The Life of Matthias de Véreaux - Part 2

The Life of Matthias de Véreaux

Seigneur of Montclair

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 Part II

The Town Below the Château

 

The road from the château to Montclair follows the river for some distance before the trees begin to thin and the town comes gradually into view.

I have ridden that road more times than I could easily count, and yet there is always something pleasant about the moment when the first rooftops appear between the branches.

The houses of Montclair are not grand structures. Most are built of timber with stone foundations, their roofs sloping low to keep the winter snow from lingering too long. Smoke rises from many of the chimneys throughout the day, carrying with it the smell of wood fires and cooking meals.

As I approached the town that morning, several villagers were already moving about their work. A farmer leading a small cart of vegetables nodded politely as I passed. Another man, who I believe works the fields near the eastern edge of the valley, lifted his cap as my horse drew near.

Such gestures are common in Montclair.

They are respectful, though rarely excessive. I have always preferred it that way.

By the time I reached the center of the town, the market square had begun to fill with activity. Stalls had been arranged along the edges of the square, and tables displayed baskets of produce, small tools, loaves of bread, and other goods the villagers had brought for trade.

Whenever I enter the square, I notice that the atmosphere changes slightly.

People pause for a moment. Conversations soften. A few heads turn.

Then, after those first few seconds pass, life resumes its usual pace.

I dismounted near the well at the edge of the square and began my customary walk among the vendors.

This has become something of a routine for me over the years. I find it easier to speak with people in brief moments rather than long conversations, and the market provides exactly that sort of opportunity.

My first stop, as it often is, was the stall of Jean the orchard keeper.

Jean’s apples are well known throughout Montclair, and he takes a great deal of pride in them. When he saw me approaching that morning, he straightened slightly and placed his hands on the edge of his table.

“Seigneur,” he said with a polite nod.

I examined the baskets before him. The apples were bright and firm, their red skins catching the morning light.

“These are excellent,” I said. “Your orchard must have had a fine season.”

Jean smiled at this, as he always does.

“The trees have been generous this year,” he replied. “You should take one with you.”

I began the usual protest, telling him that his goods were meant for the market and not for my pockets, but Jean waved a hand dismissively and selected an apple from the top of the basket.

“It would be an insult to refuse,” he said.

I accepted the apple with a nod of thanks, and as I did, I noticed a small gathering of children watching nearby.

Children in Montclair have never seemed particularly intimidated by my presence. Perhaps titles mean less to them than they do to their parents.

One of them, a boy with muddy boots and a crooked grin, stepped a little closer.

“Did you catch any fish last time you went to the forest, Seigneur?”

I could not help but smile slightly.

“A few,” I answered. “Though the river is sometimes cleverer than the man holding the line.”

The children laughed at this, and after another moment or two they wandered away toward another stall where a woman was selling small honey cakes.

I continued my walk through the square, pausing occasionally to inspect the goods displayed by the vendors.

A baker had arranged several rows of fresh loaves upon a wooden table. The smell alone was enough to make any man consider purchasing more bread than he truly needed.

Nearby, a leatherworker displayed belts and small pouches, each carefully stitched and polished.

I made a point of complimenting the work wherever it was deserved. It costs a man little to recognize honest labor.

Not long afterward, two raised voices caught my attention.

At the far edge of the square, two farmers stood beside a small wooden fence that had been temporarily assembled near one of the stalls. Between them stood a goat that seemed entirely unconcerned with the argument unfolding around it.

When they noticed me approaching, both men fell silent.

One of them gestured toward the animal.

“Seigneur, this goat keeps getting into my cabbage patch,” he said. “I’ve repaired the fence twice this month already.”

The other man crossed his arms defensively.

“The fence was broken before my goat ever reached it,” he replied.

I examined the fence briefly and listened to both explanations. The matter was not particularly complicated.

The owner of the goat would repair the fence properly and provide two sacks of grain as compensation for the ruined vegetables.

Both men accepted the decision with the sort of reluctant agreement that usually follows a fair judgment.

As I turned back toward the center of the square, another argument began to rise near the tavern.

This one, however, was somewhat less serious.

Two fishermen stood beside a wooden bucket that contained an unusually large trout. Both men were speaking loudly, gesturing toward the fish as though it were some rare treasure.

“I caught it first,” insisted the taller of the two, pointing emphatically at the bucket. “It was in my net.”

The other man shook his head with great conviction.

“It was briefly in your net,” he replied. “But then it slipped out and I caught it again, which makes it mine.”

The first fisherman frowned deeply.

“That is not how fishing works.”

“It worked well enough for the fish,” the second man said.

Several townspeople had gathered nearby, enjoying the spectacle far more than either fisherman seemed to realize.

When they noticed me approaching, the two men straightened somewhat, though their disagreement clearly had not lost its urgency.

“Seigneur,” said the first fisherman, “this man is attempting to steal my catch.”

“I am doing nothing of the sort,” the other replied immediately. “The fish escaped his net entirely before I caught it.”

Both men spoke at once for a moment before I raised a hand for silence.

I examined the trout in the bucket. It was indeed a fine fish.

“Tell me,” I said, “how long did the fish remain in the first net before it escaped?”

The taller fisherman hesitated slightly.

“Well… not long.”

“And how long did it remain in the second net?” I asked.

The other fisherman shifted uncomfortably.

“Also… not long.”

Several of the onlookers began to smile.

It seemed to me that the fish had caused more trouble in the square than it had in the river.

After considering the matter for a moment, I spoke again.

“If this trout has created such disagreement between two honest fishermen, it would be unfortunate if either of you were forced to keep it.”

Both men stared at me, clearly unsure where this reasoning might lead.

So I continued.

“The fish will be taken to the tavern kitchen and cooked for everyone here in the square.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the small crowd.

One of the fishermen opened his mouth to protest, but the other man placed a hand on his shoulder and shook his head.

“Well,” he said with a reluctant shrug, “I suppose that is fair enough.”

The tavern keeper soon appeared and carried the bucket inside, and within a few minutes the argument had dissolved into good-natured conversation.

As I walked away, I could not help but think that the trout had done more to entertain Montclair that morning than it ever intended.

Before returning to my horse, I stopped briefly near the church steps where Father Lucien stood speaking with one of the townsmen.

The priest greeted me warmly, as he always does.

“Montclair seems peaceful today,” he remarked.

“Yes,” I said. “Let us hope it remains that way.”

After a short exchange about the harvest and the health of several villagers, I took my leave and mounted my horse once more.

As I rode back along the road beside the river, the sounds of the town gradually faded behind me.

For a time, I allowed myself to enjoy the quiet rhythm of the horse’s hooves and the steady movement of the water beside the road.

Visits to Montclair always leave me with a curious mixture of feelings.

There is satisfaction in seeing the town prosper and the people going about their lives in peace.

And yet, as the forest closes around the road and the towers of the château appear again through the trees, I am reminded that the life I observe in Montclair is not quite the life I inhabit myself.

Still, it is a good town.

And I am proud to be its Seigneur.

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(To be continued in Part 3: The Honor of the Hunt)