Negotiations and a Plague-Stricken City

Sithi, the mayor, recognized immense potential in the ‘Hradec’ ale.Consequently, he allocated twenty cartloads of barley from the grain seeds he had transported across the border from Silesia, presenting them to Noren for brewing.However, Sithi stipulated that he would acquire all the fine ale produced by her brewery.

Even though Sithi was her uncle by marriage, Noren gently declined, asserting that the brewery was an inheritance from her deceased mother.

To her surprise, this reasoning proved remarkably effective; Sithi was momentarily silenced.He then revised his offer, stating his willingness to purchase the ale at one silver coin per gallon.

This roughly translated to two silver coins for a small barrel and fifty silver coins for a large barrel.

Her sales strategy involved offering ale in two distinct barrel sizes.This approach allowed her to cater to the drunkards who desired a two-gallon capacity to drink from directly, while simultaneously preventing merchants seeking bulk purchases from haggling over the price of the larger barrels; they could either buy the entire barrel or none at all.

Indeed, as you might have surmised, Noren intended to establish her own merchant caravan.When the mayor’s caravan ventured out to sell ale, she too would lead her own caravan, traveling far and wide for trade.

Firstly, this would allow her to understand the conditions of the territories surrounding Opava.Secondly, it would provide an opportunity to forge connections with minor nobles during her travels, a prospect that would greatly benefit her future endeavors.

Had her sole focus been on accumulating wealth, there would have been no need to introduce beer—an ale brewed with hops—decades ahead of its time in the Middle Ages.While numerous methods existed for earning money, nothing possessed the power of fine spirits to move hearts, foster closer relationships, and cultivate friendships.

Noren’s current visit to Hradec was specifically to scout potential guards for her caravan.As for Tolke, she would have to wait until after his coming-of-age ceremony; he was a year younger than Noren, having just turned sixteen in April.

He had chosen to prove his adulthood through a solitary journey, leaving Ostrava alone to venture into the nearby Sudetes mountain range.That rugged terrain was teeming with wild beasts and possibly harbored hidden fugitives and bandits.

‘Why couldn’t Tolke just choose to hunt beasts? Why did he have to pick solitary living? What a bother!’

Noren sensed the rebellion of a teenage boy, yet she remained oblivious that Tolke’s actions were, in fact, spurred by her.

Her growth had been exceptionally swift; in merely four years, she had transformed from a four-foot-eight-inch girl into a six-foot-tall female warrior.This rapid change instilled an unprecedented sense of crisis in the young man’s heart, a fear that someone more capable than himself might one day usurp his place by Noren’s side.Consequently, he felt compelled to grow stronger, to acquire the power necessary to remain her steadfast companion!

Noren had long since passed the age of adolescent anxieties; counting this lifetime, two or three decades had already elapsed.It was naturally difficult for her to fathom Tolke’s inner thoughts.

Beyond the predicament of Tolke, she faced another immediate concern: Elder Sithis from the monastery.

She had heard that he wished to procure ‘Hradec’ ale for the monastery.

Acting as an intermediary, Mayor Sithi invited them both to the banquet hall for discussions.The hall was spacious, and the long dining table wide enough to ensure that if negotiations collapsed or the elder provoked Noren, she would at least be unable to land a punch on his face.

The young woman and the black-robed elder sat at opposite ends of the long table, while Mayor Sithi was seated directly in the center.

The mayor clapped his hands, and a well-trained servant entered the reception hall, carrying a tray.Upon the tray rested three ornate silver goblets and a pitcher of mulled wine, aged for four years in the cellar.

The servant first poured a modest amount for the mayor, who occupied the seat of honor.

The mayor leaned down, taking a gentle sniff, and closed his eyes as if savoring the aroma.Exhaling, he then pointed to the goblet, gesturing for the servant to fill it to the brim.

“This will do!” he declared.

He then instructed the servant to serve Noren and Sithis, subtly boasting, “This is Mainz wine, fragrant and delightful—a rare vintage indeed. I urge you both to savor it.”

Noren lifted her goblet and drained it in a single gulp.She disliked wine, finding it both sour and acrid to the nose; more accurately, she disliked all alcohol.Yet, given the pervasive drinking culture of the Middle Ages, how could she, living in this era, abstain entirely?

“My esteemed guests, would you care for anything to eat?” Sithi inquired with a smile.

“Perhaps some fresh venison? Or candied snacks?”

The black-robed elder raised a hand in refusal.

“No, thank you. Let us proceed directly to the matter at hand.”

He turned his gaze to Noren.

“Well?”

The young woman gave a slight nod.

Before she could even respond, the black-robed elder abruptly sprang to his feet, a dark, accusing finger leveled at Noren.

“You! You have stolen Jesus’s brewing recipe!”

“What in the world?” The young woman narrowed her eyes, cocking her head, a massive question mark seemingly hovering above her.

This monastic elder, she thought, must still be drunk.Yet, when their eyes met, she was confronted by a pair of remarkably clear, serious light-brown eyes.

‘Trying to frame me to seize my property?’

She rolled her eyes and rose, preparing to leave.

She had long heard tales of the monastery’s drunkards, and had assumed that in such a formal setting, with Sithi as an intermediary, they would undoubtedly be discussing the purchase of ale.She had not anticipated such an explosive, utterly senseless opening gambit.

Noren found herself disinclined to humor him further.Out of respect for Mayor Sithi, her uncle, she had already squandered a precious quarter-hour of her life with this shepherd of Christ.

Sithi promptly called out to her.

“Wait, Noren! You haven’t answered Elder Sithis’s question.”

‘Answer what? Defend myself for not stealing Jesus’s recipe? Even if I had, so what? He’s been dead a thousand years; the patent protection expired ages ago!’

It was as if a nerve had been struck, and a torrent of exasperated thoughts erupted within the young woman.However, common sense dictated that she should not argue with a fool, so she merely replied with a touch of impatience:

“No!”

“Is that so…” The wrinkles of anger that had creased the black-robed elder’s face instantly smoothed away.He calmly sat down, as if nothing untoward had transpired.

Clasping his hands together, he offered, “My apologies, Miss Noren. Please, be seated now, and let us discuss the price of the ale!”

Though astonished by the elder’s swift change in demeanor, the young woman returned to her seat.After all, the monastery was a significant client, and only a fool would turn away profit.

She cleared her throat with a sip of wine before speaking.

“I currently have large barrels of ale, containing fifty gallons, and small barrels of two gallons, each priced at one silver coin per gallon. How much do you require?”

During negotiations, one must never reveal their bottom line first.Instead, allow the other party to make an offer, gauge the buyer’s psychological limit, and then gradually approach that threshold.If the buyer’s limit falls short of one’s expectations, then the deal is simply off.

“The monastery requires three hundred gallons of ‘Hradec’ ale each month,” Sithis stated after a moment of contemplation.

“However, one silver coin per gallon is too expensive; we can only afford two hundred silver coins.”

The young woman shook her head.

“That is far too little; I would even incur a loss.”

Of course, she wouldn’t incur a loss.Regarding the barrels, she had entrusted the wooden staves and iron hoops for the small barrels entirely to the carpenter and Frey.Sithi provided the large barrels at cost price.As for ingredients, the hops were wild-harvested, and barley was exceptionally cheap.

“Two hundred and ten denier silver coins,” Sithis added, raising his offer.

“Additionally, the monastery will provide you with three jars of high-quality honey each month.”

“A bit more.”

“Two hundred and twenty, plus five candles…”

“A bit more.”

“You are more avaricious than a wretched Jew!”

****

Following a crude but spirited round of haggling, Noren and Sithis finally reached an agreement.

The agreement stipulated that Noren was to supply the Hradec Monastery with three hundred and fifty gallons of ‘Hradec’ flavored ale each month.In return, the monastery would provide two hundred and thirty silver coins, four jars of honey, and fifteen candles.

With the mayor as witness, Noren and Sithis signed the agreement on parchment.As Noren could not write Latin, the mayor signed on her behalf, while Sithis affixed the abbot’s name.

With the business concluded, Sithis eagerly clutched the newly acquired ale, guzzling it down with audible gulps.Two distinct patches of flushed red appeared visibly on his cheeks.

Noren subtly glanced at the black-robed elder, silently deeming him a ‘drunkard,’ before donning her fur cloak and bidding the mayor farewell.

As she left the town hall, citizens hurried along the streets, their steps quick and purposeful.Laughter and lively conversation were rarely heard, and the usual sight of children playing boisterously on the main thoroughfare was absent.Even the ruffians and gangsters who typically lurked in dark alleyways had vanished without a trace, suggesting that the current plague had dealt a considerable blow to Hradec.

Noren wove through the city’s intersections, finally stopping before a single-story wooden house with a yard—the home of Kitil, the Captain of Hradec’s Guard.

This formidable Norseman had contracted dysentery during the plague, suffering from severe vomiting and diarrhea, and was currently recuperating at home.

“It seems even the brave Kitil is no different from an ordinary man when he falls ill,” the young woman quipped, leaning against the doorframe.

Kitil opened his eyes, half-reclining in bed beneath several thick wool blankets.His complexion was ruddy, suggesting he was nearly recovered.

The April weather, still prone to sudden chills, allowed a draft of cold air to sweep in through the open door.Kitil instinctively pulled his blankets tighter.

“You’ll understand when you fall ill yourself,” he stated.

“Before sickness, all men are equally vulnerable.”

“Didn’t Svein come to Hradec during the plague?” Noren asked, glancing towards the chamber pot by the bed, around which several green-headed flies buzzed.

“Didn’t he give you any medicinal broth?”

Kitil replied weakly, “I drank it. I’m much better than before.”

It was good that he had taken it.She considered Kitil a friend and did not wish for him to perish from what, in the twenty-first century, would be a minor ailment.

To ensure Kitil’s swift recovery and prevent the dysentery from becoming a chronic illness, Noren issued a stern warning.

“Wash your hands diligently before meals and after using the privy.Don’t always eat with your bare hands.You’re not young anymore, and your body isn’t as resilient as a youth’s; this disease could claim your life if you’re not careful!”

Dysentery typically manifested as diarrhea and bloody stools, primarily caused by unsanitary food.In the twenty-first century, a robust young person could recover within a week even without medication, but for an elderly individual, recovery would be a struggle even with medicine.This was especially true given that Kitil lived in the European Middle Ages, an era renowned for its squalor and disorder.

Having spoken, she turned to leave, but Kitil called out to her.

“Noren, is there something you need?”

The young woman paused.

“Nothing in particular. I heard you were ill, so I came to check on you.”

Oh, she had forgotten to mention that Kitil’s wife had died of severe hemorrhage after giving birth to their youngest daughter.That child, frail and sickly, had tragically passed away the following winter.Kitil now had a fourteen-year-old son, who served as a guard, and a twelve-year-old daughter.

Since his illness, his daughter had been tending to his daily needs.Before leaving, Noren specifically instructed the blonde, round-faced girl to “boil the water” and “add more salt to the food.”

The little girl nodded earnestly, then pestered Noren with a barrage of questions: “How do you become a shieldmaiden?”, “How did you grow so tall?”, and similar inquiries.

Having finally managed to extricate herself from the enthusiastic Norse girl, Noren walked along the street, gazing up at the overcast sky.She exhaled a breath, and the warm vapor swiftly condensed into a white mist.

Her slender fingers ran through her beautiful golden hair, smoothing it back.Watching the stream of pedestrians coming and going on the main street, she couldn’t help but sigh.

“To the tavern, then~”