The tour of the grounds continued after the incident, even though the king’s heart clearly wasn’t in it anymore. Dutton too was watching his tone much more carefully from now on, wary of accidentally angering his liege again. He certainly tried to avoid talking about the peasants. His opinion of the workers was made clear and it wasn’t very positive. At last he tried to keep it to himself.

  The village of Lindridge contained a small temple dedicated to Tycho, the god of knowledge and learning. Varre had a chance to visit his cathedral back in the capital. The one in Westbridge was much larger of course, inhabited by scores of priests and acolytes, and filled with thousands of books. This one was just a small building in comparison.

  It consisted of a single, long chamber, with some seating and a couple shelves for books. There were probably a few dozen of them, practically nothing compared to the library inside of the manor. At least the room was kept warm and dry, helping the delicate tomes survive for longer.

  Still, it was clear that Varre’s father was a devout worshipper of Tycho. His own, private collection proved that beyond a shadow of a doubt. He must have personally funded this temple and provided for the local priest. There was no way the peasants alone could have afforded it.

  The cleric came out to greet his liege directly. He bowed deeply as he faced the king. Unlike the serfs, he understood that his lord was the monarch of all of Logres, not just this local area. He introduced himself as Sanford and pointed out some of the more interesting tidbits about the building as he took over the tour from Dutton.

  As he walked around the building, the king picked up one of the books from a shelf and started reading through it. It was a brief history of the kingdom of Logres, written about events up to the last fifty years. Probably around the time that the tome was written.

  Still, that presented an obvious question. “Do the peasants know how to read?” the king asked.

  “Some of them,” Dutton explained, “not the farmers of course, but some of the servants in the manor do. So does the blacksmith and the mason. And a couple of their apprentices. And the priest of course.”

  “The flock still comes around to pray,” Sanford said, “though of course, not as often as they should. At least they listen to the readings.”

  “Isn’t it strange to worship a god of education in a small village like this?” Varre pointed out, “I’d expect Tycho to be more of an urban god.”

  “This is all thanks to your father,” the priest bowed, “I am able to provide my services thanks to his generous donations. And I appreciate you continuing in his absence.”

  The king looked to Benjamin questioningly, but the servant nodded back. He must have chosen to continue this deal after Duke Tymon’s passing.

  The monarch was completely fine with this decision. It made no difference to him in the end. He was rich enough. Funding a small temple in one of his villages, especially one so clearly beloved by his father, wouldn’t be any problem.

  “And are they satisfied with this?” Varre continued, “do they wish to learn how to read as well?”

  Sanford nodded. “Some of the children do. They come here for lessons and many manage to learn it in the end. They’re quick and diligent learners, even if they are just commoners.”

  “Many of them end up working at the manor, once they grow up, your majesty,” the magistrate stepped forward.

  “Like Dutton,” Benjamin added, “he too was born here as just another commoner.”

  The official frowned. He clearly didn’t like being reminded of this fact.

  The priest decided to spare the poor man any embarrassment and changed the subject. “But, many of the other locals worship gods of their own. They pray for a good harvest, health, that sort of thing. They’ve even set up a small chapel nearby.”

  That was the next destination of the tour. While Tycho’s temple was small, it was still a solid structure. Made out of brick and stone. This second chapel on the other hand was made of simple planks.

  They were maintained to the best of everyone’s abilities. The walls were painted and well cared for. None of the wood seemed to be rotting, like it was on some of the other nearby buildings. The peasants must have been devout.

  Dutton hadn’t intended to lead the group inside, but he wasn’t going to argue with the king. If Varre wanted to explore the faith of his subjects, he had every right to do so.

  Inside, the building was a much smaller chamber. A large painting of a field of wheat hung on the far wall. A couple of long benches barely fit inside, while a wooden table stood beneath the painting, with some dried flowers laid out on top. Below it were a couple of bowls, each holding some grain or dried vegetables.

  A single priestess knelt in front of the painting and turned around, surprised to see such a large group of guests appear unannounced. “My lord? I mean, your majesty? What are you doing here?” she stammered.

  “Just taking a tour around Lindridge,” Varre explained, “I was curious about your chapel.”

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  “Oh!” the priestess quickly stood up, “then, please, welcome, make yourself at home,” she pointed to one of the benches, but realizing its shoddy state, retracted her hand.

  Still, the king was going to take her up on the offer. He sat down and started looking around the interior.

  The door was the only source of light. Perhaps the locals brought in some candles in the winter, when it got dark too quickly, but likely the temple was simply closed in the evenings. The ceiling was painted too and it seemed that the priestess even cared enough to get rid of the cobwebs.

  “This chapel is dedicated to Lomza,” she explained, “the goddess of the harvest. The peasants pray for a good yield next year and thank her for the previous one.”

  “And the grain in the bowls?” Varre asked.

  “That’s some of the sacrifices they make,” she slightly raised her chin, as if proud of the fact, “they share a portion of their gifts with the goddess. It shows off their dedication and is much appreciated.”

  The king grimaced. “And all of it just goes to waste? I thought they were going hungry.”

  “It’s for the goddess. She deserves her fair share,” the priestess cleared her throat, “and some of it’s for me.”

  Varre blew air out of his nose. “Fine then. In that case, I wish you a bountiful harvest too.”

  The priestess knelt down again while the procession continued further through the village. Dutton showed off the local blacksmith, as well as the other workshops of Lindridge’s industry. None of it was particularly exciting though.

  But it did give Etty an excuse to speak with her friend alone. She pulled him aside as the group moved from one building to the next.

  “How are you feeling now?” she asked him.

  “What do you mean?” Varre looked at her confused.

  “I saw how you blew up at Dutton. Was something troubling you?” Etty insisted.

  “Ah, that,” the king looked off to the side, “I just really didn’t like how he was treating the serfs.”

  “You mean when he threatened to beat them?” she followed his gaze, “yeah, it’s not very nice, is it? But that’s just how things are done out here, away from the capital.”

  “It’s not just the beatings,” Varre explained, “it’s this whole rotten system. Don’t you think the way they treat these peasants is just terrible? They’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Maybe, but that’s how the world works,” Etty replied, “serfs work the land, while we nobles fight to protect them. We need both, or our enemies will simply destroy us all.”

  The king shook his head. “I’m sure we could have a system where the peasants could have better conditions and have it be even more efficient in the end. There is no need for this cruelty.”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted, “but even if you’re right, what can we do about it? The entire world works the same way everywhere. And you are just one man.”

  “I’m not just one man,” Varre protested, “I’m the monarch. If there’s anyone who could change things, it’s me.”

  Etty looked concerned. “Just be careful, alright? I’m sure you’d like to make things better for everyone, but I don’t want you to get hurt in the process,” she paused for a second, then smiled warmly, “have you managed to remember anything yet?”

  “No,” he admitted.

  “Then I think I have an idea,” Etty said, excited, “why don’t we try going into the woods tomorrow? Maybe we can hunt, or maybe just walk around. Who knows, it might finally trigger some of your memories to return!”

  Varre looked away again. “Alright. Let’s give it a shot.”

  As the last stop of the tour, Dutton showed off the village’s fields. While the peasants’ plots were split into thin strips, just wide enough to accommodate a plow, the manor owned giant, extensive areas. The harvest was already collected, but it was clear who owned the vast majority of good soil around here.

  Next, the group returned to the manor for dinner. The chefs prepared an entire cow for tonight’s meal. Even with over a hundred guests, there’d be enough meat to last. Some of it would probably be distributed to the servants or turned into sausages and preserved for winter.

  It was surprisingly good. The royal entourage made sure to bring a huge variety of spices with them from Westbridge and the local cooks knew how to use it well. They were the servants of a duke after all. Still, as the king ate it, he couldn’t help but think back on the troubling situation that his subjects found themselves under. Many were constantly on the brink of starvation.

  In the evening, he was going to meet with the rest of his council again. The communication mages prepared their spell inside of the duke’s personal office. Varre sat down behind the desk and waited to see the familiar faces of his advisors.

  Soon enough, the portal displayed the familiar faces of the councilors who stayed behind in Westbridge.

  “How did you find Lindridge, your majesty?” Marna began, “have you managed to recover any of your memories yet?”

  “Not yet,” Varre replied, “but I have seen some troubling things happening here.”

  The advisors exchanged worried glances. “Troubling things?” the steward asked.

  “Yes. I finally saw how the magistrates treat the serfs with my own eyes. It is a truly terrible system,” the king explained.

  “Well, they might not be very nice, but these are just peasants, your majesty,” Treasurer Johan said, “it’s just how things are done. Personally, I recommend staying away from all those filthy things and leave that to the magistrates.”

  Varre glared him down. “Dear treasurer. Are you aware of what those magistrates are saying about their own workers?”

  Johan cleared his throat. “What do they say, your majesty?”

  “They call them lazy. They complain that the serfs aren’t willing to put in any extra effort and need to be threatened and punished to work harder,” the king explained.

  “Well, it’s their job to motivate the peasants,” the treasurer replied, “of course there’s going to be some disagreements there. I’d ignore that grumbling.”

  “How can we expect our workers to be motivated if they’re working for free?” Varre pointed out.

  “Well, they’re not. They receive an allotment of land in exchange. They can work it and feed themselves from their own harvests. We can’t just give out our fields for free,” Johan insisted, “you know that!”

  “I do know that, but you must agree that right now the peasants don’t benefit from this labor at all,” the king said, “it doesn’t matter how hard they work on my fields. All that affects them is what they do on their own plots, so it’s best to conserve as much energy as possible when working for me.”

  “And that’s exactly why we need magistrates. There needs to be someone to push them to keep working hard,” the treasurer argued.

  “We definitely need some local managers. Obviously. But I think we can still make this system better,” Varre said, “if the problem is that the peasants don’t benefit from working on my land, then we just need to change that to make the system more efficient. Make them more interested in working towards improving it and coming up with their own ideas.”

  “Do you suggest sharing a portion of the harvest with them? Or rewarding the hardest workers somehow?” Lester tried to guess.

  “No. I have a much simpler solution in mind,” the king smiled, “what if instead of forcing the peasants to work for free on my portion of land, and supporting themselves on their own, I distribute all of the fields to them directly? Then, they’d be motivated to work harder and improve their land as much as they can. And I could simply tax them from that.”