Chapter 8 — Those Willing to Go

Chapter 8: Chapter 8 — Those Willing to Go

Chapter 8 — Those Willing to Go

William Tresham had imagined that becoming a lord would involve a hall, an oath before the king, and perhaps a sword laid across his shoulders. Instead, it involved standing in mud outside Griffin City while two royal clerks argued over whether thirty-two families counted as thirty-two households when three widows shared a wagon.

He waited beside his horse and tried not to look impatient. His father had warned him that royal officials remembered insults longer than debts, and William had no land yet on which to hide from either; until he reached the empty tract marked on his patent and established a settlement there, the folded parchment inside his coat meant little.

Around him, the southern field had disappeared beneath wagons, tents, livestock pens, and temporary cookfires, and banners marked the larger expeditions. The green-and-white standard of Ducal House Harcourt stood above the largest camp, while lesser houses crowded around it in the hope of travelling north under ducal protection.

William’s own banner hung from a spear beside four tired men-at-arms. His father had given him thirty-two farming families, two wagons of tools, seed grain, and advice about honoring the family name, while his elder brother had inherited the useful land.

"Three widows, three households," the older clerk insisted.

"One wagon," said the younger.

William turned toward the southern road. Another convoy had appeared between the orchards: several dozen wagons, livestock in the middle, and mounted guards spaced properly along the line. It was not large enough to belong to a duke or count, but it moved better than many groups already camped outside the city. A black drake flew on the leading banner.

"House Drake," one of William’s men said. "That will be Edmund Drake’s boy."

William had heard the story: a Gold Knight killed in the northern fighting, followed by a son sent toward an old stronghold that most maps showed only as a ruin. People called it duty when the person being sacrificed belonged to someone else.

The older clerk struck the table with his seal. "Thirty-two households."

William returned his attention to his own problems. Whatever waited for Edmund Drake’s son, he still had a village to build on bare northern land.

Christopher smelled Griffin City before he saw its walls. Smoke from thousands of chimneys drifted above the road, mixed with the odors of animals, wet soil, refuse, and the workshops clustered beyond the gates. The city appeared after the road climbed a low ridge, its pale walls stretching from the river to a wooded hill crowned by the royal keep.

A shadow passed over the road, and Christopher looked up as a griffin crossed above the southern wall, its broad wings carrying an armored rider toward the royal keep. Several children in the convoy shouted and ran after it until their parents called them back. Christopher Drake had seen griffins during earlier visits to the capital, but the borrowed memories did little to lessen the sight of one flying overhead.

He had seen the city before, through Christopher Drake’s memories—visits that had involved clean carriages, prepared rooms, and servants who handled every delay before he noticed it. Arriving with fifty families made it look like a different place.

The fields outside the southern gate were packed with northern expeditions. Some occupied orderly rows beneath painted banners, while others consisted of carts gathered around a single cooking fire. Cattle lowed from temporary pens, children ran between wheels, and armed retainers shouted whenever strangers wandered too close to their supplies.

Walter rode back from the front. "The road to the gate is blocked, my lord. The city watch is sending northern parties toward the registration fields."

Christopher looked over the camps. "Do we know where House Drake is assigned?"

"Not until we register, my lord. The watch is assigning fields as each party arrives."

"Then take me to register. Martha, can the convoy wait here?"

Martha leaned out from the kitchen wagon and examined the slope. "For an hour, maybe. Not for the night. There’s no water nearby, and three other groups are already looking at the same ground."

Christopher turned to Godfrey. "Keep the families together until we have a field. Nobody enters the city unless Bennet records why they are going."

"Does that order include the knights?"

"Especially the apprentices. I would rather not search Griffin City’s taverns for them tonight."

Thomas Reed pretended not to hear. Two of the younger apprentices had been staring at the walls since the ridge, and Christopher suspected they were already deciding which tavern to visit first.

While Walter chose four riders, Godfrey studied the surrounding banners. His gaze lingered on the green-and-white standard near the eastern side of the field.

"That’s House Harcourt’s banner, isn’t it?" Christopher asked.

"Lord Roland Harcourt leads their expedition. A second cousin of the duke. Lesser houses are joining him every day."

"Would joining their convoy make the northern road safer?"

"We don’t know when they leave or where they separate."

Christopher left Godfrey in charge and rode with Walter, Ivo, and two apprentices toward the registration field.

They passed expeditions larger than his own and several much smaller: one knight led seven families beneath a banner so new the paint still shone, while a gray-haired woman supervised forty wagons and two boys in noble clothing carried messages for her. Near the road, three men argued over a broken axle as their settlers waited under the sun.

The war had shaken people loose from estates across Varenne and pushed them toward land that might no longer be safe.

The registration field occupied a wide stretch between the city wall and an old tournament ground, wooden rails dividing the waiting parties into lines. Royal clerks worked beneath long canvas awnings, while guards checked seals and redirected wagons before they could block the road.

Christopher dismounted when his line stopped moving. A servant accepted his reins, then named a price high enough to make him pause.

"That much just to hold a horse?" Christopher asked.

"For holding a warhorse near the royal tables, my lord."

Walter paid before the argument delayed them further. "Everything costs more near the royal tables, my lord."

Christopher handed over the reins. "Then let us finish before they charge us for standing here."

They waited behind a young man wearing the badge of House Tresham. Christopher knew the family only from inherited lessons: landed knights in western Varenne, respectable but not powerful. The man turned once, noticed the Drake emblem on Walter’s cloak, and offered a tired nod.

"William Tresham," he said. "Tresham expedition."

"Christopher Drake. Dragonwatch."

William’s expression changed slightly at the name, though he recovered before it became pity. "You came farther than we did."

"You registered already?"

"They counted us twice, then sent us back because one page lacked a seal. If your clerk prepared three copies, bring four."

Bennet had prepared five. Christopher silently thanked the man’s distrust of government offices.

The line moved. William raised a hand in farewell and returned toward his camp, leaving Christopher before a table covered with ledgers. The clerk behind it looked young enough to be an apprentice, but the two seals hanging from his neck marked him as a royal officer.

"House and claimant?"

"House Drake. Christopher Drake, acting for the Dragonwatch expedition."

The clerk stopped writing, searched through a wooden box, removed a packet tied with blue cord, and compared its seal to the one on Christopher’s papers.

"Your party was expected yesterday, Master Drake."

Christopher caught Walter’s eye. Walter remained wisely silent.

"We had delays on the road," Christopher said.

"So has everyone." The clerk compared Bennet’s copies, checked the number of households and fighting men, then stamped the first page. "If the size of your party changes before Northgate, your clerk can report it there."

"Bennet will see to it."

The clerk reached the final page and glanced up. "Where is Sir Godfrey Hales?"

"He remained with the convoy to keep order."

"He has not entered Drake service?"

"No. He travels by his own choice."

That answer earned a longer look, but the clerk wrote it without comment. He stamped three copies and handed two back.

"Your field is South Twelve beside the old lime road. Draw water from the public wells. Keep your animals off the other fields and put out your fires by the second night bell."

Christopher accepted the papers. "How long may we remain?"

"Seven days under the northern levy allowance. After that, the city charges by wagon, animal, and household."

"We should need less."

"Everyone says that on the first day."

The clerk picked up the blue-bound packet. "There is also a royal order attached to your claim. You need to sign for it."

Christopher expected another list of obligations. "What instrument?"

The clerk untied the cord and unfolded a sheet bearing the crowned griffin of Varenne. "This is the patent agreed upon by the Crown and Viscount Drake after Sir Edmund died."

Walter’s head turned toward him. Christopher kept his attention on the document.

The formal language was dense, but several phrases were plain enough: Christopher Drake, lawful lord of Dragonwatch and its dependent lands; the dignity and obligations of a baron; possession conditional upon reclamation, settlement, and inspection by officers of Northgate.

"My grandfather never mentioned this," Christopher said.

"The instrument was sealed before your departure. Whether Viscount Drake informed you is not recorded here."

"When does the title take effect?"

"You become a baron when you sign. Hold Dragonwatch, build a working settlement and pass Northgate’s inspection, and the title becomes permanent. If you abandon the land, the Crown takes it back."

Christopher read the first page again. His grandfather’s careful words about duty and inheritance made more sense now.

Osbert had turned his grandson’s exile into a respectable appointment.

"Do I have a choice?" Christopher asked.

The clerk appeared surprised. "You may refuse the patent."

"And Dragonwatch?"

"The Crown would choose someone else. House Drake would still have to send people and supplies north."

Christopher imagined returning south after fifty families had already left their homes to follow him. Hugh and Ranulf would receive him warmly, no doubt, and his grandfather might protect him for a time, but the reason Osbert had sent him away would remain.

"Show me where to sign."

The clerk turned the final page and offered him a pen, and Christopher signed the unfamiliar name with the hand that remembered how. The clerk pressed the royal seal beneath it, then stood.

"Your copy, Baron of Dragonwatch."

The title sounded too large for a young man whose convoy was waiting beside a road without water. Christopher folded the patent and placed it inside his coat.

Outside the awning, Ivo stared at him. "Did he call you Baron?"

"Only if we make Dragonwatch work. The Crown can still take the title back if we fail."

"Then we had better make certain it does not fail," Ivo said.

Walter’s gaze swept the camps beyond the rails. "Then we should find South Twelve before someone else occupies it."

They recovered their horses and rode back through the registration field. A supply merchant had raised the price of lamp oil while they were inside, and two nobles were shouting at him from opposite sides of his cart. Farther away, recruiters wearing Harcourt colors spoke to a line of carpenters and masons.

Christopher had money. Looking across Griffin City’s crowded fields, he began to understand that money would not guarantee there was anything left to buy, or anyone willing to go where he needed them.

South Twelve was already occupied when Christopher returned.

Six wagons stood near the public well, a blue banner hanging from a pole beside them. Walter rode ahead to speak with the men unloading there, and by the time Christopher reached the field, both sides were holding stamped papers and insisting the other had been given the wrong place.

Godfrey arrived with the Drake convoy before the argument became a fight. Bennet compared the two assignments and found that the other party had been given South Twenty, but one clerk’s cramped writing made the number look like twelve; their lord complained, his clerk blamed the royal office, and the six wagons finally moved.

"Is everything in this city decided by bad handwriting?" Christopher asked.

Bennet placed the papers back inside his case. "Only the things decided by clerks."

The convoy entered the field before anyone else could claim it. Families raised tents along the western side while the wagons formed two lines near the road. Martha inspected the well, declared the water drinkable, and began preparing the evening meal.

Christopher spent the remaining daylight walking through the camp with Bennet. Two sacks of grain had become damp during the journey, one shovel had broken, and the repaired wagon wheel needed to be checked again before they left. None of it was serious alone, but the list covered most of a page.

"What do we need before Northgate?" Christopher asked.

"Do you mean what we need, my lord, or everything we would like to have?"

"Only what we cannot safely leave without."

Bennet crossed out half the items. They kept iron fittings, lamp oil, salt, rope, spare leather, medicine, grain, and tools for repairing wagons. Christopher added winter cloth until Bennet reminded him they would still pass through Northgate.

"Will the cloth be cheaper at Northgate?"

"Probably not, my lord."

"Then why leave it until Northgate?"

"Because every bolt of cloth takes space in a wagon. We don’t know what Dragonwatch lacks most."

Christopher surveyed the crowded camp. Money could buy another wagon, but that wagon would need animals, a driver, repairs, and room on every narrow road ahead, so he left the winter cloth on the list but marked it as something to buy only if they had space.

They entered Griffin City the next morning, Walter and four apprentices accompanying Christopher while Godfrey remained with the convoy. Bennet carried the supply list and a smaller board showing the workers they still needed.

The southern gate was wide enough for four wagons, but only two could pass because merchants had gathered beside the entrance, and guards shouted at people to keep moving. Above them, stone griffins watched from the gatehouse with chipped wings and rain-darkened faces.

Inside, every street near the market seemed to contain another northern recruiter. Men wore boards naming their trades around their necks, while noble servants called out wages and promises from beneath house banners. House Harcourt had taken the best position near the guild square and placed three tables there.

Christopher stopped at the edge of the crowd. "Where do we begin?"

"Blacksmiths," Bennet said. "Without one, every broken hinge and horseshoe becomes a journey."

The smiths’ guild had posted its available workers on a board beside the square, most names already crossed out. The clerk guarding the list asked for Christopher’s destination before discussing terms.

"Dragonwatch," Christopher said.

The clerk lowered his pen. "Beyond Northgate?"

"Yes."

"How far?"

"Far enough that we need a blacksmith."

The clerk kept a serious face. Of the seven names remaining, three refused as soon as they heard the destination, two had already accepted offers from larger expeditions but had not yet returned to remove their names, and one wanted a workshop built before his arrival and enough silver to move six relatives.

The last was Master Barlow, a thick-armed man with a burn across the back of his left hand, who had lost his position when the workshop making army fittings reduced its workers after the war. His wife and two sons waited outside the guildhall with their belongings stacked in a handcart.

"The old tales say Dragonwatch is a ruin," Barlow said.

"So was I."

"Does it have a forge?"

"I don’t know."

Barlow frowned.

"We have tools and carpenters," Christopher continued. "If the old forge is ruined, we will build one. Your family will receive food for the journey, wages from today and a house plot at Dragonwatch."

"What wage are you offering, my lord?"

Bennet answered, and Barlow asked for more; they settled between the two figures. He wanted a written promise that his elder son would be paid separately once the boy could do a man’s work.

Christopher agreed, and Bennet wrote the terms while Barlow’s wife read over his shoulder and corrected the spelling of her own name.

The millers’ guild was less crowded. Christopher still needed someone who could operate a mill once they built one.

Robert Miller had the useful surname and the wrong age. He was nearly sixty, walked with a stiff knee, and refused to leave without his widowed daughter and her three children. He had built and repaired waterwheels for most of his life.

"I can’t promise we have a suitable stream," Christopher said.

"Then let me see the land, my lord, and I will tell you whether the stream can turn a wheel."

"And if there is no suitable stream?"

"You will still need grain ground. I know hand mills, animal mills, and enough carpentry to earn my food until we build something better."

Bennet looked doubtful about adding five people who could not all work, but Christopher asked how much flour fifty families consumed in a month, and the answer changed his expression.

Robert Miller joined under the same travel and settlement terms as Barlow. His daughter would work with Martha until the settlement found other work for her.

They had less success with the tanners: the first would not take his children north, the second demanded twice the wages offered by House Harcourt, and the third listened until Christopher mentioned Dragonwatch, then stood and left without finishing his ale.

Their final stop before midday was a yard where masons waited beside samples of their work. Most had come to Griffin City because wartime repairs were ending in the south, but the northern expeditions had already hired the largest crews. Christopher found Owen Wren sitting alone beside three squared stones and a worn box of tools.

Wren had worked under a master mason until the man died during the war, and without money to purchase the old yard, he had been taking temporary work with his younger brother. Both men were willing to leave, but Wren’s wife wanted to hear the offer herself before agreeing.

"If the settlement fails, my lord, will our family be free to leave?" she asked.

"Yes," Christopher said. "You will be paid workers, not bound to Dragonwatch."

"And if we choose to remain after the first season?"

"You will receive a house plot with the other craftsmen. I have not seen the stronghold, so I cannot promise when your house will be ready."

Mrs. Wren looked at her husband. "At least he admits it."

Wren examined Christopher’s seal and asked whether the new baronial title was real; Christopher showed him the provisional patent but made no attempt to present it as permanent. After a quiet discussion, the couple agreed—Wren and his brother would join, while his wife travelled with them and helped wherever the settlement needed her.

It gave Christopher two masons, but not the construction crew needed to repair walls, roofs, roads, and homes. He added their names to Bennet’s list anyway. A small number was still better than none.

By midday, Christopher had spoken to more than a dozen people and hired three families. His throat hurt, and every conversation had begun with the same doubtful look.

They ate meat pies beside the market fountain. Walter remained standing, watching the crowd while the apprentices took turns carrying messages back to South Twelve.

"Would a higher wage bring more of them back?" Christopher asked Bennet.

"It may persuade a few, my lord."

"You don’t think they would stay."

"Anyone coming only because your offer is highest may leave when another lord offers more."

Christopher’s eyes moved to the Harcourt tables, whose recruiters could promise safer roads, larger settlements, and the support of a ducal house; competing with them coin by coin would be expensive without solving the real problem.

"Then we keep the current offer."

The supply market was worse. Lamp oil cost nearly twice what Bennet expected, and one merchant would sell rope only with a large order of poor leather. Two warehouses had grain, but neither would release it until contracts for the royal army were filled.

Christopher could afford the prices; the trouble was finding everything on the list from merchants who still possessed it. By late afternoon, they had visited six shops and obtained only salt, medicine, spare harness straps, and part of the iron fittings.

At the seventh shop, Christopher noticed fresh coils of rope behind a canvas screen. The merchant claimed they belonged to another buyer.

"Has he paid?" Bennet asked.

"He left a deposit."

"Then sell us what remains after his order."

"There is nothing remaining."

Bennet pointed to a smaller stack beneath the counter. "What about those?"

The merchant sighed: those coils were shorter and cost more. Christopher bought them anyway, since short rope could still bind a load or brace a damaged wheel.

They returned to South Twelve before sunset. Master Barlow’s family had already arrived and placed their handcart beside the carpenter families. Robert Miller sat near Martha’s fire with his stiff leg stretched before him, explaining to three farmers why grinding wet grain ruined good flour.

As they watched the purchases being unloaded, Bennet turned to Christopher. "We still need seed."

"House Drake gave us seed."

"Southern wheat and field beans," Bennet said. "I asked the farmers. They’ll grow poorly if Dragonwatch is as cold as people say."

"What should we plant?"

"Northern rye. Barley, oats and turnips. Whatever has already survived winters up there."

Christopher had spent the day worrying about walls, rope, and workers; it had not occurred to him that seed taken from the warm south might fail in northern soil.

"Then we start at the seed market tomorrow," Christopher said. "Buy what the farmers recommend."

Three families after an entire day did not feel like much. Christopher had imagined Griffin City’s unemployed workers lining up once they heard about wages and land, but he had forgotten that people could be desperate for work and still unwilling to carry their children toward a place associated with war. Fear of the northern road outweighed many promises made in safety.

Godfrey read the list of purchases. "No rope?"

"Some rope. Not enough."

"Construction workers?"

"None yet."

Walter placed a handbill on the table, listing enslaved laborers available through the slave market, including men experienced with stone, timber, roads, and earthworks.

Christopher read it once and set it beside Bennet’s board. "We try the free market again tomorrow morning."

"And after that?" Walter asked.

Christopher’s gaze settled on the new families eating beside the fire. Barlow’s younger son had already joined the apprentices in examining a loose horseshoe. Robert Miller’s grandchildren were sharing a bowl with two children from the farming families.

"After that," Christopher said, "we visit the slave market."