Chapter Nine: The Benefactor's Aid

On their first day in Lucessen, Art and Ron enjoyed a good night’s rest at the inn. After a simple breakfast, Art instructed Ron to visit the Selankfor Monastery in the western part of the city to inquire about a monk named Olof Hannis. Art himself set out lightly, wandering through the town.

When they returned to the inn, Ron brought back news from the monastery.

Olof Hannis was no longer a monk elder; he had long since been promoted to bishop and served as the abbot of Selankfor Monastery. It was said he would soon be elevated to Archbishop of the Lucessen Diocese. Recently, Abbot Olof Hannis had been overseeing renovation work at the Hewof Cathedral in the northern part of the city.

At noon, they enjoyed a sumptuous meal of honey-roasted goose and spiced roast meat at the inn. It was Art’s first time savoring such delicious fare. Though his stomach had grown accustomed to the bland taste of bread and porridge, he still longed for richly flavored dishes.

After the meal, Art changed into a finely woven brown woolen tunic that he had bought from the tailor’s for a hundred fenni, while Ron donned a gray, quilted linen vest worth fifty fenni. They transformed into a pair of city merchants and attendants. With three gold coins in hand, they left the inn and entered the city’s banking guild. Paying a thirty-fenni tax, they exchanged the gold coins for twenty-four large silver marks and one hundred forty-four small silver shillings. They placed the small silver coins into a white cotton pouch embroidered with a faded holy cross and supplemented the amount with six small silver coins from a deerskin pouch, making a neat total of one hundred fifty small silver coins — nearly three years’ wages for an ordinary city laborer who neither ate nor drank.

Exiting the guild, Art tucked the two heavy pouches into his chest, patted them, and called for Ron, who mounted his horse behind him as they rode swiftly northward toward Hewof Cathedral.

They passed through bustling marketplaces and crossed broad, level squares until they reached a cathedral in the northern district, busy with renovation work. Laborers and craftsmen moved in and out, pushing wheelbarrows loaded with blue stone bricks and tiles, carrying long beams of timber, or holding parchment plans, pointing and discussing.

“May I ask where Abbot Olof Hannis is?” Art approached a craftsman who was drawing plans on a black wooden board and asked politely.

The craftsman paused his brush, glanced at the oddly dressed man in the brown tunic who looked more like a sword merchant, then resumed drawing. After a moment, he said, “Abbot Olof is in the small chapel nearby, but you’re clearly late. There’s no contracted work left on this site now.”

Art said nothing further, thanked the craftsman, and, with Ron, headed toward the small chapel.

Two sword-bearing guards blocked their way at the chapel’s entrance. Smiling, Art said to one, “Sir, I am an old acquaintance of Abbot Olof Hannis, named Arthur Wells. Kindly inform him of my arrival.” The guards exchanged a look. One entered the chapel, while the other relaxed his vigilance upon hearing that Art was a friend of the abbot.

After a while, the guard returned. “Mr. Arthur Wells, the abbot requests you enter.”

“Please leave your sword and attendants outside,” the other guard politely said. Art removed his sword and handed it to Ron, instructing him to wait outside, then followed the guard into the chapel.

Inside, the chapel featured a vaulted structure supported by a dozen stone pillars. At the altar, a cross-shaped hollow was carved, through which sunlight streamed, casting a beam in the shape of a cross. Abbot Olof Hannis knelt silently before the chapel’s statue, hands resting on the prayer desk, head bowed in prayer. The guard approached quietly and whispered in the abbot’s ear. Supported by the guard, Olof rose and turned toward Art, narrowing his eyes as he studied him. His expression gradually darkened.

“You are not Arthur Wells. Who are you? Why impersonate him?” The abbot’s tone was harsh, and the guard placed a hand on his sword hilt.

Art knelt on one knee before the abbot and whispered, “Most respected Bishop, I am indeed not Arthur Wells. I am his son.”

“You are Arthur Wells’s son?” The abbot still looked doubtful.

“Seven years ago, when you were still a chaplain with the army, at a small chapel northeast of the Holy Land’s Irbid, you saved a boy wounded by pagans. That boy’s father later became your guard.” Art revealed a gruesome scar on his shoulder.

“Oh, my God, you are young Art!” The abbot was taken aback, stepped forward to help him up, and embraced him.

“God bless you. How did you come to Burgundy? Is your father well?” The abbot led Art to sit on a nearby bench.

“Most respected Bishop, thank you for remembering us. Since returning from the Holy Land, we have faced many misfortunes...” Art recounted from his predecessor’s memories how, after returning from the Crusades, their lands were schemed away, forcing father and son to resist, then flee north to the southern border of Burgundy, hiding in a desolate valley.

The abbot sighed repeatedly.

He had known Arthur Wells well years ago, as the baron had volunteered as his religious protector—a tale once celebrated. Those years in the Holy Land were among Olof Hannis’s most unforgettable and legendary times. It was precisely because of his missionary experience with the army there that, upon returning to Selankfor Monastery, he quickly rose from monk elder to deputy abbot and then abbot.

“I have heard of Ward Berrey’s greed and shamelessness, but I cannot imagine he would make a saint who shed blood for God shed tears at home again,” the abbot sighed.

“Child, what are your plans now?”

“Art, I sympathize with your and your father’s plight, but I cannot restore your status, nor can I help reclaim your lands.” Olof Hannis was angry on their behalf but powerless—the Wells family’s lands were in a foreign country, and the local church’s influence lay behind the usurpation.

“Bishop, the Wells lands and titles were taken from us. We dare not hope for divine compensation for our weakness. I must rely on my own strength to regain honor and dignity!” Art looked the abbot in the eyes with firm resolve.

“Very well, child. How can I assist you?” The abbot sighed with relief.

“Thank you for your kindness and generosity.” Art rose from the bench, bowed deeply, and said, “I believe you know that since last summer, Lombardy and Provence in the south have been embroiled in conflict for over a year. The southern turmoil may be an opportunity for me. But as a dispossessed foreigner, hiding in the forest to survive, without status, I face many restrictions in Burgundy. Moreover, the southern border where I now am is plagued by bandits...” Art poured out his thoughts.

“A border patrol officer? You mean the southern border of Tinetz?” The abbot thought he misheard.

“But Tinetz County is the marquis’s direct fief, managed by Viscount Pierre. They have their own sheriff, don’t they?” Olof Hannis reminded him.

“Yes, I passed through Tinetz a few days ago; it’s now crowded with refugees fleeing the south. Viscount Pierre and his sheriff cannot even maintain order within the castle and nearby lands. The entire southern Tinetz is overrun by cross-border refugees and marauding bandits. Several months ago, a band of robbers seized Arsburg on the southern border and killed the local lord...” Art described the chaos in Burgundy’s southern borderlands.

“So you want to be a border patrol officer? You have nothing now, and Viscount Pierre is unlikely to support you. How will you maintain order? Child, listen to me. I am currently overseeing the Hewof Cathedral renovation. I could arrange for you to be a contractor to earn money, or you could serve as a guard by my side.” The abbot was concerned about the young man’s impulsiveness.

“Bishop, to be under your protection would be my greatest honor. But I bear the heavy burden of cleansing my family’s shame and cannot afford to slacken. You are right; Viscount Pierre and Tinetz will offer me little support, but that also means they will grant me maximum freedom. Then I can quietly develop in the wilderness valley without restriction...”

“You mean you want to develop in that uninhabited valley? As far as I know, it has been deserted for centuries, inhabited only by beasts and demons,” the abbot said, still thinking the young man’s plan fanciful. Yet, on reflection, the youth resembled the fearless chaplain he once was, who had gone to the Holy Land against all odds.

“Child, do you insist on your plan?”

“Yes, unwaveringly!”

After a long pause in thought, the abbot patted Art’s shoulder and stood. “Very well, child, I will help you. Come to Selankfor Monastery in ten days.”

Relieved, Art carefully took from his chest a white pouch embroidered with a holy cross, knelt on one knee before the abbot, and presented it. “Bishop, this is a donation for Selankfor Monastery and Hewof Cathedral. Please accept it.”

The abbot initially refused but, curious about the embroidered pouch, examined it closely. Suddenly, he felt this young man might achieve something significant.

In the end, Olof Hannis accepted Art’s donation—partly because he was raising funds for the cathedral’s renovation, partly because helping Art, a foreigner with a “blemished” background, secure a border patrol officer’s position in Burgundy required financial arrangements, even if the post was a humble civilian office.

Early the next morning, the abbot set off with two guards in a carriage to Besançon, the seat of the court.

The development differed somewhat from Art’s original plan. Initially, he intended to use his father’s identity to request a monastery labor contractor’s title from the abbot, so he could openly recruit refugees in the south, reclaim the nameless valley, and gradually build strength. But upon learning that Olof Hannis had risen to bishop and abbot and might soon become archbishop, Art decided to take a bolder, riskier step...