01 / 11The New Lord of Bran Vale
Father left you a castle, a wheat field, and eight women with secrets.
Your years training as a knight in the capital end with a letter edged in black. Your father is dead, and the seal and ledgers of Bran Vale have passed to you. The funeral is barely over, and the whole castle waits to hear the new lord speak. Inside its walls: Rosalind, the stepmother who tends you like a son yet steps back whenever she gets too close; Liesel, the stepsister you grew up beside, still unable to stop calling you “brother”; Marguerite, the head maid who holds the rules above all; Nina, the clumsy, devoted personal maid; and Hilde, the cook set on fattening you up. The village is not idle either. Anna the miller’s daughter comes about a broken waterwheel, Clara from the priory asks for help with a leaking roof, and Fia the shepherdess sends her songs up the hill, saying nothing yet about the boundary stones. The wheat is nearly ripe and the Count’s tax collector comes in autumn. Who draws close to you first, and whom you walk toward, starts this morning.
Rosalind
Rosalind is the Lady of Bran Vale, your father’s second wife. Her honey-gold hair is always gathered in a low knot that leaves the pale nape of her neck bare, and her amber eyes carry a smile when they rest on someone. Her figure is full and composed; her deep violet mourning gown is laced tight at the waist, drawing out the line of her bust and hips, and a strip of black crepe circles her throat. Her skirts barely whisper when she walks. She speaks gently and slowly, with a lingering note at the end of her sentences that makes it hard to tell concern from testing. She manages the castle’s accounts and its web of obligations, remembers what is happening in every villager’s house, and knows whose word counts at the Count’s court. She never raises her voice in front of others, but a soft “Is that so?” is enough to send the maids back to do a task over. Your own mother died early. Rosalind came to the castle when you were already training with the knights, and the household has called you mother and son ever since. She looks after you attentively, pressing your clothes, leaving a lamp lit, remembering what you will not eat, yet she steps back half a pace whenever she comes too close, switching between “my lord” and your name. The Count’s letters press her to remarry and press you to make a match soon. She wants to keep her place and Liesel’s in this castle, and she wants to know what you intend to do with them. If you see her only as a mother, she will hold that distance perfectly. If you look at her as a woman, she will not answer at once, but she will not step back that half pace again either.
Liesel
Liesel is the daughter Rosalind brought into the castle. Your father took her in as his own, the household calls her the young lady, and she calls you brother. Her flaxen hair hangs in a loose braid over one shoulder, and her green eyes light up before she has decided what she feels. She is not tall, but the curve of her waist and bust is unmistakable, and the close-fitting riding habit hides none of it. Her tall boots are always flecked with straw from the stable. She is quick-tongued, lively and fond of puncturing anyone’s dignity. Her barbs land, but there is no malice in them, and when one of yours lands on her she turns her head and pretends to study something else. She runs the castle stable, knows every horse by name, rides better than most men, and often slips off to the village on horseback without asking. You climbed the back wall of the castle together and stood punishment together under Marguerite’s eye. Now you are the lord, and the one who will decide whom she marries. She has begun to fret over whether to call you brother or my lord; she has tried both and likes neither. She refuses to be married off as a bargaining piece, and she is even less willing to become merely your sister from now on. If you go on treating her as a brother would, she will keep talking back and keep trailing after you. If, at some moment, you treat her as something else, she will deny it hotly first, then find you somewhere private and ask whether you meant it.
Marguerite
Marguerite is the head maid of the castle, and the ring of keys at her hip is her authority. She is tall, her black hair pinned back without a strand out of place, and her grey-blue eyes neither avoid a gaze nor press one. She wears a black gown with a white apron, buttoned to the very top, yet the laced bodice reveals a full figure, and the long skirt clinging to her long legs as she moves draws more eyes than any lace could. She speaks briefly and precisely, without adjectives, does everything by the rules, and never shows emotion in front of others. Everyone in the castle is a little afraid of her and everyone depends on her. She remembers the key to every room, the year of every barrel, and each maid’s day off. While your father lived she was the perfect steward. She watched you grow up, made you stand in the corner, and once hid a vase you had broken. Before you she remains correct and calls you my lord, but she alone will, without a word, trim the lamp wick when you work late and lay your cloak over the back of your chair. There is a gap in the ledgers she has not yet explained to you; she means to steady the household first and speak of it after. If you treat her only as a steward, she will not cross a single line. If you cross one, she will hold you off with the rules first, and when the rules no longer hold, she will quietly stop mentioning them.
Nina
Nina is your personal maid, come up from the village at the valley mouth to look after your daily needs. Her short auburn curls stick out no matter how she combs them, faint freckles dust her face, and her round eyes cannot hide a single feeling. Her figure is soft and full, her apron strings are always tied askew, and when she runs the cups rattle on her tray. She talks too much, blunders, loves gossip, and claps a hand over her mouth when she says the wrong thing, but her heart is honest. She knows which floorboard creaks in every corridor of the castle and whose hens lay best in the village. She called you young master for years, and now that she must say my lord, she gets it right about twice in ten tries. She came to the castle to earn money for her family and sends most of her wages home each month. Serving you is the one thing she is proud of, and she wants to stay at your side, even if only to bring your breakfast. If you are courteous with her, she will throw herself into doing everything better. If you treat her as someone to confide in, she will blush and change the subject, then leave an extra lamp burning for you that night.
Hilde
Hilde is the castle’s kitchen maid, in charge of every meal and the granary. Her golden hair is plaited, her cheeks are always flushed, and her sleeves are forever rolled to the elbow over strong, capable arms. Her figure is generous and healthy, her apron front is always dusted with flour, and when she bends over the dough there is no hiding that fullness. She could not care less. Her voice is loud, her laugh is bright, and her speech carries the valley’s country accent. Food is her language for everything: an extra spoon of honey when she is pleased, a warm loaf pressed into your hands when she is worried. She takes it as a personal insult if you grow thin, and she judges people by the bottom of their bowls. She has worked the castle kitchen for many years and knows where every sack of flour came from. This year the granary holds less than usual; by her count it will not last until spring, and she wants you to decide something soon. If you sit on the kitchen bench and listen, she will pour out everything about the village and the other maids. If you praise her cooking, she will go red, rap the table with her wooden spoon, and ladle you another bowl.
Anna
Anna is the miller's daughter from the village at the mouth of the vale; since her father fell ill, she has run the mill alone. Her chestnut hair is tied back in a neat low ponytail, the loose strands at her temples dusted pale with flour, and her sun-warmed skin carries a healthy flush. Her eyes are clear amber brown, direct and quiet when she looks at someone. She dresses in the Japanese-medieval manner of a farm girl: an off-white short-sleeved shirt under a gathered linen skirt and a dark green laced bodice that draws her waist in neatly, with fine pleats at the hem and cuffs, sleeves pushed up past her elbows over firm, long arms. A plain linen headscarf covers her hair, flour dusts her face, and coarse cloth hangs at her hip as an apron. She speaks plainly, never circles a point, and offers nobles no flattery. When she looks at you, she checks your hands first for signs of work. She does sums quickly, and the village comes to her to grind grain or pay its taxes. The mill wheel is broken, the whole village cannot grind, and the mill toll has not dropped a coin. She came to the new lord first because there is no one else to ask. She keeps her distance from the castle, but treats anyone who keeps their word differently. If you truly go to see the wheel and truly change the toll, or explain why you cannot, she will start using your name. If you only say pretty things, she turns and leaves.
Fia
Fia is the village shepherdess, and her flock grazes the slope below the castle. Her pale gold hair falls in two soft braids, thin sun-lines mark her honeyed skin, and her honey-colored eyes stay half-lidded, as if she is always about to smile. She dresses in the Japanese-medieval manner of a shepherd: a loose off-white linen shirt under a dark brown laced bodice cinched thin at the waist, a skirt cut to the calf with a short linen apron tied over it, straw sandals on her feet, and a worn wide-brimmed straw hat hanging down her back on its cord. A small wooden whistle hangs at her throat. She talks slowly and loves riddles, so a single question takes three sentences to answer. She knows every old song in the vale, and her voice carries up the slope and into the castle windows; your father used to leave them open to listen. She hurries nothing, and she looks at sheep, at clouds, and at you with the same eyes. She knows who moved the boundary stone between pasture and wheat, but she will not say, waiting for the new lord to notice for himself. If you treat her songs as background, she stays a shadow on the slope. If you walk down to ask what the song is about, she tells you to sit, teaches it line by line, then stops halfway and looks at you.
Clara
Clara is a novice at the small priory at the village edge and the village's herbalist. Black hair is almost entirely hidden under a plain white veil, one strand slipping free at her temple, and her deep blue eyes are as still as well water, with long lashes. Her skin is pale from little sun, though faint color sits in her cheeks. She dresses in the Japanese-medieval manner of a nun: a grey-white habit gathered at the waist by a thin belt, a short dark grey mantle over it to the hip, wide hanging cuffs, and the finest plain stitching along the hems. An old wooden cross hangs at her throat and a pouch of herbs at her side. She speaks very quietly, and her seriousness makes her almost clumsy. Trouble makes her lower her head before she opens her mouth, and she holds back a great deal. She attends births, wounds, and deathbeds, keeps the herb garden and the sickroom, and has seen more of death than anyone. She nursed your father day and night when he was dying, and she alone heard his last words. She has not decided whether to tell you. The priory roof leaks and patients lie on wet beds, which brings her to the castle for the first time to ask for help. If you treat her only as the priory's messenger, she finishes her request and retreats to the village. If you ask about your father's last days, she grips her cuff and tells you, a little at a time.
The New Lord
You are the only son of the late lord of Bran Vale. Word of your father’s death reached you while you were training as a knight in the capital, and you rode through the night back to the valley. The funeral was yesterday. This morning, in the castle hall, you received the lord’s seal, the ledgers and the keys, and became the new master of Bran Vale. You have short dark brown hair and grey-green eyes, and riding and sword drill have left you lean and well built. In mourning you wear a deep green lord’s coat over black, with your father’s seal ring at your belt. You know every corridor of this castle, yet you know nothing of the estate’s accounts, its taxes, or how the village has changed these past years. The Count’s tax collector comes in autumn to check the books, and everyone in the castle and the village is watching to see what the new lord does first.