Chapter 1264: A knight of princes and kings(2)
The village was everything he could ever wish for. Peace and quiet. Some would say it a grand jape for a dubbed knight to envy the mundane lives of farmers and peasants, and yet Viron always thought his own life was nothing more than a bad gods’ joke.
Besides, he had visited quite a few villages across Oizen and Kakunia in his youth, and he had to say, this one felt a bit different, stranger, even, than tall he others.
"Where the prince lays stone, the trees go weeping." That was what the smallfolk said along the roads of Yarzat, and as soon as he had crossed away from Oizen, the proverb had proven itself half true. He had been completely unmolested on the road, nor had he encountered a single sign of banditry or pillaging.
Inns sprouted like mushrooms after rain, and even though he now had the coin to afford them, he had purposely chosen not to make use of their services. He feared that a single taste of that soft life, and he could never force himself back to the old, hard way of the road.
Though, to his slight sadness, he hadn’t seen any actual trees weeping. It was such a queer thing to say; he had asked a farmer on the road to the capital about the phrase, and the man had just chuckled into his beard, saying it had been months since any such tree had been found. Whatever that meant...why would there be weeping trees?
"Ser! Ser! Come! Come!" Big Oaf Owen muttered excitedly, waving a massive hand from the cottage door. The lad had been practically vibrating with this energy for the last week or so. He clearly missed home with every fiber of his being... and Viron was about to take him away from it again. Was that truly right?
Viron pushed the lingering doubt away, just as he pushed past the wooden door.
The house was nothing great to speak of, just a normal, weathered timber house with a thick thatched roof. There was a small animal pen attached to the side, and judging by the fresh droppings lining the straw, it was home to either goats or sheep.
Lowering his towering head to clear the low lintel, Viron entered his squire’s domain. The first thing he saw was a middle-aged woman tending to the hearth with a worn straw broom. Her back was turned to them
Vilon coughed and she turned.
Her eyes went as wide as oranges the moment she looked up and saw the two figures blocking the light of her doorway. There was no suspicion in her gaze, for the very first face she truly saw was, without a doubt, her boy.
"Mama!" Owen bellowed, thundering toward her like a massive boulder crashing down a valley.
"Owen?!"
She looked as though her spine were about to crack in two from the sheer velocity of the collision. The boy grabbed her by the waist and hoisted her completely off the floor, burying his face into her shoulder.
"Mama! Yes, it’s me! I’m back!"
She let out a breathless, weeping laugh as he finally set her down, her rough hands instantly flying up to cup his square shorn head. She grinned through her tears, pinching his cheeks as if to verify he wasn’t a phantom sent by the five gods.
Before the boy could even properly apologize for his hair, another face peered out from the adjoining room, drawn by the incredible ruckus.
"Owen?"
The voice belonged to a young girl, no more than fourteen, with leaf-brown hair tumbling down around a round face and a pudgy, freckled nose.
"Marila!" Owen roared.
He released his mother, who was still gasping for a proper breath of air, and lunged forward to wrap his younger sister in the exact same rib-crushing embrace. The girl let out a delighted shriek as her feet left the ground, her small hands hammering playfully against his stocky shoulders.
Viron stood quietly in the shadow of the doorway, his shoulders filling the entrance as he watched the pure, unadulterated joy radiating from the hearth. He kept his gauntlets held loosely in front of his belt, a polite, slightly awkward smile resting on his face. He felt entirely out of place amidst such raw, domestic love, like a stray wolf sitting at a shepherd’s table.
Owen finally set his sister down, his face flushed and grinning from ear to ear as he turned back toward the threshold.
’’Mama, Marila, this is Ser Vilon.A knight with horse. A beautiful horse.’’ He said gesturing animatedly toward the man ’’ChestNut is his name. He had a beautiful brown mane but it now as some lakes of white!He let me ride it from time to time, it’s outside!’’
’’A knight?’’
The mother’s eyes shifted from her son at him . Her breath hitched slightly at the sight of Vilon’s armor and the long, notched sword resting at his hip, but the sheer gratitude in her face quickly washed away any lingering fear of the man She wiped her hands hurriedly on her apron and took a step forward, bowing her head deeply.
"Welcome to our hearth, Ser," she said awkwardly, her fingers twisting the edge of her apron. While her voice overflowed with gratitude, her eyes still held a lingering, bewildered question. She clearly could not comprehend why a heavily armored knight would be sitting in her modest kitchen instead of a lord’s hall.
"Marila," she said, turning sharply to the young girl to mask her nerves. "Go fetch your brother from the pastures. I am certain he wants to see his younger brother returned from the war."
The girl nodded quickly, ducking her head as she darted past Viron. As she bypassed his massive frame, she couldn’t help but gape openly at his height, staring up as if he were some exotic, queer beast that had mistakenly wandered into her path. It was far from the first time people had reacted to his size that way; Viron merely offered her a reassuring, lopsided smile as she slipped out the door.
"May I take a seat?" he asked, keeping his voice as low and gentle as possible so as not to startle the woman.
"Of course, Ser. Please," she nodded quickly, gesturing toward the sturdy oak bench by the hearth. "Anything we have is yours."
Yet, even as she scurried to fetch a clean cloth to wipe down an already spotless table, her eyes kept darting back to him, silently asking what business a knight had with her boy.
Viron had been on the road for days, his joints aching from the weight of his plate armor, so he gratefully took his seat. He exchanged a few quiet, polite pleasantries with Owen’s mother, while his squire enthusiastically took over the room. The big oaf began gesturing wildly, narrating his grand adventures during the southern campaign with a dramatic fervor. Viron watched the lad with a quiet satisfaction; he had seen war completely break stouter men, twisting their souls even if their bodies came out alive. It was a truly joyful thing to see that the slaughter at the Ford had not stolen Owen’s light.
A few minutes later, the wooden door swung open for a second time. A stocky, sun-browned young man strode through the threshold, a weathered wool hat perched on his head and a heavy wooden shepherding cane gripped in his hand. He took one look at Owen, dropped his cane with a loud clatter, and for the third time that day, a spine was nearly broken.
"Would you share a midday meal with us, Ser?" the mother asked, turning back to the hearth as the brothers finally detached from one another.
Viron tried to politely refuse, not wanting to diminish their winter stores, but the family wouldn’t budge a single inch and reassured him they had more than enough. They practically ordered him to stay. As he sat back, watching Owen buried under a mountain of smiles, practical jokes, and affectionate clips to the back of the head, Viron felt his chest tighten with a strange, bittersweet ache.
Is this what a family is supposed to look like? he wondered. Somewhere deep down, beneath his armor, he knew the answer was yes.And he also knew it was not his thing.
The meal was served shortly thereafter. It was a simple affair, vastly simpler than the rich, heavy rations the high officers had enjoyed during the final days of the campaign. It was a thick, steaming porridge with roughly cut carrots and smashed potatoes stirred into the grains.
On the side, they had set out a block of pale country cheese that tasted remarkably sharp and good, along with a dense loaf of black bread for each of them, except for Owen and Viron, who were gifted two whole loaves each.
There was also a heavy earthenware jug filled to the brim with fresh milk.
Viron lifted his wooden cup and took a slow, appreciative sip, feeling the rich warmth coat his throat. Hedge knights didn’t often get the chance to drink fresh milk on the trail; usually, they would have to track down a shepherd along the road, trade a copper bronzii for a jug or two, and boil it over a smoky campfire before choking it down.
He smacked his lips slightly, noticing a distinct sweetness. "Is this sheep’s milk?" he asked, realizing it completely lacked that sharp, earthy, slightly sour tang that goat’s milk always carried.
Owen’s mother instantly paused her spoon, a sudden, high-browed worry seeping into her weathered face. "Yes, Ser. Why? Is it not to your liking? I can fetch water from the well—"
"Oh, no, nothing of the sort," Viron reassured her quickly, raising a hand. "It’s excellent. It’s just... Owen told me his brother usually tended to the goats. I did not realize your household kept sheep as well."
"We didn’t," Owen’s older brother spoke up, talking around a massive hunk of cheese he had just shoved into his cheek. "Got ’em right after the lad went south. Five of them. Some coin-pinchers came through the valley talking about a new decree, and the village elders sent a few of us down to the capital to see if the words were true."
The mother immediately reached across the table and cuffed her eldest son hard across the back of his neck. "Tax collectors, Harl! Not coin-pinchers!" she admonished sharply. "Mind your tongue in front of a knight."
"That’s exactly what they are, Mama," Harl muttered, rubbing his neck with a sheepish wounded expression.
Owen’s jaw dropped, a spoonful of porridge hovering halfway to his mouth. "Wait, so we actually have sheep now? Real ones with wool?"
"Aye, Owen," Marila piped up from the corner "Four fine ewes and a grand, stubborn ram. I get to cart the wool to the capital come spring.Two of the ewes are pregnant too"
"We discovered that the crown was allowing villages like ours to take out a loan, Ser. "Owen’s mother continued as he noticed Vilon’s expression
"A loan?!" He choked slightly on his bread, his brow furrowing. Are these folks entirely mad? he wondered. He had seen what happened to men who fell into debt with merchants or moneylenders; never ended well.
"Oh, no, I see exactly what you are thinking, Ser, but it is nothing of that sort," the mother clarified quickly, waving her hands to dispel his alarm. "It is the Princess, well, the Queen now, five bless her and her husband. It is an official decree from the capital.Or so the village head said."
She leaned in a bit closer,. "We were told that any registered village can apply for an iron-stamped credit line. They don’t just offer sheep, either. A village can take out a loan to buy proper iron plows, tempered scythes, or even high-bred goats and cattle to improve their stock.
The payment of the debt is extended across years and years with the taxation. They only ask for a tiny handful of coin after the autumn harvest is sold, so small you barely feel the pinch."
Viron stared at her, his spoon resting idly against the rim of his bowl as he processed the information. He had spent his entire youth believing that rulers only existed to take, to wrench grain from the barns, to conscript boys into the mud, and to demand heavy taxes for wars fought in distant lands. The idea of a throne willingly lending tools, incredibly made of iron , and livestock to dirty and smelly peasants, stretching the debt across a decade just to help them prosper, sounded less like statecraft and more like an old bard’s fairy tale.
"Iron tools too?" Viron murmured, genuinely fascinated.
"Aye," Harl grunted, nodding vigorously as he took a bite of the loaf of bread. "Old Miller Dan got two new iron scythes for his boys. They cleared the western meadow in half the time it took last league. The village is already talking about applying for an iron-rimmed plow next season along with two mules to share around.
I always wanted a mule."
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