Rainfall, humidity, and the incessant buzz of swarming insects intermingled beneath grey-black skies which blocked out the midday sun. A candle made from tallow burned low, slow, and with a pungent smell like rendering fat that's burned for too long. The room was small, made of stone and timber, and had a single square window that lacked anything worth calling a view. It was the chambers of Eleanor, daughter to Crawford and Tiara, the lord and lady of Wildefen. Sixteen summers of age.

"Things can only get worse from here," Eleanor muttered, looking down at the ledger on her desk. The quill in her hand swayed as she absentmindedly toyed with it.

The ledger was full of numbers and half-thoughts written within margins. The page was a seasonal log that stretched back just over six years, tracking the yields of various grains, produces, peat production, fish hauls, and so on. The prices for each were annotated within ranges by the season and year, offering an overview of the price stability—or in recent times, the lack thereof.

"The cereal crops continue to fail and the fisherfolk can only make up the difference by so much..." Eleanor scanned the page, flipping between several to track the messy scrawl.

Wildefen, a marsh with salt bogs, was a province with little to truly offer beyond peat bricks, medicinal herbs, and the limited amount of salt and iron it could produce. The latter was abysmal, and couldn't even cover the required production for what few smiths the villages had. To the west was Wildemoor, which had far richer iron bog deposits, greater access to salt, and a woman who was both vindictive and opportunistic. To the south was Wildemere, led by a moderate and patient man who could afford to wait on his breadbasket.

"The crops are blighted. We have no choice but to spend what taxes we have left in the treasury, but this won't save us. If we can't find a way to increase our own food production or secure trade agreements to increase the treasury, we'll—"

A loud voice bellowed from down the corridor. "That arrogant bastard!" It was the voice of her father. "How dare he suggest I submit to him?!"

Eleanor stood up and walked to her chamber doors, opening it half-way.

"You should refuse, father. He's clearly thinking you weak and will take advantage of you." The next voice was her twin brother, Cedric. He was a fool.

"There's little choice in the matter if we cannot get the grain elsewhere, Cedric. I loathe this man, but Matilda is even worse... and with Otford still at war..."

"We can work something out with Matilda, father. She dislikes Renold just as much as you do. She'll be reasonable, I am certain of it."

Eleanor exited her room and walked down the corridor. "She can barely feed her own people, brother. She is just as desperate for grain and silver as we are, and she's not nearly as wise or patient as we are. I cannot support this idea."

"A woman should stay out of men's affairs, sister," Cedric replied. He had the same brunette hair and brown eyes as Eleanor, and he looked at her with displeasure.

"Father," Eleanor said, ignoring her brother, "you should seek an agreement with Lord Renold. If we play this correctly, you should get the grain at a fair price, and we can use them as a shield against the moors."

"I don't want to decide so quickly. We can still have the markets in Otford scoured first. The less we need from that man, the better."

"We don't have the luxury of time, father. We may be able to secure some sacks of grain, but it won't be enough. What if the flooding comes early and washes away the roads or submerges the bridges?"

"Then we tighten our belts and show everyone our resolve," Cedric said, interrupting.

"If be 'we', you mean the peasantry, then you'd be dumber than you show, brother."

"Why you little—"

"Enough," Crawford said with a tiredness in his voice. "I'll think on it, Eleanor. In the meantime, please go."

Eleanor stared briefly at her father with a neutral expression before quietly turning away and walking back to her chambers. She was ignored yet again. From the heir apparent to the spare, over the gaining of a title, and the fact that she wasn't born a male. She couldn't help but be amused, dejected, and resentful.

"The fool barely knows his numbers and hardly can string along a proper sentence, yet he has a louder voice than I," Eleanor grumbled as she closed her chamber door.

She was the one who showed interest in becoming a merchant. She was the one who studied. She was the one who put in the effort to take over her father's business... and then he sold it for a title and a backwater patch of waterlogged dirt with some rivers. Now he was a baronet and her brother was heir to the title and lands.

"Nobility in name alone," Eleanor muttered. "And not a shred of dignity to show for it."

Eleanor sat at her desk, staring at the open ledger. She knew her father was capable with numbers, but he was shrewd in business, not in politics. She knew the story—she was old enough to understand it when she saw it firsthand. He gathered a literal fortune and was tricked into buying a poor investment by the very aristocracy he desired to join.

"We can barely grow in this environment." Flipping the pages to the latest census from the taxes that she copied from her father's own ledgers, she looked at the marginal growth.

The province of Wildefen was growing, slowly, and steadily, but it wasn't growing in industry and Infrastructure, only people. The villages were secluded to high elevations where they couldn't flood easily, which made the villagers build high and dense, collecting into apartments and compacting like rats.

"Highfen has blight, Lowfen is flooding early, and Riverton is being bypassed for Renold's town of Timbermere," Eleanor sighed, pressing her face into her hands. "And everyone thinks we can survive this?"

Eleanor stood up, inhaled deeply, and exhaled. It was impossible, in her mind, to survive, let alone thrive, as things stood. Her family needed resources and time—friends and allies, not more rivals. They were secluded enough as is, metaphorically and literally. She would try to keep the peace and steer her father properly, as any good daughter would, but if she couldn't...

"No use in thinking that now," Eleanor muttered, walking over to the small round mirror that was hung on the wall. "You can manage. Work around them if you need to..."

Exiting her chambers, Eleanor walked into the great hall where her father was quietly thinking—or fuming mayhaps in silence, brooding as he had fetched his writing utensils and fresh parchment. Cedric was absent and she didn't care to ask where he went.

"I'll be going out briefly, father," Eleanor said.

Crawford looked up. "In this weather?"

"It is autumn, father," Eleanor smiled softly. "It's going to be like this more often than nought whether I like it or not, and I do still have things to do."

"Hmph... True enough. Draw a cloak from the hook at least, lest you catch the chill. We have blight already, we don't need illness too."

Eleanor bowed her head and walked towards the manor's entrance, retrieving a thick hooded cloak that was plenty large enough to cover her. Draping it around herself, she stepped out into the heavy rain as a roar of thunder boomed in the distance just before lightning forked through the air.

"Going out, miss?"

Eleanor looked left to see Oscar, the middle-aged soldier who served as the captain of the housecarls. He wore a thick dark forest-green gambeson with a kettle top helmet. His shield, which was square, was slung over his back, and he held his spear lazily, laying it across his shoulder.

"I am. I would like my usual escort," Eleanor replied.

"Yes m'lady. I'll have four of the men get ready and prepare you a horse."

Eleanor stood beneath the overhang of the manor's entrance, staying dry as she waited for her escort to prepare. The courtyard was a mix of flagstone, crushed rock, and patches of uncovered dirt that had turned to mud and when the horse was brought from the stables, she minded where she stepped. Stepping onto the stirrups she lifted herself atop the saddle, tucking the cloak under her before she sat to avoid wetting her bottom.

"Where to first, Lady Eleanor?" A soldier asked.

Eleanor looked to her escort—four soldiers employed by her father who were all dressed similarly like Oscar, but with different colored gambesons. Their spears were a mix of quality—some pure iron and others bearing the colorful unique patterning that bogiron was known for. Some had swords at their hips to go with the spears in their hands, and others simply had a seax—a long dagger carried by many free men in the Kingdom of Dacica.

"Highfen," Eleanor replied. "I shall see if my commissions are finished. If they are, we shall ride to Riverton so that I may sell them."

"A merchant's daughter, lady or not, through-and-through," one of the soldiers said with a friendly lilt.

Eleanor smiled faintly. "There's coin to be made, gentlemen. Let us be off, lest this rain wash us away where we stand."

The palisade gates opened for Eleanor and her escort and they crossed the plank bridge over the stream that flowed in front of the walls. A voice called down from the single wooden tower that flanked the gatehouse, urging caution and suggesting that they be back before dark. She glanced behind her and raised a hand in a slow wave before facing ahead once more. There wasn't enough time for caution and she couldn't afford to dawdle. She had a house to secure, and a future to fight for, even if she ultimately had to face her brother someday to keep it.

The Lady of the Fens — Chapter 8: A Threat to the Peace

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