing Bes had crossed swords with his teacher, Berion took him seriously. Though he lacked extensive combat experience, he could tell Bes was formidable—perhaps too formidable for him.

As Berion hesitated, Iomer drew his sword, stepped forward, and addressed Bes, “Many have tasted defeat at Sir Logan’s hand. There’s no shame in that. Most consider it an honor to duel Dawnblade.”

Bes chuckled. “Are you also one of Dawnblade’s pupils?”

“I am not, but I’ve studied swordsmanship under him longer than Sir Berion. If you wish to test yourself, I’ll spar on my lord’s behalf. After all, a hereditary lord shouldn’t duel a mercenary without cause. I hope you understand,” Iomer declared, stepping forward to face him.