Chapter 79 79: Bretonian culture

------------------------------ If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know. Leave a comment; support is always appreciated. I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see. ------------------------------- Pfugzeit-32,2489 IC With the gold and silver of Monfort, the first thing was to ensure the temporary loyalty of the mercenaries. I renewed their contract for two more months, paying upfront with a handful of ingots. Barely a small dent in the vast reserves of the Bretonnian duke, but enough to keep that pack useful, at least while they were still well-fed and feared losing their pay. I also gave a general advance to my own state troops. I wanted everyone to feel the weight of the metal in their hands. A motivation as old as war itself. I paid them in Bretonnian coins, but I doubted any of them would protest; after all, once in the Empire, those gold and silver coins would be worth as much as ours, and the money changers don't ask questions when the weight is good. I still didn't have an exact figure of how much gold I had gathered. What I did know was that there was too much to evacuate all at once. There was so much wealth that I constantly found myself repeating that I should stay a little longer, resist a bit more, even when everything inside me screamed that I should take whatever I could and leave before fate claimed me for the audacity of taking Monfort. For now, everything was calm. The bridges that connected the city to the heart of Bretonnia had been burned. Our communication route with the Empire was secured, at least for the moment. Some groups of knights were roaming the roads, trying to harass our messengers or assess our defenses, but I had them well covered. The mercenaries, especially the ogres, were patrolling the routes. Those monsters have excellent scent: they can smell a horse from kilometers away... or the man riding it. The Bretonnians weren't subtle, and my hounds hunted them down like it was sport. I just hoped they didn't end up cooking the riders too, because with me inside the fortress, I had no way to supervise every pot those bastards put on the fire. Even with the war in full swing, commerce didn't stop. Monfort was a vital hub in the Bretonnian trade routes. Many merchants still arrived, even knowing that the city was under Imperial control. For them, the important thing was crossing. Some came from the west, heading to Parravon, others from the east seeking access to our lands. As long as the passage remained open and the guards didn't demand absurd tributes, the merchants would keep coming like rats after cheese. And money... flowed. More silver than gold, of course. The ridiculous Bretonnian legislation prohibited peasants from using gold, as if touching it was a right reserved for the nobles. Hence, there were so many barrels filled with silver coins: that's how the merchants paid their taxes, and that's how I was now financing my occupation. When I finished dispatching the last of the messengers, I went down to the second level of the fortress, the residential area of Monfort. Much of it was occupied by artisans: blacksmiths, tanners, shoemakers, people who lived from daily work and metal. Those who shaped what was needed in a fortified city. But between the alleyways and streets further from the urban core, I began to notice something different. There were whole groups that didn't fit in with the rest. Torn clothing, bare feet, bodies hunched as if trying to disappear. Peasants. Many. More than I thought possible inside the walls. I approached one of those groups, sheltered in a distant alley. I stopped and watched them silently for a few seconds before speaking. "And what are you doing here, not working?" I asked, frowning, looking directly at the cluster of crouched figures. They all looked up as if they had heard the cry of an executioner in a public square. They shrank between themselves, trying to disappear behind one another's shoulder. One of them, a man as thin as a stalk, with a sun-scorched face and feet covered in sores, replied while lowering his head. "We're waiting for our duke to give us permission to return to our lands... sir," he said, looking at me with reddened eyes. "Do you know your duke is a prisoner, right?" I said without breaking eye contact, while noticing there were many more hiding in the shadows. I took a step forward and frowned. "Have you eaten anything?" There was a moment of silence. Then, some shook their heads. I looked closer and saw children huddled among the adults. Some barely had the strength to raise their eyes. One of them had his eyes open but wasn't blinking. Another, a girl with a dress hanging like rags, was pressing her hand to her stomach with an almost automatic gesture. I had to turn away. I withdrew from there without saying anything more. I felt a pressure in my chest, as if something inside me had broken for a moment. "Are you feeling well, my lord??" one of my guards asked worriedly. "Just bad memories," I said, trying to compose myself. I climbed to the third level of the fortress. I wasted no time. I went straight to the main stores. The fortress of Monfort had large underground facilities for storing provisions, I already knew that. But I wasn't prepared for what I found when I opened the reinforced doors of the castle's food storage. The place was overflowing. Mountains of grain sacks piled up to the ceiling. In another room, shelves packed with cured cheeses. Beyond that, a chamber with hams hanging in rows, perfectly preserved in brine. Entire hallways filled with barrels, sealed boxes, nets with onions and garlic, sacks of flour, jars of butter, dried herbs, and wine. It was enough to feed an army for an entire year. And not just any army: a well-fed, satisfied one, without the need for rationing. I felt an involuntary spasm in my face, a twitch in my eye, as if a vein was about to burst. I clenched my fists tightly as I walked through the room in silence. "And if I give the duke of Monfort the pleasure... of killing him," I whispered between my teeth, in a barely audible voice. It was a storehouse worthy of an Imperial campaign or a crusade. And down there, just a few levels below, hundreds of peasants were rotting from hunger under the empty gaze of a castle bursting at the seams with food. Men and women with feet torn apart, children to the bones, the elderly waiting to die in the shadows of the alleyways. My peasants lived like kings in comparison. Back in my land, I had never seen anything like this. And if a bad harvest ever came my way, I'd have to resign myself and buy food to help them, but this is ridiculous. But here... the duke preferred to let his people die rather than touch his personal reserves. There was enough to feed my troops, and there would still be plenty left over. They could eat three times a day without fear of exhausting the supplies. Additionally, merchants continued to arrive. Not as often as before, but regularly enough to keep the economy alive. I ordered some of my men to set up an improvised kitchen in the main square, right where the supply routes and access to the market intersected. There was space in abundance. Stoves still set up by the artisans. Water in nearby wells. Firewood stacked in sheds. In less than an hour, the first pots started to boil. It wasn't long before the crowd arrived. They approached in silence. Some could barely walk, others carried children with dull eyes... Only the sound of feet against stone. We gave them bread. We gave them thick soup, with some cured meat. The necessary amount to allow them to breathe one more day without collapsing on the street. It was easier to govern a city without dead bodies piling up in the corners. Bretonnian culture was pushing me to the edge. How could such a rotten, useless system still stand? In the Empire, a noble is considered cruel if they collect taxes during a bad harvest. Here, on the other hand, it seemed to be mandatory. Starve the peasant. Let children die on the roads while knights parade around on steeds that eat better than half the village. I had plenty of reasons to sharpen the executioner's blade. To start rolling heads crowned with flowers of the Grail. Or, better yet, lock them in their own dungeons and let them feel in their stomachs what the living skeletons I found in the alleyways felt. If I executed them, if I humiliated them openly, I would be breaking any chance of future negotiation. And, more importantly, I'd risk having the rest of the Bretonnian nobles close the doors to my retreat. Because this — as much as it pained me to admit it — was plunder disguised as occupation. I wasn't here to stay. I was here to take everything I could carry... and leave. While my men served hot soup and handed out freshly baked bread, a large crowd began to gather in the central square. First came the most desperate: women with emaciated children in their arms, elderly who could barely stand. Then came the men, dignity shattered but eyes still filled with rage. And later, those who hadn't eaten in days, but still hid out of fear, shame, or habit. While the peasants sat to eat under the wary eyes of the local merchants and artisans — who watched them as if they were rats emerging from the sewers — I climbed onto an old wooden crate and spoke in a firm voice, projecting it across the square without needing to shout. "Know this," I said, as I scanned the hunched crowd, "it doesn't always have to be like this." The murmurs quieted. The spoons stopped moving for a few seconds. "For now, you're under Imperial occupation. That means that — at least for a time — you are part of the Empire. You no longer have to bow your heads to the same rotting nobility that treated you as if you were filth. Those bastards who forced you to leave your fields, who prohibited you from carrying arms, who tore the bread from your hands with taxes that even the worst nobles in the Empire wouldn't dare charge." I saw some lift their eyes. Very few. But they were there. Eyes filled with dirt, dark circles, dust... now showing a different spark. One I knew well: hope mixed with doubt. "You are free to leave. No one will stop you. If any of you decide to leave this land and cross into the Empire, my men will protect your steps. There will be no tolls, no soldiers hitting you on the roads. I swear it by my status as an Imperial noble. And more than that..." I paused and slowly stepped down from the crate, taking a few steps toward the center of the crowd. "I offer you something else. Whoever wants to start anew, may do so. I invite you to my lands. There will be shelter. There will be land to cultivate. And there will be peace, as long as I breathe." I stayed silent for a few moments. The murmurs returned, but they weren't the same. It wasn't just fearful whispers anymore. I saw how everyone began to speak among themselves, leaning toward each other, exchanging quick words as they threw glances at me that I wasn't sure were fear, doubt... or something more. Some avoided my gaze. Others couldn't stop looking at me. As if they were trying to decide whether they believed what they had just heard... or if they preferred to stay clinging to the old yoke. At least I should try to bring them willingly... if I take them by force, they'll be much harder to make work. I lowered my gaze and returned to the pots. I helped stir the contents with a wooden spoon as large as my arm. Soon, I would have to return to the command room, write orders, prepare messages, and organize the patrols. ------------------------------ If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know. Leave a comment; support is always appreciated. I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see. -------------------------------