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)

The Life of Matthias de Véreaux - Part 1

The Life of Matthias de Véreaux

Seigneur of Montclair

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Part I

The Seigneur of Montclair 

 

My name is Matthias de Véreaux, Seigneur of Montclair.

These lands, these forests, and the town below the château have been my responsibility for many years. Some men might say such a position brings power or prestige, but I have never thought of it in those terms. To me it has always been a duty, plain and simple, though not always an easy one.

Montclair lies in a quiet valley among the mountains, somewhat removed from the larger towns of the region. Travelers do pass through from time to time, though not many. Those who arrive here usually remark on the same things: the forests, the river, and the stillness that seems to settle over the place as evening approaches.

From the front doors of Château de Montclair a long green lawn stretches out from the stone steps before the castle. 

Beyond that lawn runs a river, broad enough to carry the spring floods but gentle enough in summer to reflect the sky like glass. On either side of the river the forests rise thick and dark, climbing gradually into the hills and mountains beyond.

To the right of the château, a road follows the river through the forest and leads eventually to the town itself. The people of Montclair have lived there for generations. Their houses cluster together around the market square and the church, and though the town is not large, perhaps four or five hundred souls, it is a lively place compared to the quiet halls of the château.

To the left of the château there is no road at all.

That side of the land gives way to wilderness - forest, streams, and rough ground that stretches for miles. I often go there to hunt or fish when my duties permit it, though I will speak more of those journeys another time.

The château itself stands above the river on a slight rise, its stone walls pale against the darker woods. It is older than I am, older even than my father was, and perhaps older than anyone in Montclair can clearly remember. Over the years it has been expanded and altered many times, and now it contains far more rooms than any single man could reasonably use.

In truth, I occupy only a small portion of it.

My side of the château is quiet. Many of the rooms remain closed most of the time, and the corridors echo faintly when footsteps pass through them. A few servants are assigned to my household, though only what is necessary. I have never been a man who enjoys large entourages or constant company.

The other side of the château is quite different.

There live my younger brothers and my sister, along with most of the servants who attend them. That wing is usually busier, with voices, visitors, and activity at all hours. I seldom go there unless circumstances require it. It is not a place where I feel particularly welcome, nor one where I am inclined to linger.

Such arrangements may sound strange to those who imagine that noble families live in constant harmony beneath one roof. My experience has not quite matched that vision.

Still, the château functions well enough, and the matters of Montclair are managed from within its walls.

Most days I spend a good portion of my time in the library, which serves as both study and office. The room overlooks the lawn and the river beyond, and from the tall windows one may see the forests stretching toward the mountains. It is there that I review the accounts of the estate, read reports from the town, and study the maps of the surrounding lands.

I enjoy maps very much. They give a certain order to the world, allowing a man to understand how rivers bend through valleys and how forests spread across the hills. It pleases me to know the land of Montclair well, not merely as property, but as a place where people live and depend upon the stability of the estate.

There are times when the business of the château requires caution. Over the years there have been moments when certain members of my family have taken an unhealthy interest in the position I hold. For that reason my guards sometimes accompany me through the corridors of the château or on journeys beyond its walls.

Such precautions have become part of life here.

I do not dwell on them more than necessary.

Instead, I prefer to focus on the matters that truly concern me, the welfare of Montclair and the people who live there.

Every few days, when my work in the library allows it, I ride down the road beside the river to visit the town.

I find these visits agreeable, though I suspect the townspeople sometimes find me an odd sort of man. I have never been particularly skilled in conversation, and names often escape me when too many faces surround me at once. Still, I make an effort to walk the market square, inspect the goods for sale, and speak with the people who bring them.

It is a small thing perhaps, but I believe a Seigneur should know the lives of those who depend upon him.

This morning, as the sun rose over the forest beyond the river, I decided that it had been several days since my last visit to Montclair.

The accounts in the library were in good order, and the weather promised to be clear.

So I called for my horse.

There were apples in the market this time of year, if I remembered correctly, and the orchard keeper in the town always seemed especially proud of them.

It would do me good, I thought, to ride down and see how the town was faring.

And so, before long, I found myself leaving the quiet halls of the château behind and following the road beside the river toward Montclair.

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(To be continued in Part 2: The Town Below the Château)