Faerie Knight 175

175 - Baron

Without the logistical support of the empire, the structure of the legions is simply beyond our means to maintain.  I must reorganize the men, and find a different solution.

• The Campaign Journals of General Aurelius, volume V

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4th Day of Deep Summer’s Moon, AC 297 

“I cannot say I understand the king’s reasoning,” Trist admitted to Claire.  He kept his voice low, though he doubted that anyone but her would have been able to hear what he was saying over the cheers of the crowd.  “I understand that he needed to name a new Baron du Champs d'Or.  No one left there can be trusted, and I do not envy Florent the task ahead of him cleaning that place out.  But he is unwed, with no heirs, and near as old as my father was.”

“That is what makes him a perfect choice, Husband,” Claire explained, settling herself comfortably under his arm.  “Think about it.  Whoever goes into the Champs d'Or is going to have to see justice done on everyone who supported Avitus.  They will make enemies with their choices, even in the best of all worlds - exactly the sort of enemies who might cause discontent later, or rebel in a generation or two.”

“Sir Florent - Baron Florent, now-” Trist corrected himself.  With the oaths between liege and vassal concluded, the battle-scarred old knight was accepting congratulations in the form of hand clasps, toasts, and embraces from where he stood at the head of the center aisle.  “He is a good man, an honorable man.  He will do what needs to be done for the Kingdom, regardless of what it costs him personally.”

“And when he finally passes,” Claire explained, “King Lionel will appoint a new baron as a replacement.  A young baron, loyal to him, but without carrying the weight of Sir Florent’s actions.  The next baron will be handed the benefits of all Florent’s work, without any of the resentment he might have earned.  Even those who grumbled about Florent will see such an appointment as a new chance to address their grievances and make allies.”

“And Lionel is so much younger than Florent that it is practically guaranteed he will still be ruling when it comes time to name the successor,” Trist realized.  “By the Angelus, the man is intelligent.  Everything he does has more than one reason, and is thought out six steps ahead.  I do not know how you can keep up.”

“It is what I was trained to do,” Clarisant said.  “Just as surely as your father taught you to fight, my love, I was taught to think.”

“Percy was the one who got that training,” Trist said.  “You know I am going to need to rely on you?”

“You’ve done more than enough for one lifetime.”  Claire reached up to brush a finger against the side of his head, where a clean white linen cloth wrapped his lost eyes.  “Paid more than high enough a price.  Let it be over.  After this, we can go home and rebuild.”

“That sounds good.”  Trist reached up to cover her hand with his own, but then the king called his name.

“Sir Trist du Camaret-à-Arden!” Lionel stood before the high table, still, but had turned to address him.  “And Lady Clarisant.  Come down here; you shall not escape your just rewards, either,” he promised, with a grin.

Trist stood, offered his arm to his wife, and together they walked around the trestle table to take their places before the king.  Trist dropped to one knee, but the King stopped his wife.  “No, no,” Lionel said.  “I will not make a woman carrying a child kneel.  A cursty will be more than sufficient, Lady Clarisant.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Claire said, but kept her eyes lowered.

“Six moons past,” Lionel began, “I would not have recognized this man’s name.  The younger son of a country knight on the edge of the Ardenwood.  When he rode up to our camp at Falais, I recall he caused quite a stir.”  At that, the king turned to look at Sir Bors, whose armored shoulders shook with what Trist could only imagine was laughter.

“And yet, since that day,” the king continued, “Sir Trist has proven his worth time and again.  When I sent him into the Hauteurs Massif to face a daemon, he somehow not only returned alive, but rode to our rescue with a new ally - one who I am very pleased to have met.”  Lionel turned to Ismet, whose eyes sparkled above her veil at the high table.

“When I sent him ahead to Rocher de la Garde, he successfully evacuated Camaret-à-Arden, then broke through the enemy lines and played a vital role in holding the city until our main force arrived.  When our enemy betrayed a flag of parley, and sought to capture me, he sacrificed himself, instead.”  Lionel’s smile died, and his face grew deadly serious.

“I cannot help but feel that you traded your sight for my life, Trist,” he said.  “A sacrifice that humbles me.  And yet, even blind and caged, you escaped.  You did not even leave Cheverny alone - you brought out three of my captive Exarchs, and sent vital intelligence ahead to us.  After all that, you killed the Sun Eater, and returned in time to fight with our Exarchs against the twisted monster our enemies created from the Angelus Camiel.”

“And you, Lady Clarisant,” Lionel continued, turning to Trist’s wife.  “Not many wives would have rode with their husband to a besieged city.  You have shown courage, but also your work with the Marian Codex has given us the knowledge we used to face daemons, time and again.  When I sent you to Raetia, you overcame challenges I would never have conceived would confront you, and returned with the supplies we desperately needed.  During the battle here at Lutetia, you lured the daemon Loray into an ambush for us.  And after all of that, I am told you stitched wounds until your hands were raw, and saved not a few lives in the process.”

Clarisant curtseyed again, but kept her eyes down.

“What am I to do with the two of you?” Lionel asked.  “I can hardly conceive of a fit reward.  I once promised you, Lady Clarisant, that I would not only see your husband confirmed in his lands, but confer upon you both a royal pension, and take your child either as a squire, or to arrange a fitting marriage myself.  I will do all of those things, but I will do more as well.”

“Sir Trist,” he said.  “Many years ago, King Luther the Unready named a Baron of the Ardenwood.  I believe we all know how that went.”  A ripple of laughter spread out through the crowd.  “Nevertheless, I am blessed to have something that King Luther never had: a vassal who has already walked in the Court of the Shadow King.”

“For too long,” Lionel continued, “We have looked upon the Ardenwood as a haunted place, a wilderness to give nightmares to our children, a mystery to be avoided at all costs.  And yet, as an Exarch of the Faerie Acrasia, you, Sir Trist, stood with this kingdom against the daemons.  At Falais, the Wild Hunt rode to save one of our cities.  I am told that in Basilea, the Winter Queen took the field herself against the daemon Forneus.  Even now, you wear a blade of ice at your hip.  It is clear to me that the way things were done in the past cannot continue.”

“To that end,” King Lionel declared, “I hereby name you, Trist du Camaret-à-Arden, Baron du Arden, and declare your wife Baroness.  This title will pass to your heirs after you, so long as they swear their fealty as my vassals.  You may portion out knights’ fees within your lands, which will include the village of Camaret-à-Arden and its surroundings.”

“But your chief duty,” the king continued, “will be this: to be the voice of this Kingdom of Narvonne to the faerie courts.  To keep the peace with the King of Shadows and his three queens; and to advise the crown in all dealings with faerie.  I do not send you to carve up the Ardenwood into fiefs, but instead to teach us how to live alongside the residents of that place, without strife.  Will you take up this charge, Baron Trist?”

Whatever Trist had prepared himself for, this was not it.  A pension, yes, Claire had warned him of that, and he even had a few thoughts on how to use the funds to rebuild the village.  Opportunities from the king for their children were gift enough.  But baron?  He didn’t have the slightest idea of how to manage a barony.

Though from what Lionel had said, the Barony of the Arden would be nothing like any of the others in Narvonne.  It would consist of a single village, and a vast untamed wilderness.  In truth, if the king was determined to make such a position, Trist could not think of any other person he would wish to see entrusted with it.  He could talk to Auberon, Niviène, Osma, and Cern; he’d done it before, after all.  And he had given them what they wanted, which should get him at least a bit of goodwill.  He could only imagine how quickly such a thing would go wrong with someone like Claire’s brother, Gareth, at the head of it.

“I will, Your Majesty,” Trist said.

“Then rise, Baron and Baroness du Arden,” Lionel said, with a smile, and with his hands indicated they should turn to face the crowd.  A loud cheer rang out from the squire’s table, and then huzzahs from the cluster of knights who had ridden with Trist to Rocher de la Garde.  Like spring waters breaking a beaver’s dam, the crowd in the courtyard broke out into cheers at that.

By the time Claire and Trist managed to extract themselves from congratulatory clusters of friends and acquaintances, and get back to their seats at the high table, servants were bringing out the feast.

As Yaél’s intelligence had warned her, there were indeed smoked hams and sausages, as well as bread so fresh that it still steamed.  The cows hadn’t died like the crops had, though Trist imagined they were half-starved by now, so there was rich, thick butter to slather on the bread.  Great bowls of fish stew, full of cockles, clams, mussels and cod, all fresh caught by the local fishermen, were placed on every table.  

With the king’s announcements concluded, the victors feasted late into the night.  None of them had eaten so well in weeks, and without the need to rise and fight in the morning, there was little reason to stint in drinking wine or ale.

The exception, of course, was General Ismet, who sipped a goblet of fresh squeezed juice.  When Claire asked her, she explained that Lionel had purchased a great quantity of lemons from Pārsa.”

“I feel a bit guilty about it,” Ismet admitted.  “Making him go out of his way to find special drinks just for me.”

“I suspect he does not mind,” Trist said, casting a glance over to where Lionel had descended from the high table to catch a private word with Sir Florent.  They were already making plans to restructure the man’s barony, Trist had no doubt.  “There is something satisfying about doing something especially for the woman you care about most.”

Claire grinned, and Ismet inclined her head.  “I suppose you are correct,” the southern woman said.  “I will have to see a few qahwa trees planted here, so that we do not always have to import the beans.  I fear I have given Lionel a taste for it.”

“Perhaps your uncle will make a wedding present of them,” Claire suggested.

“What a wonderful idea,” Ismet exclaimed.  “You might casually mention it to him, if you find an opportunity, Lady Clarisant.”

“Claire,” Trist’s wife reminded her.  “You once said we were friends, if I recall.”

“So I did,” Ismet agreed.  “And Angelus know I will need it.  Perhaps you can help me understand some of these Narvonnian wedding traditions.”

“That,” Trist said, rising from the bench, “sounds like my cue to make the rounds.”

“Don’t take too long, Baron,” Claire teased him with a smile.  “I find I get tired earlier, now, and I need you to put me to bed.”