She looked up from the jib sheet, eyes bright, soft brown hair whipping across her face. “Ready!”
I paused for a moment, feeling the pull on the sail.
“Ready about?” I asked.
“Ready!” she said again, planting her feet just like I had shown her.
“Helm’s a-lee!” I pushed the tiller over, the bow swinging toward the wind. The mainsail shuddered, then flapped violently as we crossed the eye. Emily screamed as the gunwale almost dipped into the water when Cove Dancer heeled over.
“Emily, ease the jib!” I yelled to bring her back to the present.
“Easing!” she shouted.
The bow swung through, the wind shifting sides. “Trim her in!” I ordered.
She hauled on the new sheet with quick pulls until the jib was flat and drawing again. “Trimmed!” she said as she lashed the rope.
The Cove Dancer settled into her new course, leaning into the wind. I grinned at Emily. “That’s how we do it,” I said, putting my hand up for a high five.
She slapped my hand as she laughed. “That was amazing.”
“You're getting better, Em.”
“I can’t believe how much fun this is.”
“Just wait. In a couple of months, we will have the larger boat ready.”
********
Emily brushed wet hair out of her face as we stepped onto the shore. “Two bells out there, and I can’t feel my fingers.”
“Agreed, but totally worth it,” I said, grinning despite the chill. “But look over there—our next adventure.”
She followed my gaze to the skeletal frame of a boat propped up on the beach. “That’s the fishing ship you were talking about?”
“Yep. Experimental model.”
“Experimental how? A boat’s a boat, isn’t it?”
“Not quite.” We started walking toward it. “Normally, they build the hull first here—plank by plank, because each piece braces the next. It gives them wiggle room for adjustments.”
“So why not do that?”
“Because we’ve got the sawmill and my measuring system,” I said. “We can cut planks to exact dimensions and shape them to fit a pre-built frame. With trip hammers and better iron production, we can even use iron spikes instead of wooden pegs.”
She tilted her head. “So…?”
“It'll be stronger, faster, and less likely to fall apart. That’s the idea, anyway. Explaining it to the shipwrights, though, was like trying to teach someone to sing a song in a language they don’t speak. Everything I suggested was backwards to them. And honestly…” I smiled, “I’m making some of this up as I go. It's not like I have ever built a ship before. I just know some of how it was done back in my last life and told them to figure out the rest."
Emily laugh. "You just pretended you knew what you were talking about."
I laughed, “Exactly. I tried to get them to convert the Rabiss raiding ship. Barry pointed out half a dozen ways it could roll over from trying to build it with the Bermuda sail. We’d need a whole new hull to make it safe.”
She glanced at the frame again. “So this fishing boat is practice?”
“Right. It will need at least four crew, but it has space for twelve passengers, and enough hold for a lot of fish. Once we get this right, we’ll increase the size first a cutter, then a schooner.
“And hammocks,” I added after a pause.
“Hammocks?”
I nodded. “I don’t know when ships in my world started using them, but they are basically a sheet of cloth held between two poles. It is something people can lie down on. They don’t use them here. They just shove everyone onto dirty floors. No wonder sailors die like flies. I’m putting hammocks on my A-list for every ship we build.”
“So you are going to build all your ships with these beds for sailors?”
“Exactly. The sad thing is, we only have enough seasoned wood for this boat. After that, we’ll sail down the coast, get more for the schooner.”
“You’re going to sail the fishing boat down to Vaspar to get more wood?” she said in confusion.
“Sorry, I totally jumped thoughts there,” I said with a chuckle. “Not the fishing boat. The Rabiss men are training our men to handle the captured ships. In a couple of months, we’ll have a full crew. Then we can sail to Carok and start trading with the Mit Trading House.”
“So are you going to start trading with John?”
“Indirectly. My Uncle Jonathan owns the business, but since he sent John before, it will probably be him that we deal with.”
As we walked further down the trail leading to the camp, we came across twelve slabs of concrete. Most were drying in the sun, but four of them had teams lifting frames into place to start construction on our communal homes.
I walked up to one of the foremen who was shouting something at his crew. I waited until his last expletive was said before interrupting.
“So, how goes the work?” I asked.
He whipped around, and I watched his face turn from red as a tomato to white as a sheet. “M-my lord, I… uh… forgive me.”
I waved him off. “I am impressed with how fast things are going.”
“I have to thank you for convincing some of the skilled laborers from Bicman to come up to North Cove. We have a lot of people here, but most are busy planting, and the rest, while good for some things, are not skilled.”
“They came on their own. They wanted to help you all get better homes. And not just something made of sticks and mud.”
“Well, these will be a lot better than that, I assure you.” The man gave a strained laugh. Like most, speaking with a noble was tough for him. They all tried to figure out the exact right words to say.
“I know they are communal, but it will keep out the wind and rain.”
The man couldn’t help but grin at that. “My lord, most of these people have never had more than a hovel. They will be grateful for these."
"So has the layout been decided on?"
"Yes, the lower floor will have a kitchen and cooking area along with storage for food and supplies. There will be a large dining area. And a few rooms for individuals who require more privacy, like the elderly or young mothers. The loft will have a communal sleeping area. I understand that you are thinking that these people will not like living so close but you may have trouble getting people to move out if they don’t get even better permanent homes.”
“Well, I hope that doesn’t happen. The only reason we are building these this way is so that we can reuse them when the people move out.”
Emily gave a little tilt to her head. “What will you be reusing them for?”
“I am not sure yet. We have a few ideas. The walls on the inside are temporary, so we could use them for schools, warehouses, or even crafting buildings. I would put your paper-making facility here, but you already have one in Pine Pidge. Though once we start producing more hemp, we might do its initial soak here and then split it between cloth, rope, and the stuff you use for paper.”
“That would be nice,” she said with a smile.
“It’s always nice to have someone else do all your work, isn’t it? You truly are becoming a noble.” I teased.
“Hey! That isn’t what I meant, and you know it.”
“Sure, pretty soon you will be asking me to call you princess.”
Her mouth dropped at that, and I laughed.
“You’re so mean,” she said, trying to give me a shove. That only made me laugh harder, as she was half my size.
“Sorry, my lady. I will endeavor to treat you with the dignity that is befitting of your station.”
“Ugh, now you sound like Katrina and Benjamin during their lessons.”
The poor foreman waited patiently during our banter. “Forgive me for my moment of levity,” I said as I turned to him. However, his nervous expression had left him during the exchange, and he, too, was trying to keep a straight face.
“Not at all, my lord. It is good to see you in such good spirits during this time. I was worried you would be disappointed with our progress since we haven’t even gotten you proper housing yet.”
“Nonsense. The small home I have is enough and I spend half my time in Pine Ridge. The fact that we have enough shelter for me and any visitors so quickly is excellent. In fact, having such rudimentary homes may keep those trying to visit from staying long. What noble would stay in a small home with a thatched roof?”
“If you aim to keep away nobles, then I think your design of the homes may not work as well as you think. They may be small, but you furnished them with all the things you had in the Bicman manor, including new features like those closets. That stove you have in your own home is incentive enough.”
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
I grinned at that. With the blast furnace, I had been able to get them to make a potbelly stove. Why a potbelly and not the Franklin or box stove? Because potbellies were cooler. Well, that and it was the only stove I knew how to theoretically build.
The town I grew up in had an old antique store that my siblings and I used to go into when we were younger. They had an old potbelly stove that they lit sometimes during the winter. It makes you feel cozy. I had almost been kicked out of the store when I was messing around with it, trying to figure out how it worked from all angles, so I could incorporate it into my drawings. I had to show the old lady who owned the store my drawings to prove what I was doing. From then on, when I would draw pictures of older homes, I would always use potbelly stoves.
I had them make my fireplace big enough to set the stove inside. That way, if the stove didn’t work like I hoped, I could just replace it with a fire. It worked a little too well, though, and I had to minimize the fuel I added. The problem was that the room was too small for the stove. And it got rather hot when I boiled water on top of it.
But it was revolutionary, and everyone wanted to see it work. One thing that was under way in Pine Ridge was developing the best stove and oven we could use for large communities.
Baron Weston Yarbeth
"Father, why is it that they are building towers along the border here?" Baron Yarbeth's twenty-eight-year-old son asked him in a bored tone. They had just crossed the Nore River and had finally entered their new barony.
"Because the count is an idiot," he sighed in response. He was still furious about having to live under the rule of such a demented individual. "He fears disease among his subjects and runaway peasants and serfs. He isn't worried about them running away, but them coming here. As if any would willingly come here."
"Is it not the nature for the commoners to die from disease. They are weak after all. How would building a wall help with that?"
"Exsactly. But according to Lord Malcomp and the younger Lord Vaspar, he also insists that his people get a rest day every five days. In my opinion, it is the reason his barony is so poor. We will not let such folly continue. When this land finally becomes a part of Yarbeth, I will make sure we are on equal footing with my brother. It was quite nice that Plimgus died. Now your brother will also have land for an inheritance.”
“What about the Count? The Rabiss raid failed.”
Weston snorted, “That child has nothing but a mining camp and a handful of peasants cleaning out muck in a swamp. We could leave them alone, and they would die out. But when my Father declares that the county is now his, we will gather a thousand men and subjugate them. Then we will feed the propped-up count to the fish in his cove.
- ???????
Time flew by, and soon the tall walls of the first village in Bicman were before them. As they entered through the gates, he noticed the sudden difference from the typical peasant village. The streets were laid out in orderly rows. The homes were uniform, built in a style he had not seen before.
"What is this, Father?" the youngest of his three sons said. "It is like we have entered a bizarre miniature city."
It was an apt way to describe the village. As they approached the village square, he saw many villagers gathered to greet them. The knight of the village, along with his men, was there, and the headman with his sash of office stood there with a solemn look on his face. Many villages also had been brought in to greet them. He saw the proper respect on the peasants' faces. The fear of punishment. He had worried he would have to beat many of them before they recognized his authority.
As the new baron stepped out, he was greeted by deep bows. "Welcome, Baron Yarbeth. We have been waiting for your arrival with great anticipation," the knight said. "I am Sir Chuck, and this is my headman, Paul."
Weston and his family gave barely perceptible nods. "My lord, we have prepared a meal for you and rooms to rest in. When you are ready, we can escort you to the town hall so that we might discuss the affairs of your villages."
His family was escorted to a large home where meals were set out for them. After a quiet meal, the women and children took the grandchildren out to get exercise, and the men of the house were brought to a large building with an open floor plan. The baron had never heard of a town hall before, but he was not about to let these commoners know that. At the head of the room was a large table which could hold at least ten men. Benches were lined in neat rows leading up to the table. As they approached the table, a stack of parchment was lying at the head of the table. Baron Yarbeth's steward pulled out the chair for him to sit down while a group of peasants did the same for his sons.
Picking up one of the sheets of parchment, he immediately realized what it was. "This is paper, is it not? I must know how it is made," the new baron said firmly in a voice that brooked no argument. It was one of his assignments from his father. He must learn how paper is made and send the process to him immediately.
The knight and headman looked uncomfortable. "Forgive me, my lord, but the process of how paper is made is a closely guarded secret. Only the count could tell you how it is made," the knight said.
The baron's face darkened, "Is it not made here in Bicman?"
"It was, my lord. But the whole operation was brought to Cove Town with the count after a spy broke into the last shop and burnt it down."
"Are you saying no one in Bicman knows how that is made!" The baron shouted as he waved the top sheet in the air."
"Forgive me, my lord, but I am not aware of any."
The baron turned to the headman and glared. The man called Paul shrank in his seat. "I…I do not know. Uh… my lord," he said, fumbling over his words.
"This is your first task, children. Find anyone in the barony who knows the secret of paper." All three of the adult sons nodded as if their inheritance depended on it.
"Very well, let us continue," Weston said.
"I will let Headman Paul take the lead on the discussion, as he is responsible for gathering reports on the villages and sending them to Bicman."
Paul leaned forward, "My lord, I took the liberty of gathering reports from all the villages in Bicman. These sheets are a summary of our planting and predicted harvests. We could review all the numbers based on location, but I'll provide a summary to get started. First, we planted a total of 1686 acres of land, leaving 827 acres fallow."
"Why did you not leave half the fields fallow? You are going to burn through your soil.. No wonder you produce so little." The second son of Yarbeth mocked.
"Forgive me, my lord, but this is something new we are trying; a third of the fields are wheat and rye, and the other third is a mix of other cereals and beans. The count assured us that this would preserve the soil, and we would see an increase. Last year, his other plan saw a dramatic increase in crop yield, almost double what we normally see, and we were able to feed everyone. Most years, people do without."
“This is my land now. Next year we will go back to what is proven. How much are you feeding the peasants?”
“We calculated around five bushels of wheat per adult this last year,” the steward said. “That is only the bread grain. Rye, barley, and their own gardens make up the rest. We could increase the wheat allotment to what the count wanted this year—he recommended at least six bushels to build a margin.”
The baron’s eyes practically bulged out of his head. “You will do no such thing. The wheat stays at five. And if we do not see enough gains, it will be cut by half a bushel.”
He had no real sense of how much peasants actually ate. If they could survive on five bushels of bread grain, there was no reason to give them six—especially people who usually died anyway.
“As you wish,” the steward said evenly. “I will recalculate the figures. At five, we will still have no difficulty meeting requirements, and there will be surplus if projections hold. As for livestock, we are expanding the herds—goats, pigs, mares, and cattle. The count advised allowing the numbers to grow until they could supplement the diet of your people.”
Share meat with peasants? Weston scoffed inwardly. Better to reserve it for feasts—or export it where it actually mattered.
Eventually, he would be holding winter balls here, and that would require food—a great deal of it. Before hearing these numbers, he had assumed it would be years before he could host festivals like those in the south. Now, it seemed the situation was not as bleak as he had feared. Perhaps it would finally silence his wife’s complaints.
They continued reviewing figures. After suppressing his curiosity for too long, he tapped the page with one finger.
“What are these other numbers?”
The headman followed his gaze and stiffened. He glanced briefly at the knight, as though bracing for the baron’s reaction.
“That, my lord, is a new form of measurement introduced by the count. It is called the kilogram. If you wish, I can explain how it converts from—”
The baron’s expression darkened.
“I have heard of this ‘new method.’ I am told it was devised under the guidance of the late Count Vaspar. Are you suggesting your count now claims credit for it?”
The headman’s mouth opened, then closed. He struggled for words. Before he could embarrass himself further, the knight stepped in.
“Forgive him, my lord. I believe there has been a misunderstanding. When he said the count, he meant Count Vaspar. With Count Bicman being so newly elevated, old habits occasionally slip.”
The baron snorted.
“At least you have not grown accustomed to the title. There is no telling how long it will last.”
He flipped the page, then paused.
“And these shirts I noticed among the peasants?”
The headman hesitated again. “When the last groups arrived in Bicman, there were… concerns about spies. Lord Bicman required newcomers to wear shirts marked by village. Once vetted, they are permitted to change to any color they wish.”
“Dye costs money,” the baron said flatly. “Wasting it on peasants is unnecessary. That practice will end. If they want colored cloth, they can dye it themselves.”
“As you wish, my lord,” the headman replied, sounding very much as though he had expected no other answer.
Several other matters were discussed, most of which the new baron dismissed out of hand. The Resident Identification Number was among them. He attempted to halt the practice outright, only to learn that it had been enacted at the county level. On that matter, at least, his authority ended where the borders did.
The door burst open without warning.
“Husband,” his wife said sharply, sweeping into the room, “there is a beautiful building here that I want cleared at once. It would make a perfect residence for us whenever we visit this town. The grounds are fenced, and there is even a play yard for the grandchildren.”
The baron pinched the bridge of his nose. He was weary of ledgers and reports, but they were still preferable to his wife’s demands.
“Who lives there now?” he asked flatly.
“A collection of peasant orphans,” she said dismissively. “And the woman who runs the place was insolent. When I told her to remove the children from the yard so our grandchildren could use it, she argued with me. Claimed the place was protected by the count and that I had no right to interfere.”
She sniffed. “Our guards handled her stubbornness. The woman could use a proper thrashing.”
Baron Yarbeth straightened.
“I agree,” he said coldly. “There is no need for a separate home for peasant children who have lost their parents. They can be distributed among other households. I will not waste the barony’s funds solving problems that should be borne by commoners.”
His lip curled.
“And if things have deteriorated so badly that a peasant woman feels free to speak back to a noblewoman, then this barony is in worse condition than I imagined.”
“Forgive me, my lord,” Sir Chuck said carefully. “But the orphanage is a county-sponsored initiative. It operates independently of the barony’s funds. And the woman who runs it is a personal friend of the count. She was granted leave to manage the orphanage as she sees fit.”
“If that is the case,” the baroness snapped, “then the orphanage—and the count’s mistress—should be housed in his town, not ours.”
Sir Chuck did not rise to the insult. “That is my understanding, my lady. However, after the raiders’ attack and with the urgency of plowing and seeding the fields, construction has been delayed. A suitable building has not yet been completed. By the time your family is fully settled in Bicman, I expect they will have relocated.”
“And the school?” the baroness demanded.
“The school?” Baron Yarbeth asked, looking up sharply.
“Yes,” she said. “Each child under the age of fourteen is required to learn to read, write, perform basic mathematics, practice problem-solving, and observe proper etiquette.”
Yarbeth’s jaw tightened.
“Commoners?” he said slowly, grinding the word between his teeth. “Has the count lost all sense? Does he not understand that educating commoners breeds discontent?”
He pushed back from the table.
“You will ensure that all commoners are removed from these educational facilities at once. They will learn the trades of their families and nothing more. Their time is not to be wasted on matters that concern the nobility alone.”
His expression hardened.
“It is fortunate I arrived when I did. It appears the count is the one most in need of an education.”