Chapter 33 - After the Battle II
Ryeamund definitely "rolled over" in the morning, and slept far into the day. Perhaps around high noon… he rolled over and began to become awake. Noises? In the distance the band of chickens sounded like they were having a festival of some sort. A cow chimed in, as if it were complaining to the chickens to keep it down. It worked, but only briefly. The chickens were unruly.
Ryeamund smiled. It occurred to him in his morning daze, that everyone knew there was nothing to be done about chickens being unruly. Ryeamund knew, as any sane farmer realized… you can chase them around with sticks, you can yell and scream and chase until you fall over exhausted… the chickens will still do as they damn well please. In the end? There's simply nothing that can be done about it.
The southern borderlands were considered to be just about the same. The king's analogy was that it was 'as if attempting to herd house-cats'. It seemed obvious now, that these four problem districts had been doing this for many years.
Perhaps the high steward said it best, when he pointed out that the last time this went on. The original Great Troubles? You ended up more or less at war with the entire south-lands. Half of every district fought the high king's men, as well as each other, and countries from the outside against them. It was complete pandemonium.
This time around, they at least had the upper hand on knowing precisely which districts were causing all the problems. They also had the great fortune that they didn't have to fight the enemy in those four districts either. It was all being engineered to appear as an outside army. Even though equipped and secretly funded… from within.
That part was over now, the big army having been wiped out. Those four districts? Had four petty kings that were now dangling with no more military might. Their woodcutters and blacksmiths had been all but mined off of them; almost none of them wanted to leave the high north after having a taste of living there.
Now with the battle over, those four kings were to be "examined", and at the high king's leisure. As Odin would have done. That was where the four oxen came in. Auroch, Ryeamund, Theyer and Sooth… would all four play farmer family for a little less than a year, in each of the four districts.
Each oxen had a high reckoning woman, a lethal weapon nobody would possibly expect, education being such a rare thing in the south-lands even for nobility. The husbands of course… were all big-men. In secret. The four sons each family had? Were an additional four big-men, again in secret.
A band of trained woodcutters, blacksmith helpers, and hunters and merchants and potters and leather-workers were again, all big-men pretending to be those craft-workers and merchants. All would establish a small rickety establishment to conduct "business", or simply seek employment.
They were of course not required to show a profit. They each had a sack of the king's gold to see them through their waiting period. As did the oxen. None of the king's men undercover would starve as the normal peasantry around them did.
A fair number of Ravens were forming volunteer squads to go in. They would live off of the land. An extended hunting trip was considered "fun" among their people. The possibility of some command work if it came to it? Was simply a bonus. And once the Ravens established themselves in the deep woods near the area, they would quickly begin supplying their other compatriots with their hunting meat excess. They would pack out backpacks of dried meat or fresh meat as the season's temperature allowed.
The "farmers" and their wives and sons, were first on the list for excess fresh meat. Greens bags delivered on the regular, so the "farmers" doing heavy labor would have a secret supply of meat and salad/stew greens. As were the "merchants" and the hunters, as well.
Wulfgar had been asked when the attack would most likely occur. Wulfgar had predicted the late summer/fall attack, and the Ravens had known before the march of the big army even began. From watching them. They already had a squad with "runners" on hand to deliver critical messages ahead of the column. A week into the big foreign army's march? The Ravens, experts at their hit and run tactics… began doing their thing.
The Ravens had been technically first into the battle, in their own way. They then tortured the marching army, non stop, off and on, wearing them down with a passion in their own signature fashion.
The foreign invasion, obviously had some tactics in their planning. The enemy had split into two big armies. One marched in the day, along roads and trails… the other? Marched at night. The Ravens were actually impressed with how skillfully the big day and night armies moved. They did have an extensive array of scouts that ran ahead in the woods, and moved the big column up on their commands from in front.
The system of steady runners they were using, was clever. They utilized a fairly large "chain" of runners; one left or arrived every so often. The big invading army had discipline. When any runner sprinted in with word of anything moving in the road ahead, the army instantly disappeared into the brush surrounding the road or trail. They had obviously drilled on it, and it was working.
The Ravens used a similar to identical tactic in a smaller version; no one had once thought it was even possible to attempt it with a force even half this size. This wisdom would naturally go into a scroll back home to be eventually made use of.
Had the Ravens not already been watching this army? It would have been close to the corridor before they even realized it existed. Some considerable percentage of the men that set out on the "secret" big march? Never arrived alive to even start the fight. Almost all of those that ran at the end, were chased and brought down. The few that lived to tell the tale? Would scare everyone with nightmares at what they had seen and what had been inflicted upon them.
When the four Oxen "farmers" were cheated, and taxed beyond what the high king allowed, at the end of the year by the king's man? The "wives" would call the arrest, and the "husbands" and "sons" would be on hand as well. With "merchant" and "hunter" and "woodcutter" and "raven" support in reserve.
The high king only permitted a 5 percent tax under normal circumstances; 1/20th of any profit. What the people of the time called "the twentieth part". With permission and oversight, during for instance a national emergency situation… it was only allowed to be 10%. "The tenth part". You were expected to account for why you needed the funds. If you were not building a bridge or a dam, or dealing with an invasion or other threat… it was beyond illegal.
Forcing lease farmers to buy obviously needed staple items, such as seeds and hay and timber and tools and nails? Was another no-no. It had been illegal all along, to expect the woodcutters to buy their own special boots, tools, and other needed equipment.
This matter, when the king's tax man was caught red-handed with his filching hand in the cookie jar, would see the immediate "examination" of that petty king ruling that district. These four kings that thought they got away with funding the foreign invasion, would then be judged. Just when they were beginning to relax, that the other shoe hadn't dropped? They would be smitten.
The fact that they would be found out and smashed by what initially appeared to be farmers and woodcutters? Was a bonus the high king greatly enjoyed. It was all too easy to send a high reckoning tax man to an illiterate farmer, and simply lie about the "reckoning".
You never showed much of a profit. You almost always "owed" a little "extra". Which of course was kept track of, why, you could simply pay it next year. Nails or timber were in short supply and your costs had gone up. The petty king was squeezing the low merchants and craftsmen in the same fashion. Just as the high reckoning "wives" were the secret weapon, so too would raven "professional hunters" perform the same part for the merchants and craft-workers.
Everyone involved in this project was going to disperse upon their mission in the late winter. They would arrive just before spring. Just after harvest was when the tax man came to steal.
Ryeamund was actually laying there, recovering from the labors of the great battle the morning after. He had slept in, and far longer than under any normal circumstance. He was as content as he could possibly be; laying up against the high pile of fresh hay in his bed-frame. Fingers laced behind his head, a long shaft of fresh hay in his mouth that he moved around for something to do, drawing nothing in the air with his imaginary quill, yet moving it around in earnest all the same.
Ryeamund smiled at Eira walking in. She had not expected him to be up, and if up, certainly not looking alert. Ryeamund turned his smile into a grin and slyly wondered aloud if his coin wench needed serviced, in the particular fashion that wenches often did.
Eira blushed. She responded to him with wit, as she was wont to do. She had not known he was so frisky, what with how exhausted and sore he was when he got in during the wee hours the night before. Smiling back at him through her childish blush.
After this fun exchange of words, that both felt would soon turn into deeds… Eira's face fell and she told him of her true nature disturbing him at such a time. The matter? What was called "his own blacksmith". When all the woodcutters and blacksmiths had been commanded and lured away from the four problem districts, it so happened that a drunken blacksmith from Ryeamund's own village was one of the ones. Ryeamund had by mere chance known he was among those now in the high north.
Ryeamund had seen to it with a word in an ear, for that particular blacksmith to be installed two or three villages from his farm. When asked if he would not rather have the man on the other side of the northern most king's own district, since he obviously wanted the man out of his own town? Ryeamund had responded with his own wit while smiling.
"I do not want to see him every day, yet, I want him within an easy walk when I will surely have to choke him."
Most blacksmiths were put in a region of villages, and allowed to wander around looking for a niche for themselves. Ryeamund asked for this man to be assigned a village, so he knew where he was. He saw to it further, that the man didn't know of his interest in him.
"If I hear of his misdeeds with his helper he finds? As I am sure will occur. I will deal with it… personally."
Eira's face had fallen, furrowing the brow of her "coin beast", explaining that the young man Ryeamund had instructed to come and get him if "his smith" was in any way unruly… was outside and sporting a black eye.
Eira asked if Ryeamund would prefer to have her go and whack him over the head with her cast iron egg pot several times to teach him a lesson.
"Aye, I do… yet, I will handle this first time."
Ryeamund got up, and more fully secured his half open soft cotton robe. He strode out barefoot to the kitchen. He yelled and waved at the kid to come in, and that he would make them both tea. He rolled and cracked his sore neck, and made occasional swimming motions with his shoulders and arms, particularly his left arm.
He drew his chair up next to the young man, then patted his forearm as he smiled gently and put rock sugar in both of their tea wood bowls. The man went through a slightly longer version; the short version of which:
1) the 'drunken smith' was an irritable prick
2) he was often drunk, or recovering from it
3) he had basically sucker-punched his young helper
4) Ryeamund had personally asked to be informed
Eira, seeing Ryeamund up and about and hosting the man and having tea, set about making Ryeamund breakfast. Ryeamund bid the young man to eat, with a flourish of his fingers and a smile on his face.
"But… I must be back at work in a short time, I shall barely make it back in time."
Ryeamund smiled easily back…
"No. You do not… sit and eat and drink with me."
For opening conversation with Ryeamund, the young man took great pains to explain to Ryeamund… would he please not think it rude that he was here, on this matter, the day after he returned sore from battle? Though he had been personally instructed by Ryeamund himself, to get here the instant any unruliness occurred.
When Ryeamund started making jokes about going to smack the blacksmith around with both the young visitor and Eira, the young man hastily tried to get Ryeamund to continue resting. Surely he could handle this three days from now. Ryeamund waved him off, making a face and the swimming motion with his left shoulder as he said it:
"Oh, nay… I prefer to get all my labors out of the way, before I have some fun… and my labors are complete."
Ryeamund talked easily to the young man as they walked to that village not far from his own. Indeed within "choking distance" as he had requested. Why did he want to be a blacksmith, over a farmer, merchant, or other craft-worker?
"My father and mother and my younger brother? We are all farmers. If it is not foolish, me and my little brother would try to become big-men, if we may."
Ryeamund calculated. Asked why a smith, as many big-men were farmers and hunters originally.
"I can hunt, yet, I am not great at hunting. I already know farming, and can always try that. A smith? Most can make weapons and armor. They have dealings with the big-men. And, a blacksmith is never without some coins. My plan, was to make my own weapons and armor, for me and my brother to practice with."
"And your brother can be your smith helper, when you know enough to try having your own forge… you two can have your own hours and days to practice or to work."
The young man smiled. Shook his head yes. Explained that a tiny farm would be enough for him and his little brother, if not with women and children to provide for yet. They could trade farm and smith days, and both help each other at both jobs.
"And, if you do not become big-men?"
The young man shrugged.
"We are both already farmers, we would be smiths and smith helpers as well."
Ryeamund agreed it was a fine-plan, as it sounded. Ryeamund enjoyed talking to the young man on the easy walk back to the small blacksmith shop. The man had set up in a small village that had no smith. The boys had freely helped him gather stones and clay to make his new forge out of. The young man's father had to be in on this plan, to let the boy try to be around a smith and pick up on the work.
Ryeamund suggested the young man let him do most of the talking when they got back, as they were fast approaching the little smith shop. Ryeamund could hear the heavy breathing of the tall fat fool he remembered as he approached. They came around the corner and stood at the open doorway. Only Ryeamund was initially visible.
"Aye, what would you want."
"I would watch the smith. I may want things made. I would see you work."
"And, what do you do?"
Ryeamund smiled easily.
"Farmer. Been killing animals lately."
"Aye, yet luck is not with you, farmer. As you see, I have no help. The fool ran off."
Ryeamund smiled. Winked at the young man around the corner… as he grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into view.
"Oh. I found this, and I brought him back!"
The man was already drunk and it wasn't far past high noon.
"Then? You can see me work. With little help in place of no help."
Ryeamund spoke gruff to the boy, who eyed him quizzically…
"Get in there, and work those bellows, boy! I would see the smith's work! Go on."
It wasn't too long before the drunken blacksmith clouted the young man upside his head with the back of his hand.
"Is that how a smith trains a new helper?"
The drunken smith smiled at him proudly.
"Aye!"
Ryeamund took a step in.
"Back to work, young fool!"
It happened again. Ryeamund was yet another step closer, and the blacksmith was being fooled into thinking Ryeamund approved of his training program. Another time or two of this, had Ryeamund within range of the two of them and the performance that reminded Ryeamund clearly of his youth with this fool who did not recognize him. Without his armor and weapons, Ryeamund was indistinguishable from any of the other farmers to any outsider.
Then, it happened again. This was the last time it went on, however. Ryeamund smiled back at the blacksmith, as if to approve of his performance. Then he struck the big man as he smiled at his prowess and was returning to his work.
He crumpled against the wall, and fell down and laid still.
Ryeamund ignored him. Stepped over him, and looked at what the man had been doing. Today's work was nails. Easy enough for a smith such as he was. Ryeamund had the boy work the bellows, as he gave a running commentary on how easy nails were to make.
"Really? You just use little pieces of iron… see how you just tap the red chunks into this form? When you have too much, you simply run this iron chisel down the form."
The boy watched as he skimmed off the excess red that curled off easily. Ryeamund flipped the form over and tapped it on the back, the red nails fell into the coals. He left them there to heat some, then picked them up with a small pair of tongs hanging nearby and dropped them into a waiting bucket of water. They sizzled at the drop.
Ryeamund smiled, as the boy scratched his head and glanced at the sleeping blacksmith, back to Ryeamund making nails, and back and forth between the two.
"Ah. He's taking a nap. Let the fool sleep. We will be polite. And manage his affairs for him, aye?"
"Aye."
"Now then, come here. I'll work the bellows for you. You try it. Honestly, any drunken fool can make nails, I swear. Just try to keep the form hot, but, not hot enough the form goes soft. You see any red on the form, you move it out of the heat. As long as you take care not to heat the form too much, you really can't hurt anything."
The boy was amazed Ryeamund was content to sit on a stool, and work the bellows with one hand, while he oversaw the kid making more nails. The kid soon got the idea of keeping the form hot but not too hot, because Ryeamund let him see it with too cold a form. Then when the edge took on some dull red, he had him push it to the side to cool off.
When the kid had the right form temperature, he could easily pound red random small chunks into the slits, and the chisel ran down the form taking off the red excess like cheese. Bigger chunks chiseled off after being beaten into the form, and little chunks that came off or fell out were gathered up on a big iron spoon and pounded into the next slit if still red. If not red, back into the coals.
Twenty minutes to a half hour later, the drunken blacksmith was coming around a little. Gingerly touching the back of his head.
"Ye fell, and hit yer head."
Ryeamund told him, working the bellows with one hand, enjoying a drink of the cheap wine in the man's own goblet.
"Take care in the heat, when drinking, smith."
"What… what are you doing…?"
Ryeamund sipped the wine goblet.
"Well. I wanted nails. The boy is making me my nails. How much do you charge for a big handful of nails?"
The blacksmith told him, and Ryeamund tossed a copper coin on the ground in front of the now upright but still woozy smith, his bulk supported by the wall he had fallen up against.
Ryeamund told the boy to take the form, the tongs, the hammer and chisel out of the fire, and to dip them in the water and rehang them on the wall on the spikes there for that purpose.
Ryeamund took a big heaping handful of the nails out of the warm water in the bucket, and put them into his pouch he had.
"Young man. No other customers. We should go and have a nice lunch. Come on, then."
The boy followed him quietly. Ryeamund led them down and across the street, to the great-house. He turned and waved to the blacksmith they had just left, as he guided the boy into this village's great-house. The blacksmith was up and around on unsteady feet, leaning out the doorway to see where they were going.
Seeing the "farmer" take the boy for lunch into the great-house? Would no doubt be a good omen for the boy having much less difficulty at his apprenticeship in the future, he was just sure of it.