Clifford's finger rhythmically tapped on the arm of the high seat while he rested his head with the other hand. He regarded the emptiness of the hall with seeming boredom, although we knew it was more frustration.

He had summoned all the local nobility and landholders of the castellany regarding the need for laborers and food supply. He asked us to dress our best to greet them. Elena was in a beautiful gown, Edmund in his suit of armor, and I wore the noble attire I bought just before boarding the ship.

They were told to come in the morning. It was almost midday, and only a handful of souls were present. The faint smell of cooking meat drifted from the kitchen, making my stomach grumble. I was surprised Clifford was still waiting.

Our heads pivoted towards the slightly ajar door at the sound of footsteps. I wager even just one more guest arriving would make us all feel a lot better.

All the excitement died down when it was Lucas' head that jutted out. He excitedly entered and strutted nearer, boots clattering on the stone floor.

"Another excuse, I reckon?"

Lucas nodded. "It's Master Stavros of Reedfields, my lord. He says he is busy with the harvest and cannot come and cannot spare men."

"It's April, for heaven's sake," Clifford massaged his head, clearly holding a frustration that would have made him yell. "Goodman Hector, is there a crop I don't know of that you can harvest at April?"

Clifford asked the lone attendant to the summon. It was one of the freeholders. An old farmer who, despite his lowly station, arrived in time and brought with him two of his sons to help around the castle. He also brought several sacks of grain and a whole pig.

"Some greens, my lord… onions, peas, and radishes too… but," Hector answered with a shaky voice and paused, reluctant to continue. While his sons stood proud and upright, the old man remained bent and nervous, constantly bowing.

"But?"

"But… Master Stavros grows wheat," he resumed.

"So, in short, another ridiculous excuse," Clifford gritted his teeth. "It's a clear slight. They don't respect me at all."

I had figured that out much earlier. The first one to send an excuse was a freeholder by the name of Alec, who said his geese were due to molt and get frightfully upset whenever he was not around. Then there was the squire of Reedford, Master Dimos, whose excuse was that he was tending to his pregnant wife. One of Hector's sons revealed to us that Dimos was never married.

None of which were written in writing—they just sent someone to known on the castle gate, as if the summon was a family invitation to dinner.

The elderly knight, who was the biggest landholder under the castellany, as well as another squire and three more freeholders, didn't even bother to send an excuse.

Clifford heavily sighed, tensed down, and then mustered a smile.

"Would you join us for lunch, Goodman Hector?"

Hector and his sons shed more light about the circumstances while we ate. Sir Jeremus, the former castellan, had not summoned the landholders for the past few years. He had behaved more like a hermit than an administrator, rarely going out of the castle and welcoming no one inside.

In effect, he had isolated not only himself but also the castle away from the town and the surrounding holdings. It was consistent with what I had observed. The town behaved as if the castle was as lifeless as the stone of the cliff.

If it were any regular town, the arrival of a massive ship such as the Defiant Resolve would have been met with a steward or castellan. And the funeral itself would have been attended by the local nobility. None of that happened to us. The highest-ranking man we met during the baron's burial was the cleric.

Clifford listened silently but thoughtfully. He only spoke again when the plates were empty and we were wiping our lips with napkins.

"I wish to keep you for a little longer, Goodman Hector," he said of the farmer.

"As you wish… my lord," Hector replied, exchanging glances with his sons. "But may I ask for what reason?"

"I intend to introduce myself to the town. I want you to appear with me," he said.

And that we did.

We descended the hill as a small group of riders. Clifford kept the attire he had intended to greet the landholders—feathered cap, elegant coat—clothes that would make him sharply stand out in the dull and drab of the town. Edmund kept his suit of armor, and I wore my brigandine. We looked like a pair of bodyguards to Clifford. I didn't mind, and Edmund had been cooperative so far. Hector and one of his sons rode behind us.

As we entered the town, the wisdom of bringing the farmer became clear.

Without prompting, townsmen greeted him by name. Hector told them what we were doing. The wary glances shifted from suspicion to mild curiosity.

We made our way to the town center, a small open space of dirty mud. Surrounding it were small stalls, animal enclosures, and stray barrels filled with water or vegetables. We were reminded of the condition of the town, and suddenly the Marquis' grant wasn't too flattering.

We dismounted while Clifford stayed on his horse. There was no elevation we could use other than the saddle. Either drawn by his fancy clothing or the familiar face of the farmer, people slowly gathered. Before long, we had a small crowd around us, curious and cautious.

"Sir Jeremus is dead. He had valiantly fought with the Marquis to break the siege at Thornston and was slain in battle," Hector announced, rather diplomatically. I personally thought flattering the man was unnecessary.

The news got little reaction. Maybe they had heard it already, or as I suspected, they weren't too fond of the knight.

"I am the new castellan, granted charge by the Marquis over the castle and the town. And I want you to know that the castle doors are open to hear your pleas," he announced.

To my surprise, that got even less reaction. The crowd stared at us as if we were statues.

Eventually one of them raised a hand. "Why you do you talk odd, my lord?"

Silence again. I realized how strange it must be for them to hear a foreign accent around these parts. This was the frontier, not really the hotbed of migration.

"Well… I am from Castor," Clifford answered.

At the mention of our previous kingdom, the whole crowd buzzed. For a moment, I thought we were in trouble, until I heard the content of the conversation. It would seem they did not share the Marquis' negative perception of the Castorians.

The cold reception turned into a warm welcome as the crowd advanced toward us. They began throwing us ridiculous questions one after the other. At once, I became grateful to have been educated.

"Is it true your king has testicles the size of melons and needs their own carriages?"

"Does the sun really shine brighter in Castor, and crops grow gigantically because of it?"

"Is it true your mages could raise the dead, and turn a goat into a pretty woman?"

Be that as it may, we took all the attention we could get.

Next chapter will be updated first on this website. Come back and continue reading tomorrow, everyone!

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.