The Spoils of War and a Diplomatic Dinner

In late August, Mayor Sithi dispatched a letter along with two large wooden crates to their home.

“What does the letter say, Father?” Noren asked, handing a beer to the transport worker who had delivered the goods, as she began to unload the large wooden crates from the wagon bed.

Svein’s eyebrows shot up. He regarded Noren with a hint of admiration. “Just open the crates, and you’ll see.”

The wooden crates were secured with brass locks, and though no keys were provided, this posed no challenge to her.

Noren gripped a lock, squeezing it with all her might before yanking it free. A brief, grating sound of tearing metal pierced the air, and the crate opened with ease.

“This is…” A brilliant white light spilled from the crate, leaving the young woman stunned.

Svein spoke, “That ‘pretty boy’ is quite generous. You killed several of his household knights, yet he still managed to stomach the affront and acknowledge your duels as legitimate.

Go on, tally everything! The letter states there are three chainmail hauberks and three war swords inside.”

Noren shook her head, pulling herself out of her surprise. She retrieved one of the hauberks from the crate, and as it unfurled under its own weight, the iron rings rubbed together, producing a pleasant, rustling metallic sound.

She carefully examined the piece of first-rate medieval protective gear.

The chainmail was not overly long, its skirt reaching to cover her thighs. The sleeves were also short, a little longer than half-sleeves, likely designed to cover the elbow joints. It even came with an attached mail coif.

This coif, when worn with a padded coif beneath an iron helmet, would offer even greater protection. Many helmets of the era lacked cheek guards, and some even omitted nose guards; two layers of coifs combined with a nose-guarded iron helmet could rival her father’s full-face steel helm.

She then looked at the other two hauberks. One was a shoddy piece, with its rings linked in a simple ‘four-in-one’ pattern, while the other was a decent ‘six-in-one’ construction. The war swords were also impressive, their scabbards and hilts adorned with decorative silver rings, making them quite beautiful.

Noren asked, “Why would that count send these things? I killed quite a few of his men. Each of these knights represents valuable fighting strength; one knight is worth several sergeants. Three knights are easily the equivalent of ten heavy armored sergeants.

It would have been enough for him not to pursue charges against me. Why send three chainmail hauberks and three war swords? This equipment alone is worth 70 pounds of silver coin!”

Svein rolled up the parchment letter and tucked it under his arm. “That’s how duels are. Many knights only need to die, but their lord must then handle their affairs.

Chainmail and war swords are the equipment of household knights. According to the customs of a duel, the losing party must surrender their equipment and warhorse.

However, the warhorses of those three household knights were provided by the ‘pretty boy’ himself, not their personal property, which is why no warhorses were included in the delivery.

Similarly, the count neglected to send the equipment of another household knight named Claude. He was a landed knight with his own fief, and his equipment was inherited by his son. As compensation for this, however, the count paid 20 pounds of silver. You’ll find it in the other crate.”

Noren deftly opened the other large wooden crate. Inside lay a thin layer of silver coins. When she plunged her fingers into the pile, they sank about halfway.

The layer only *appeared* thin because the crate itself was so large and deep.

She gestured to the armor and silver. “I don’t have to split these with my brother, do I?”

She shrugged, feigning indifference. “These things came quite easily. If I have to split them, I have to split them. I don’t really care.”

Though Svein had shown signs of senility before, his mind was sharp now. He keenly sensed the dissatisfaction in his daughter’s words, the tension hidden beneath her feigned nonchalance.

He wasn’t one to smile readily, but he tried his best, stretching his mouth wide, though his beard obscured the gesture. “These are your spoils of war; no one can take them from you. As for Frey, I won’t let him get any benefits for free.”

Noren raised an eyebrow, surprised, and glanced at her father. His face was etched with sincerity.

She murmured a soft “Mm.” Stacking the two large crates, she lifted them and began walking towards their home.

****

By early September, all the harvested wheat had been threshed from the stalks with flails and then collected into baskets to be stored in the cellar.

This year’s yield was not as good as last year’s, with a reduction of about 5%. However, one fortunate aspect for the village farmers was that Noren had promised no taxes would be levied this year.

Even the grain borrowed for sowing at the beginning of the year could be repaid over several years. Life, at last, no longer felt as desperately tight as it had the previous year.

In truth, the village farmers would have fared quite well last year, had it not been for Jaromir, who collected a tithe twice—this could practically be called a double tithe!

The farmers of Ostrava would not have suffered so terribly, reduced to subsisting on thin wheat porridge through the winter. Many had even eaten the wheat seeds intended for the next year’s planting. All of this was Jaromir’s doing!

Yet, to kill Jaromir, they would have to wait until next spring. Noren couldn’t fathom what was wrong with Jaromir’s mind, insisting on bestowing Svein with a barony during Easter, with the ceremony set at St. George’s Basilica within Prague Castle.

Easter typically falls in April, preceded by the loathsome Lenten fast. To assassinate Jaromir without a trace, Noren would first have to wait for her father’s party to return, creating an alibi. This meant she would need to remain hidden around Prague until at least May.

Departing in March, she wouldn’t be able to return to Ostrava until late June.

Noren sighed. ‘Killing a man is truly troublesome.’

It was only September, leaving six months until their departure. There was still much to be done. For instance, tonight, she was embarking on a grand undertaking:

Cooking dinner.

Noren had once again transformed into a chef, dressed in a white cook’s uniform. She deftly managed three tasks simultaneously, overseeing the steamer on the stove, the stew in the iron pot, and the large crabmeat pie baking in the oven.

The steamer held an assortment of steamed buns and dumplings filled with smoked meat, fresh pork, chicken, and duck, alongside steamed eggs with minced meat. In the iron pot, stewed lamprey eels and small loaches were cooking with green tofu made from peas.

The heat would cause the loaches to burrow into the tofu, resulting in an exquisite texture. The main event for the evening, baking in the oven, was the magnificent crabmeat pie.

She prepared the crust by mixing butter with flour that had been sifted twenty times. For the filling, she meticulously crushed crab shells and legs, extracting every edible bit of meat and setting it aside. Then, she finely diced onions and sautéed them in butter, combining them with pre-prepared minced green onions, garlic, and mustard to create the rich crabmeat filling.

A layer of pastry was pressed into a circular mold, forming a basin into which she spooned the prepared meat mixture. Another layer of pastry covered the top, and with her thumb, she pressed a beautiful fluted edge around the mold.

Finally, it was sent into the oven to bake.

This promised to be a truly exquisite meal, unless Sithi’s tongue had lost its sense of taste.

Indeed, this meal was prepared specifically for Sithi. After all, Svein had been using his wife for so long… no, that wasn’t the reason. The primary purpose of inviting Sithi was to alleviate the estrangement caused by the baronial title and fiefdom.

Noren and Svein hoped that a good meal would ease the awkwardness, making Sithi more inclined to consider their terms.

Svein’s plan was to personally mentor Knutr, raising him safely until he reached adulthood, which would, at the very least, assuage most of Sithi’s worries.

Furthermore, after attending the investiture ceremony in Prague, he would personally knight Sithis, Sithi’s eldest son by his former wife, and grant him a village as a fief.

With such an arrangement, even if Sithi harbored any schemes, he would at least wait until Svein had completed the investiture ceremony, rather than striking him down now.

Svein truly lived up to his reputation as a “genius,” his calculations ringing out with perfect clarity.

Sithi, surely, would have no reason to refuse.