Chapter Ten: The First Frontier Patrol Officer

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In the heart of Besançon, within the court of the Marquis of Ivrea, the ruler of the Duchy of Burgundy, Dean Olof from Lucessen was engaged in a discussion with the Minister of Public Security in his official chamber.

“...That is the situation. The entire southern border is in chaos. Many of our churches and monasteries are harassed by starving refugees and bandits. We truly need warriors like this to guard our frontiers,” Dean Olof concluded, reclining in his large armchair as he fixed his gaze on the Minister.

The Minister listened quietly, his mind racing. Recent security alerts from the southern frontier were a constant headache. Castles and villages along the border were barely holding on, and the local lords and magistrates were struggling to maintain stability. As the flames of war spread across the southern continent, vast numbers of refugees fled northward, intensifying the strain on Burgundy’s southern defenses.

“Your Excellency, you mentioned a certain ‘At...’” the Minister began.

“At Woodwells,” Olof corrected.

“Yes, At Woodwells. What is his background?” the Minister inquired.

“His father once served as my guard during the crusade in the Holy Land. At himself accompanied his father on that campaign. He is both a saint and an accomplished officer in the Holy Order,” Dean Olof replied.

The Minister rubbed his thinning hair and said, “Establishing a border patrol officer in the county of Tinetz might be feasible, but the court cannot allocate funds now. It will depend on the local lords and castles to raise resources, and the Chancellor will need some persuading...” He paused, took a sip from his silver cup, and glanced at Olof’s sleeve.

Understanding the hint, Dean Olof beckoned his personal guard, who approached and placed a leather pouch on the Minister’s desk.

The Minister set down his cup, weighed the pouch in his hand, smiled faintly, and said, “Today, the Chancellor is accompanying the Marquis to meet the envoy from Provence. Tomorrow, I will report this matter to him. Your Excellency, please wait a few days; I will have someone deliver the appointment letter to Lucessen.”

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“Sir, does this patrol officer hold a noble title?”

“No.”

“Will soldiers be assigned from above for the patrol?”

“We will likely have to recruit ourselves.”

“Will there at least be funds and provisions?”

“Perhaps, but the chances are slim.”

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The more questions he asked, the grimmer the inquirer’s face became, while the responder remained calm and composed.

Ron was deeply bewildered that Lord At exchanged 150 silver coins for a nominal patrol position. To him, that sum could sustain his entire family’s food, clothing, and needs for four years.

“Ron, you will understand in time. For now, continue practicing your swordsmanship,” At said, tapping Ron’s shoulder with a wooden stick and heading toward the inn’s backyard.

Ron reluctantly followed, dragging his short wooden stick. During the wait for news these past days, he had taken many blows from At’s stick. Despite the daily beatings, Ron’s sword skills showed little progress. At knew it was unlikely Ron would master advanced techniques, so he limited instruction to basic footwork, sword positions, and a few offensive and defensive cuts and thrusts.

Time flew amidst the clanging of strikes and muffled thuds of wood hitting flesh.

On the tenth morning, At rode with Ron to the monastery gate. After a meal’s wait, At was escorted by guards into Dean Olof’s study.

Dressed in a long white robe, cinched with a sacred cord, wearing a clerical collar, and a gilded cross upon his chest, Dean Olof had just finished morning prayers. He beckoned At forward, who knelt and kissed the dean’s signet ring.

With a benevolent smile, the dean invited At to sit beside him.

“At, true to your mission, your appointment has arrived.” He handed At a scroll tied with a deep red ribbon. At took it carefully and opened it.

At the top center in bold letters was “Appointment Letter,” beneath which several lines of elegant Latin script were penned with a quill:

“Due to the turmoil in the southern borderlands, instability at the frontier, frequent incursions by refugees and bandits, for the security of the realm and the prosperity of the people, At Woodwells is hereby appointed Border Patrol Officer, overseeing the defense of the southern border in the county of Tinetz, tasked with apprehending thieves, repelling mountain barbarians, maintaining order and stability, and acting with discretion.”

The lower right bore the signature and seal of the Minister of Public Security of the Duchy of Burgundy.

At studied the official script, a swell of emotion rising within him. Possessing this document conferred upon him an official status.

“At, along with your appointment comes a private letter from the Minister. He informs me the Chancellor has approved establishing patrol officers along the southern frontier, with four border counties each assigned a patrol officer. The role is temporary and nominally under the court’s security minister, to be reported upon formation. However, assembling and provisioning the patrols fall to the local county castles and villages. The Minister has ordered all border towns and hamlets to support the patrol officers. Yet, I doubt those southern folk will heed such a feeble command. Moreover, the phrase ‘acting with discretion’ in your appointment essentially means you must self-provide supplies and recruit your own men and equipment...” Dean Olof expressed grave concern over At’s impending duty.

“Child, this is the reality. Additionally, I have a private letter addressed to Viscount Pierre, informing him you are the son of an old friend and requesting his favor. Our acquaintance is slight, so I cannot say how much influence the letter holds.” The dean produced a sealed letter and handed it to At.

With the appointment document in hand, At bid farewell to Dean Olof and left the monastery.

Upon seeing At emerge, Ron hastened over, leading the mule.

“Sir, has your appointment come through?”

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At nodded.

“Wonderful! Now you are officially a patrol officer!” Ron’s joy was heartfelt.

“Ron, we must not celebrate prematurely. As I suspected, the court has given me an empty title,” At replied calmly, for the outcome was anticipated, and he now needed this nominal position.

With the purpose of their northern journey fulfilled, At and Ron began preparations for their return.

After lunch, Ron opened At’s door.

“Sir, I found the grain shops you asked about. I inquired with passing caravans; grain in southern towns is pricier than in Lucessen. I searched every grain store in Lucessen, comparing prices. A shop in the west sells rye and barley cheapest—hulled rye at one penny for five pounds, barley at one penny for four pounds, though these are old stocks. A shop in the south offers the cheapest wheat, at one penny for three pounds if buying in bulk,” Ron reported his findings.

At tapped the small wooden table thoughtfully.

When leaving the valley, he took all his money. After paying Dean Olof 150 silver coins and covering travel expenses and fodder for the mule, At still had twenty-nine large silver marks, three small silver deniers, some scattered pennies, and various small coppers—about 4,300 pennies in total.

He planned first to recruit a dozen refugee households to clear and cultivate land in the valley. Once that was settled, he would organize the border patrol.

At’s plan called for recruiting enough grain to feed these settlers through winter: estimating ten households, each with three people, each person consuming one pound daily, requiring over 1,300 pounds of grain. Later needs would be greater. At assumed grain prices rose further south, so Lucessen’s prices should be favorable, hence his order for Ron to procure a supply.

“Ron, have you found a cart yet?” At asked.

Ron scratched his head. “I have, but prices are steep. A new single-horse, two-wheeled cart with side panels costs six hundred pennies; a four-wheeled wooden wagon is a thousand pennies. Custom orders at the carpenter’s are cheaper but take at least a month. I also checked warehouses; they either don’t sell carts or demand exorbitant prices.”

“You’ve done well. Let’s visit the construction site of the Great Church in Hervof. I recall several abandoned carts there; maybe we can buy and have a carpenter repair them. Go fetch a carpenter to the site; I’ll go see for myself,” At decided after a moment’s thought.

Together they left the inn, each setting off on their errands.