Chapter 1369: The Youngest Baron (Part One)
The column of riders passed through the gate in the hunting lodge’s palisade wall, entering the forest beyond, and to Baron Erling Fayle, the world around him completely changed.
It changed the way it always did when the last walls of civilization fell behind, and the wild places took their place. The grey morning light, already thin enough to feel like a permanent dusk, dimd further as the canopy of western hemlock and red cedar closed overhead like a temple’s vaulted ceiling. Here and there, a few of the huntsn carried torches to push back the gloom in the earliest hours of the morning as they ventured into the dense forest of the Lothian’s hunting preserve.
Suddenly, the sounds of the lodge, the clatter of servants clearing tables, the baying of hounds still waiting their turn to be released, the jingle of harnesses, and the voices of n, all of it grew muffled and distant, swallowed by a forest that had no interest in the affairs of lords and their hunts.
For a mont, Erling closed his eyes, trusting his horse to keep pace with the other riders while he breathed in deeply and felt the tension in his shoulders ease for the first ti since arriving in Lothian City.
The air tasted of wet cedar bark and cold earth and the faintest tang of decomposing needles. It didn’t quite match up with the rolling grasslands and sparse forests of ho, but it was still pure and wild. Or at least closer to the wild than the stuffy great hall of the Lothian hunting lodge, filled with young noblen who must have bathed in expensive perfus before riding out for a ’hunt’ that was more about appearances and sport than feeding the household.
When Erling hunted, he preferred to do it in the company of two or three trusted huntsn who weren’t afraid to dip themselves in dung and hide in the tall grasses if that was what it took to secure their quarry.
Baron Fayle didn’t host feasts for visiting noblen often; almost no one ever visited his lonely corner of Lothian March. More often than not, if he hosted anyone, it was his own knights, the few tis a year he convened the Fayle Court.
For Erling, the hunt was never about the spectacle of having a trophy beast for the high table, even though the tradition was common across all of Gaal. Rather, Erling hunted anything that could fill a stew pot with at for his family and his household staff.
Rabbit, grouse, duck... It didn’t matter to him, though he considered himself fortunate if he found a wild turkey whose feathers could be sold for a silver penny each to the makers of fashionable ladies’ hats in Keating.
Fayle Barony had known too many lean years in the decades since his father died during the War of Inches. Too many people had moved away rather than submit to his mother’s regency, and n like Baron Valeri Leufroy had been all too willing to hire the retainers and craftsn who wanted to move to greener pastures.
Erling didn’t bla his people for leaving. It was only natural for a man to do what was best for himself and his family. Erling himself was much the sa. He’d done everything he could to take on responsibilities as soon as he was ready for them, and for the young baron, that had started with making the rolling grasslands and rocky foothills of his domain every bit as much his ho as the stone fortress of Fayle Keep.
The forest he found himself in now was very different from the scattered stands of trees that clung to the banks of rivers and streams at ho. The forest floor was carpeted in sword ferns, with dark green fronds rising to the height of his horse’s belly, glistening with moisture that almost sparkled in the faint morning light.
Above the ferns, the trunks of the hemlocks rose like columns of grey-brown stone, their bark furrowed and rough, while the cedars stood apart from them with their shaggy bark in strips of reddish-brown that peeled away like old parchnt.
Combined with the cold morning mist, it made it impossible to see more than a hundred paces away in any direction. Erling imagined that, if the place had been truly wild, it would have been very easy for inexperienced hunters like the young squires from Rundel, Saliou and LeGleau to beco lost in the first hour of the hunt.
The column of mounted hunters stretched ahead of him in a loose procession, the riders moving at a walk along a trail that had been maintained by the Lothian hunting lodge’s staff for generations with clear markers to prevent people from losing their way. At its head, Owain rode beside Sir Gilander and Sir Garrik Maeril, the three of them forming a tight cluster that the rest of the column trailed behind like a tail following a serpent.
From where Erling rode, toward the rear of the column with Wes Iriso on his right and Sir Ives and Sir Peredur behind them, he could observe the whole procession without being observed in return. It was a position he’d chosen deliberately, and it was the sa position he occupied at court, in the great hall of Lothian Manor, and in every other gathering of the March’s lords where his small stature, youthful face, and impoverished barony conspired to render him all but invisible.
Most n would have resented that invisibility. Erling, however, had learned to use it.
Ahead of him, Reynold Aleese rode alone, his broad shoulders and heavy fra making him look like a bear that had sohow learned to ride a horse. The comparison had occurred to Erling before, though he’d never been foolish enough to say it aloud. Reynold was the sort of man who earned respect by just existing in a space where the physical might that he radiated intimidated lesser n.
Further ahead, Tulori Leufroy rode with his back straight and his head turning at every new sound, cataloguing the forest with the wide-eyed attention of a young man experiencing sothing for the first ti. Serge Otker rode beside him, though saying he was ’beside’ the other man was generous.
Serge’s horse had drifted to the center of the trail, and the heir to the March’s wealthiest barony seed more concerned with staying in his saddle than anything happening in the forest around him. Under his cloak, the young lord still clutched at a wineskin, and from the way he swayed out of sync with the motions of his horse, it was clear that he hadn’t restrained himself while drinking during breakfast.
The three young squires, Riwall, Juhel, and Breok, rode in a tight cluster between the barons and the lower-ranked knights, looking simultaneously excited and terrified by the prospect of their first proper lord’s hunt. The eldest of them couldn’t have been more than fifteen, and Erling felt a pang of sothing that wasn’t quite sympathy and wasn’t quite envy when he looked at them.
At fifteen, he’d already been Baron Fayle for nearly two years. By the ti he’d attended one of Bors Lothian’s hunts, he’d been expected to conduct himself like a lord who ruled over a domain of half a dozen villages and his own small town.
The pressure he’d felt back then had been trendous, and only Bors Lothian’s words of advice had kept him from making a fool of himself.
"Your mother says that there isn’t a better archer to be found in all of Fayle," Bors had praised as he led the column out of the Lothian hunting lodge. "If our quarry breaks and runs, I’ll be counting on you to pin it down."
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