Afternoon, April 11th, Anno Domini 1200
The Solar, Keep of Falkenstrand
The midday meal had been a solitary affair for Alaric, taken in the solar as he mentally reviewed the morning's efforts and the dire reports from his captain and reeve. The Barony of Falkenstrand was not merely impoverished; it was an organism riddled with inefficiencies, its lifeblood trickling away through a thousand small, unexamined wounds. His directives to Kaelan and Gregor were the first, crude tourniquets. Now, he had to begin the more complex surgery of rebuilding its vital systems.
As the sparse remnants of his meal were cleared by a nervous serving girl whose name he had not yet bothered to learn, Gregor the reeve was ushered back in by Willem. The older man looked even more harried than before, clutching a fresh sheet of parchment and a charcoal stick.
"Master Gregor," Alaric began without preamble, gesturing to the seat opposite him. The solar was to be his primary place of work, it seemed, until a more suitable office could be arranged. "You have had some hours to contemplate my instructions regarding the new accounting. We will begin your tutelage now. The grand inventory can be delegated in parts, but understanding this new arithmetic is a skill you must acquire directly."
Gregor sat, his apprehension palpable. "My lord, I have served Falkenstrand with the numbers I know for many years…"
"And Falkenstrand stands on the precipice," Alaric cut him off, his voice devoid of impatience yet utterly final. "The numbers you know are cumbersome, prone to error, and ill-suited for the precise analysis required. What I will show you is a system developed in distant lands, far more efficient." He took a piece of charcoal and a relatively clean piece of parchment. "These are the numerals: 0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9." He wrote them clearly. "They are called Arabic numerals, though their true origin is further east, in the lands of Hind."
Gregor stared at the symbols as if they were arcane sigils of dubious power. "They… are very different, my lord."
"They are logical," Alaric stated. "The key is the concept of place value, and this symbol here: '0', which represents naught. Its presence allows for calculations of a speed and complexity that your Roman system cannot easily match."
For the next hour, Alaric patiently, methodically, explained the decimal system. He demonstrated addition and subtraction, then multiplication. Gregor, accustomed to the laborious process of manipulating Roman numerals, struggled visibly. His brow furrowed in concentration, his lips moved silently as he tried to follow Alaric's examples, and his hand trembled when Alaric bade him try a simple sum himself.
"Think of it not as a collection of individual symbols, Gregor," Alaric explained, sensing the man's deep-seated resistance to the unfamiliar, "but as a representation of quantities in orders of ten. Each position has a power. It is like sorting coins into piles of pennies, shillings, and pounds, but far more versatile."
Alaric's patience was a thin veneer over a core of unyielding demand. He recognized that Gregor was not unintelligent, merely untaught and locked into ancient habits of thought. But Falkenstrand did not have the luxury of time for gentle re-education.
"We will practice this every day, Gregor," Alaric said, as the reeve finally managed to correctly add two two-digit numbers, a look of exhausted triumph on his face. "You will maintain the new ledgers using these numerals. The clarity they provide will be indispensable." He pushed a list towards the reeve. "These are the categories I expect for the inventory: grains by type, preserved meats, livestock, tools by function, raw materials such as wool, timber, quarried stone, weapons, armor. Each with quantities, current condition, and location. You have until the day after tomorrow, sunset. Delegate tasks, use clerks if you have any literate ones, but you are responsible for its accuracy and completion."
Gregor looked at the extensive list, then at the strange new numerals, and a bead of sweat trickled down his temple. "Yes, Lord Baron. I will… endeavor."
"See that you do." Alaric inclined his head. "You may go and begin. Report to me this evening on your initial progress and any immediate impediments."
As Gregor departed, looking like a man condemned to an impossible labor, Alaric allowed himself a brief moment of reflection. The educational gulf was vast. He needed literate, numerate individuals, and they were clearly in short supply. This would be a recurring bottleneck.
Desiring a more tangible sense of his domain's assets, Alaric decided on an impromptu inspection. "Willem, Rolf," he called to his guards. "Accompany me. We will visit the granary and then the smithy."
The granary was a squat stone building near the kitchens, its door secured by a heavy wooden bar. Gregor had spoken of its contents, but Alaric wished to see for himself. Inside, the air was cool and dusty, thick with the scent of old grain. Sacks were piled in one corner, bins in another. It looked… disorganized.
Alaric ran a hand through a bin of wheat. The kernels felt dry enough, but he noted evidence of rodent droppings in a darker corner. The haphazard state of the granary was an open invitation to rot and theft. Alaric knew, with a certainty born of a different world, that without meticulous organization, grain regularly turned, access strictly limited, and constant vigilance against vermin, a significant portion would inevitably be lost. In his mind, he pictured neat rows of bins, each marked, perhaps even sealed, to track its age and contents. But such order required resources, both material and human, that Falkenstrand clearly lacked for now. "Who is responsible for the upkeep here? For ensuring the grain is turned, that vermin are controlled?" he asked Willem, who being a local, might know.
Willem looked uncomfortable. "Old John the Miller oversees it mostly, my lord, when he's not at the mill. But everyone… takes what they need as instructed by the reeve or the cook."
No single point of accountability. Another flaw. Alaric made a mental note. He would need to implement stricter controls and find someone reliable for this specific duty.
Next, they proceeded to the smithy, a soot-stained structure closer to the outer wall, from which the rhythmic clang of hammer on metal now emanated. Inside, the heat was intense. A burly, heavily muscled man with a sweat-slicked torso and a leather apron, his face smudged with soot, was hammering a glowing piece of iron on an anvil. This was Thorin, the barony's blacksmith, a man whose inherited memories Alaric recalled as skilled but often short-tempered and fond of ale.
Thorin paused, surprised by the Baron's unannounced appearance, and offered a grudging nod. "Lord Baron."
Alaric's gaze swept the smithy. It was cluttered. Tools were scattered. The bellows looked patched. The quality of the charcoal heaped in a corner seemed poor, producing more smoke than intense heat.
"Thorin," Alaric said, his voice cutting through the din as the smith's apprentice ceased working the bellows. "Ser Kaelan informs me our supply of arrowheads is low, and many weapons are in need of repair."
Thorin grunted, wiping sweat from his brow with a forearm. "Aye, that they are. Takes iron, that does. And good steel for arrowheads is dear, if it can be got at all. The iron we mine near the Greywood pass is… passable for tools, but for weapons, it needs much work."
"Show me your current stock of raw iron and any finished goods awaiting Kaelan's collection."
The smith pointed to a small pile of rough iron blooms and a disappointingly meagre collection of newly forged spearheads and repaired axe heads. Alaric picked up a spearhead. Its edges were sharper than those in the armory, but the metal looked coarse.
"What is your capacity, Thorin?" Alaric asked. "If you had sufficient raw materials, how many spearheads or arrowheads could you and your apprentice produce in a day?"
Thorin shrugged. "Depends on the quality desired, Lord Baron. For these rough spearheads, perhaps a dozen. Arrowheads… more, but they are fiddly. And the boy is still learning."
Alaric's mind did a quick calculation. A dozen spearheads a day was insufficient to re-equip even his small garrison quickly, let alone arm a larger levy. "We need to increase that output. And the quality. What do you lack most, besides better raw iron?"
"More hands, skilled ones," Thorin said bluntly. "Another bellows that draws true. Better charcoal would save time and heat. And a new whetstone; mine is worn near to nothing."
These were practical, identifiable needs. Alaric made another mental note. Perhaps some of the men Kaelan identified in the census had aptitude for smithing, or could be trained as strikers or bellows-operators. Better charcoal could be produced with proper kilns, a project for the future.
"We will see what can be done, Thorin," Alaric said. "For now, prioritize the repair of existing swords and axes. Then focus on producing as many serviceable spearheads as possible. Kaelan will provide you with a precise list of needs." He paused. "And ensure your apprentice is learning, not just laboring. His skill will be Falkenstrand's skill."
Thorin looked surprised by this last comment, then gave another curt nod.
As dusk began to settle, Alaric found himself back in the solar, awaiting the evening reports from Kaelan and Gregor. He felt a profound weariness, not just physical, but mental. He was fighting a war on multiple fronts: against ingrained incompetence, against resource scarcity, against the sheer inertia of centuries of tradition.
Ser Kaelan arrived first, his old face grim. "My lord, the afternoon drill was… difficult. The men are sore and resentful. Two of the younger ones openly questioned the need for such hardship. I had them confined to the cells for the night on bread and water."
"Good," Alaric said approvingly. "Insubordination will be met with swift punishment. Let it be known. And the village levy?"
"Word has been sent, my lord. There is much grumbling in Falkenau, as expected. They say they are farmers, not soldiers, and the fields need tending. But they also fear your displeasure. The first group will present themselves the day after tomorrow, as ordered."
"Ensure they understand that their service is not a punishment, but a necessity for the protection of their own lands and families," Alaric instructed. "And that those who show aptitude and discipline will be noted, and perhaps rewarded in time." He needed to balance fear with some glimmer of incentive.
Gregor arrived next, looking utterly defeated. He presented a hastily scribbled list of initial findings from the granary and storerooms, confirming the low quantities Alaric had already surmised. "My lord, the inventory… it is a task of immense proportions. Many items are not centrally stored. The demesne flock is scattered across three pastures. Standardizing measures for grain across the hamlets will require… authoritative intervention."
"Then intervene authoritatively, Gregor," Alaric said, his patience wearing thin. "Use the garrison men Kaelan can spare to enforce your count if need be. This is not a request; it is a command. As for your instruction in the new numerals, we will continue tomorrow."
Before dismissing them, Lady Mathilda entered the solar, her expression troubled. Elara followed, carrying a tray with a simple meal of pottage and bread for Alaric.
"Alaric," his mother began, her voice strained, "the keep is buzzing like an agitated hive. Talk of harsh drills, of commoners being forced into soldiering, of Gregor being tasked with counting every grain of wheat… What is the meaning of this whirlwind you have unleashed?"
Alaric met her gaze coolly. "The meaning, Mother, is survival. Falkenstrand has been asleep, comfortable in its decline. I am merely waking it up, rather rudely perhaps, to the dangers at our door. These measures are not whims; they are necessities."
"But so quickly? So… severely?" she pressed, worry etched on her face. "You will turn the people against you before you have even truly settled into your father's seat."
"Fear can be a useful tool, Mother, when respect has not yet been earned through victory," Alaric replied, the words tasting cold even to himself. "They will fear my displeasure, then they will fear our enemies more, and then, with luck and hard work, they will see the fruits of this discipline and understand its purpose. As for my father's seat, I am not merely sitting in it. I am rebuilding its foundations."
Lady Mathilda looked at him, a complex mixture of fear, dismay, and a reluctant, almost horrified, understanding dawning in her eyes. This was not her son, not the boy she had raised. This was someone else, someone harder, more ruthless, wearing his face. She said nothing more, merely nodded slowly and gestured for Elara to set down his meal.
Later that night, alone in his chamber, with Willem and Rolf standing guard outside his door, Alaric stared into the flickering candlelight. The reports were dire, the resistance to change palpable, the path ahead incredibly steep. He needed more than just fear to motivate; he needed competent subordinates, skilled artisans, a populace driven by more than just duty or dread. He needed to find or forge the tools, both human and material, to rebuild this barony. His mind sifted through the keep's populace, searching for anyone who had demonstrated more than rote obedience in these turbulent few days. Elara's management of the household, he conceded, was a small island of order in the surrounding chaos; the domestic machinery ran almost invisibly under her hand, a testament to her diligence. His mother, too… he recalled how, amidst her visible grief, her recollections of past land disputes and trade agreements during their recent, tense discussions had been surprisingly precise. He thought also of her earlier confrontation with him regarding his sweeping changes. Where Kaelan had eventually succumbed to weary agreement and Gregor to near panic when faced with his directives, his mother had not dissolved into similar distress. She had looked him squarely in the eye, her voice level, questioning his methods, even challenging the necessity of such upheaval. Her dissent, though clear, was voiced with a control that was a notable exception to the flustered or fearful responses he was starting to anticipate from others. That kind of mental resilience, that refusal to simply crumble when faced with drastic change, was a rare thing here. It was… useful. He found himself wondering if other useful talents lay dormant, ignored by ingrained custom, within the keep or its villages, talents Falkenstrand desperately needed. Falkenstrand was too desperate, its margin for error too thin, to afford such waste. Every individual displaying capability, man or woman, noble or commoner, was an asset to be identified and positioned for maximum effect. He would need to observe more closely, to look beyond the established roles. The thought was pragmatic, born of necessity, yet it lingered as he finally sought a few hours of restless sleep. The arithmetic of change was brutal, but he was determined to make the sums work in his favor.