A Wretched Welcome

Having journeyed through Opava’s woodland paths and traversed the low-sloping hills of the Sudeten Mountains, the caravan finally entered the relatively gentle river valley surrounding the Morava River after a day of arduous travel.

According to Anna, another day’s ride would bring them to the broad Morava River, on whose banks stood the city of Kroměříž.

“Noren, look, there’s a village ahead!” Tolke exclaimed, his pupils constricting as a village settlement emerged into his view.

Noren raised a hand to shield her eyes from the intense sunlight overhead, squinting slightly. Though she could only discern a small dark speck, the yellow patches indicative of wheat fields were clearly visible to her.

Turning back, she shouted to the others, “There’s a village ahead! Once we reach it, we’ll finally have a place to rest our weary feet!”

“And you, old friend, you can rest too,” Noren murmured, tugging at the mane of the grey horse beneath her. In response, the horse let out a tired whinny and pawed its hooves.

****

As the view gradually zoomed in, the village came into full view for the caravan. Beside the village entrance, a man-high pile of stones stood stacked, seemingly a silent declaration to travelers that they were entering private land.

Beyond the stone pile, vast fields of wheat stretched endlessly. The grain in these strip fields was nearing ripeness, its stalks a rich gold and its ears plump, clearly presaging a bountiful harvest in the near future.

However, not a trace of a smile could be seen on the faces of the busy serfs and tenant farmers. They grazed livestock on the fallow land and swung large scythes to cut fodder, their movements stiff and mechanical, resembling a horde of soulless automatons.

As they advanced, Noren and her companions were finally able to glimpse the village in its entirety. Upon seeing it, only two words resonated in the minds of everyone in the caravan:

Filth. Disorder.

The village was uniformly filled with small, squat thatched huts, all leaning haphazardly without any apparent planning. Their spatial arrangement was utterly random, positioned forward, backward, left, and right, creating a profoundly awkward and unsettling sight.

All the huts featured thatched roofs crafted from bundled straw, while their low walls were plastered with disgusting, viscous river mud and clay. Blackened, hardened faeces splattered along the bases of the walls, and countless flies and gnats buzzed in thick swarms around the dwellings.

In the very center of the ground amidst the huts, a large hole gaped open, with a rotting wooden bucket lying beside it. This appeared to be an unlined, open well.

From Noren’s observation, the well was situated lower than the surrounding land. She feared that with even a single rainfall, all the village’s sewage would inevitably flow into this open well, transforming it into nothing less than a cesspool.

A few serfs spotted the caravan and stood watching from a distance, daring not to approach. As the private property of their lord, it was best for them to avoid excessive contact with outsiders, for approaching rashly might very well offend these ‘gentlemen’ on their tall horses.

However, as they proceeded through the village, it was inevitable that they would encounter some serfs face-to-face. Although the serfs promptly retreated upon seeing the carriages, Noren and her group still clearly witnessed, at close range, the truly wretched mental and physical state of the village’s inhabitants.

These serfs were dishevelled and unkempt, their teeth yellowed and broken. Behind their dull, hollow eyes lay minds that seemed to have already rotted. Each of them suffered from indescribable ailments, their faces covered in countless sores and festering pustules.

Witnessing these pitiful beings, Noren’s stomach churned violently. Even Henry and the coachmen, who hailed from the lower strata of Hradec, could not hide their expressions of profound disgust.

One of the coachmen even let out a dry retch.

Wiz, pinching his nostrils shut with one hand while the other frantically fanned the air to ward off the stench, spoke in a muffled, buzzing voice:

“This damned place is nothing short of a latrine pit,” he rasped. “I’d rather fight for my life against a pack of wolves than spend another moment here!”

“Let’s leave,” Noren declared to the group. “It seems this isn’t a suitable place to rest.”

Everyone except Tolke, their noses still pinched, nodded in agreement to Noren, murmuring their assent.

All eyes turned to Tolke, whose face had gone pale with a greenish tint, his facial muscles taut, as if he were enduring immense suffering.

‘A keen sense of smell isn’t always a blessing,’ Noren mused.

Not wanting Tolke to be suffocated by the stench, Noren immediately ordered everyone, “Speed up! Let’s get out of here!”

Everyone pushed forward with all their might, finally breathing a sigh of relief only when the cluster of thatched huts was far behind them. Tolke, in particular, had been so tense he seemed on the verge of collapsing.

But even after leaving the cluster of huts, they seemed to still be within the village. This settlement was far larger than they had imagined, with wheat fields stretching endlessly forward on both sides of the road, giving the impression of an unending expanse.

They slowed their pace, passing a mill, a vineyard, and a winery, before finally spotting a luxurious two-story wooden manor.

The manor stood only a few dozen feet from the main road, connected by a gravel path. A vibrant red banner hung outside, seemingly embroidered with the crest of a local family. From this distance, Noren couldn’t make it out clearly, but the crest appeared to be… a cluster of grapes?

Two armored soldiers guarded the manor’s main gate, leaning against the gateposts with their spears, a picture of utter indolence.

It seemed this wooden manor was indeed the residence of the village’s lord.

The moment Noren spotted the manor, she pressed a finger to her lips and whispered to the group, “Silence!”

She had no desire to interact with the village’s lord. While the luxurious manor, well-maintained vineyard, and winery all indicated the noble family’s wealth, their cruelty towards their own subjects was evident in the wretched and disgusting state of the villagers.

However, their attempt at silence was merely for show. After all, it was broad daylight, and no matter how quiet they tried to be, the rolling of carriage wheels and the crisp clatter of hooves could not be silenced. Moreover, their conspicuous covered wagons were impossible for any living soul to ignore.

Sure enough, the two soldiers spotted them instantly.

“Halt! I said—halt!”

The two soldiers shouted, rushing forward to block the group. Before they even clearly saw who was on horseback, they hastily raised their spears.

“This is Sir Černý’s private estate,” one soldier declared. “Any caravan passing through here must leave goods as tribute to Sir Černý!”

Gazing at the covered wagons, greedy glints appeared in their eyes. This act of intercepting passing caravans to collect tolls was clearly not a new occurrence for them.

“Would you… care to repeat that?”

A pleasant yet authoritative female voice resonated in the soldiers’ ears. They looked up at the person on horseback, only to find a beautiful sword, its blade reflecting the dazzling sunlight, pointed directly at them.

The sword’s owner was tall and well-proportioned, with golden hair, simply tied into a ponytail, gleaming brilliantly in the sun.

The two soldiers hesitated for only a fleeting moment before immediately backing down.

Their greedy expressions instantly transformed into ones of profound humility. Leaning on their long spears, they bowed their heads, bent at the waist, and knelt in a single, seamless motion, clearly indicating that quickly backing down after offending nobles was not a new experience for them.

“Please forgive our transgression, noble lady,” they chorused. “Welcome to Osbrück!”

The soldiers’ apologies were earnest and delivered with full, hearty voices.

This earnest attitude left Noren with no room to further press the issue. It was no wonder they were appointed as gatekeepers by the lord here; they were clearly two sharp-eyed individuals.

Noren had no desire for conflict with the local lord; it ran counter to her purpose as a merchant. The drawing of her sword earlier had merely been a show of deterrence.

“Where is the lord of this place?”

The young woman sheathed her three-lobed Norse war sword, signaling to her companions behind her to put away their weapons.

Upon seeing Noren’s group no longer brandishing their swords, the two soldiers visibly relaxed. One, an old veteran with a rugged, hardened face, replied, “The master has gone hunting. Would you care to rest in his manor for a while? He should return before dinner.”

Noren raised an eyebrow. She had never known soldiers to be authorized to invite guests on behalf of their noble master. “Oh~ do you have such authority?”

“Of course not, Your Grace. I am merely the master’s household guard; how could I represent him in inviting a noble? However, the mistress is currently in the manor, and I will report your arrival to her,” the old veteran respectfully answered.

“And our master is quite hospitable!” the other soldier interjected. “He entertains guests with excellent wine! Many noble lords come here just to taste his vintage!”

‘Generous? If they were truly so generous, why would they intercept passing caravans?’ Noren scoffed internally.

Outwardly, the young woman maintained her haughty demeanor. Her red lips parted slightly, and she articulated slowly and clearly, “Go and inform your mistress, then!”

“Please wait a moment, Your Grace.”

The two soldiers hurried into the manor, returning a short while later to Noren and her group. “The mistress invites you into the house, Your Grace. As for your retainers and carriages, there are stables and quarters for servants behind the manor; please do not worry.”

“Please follow me, Your Grace. The mistress is already waiting for you in the reception hall.”

Led by the two soldiers, Noren and her group walked along a gravel path to the front of the manor. Tolke and the others were led by one soldier to the rear side of the manor, where the stables and small wooden servant quarters were located.

The old veteran respectfully stepped forward and pushed open the main gate. “Your Grace, please enter.”

Noren first glanced at the family banner hanging outside the manor. It was woven from wool, with a red background, and embroidered with a cluster of purple grap… It truly was grapes, wasn’t it?

It was the first time she had seen a family use grapes as their crest. What could their family motto be, then?

‘Until grapes become fine wine?’

The young woman chuckled softly, then stepped into the manor.