The Life of Matthias de Véreaux - Part 3

The Life of Matthias de Véreaux

Seigneur of Montclair

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Part III

The Honor of the Hunt

 

There is a tradition in Montclair that I have maintained for many years now.

Once each month, when the work of the estate allows it and the weather is agreeable, I choose a man from the town to accompany me on a hunting or fishing trip into the forest.

It is not a grand affair by any measure. We take only what is necessary - simple provisions, small tents, and the tools required for the hunt. Yet for reasons I have never fully understood, the people of Montclair regard the invitation as a considerable honor.

When word spreads that a man has been chosen, he is congratulated warmly by his neighbors. Men clap him on the shoulder in the square, and children follow him about asking what he expects to catch in the forest. For a short time he becomes the subject of the town’s attention.

I suspect some of the pride comes from the idea that the chosen man will spend several days beside the Seigneur himself, traveling beyond the town into lands most of them rarely see.

If the truth were known, the honor belongs equally to me.

For those few days in the forest, the distance between lord and townsman seems to fade somewhat, and conversation becomes far easier than it ever is in the halls of the château.

On the morning of one such journey not long ago, I arrived in Montclair as I often do and walked through the market square before making my choice.

I try not to overthink the decision. Usually I select someone whose work will not suffer too greatly from a short absence, or a man who seems in need of a few days away from the routine of the town.

That morning my attention settled upon a quiet farmer named Thomas.

Thomas worked a small plot of land along the eastern edge of the valley. He was not a man known for speaking loudly or drawing attention to himself, which I suppose made him an agreeable companion in my mind.

When I approached him in the square and extended the invitation, his expression shifted first to surprise and then to a kind of cautious pride.

“If it pleases you, Seigneur,” he said.

The news traveled quickly, as it always does.

By the time we prepared to depart later that day, several villagers had gathered near the road to wish him well. One of the fishermen from the square called out that Thomas should return with a deer large enough to feed the entire town.

Thomas laughed and promised to do his best, though I suspect he knew as well as I did that the forest rarely grants such generous trophies.

Before long we left the town behind and followed the familiar road beside the river until the houses of Montclair disappeared from view.

The forest soon closed around us.

Tall trees lined the path, their branches forming a loose canopy that softened the sunlight as it reached the ground. The sounds of the town faded quickly, replaced by the quieter rhythm of the woods - the wind moving through the leaves and the distant murmur of water.

I have always found the forest comforting in a way that is difficult to describe.

Perhaps it is the stillness.

Perhaps it is the absence of expectations.

In the woods a man may simply walk, breathe, and listen.

After some distance we left the road entirely and entered a narrower path that wound deeper among the trees. The ground grew uneven, and the air cooled slightly beneath the shade.

Eventually we reached a place I have come to favor over the years.

There, hidden within the forest, a smaller river branches quietly away from the main river that runs past the château. The stream moves gently between moss-covered banks, and the trees gather closely along its edges, sheltering the water in cool shadow.

Few people know this place.

It has served me well for many seasons of fishing.

Thomas stood for a moment beside the river, taking in the quiet surroundings.

“I had no idea this was here,” he said.

“That is precisely why I come,” I replied.

We set our small camp nearby, erecting two modest tents beneath a stand of tall pines. The work required little time, and before long we had our lines cast into the water.

Fishing encourages a certain kind of conversation.

There are long stretches of silence, broken occasionally by stories or observations that drift naturally between the participants. Thomas spoke about his farm and the difficulties of last year’s harvest, while I listened and offered what thoughts I could.

From time to time we caught a fish and added it to the small pile beside the camp.

As evening approached, we selected one of the trout for our supper and cooked it over a simple fire. The forest grew darker around us, and the only light came from the flames and the pale reflection of the sky in the water.

It was during moments like these that the distance between us seemed smallest.

For a short while we were not Seigneur and farmer.

We were simply two men sharing a quiet place in the woods.

When morning came, we fished again along the river and walked farther through the forest in search of game.

By the time the journey ended, we had secured a respectable prize - a fine deer taken along a clearing not far from the riverbank.

As we returned toward Montclair, I did what I always do at the conclusion of these trips.

The prize of the hunt belonged to Thomas.

He protested at first, as most men do.

“Seigneur, you should keep it,” he said. “You were the one who brought us here.”

But I shook my head.

“A man should return home with something to show for his journey,” I told him.

Thomas accepted the gift with visible pride, and when we reached the edge of the town he carried the deer ahead toward the square where several villagers were already gathering.

I watched him go for a moment before turning my horse toward the road that leads back to the château.

The townspeople would congratulate him, ask him about the forest, and admire the prize he had brought home.

For a few days, perhaps, he would be the subject of many conversations.

And then, as always, life in Montclair would return to its usual rhythm.

Such things have a way of fading quickly.

Still, the forest had been peaceful, and the journey had been a good one.

For that, I was grateful.

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(To be continued in Part 4: The Storm in the Forest)

 

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)