No one paid the slightest attention to Olaf’s birth, neither did one care except his mom Evelyn who, rather forcefully and totally unwillingly, had to carry him for many months, was as happy as she for that split moment could get. He wasn’t Evelyn’s first, nay, he was the third boy and the seventh child in total, yet only three of them, and all and only girls in that, had managed to survive to see two summers.
It should be known, dear reader, that her firstborn is excluded in this simple calculation. The poor girl was already dead – not in the hands of the old midwife, whose eyes are so clouded that cannot see a meter away, or the young and energetic priest, who was ready to claim his prophethood had he found a dozen loyal followers, but by the angels or demons or something of the sort, long before she had left her mother’s belly. Olaf becomes the eighth if you’d include this nameless baby-girl – yet for the sake of a number of reasons, one being the magical power attributed to this humble number which, by far, isn’t superior, needless to add inferior, to and than its siblings, I’ll call him the seventh-born from now on. For my further reasons might not suffice to satisfy you, I may add that Evelyn also considered him to be her seventh. We can discuss the matter as much as we like, though neither of us can lecture her in such delicate matter, I reckon?
Olaf was born a peasant to a family of peasants whose occupation was peasantry since time immemorial. They were peasants but serfs no more: aye, they were free tenants, the first of its sort and the only one until very recently. The class was invented by Gilbert, great-great-grandfather of Olaf who, totally out of the most humane feeling, fear, came to be a hero by saving two hundred and fifty-seven souls from death in then great war for Anhydra. Armies of the mountain folk won and gained the control of this fertile valley, and Gilbert received the honour of meeting His Majesty the King in person post-bellum during which was distributed the spoils of war.
“Am told of your deeds in war, Gilbert son of Otto. Such heroism won’t go unnoticed, neither you’ll go unrewarded. Tell me, what might please your heart? You have a will of your own or leave it to our graciousness?”
Such was the tradition back in time: The king introduced the heroes himself and asked what they would want. The tradition went on: The hero left the decision to the king who, as per the size of the act, granted this title or that, and all returned home happy. Need I say Gilbert was the first to break this tradition?
“I’m a poor servant of thy highness milord, being in your presence is a reward me and my family shall enjoy for many generations to come” Gilbert said and prostrated in front of his king. Gods, how he knew how to please them nobles! His Majesty was looking at him with a smile on his face, was to talk yet Gilbert, still prostrated, continued just as the king was to speak.
“Alas, there’s one thing this servant of the throne might request from his highness the generous who owns the riches of the four domains and the seven worlds: the taxes, oh my king you don’t know, breaks my back so badly that comes winter we’re left with but icy water of the river and the dead hares of the forest, so long the monsters don’t collect ‘em ‘fore us. I’d rather be paying not the whole of the taxes, that I and my offspring shall remain in the fields and away from the forests, so that to fear them monsters no more?”
Silence filled the grand hall. Exemption? Was that really what he asked for? Damn, there was neither a person nor a thing that hadn’t the duty of filling his majesty’s treasure. Folk with labour and coin, forests with food, and mountains with mines. What the hell was that?
Nine-score and eighteen eyes and two hundred ears were focused on the King. Gilbert still was down, his eyes were watching the floor than the throne – yet his ears were as wide open to hear the heartbeat of a mosquito.
Such delicate situation it was! The King wasn’t to refuse the demands of a hero but such demand? In front of the others? No counsel was held, no questions were asked. The king thought all by himself and spoke, holding his sword as if he was called for a duel, and spoke loudly.
“The heart breaks ’cause it expects. Am not to let it happen, none that served the lord and the land shall leave this house displeased. Yet your demand, Gilbert, is one of its kind that never was heard. You sure deserve to be knighted and shall receive such honour. That’s what your heart speaks, aye?”
Gilbert wasn’t an educated man. His world’s borders were between the forest and the city, trespassing the former but never the latter. No, he didn’t want to become a city-dweller and neither he wanted to leave his home. He wanted to remain where he was, only with enough left for him to live merrily, without fear.
“Forgive me for saying nay, my king. I desire not the slightest change my red blood to blue. I’m happy on the field working, have not the will to lock myself behind walls, of the city or the house. I’d rather work, as hard as ever and even harder, yet not freeze in winter, neither sleep hungry with but bark soup to fill this darned stomach. Aye, that’s my desire, your highness.”
The king had two choices, both worse than the other. He could either cut off Gilbert’s head and his desires would disappear together with him, hence the century old custom would remain intact. Or he could grant him what he desired – but what would happen if more would dare to demand the same?
“What say you, men? Speak!” he ordered. Murmurs raised but none could increase to blabber. Then the king called for his most loyal man and asked him personally.
“Such thing is unheard of, my king. We all pay our fair share, that’s the price of living in civilization. It’s nonsense, utterly unacceptable!”
“And you are yet to be seen filling a glass of water yourself. That was unheard of once, now is what it is.”
He became a baron a decade ago and ever since, just as the king had said, he didn’t even lift a finger even to fill his own cup. A natural born leader, he was a really dear asset at war but not otherwise – still enough for the king to keep him around. You know what they say: Peace is the momentary oblivion between two wars.
“You’re right but if you’ll let him be exempt, more shall come forward -– more not from the peasantry but from nobility. Is it heard of that a peasant has more rights than the lord? This is disaster!”
“I can get rid of the noble and he’ll starve for he’ll be left penniless, yet I can’t do the same with the peasant. Isn’t this enough of a right over the lord?”
“But, my king, won’t the nobles desire to be peasants?”
“Then let them be, who is to care?”
“This would cause troubles my king, no one would be happy with that. We can’t play with the balance and expect things to remain as they were once. I’d recommend for you to think twice before granting him his desire.”
Tired of whispering and the talk not reaching a conclusion, “is there anyone that dares oppose my decisions?” the king, holding his sword even stronger, cried out loud. Nay, of course there weren’t! “Ye see?” he asked again, thought for a moment longer and called for his scribe – meaning he had reached a verdict. “Write” he ordered the scribe and “listen to me well, for this is one of a kind and shall not be repeated for anyone, never and nowhere” he said to the people that filled his grand hall. Then he sat on his throne and spoke thus:
“I, Egbert, son of Eugmund, the sovereign of four domains, chief of Talia and Surford, the lord of Western Grunald Mountains, Humbria, and Anhydra, and of all that crawl under and walk above, hereby grant Gilbert son of Otto and his offspring the title of free tenant, whose duties and obligations to the land and the lord shall be as follows from this day to the end of the days:
They shall be held liable for all that peasants of the day are held, except,
They shall pay no rent, neither to the lord nor to the crown, neither for the dwelling nor for the land, neither on soil nor on water, and,
They shall pay no taxes for birth, marriage, death, and events in between, and,
They shall pay one fifth of their annual making so long that the amount does not lead them to poverty, in which case the amount shall be decreased to a maximum of one tenth, and,
Neither them nor the land, of which the borders are mentioned below, shall be subject to trade and exchange, and they will be the owners of their land with paying their dues to the lord, and,
They shall be admitted and accepted to the royal dwellings of all sorts, both in the city and country, and the immediate vicinities of such.
Honouring of this document is a duty on the future kings, be them of my own blood or not, their officials of all ranks, and any others to whom it is presented.
Wrote? Good. Now date, name and stamp.”
Two soldiers held Gilbert and raised him up. Gilbert walked to the king, got his paper, kissed the royal ring after protruding once more, and left the palace. He was serf no more, neither he was lord. He was both and neither, he was what he’d rather.
“How does Gilbert’s story relate to that of Olaf’s” you might rightly ask. I’m just about to come to that point, yet for those curious ones, I’d rather finish Gilbert’s story first:
Fate didn’t allow him enjoy for long what he gained. Two merry winters were followed by a third which he spent laying on his bed sick, now unlike the previous ones neither hungry nor cold, and the first day of spring he passed away in peace. He left his children not a name but a house and land, land enough to feed his family and house enough to shelter all seven families them, hence allowing Olaf’s forefathers to collect riches one year after the other, not knowing where and how to spend it all, by which Olaf came to inherit a healthy sum of gold and silver thanks to being the only boy of his father. Ah, those old days – when no one cared about girls…
Olaf’s birth I said. Indeed, it didn’t cause fireworks even for his mom. His father, who met the newcomer only in the evening after returning from the city which now grew bigger – and hence closer to home, took a brief look and made his guess: Six months and not a day more. It shouldn’t be hard to understand that his guess was wrong. Olaf was sick at his sixth month and his father was more proud for his guess was right than upset that he was about to lose another son, the last candidate for his name to live for at least another generation. He still was uninterested about Olaf till he turned four, though, but after that, the boy came to be his whole life.
Olaf had a happy childhood. Generations of Briarssons’ wealth was at his service. He had all he could possibly want long before he wanted them. He learned, thanks to these riches, many things from his young age, including but not limited to selfishness, lack of empathy, more selfishness, two-facedness, and even more selfishness. Calling him a spoiled child was like calling a demon an angel. His father was proud of his making: such was one to be talked about for centuries to come.
Cedric, like Gilbert, didn’t have a long life. Olaf was seventeen when his father died in a nice Autumn day. He wasn’t sad, neither he felt sorrow. He was angry: there were many bastardy shit to do together, why did he need to die so soon? How much fun would he have without his favourite partner?
Apparently a lot. Olaf found a sidekick, Arthur, the winter his father died who enlarged his vision so greatly that when they needed to part their ways three years later, Olaf was one damn whoreson second to none – which was the reason of this separation:
Olaf hired three men to rob Arthur. Once done, he handed two of the three robbers to the guards and the third to Arthur. Things got better than his plan, Arthur killed the robber in front of the eyes of three hidden guards, found guilty the same evening, and got hanged next noon at the Porter Square. This was Olaf’s biggest work to date, sadly one including no women, and one to brag about –
Had he the chance. Olaf was taken the same evening by the head of the guards and interrogated, if you know what it means, for four days. On the fifth he was released from custody with a clear order: if you’ll be seen around by next full moon, your head shall look for your body.
Yeah, he had only three days to prepare and leave the city, and by the next full moon he needed to be out of the domain. There was but one good quality Cedric had taught Olaf: he knew to read and to write. He rushed home as swiftly as a tortoise and read the old piece of paper, hanging at the entrance of the house, over and over again. No, there was nothing for him not to be expelled. He ate, he drank, and he slept the day off.
We all have someone that loves us. Mother, father, sibling, spouse, child… Olaf had none. His sisters had prayed for him to be hanged and be rid of him for once and all. His mother was unsure about his death but surely wouldn’t mind him taken off elsewhere, preferably far, as far as the island she heard of when she was a child, north of the world where snow never melts, at least till her days were over. Next morning twenty four eyes were on Olaf with each, including his youngest nephew, begging him to leave peacefully. Indeed he did: he took all the valuables – coin, gold, and jewellery, jumped on his horse not caring to spend two more days at his only home, looked as disgustedly as his relatives to them, and said his last words for the time:
I shall return and claim what I leave behind. Don’t be merry, I’m not done yet.
