Pwyll, an old man of honor, had lived his entire life in Bala, just as his father had before him. Though age had softened his features, his spirit remained vigorous. He had served faithfully as Waladr's steward, navigating the turbulent waters of his master's treacheries. With Waladr executed for his betrayal, many of his staff faced trials. Some were condemned, others exonerated. Pwyll, having earned his innocence, now walked freely, his keen eyes assessing the changes in his familiar surroundings.
As he approached the town square, a thick, acrid smoke filled the air. A crowd had gathered, their murmurs blending into a single, oppressive noise. At the center of the commotion, Father Noah's lifeless body hung from the stakes, charred and blackened, a grim effigy of the town's judgment. Branded as a devil, he had met his end in the flames.
Pwyll's eyes narrowed, his lips curling into a grimace. He spat on the ground, his mind heavy with the weight of the scene. This town is cursed, he thought, a bitter truth he could not shake.
As he countinued walking he saw a queue, an army recruitment notice that caught his attention. Pwyll's brows knit in contemplation. Waladr's coffers were nearly empty before his demise... How is it that Glyndŵr's son can afford this? The thought lingered as he made his way to the manor, his steps purposeful.
At the entrance, he encountered Beca. Without waiting for pleasantries, Pwyll waved her off, declaring, "I know my way."
The heavy oak door creaked as he knocked, and a voice from within called, "Entre." Pwyll stepped inside, his gaze immediately drawn to the array of clay pots, each holding a plant. His curiosity was piqued, but he masked it behind a stoic expression.
Ethan, engrossed in studying maps spread across a wooden table, shifted his focus to the steward. "Steward Pwyll," he greeted, a faint smile playing on his lips. "I've heard much about you—a capable man, despite serving the treacherous Waladr. It's a relief to see you free from suspicion."
Pwyll inclined his head, his voice measured. "Thank you, Lord. It is indeed grave, what befell Waladr."
Ethan's smile thinned. "Yes, such is the fate of treasonous wretches."
The subtle threat hung in the air, and Pwyll cleared his throat, his mind racing. The young lord has some steel in his spine, but how much? He approached the table, his eyes scanning the map. His gaze sharpened as he noticed the marked area.
Ethan rose and gestured toward the map. "Let us waste no time, and look south of Bala Lake, I intend to increase our food production, what are your thoughts?"
Pwyll's brows rose. "The lands south of Llyn Tegid are fertile, Lord. The water from the lake and River Dee nourishes the soil well."
"But?" Ethan prompted, his eyes narrowing.
Pwyll exhaled slowly. "The previous lord attempted this. Raids plagued our efforts, leaving fields trampled and crops burned before they could mature. Evil fiends, relentless in their destruction."
Ethan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "What if we fortify the area, guard the paths leading to these fields?"
Pwyll's face hardened with skepticism. "To do so, you'd need to pay the guards for months, until the harvest. I'm afraid your coffers will run dry before the crops even yield."
Ethan's lips curled into a knowing smirk. "I'll only need them for two weeks."
Pwyll's skepticism deepened. "Two weeks? Lord, what can be grown in two weeks?"
Ethan's gaze drifted to the pots of sprouting plants. "I have a different method in mind." He handed Pwyll a set of papers detailing large containers and the process for seed treatment.
Pwyll's eyes flicked over the drawings, confusion etching into his features. "What are these for?"
Ethan led him to a heavy chest in the corner. He threw open the lid, revealing it brimming with gold coins. The sight left Pwyll breathless, his knees nearly buckling. This...! The prince of Wales, pockets run this deep!?
Ethan chuckled softly, the sound reverberating with quiet confidence.
----
Pwyll stood at the edge of the fields, watching as the local farmers worked diligently, clearing the land where new crops would soon be planted. The spring sun cast a warm glow over the rolling landscape, though the air was still crisp. The farmers moved methodically, their tools cutting into the earth with rhythmic precision.
Beside Pwyll stood a balding man, his face weathered from years under the sun. His hands, calloused and strong, gripped a hoe as he turned to Pwyll, his brow furrowed in concern. "Steward Pwyll," he began, his voice tinged with apprehension. "What in the heavens is the young lord thinking? It's not yet time to plant, and the soil is not properly tilled. This..."
Pwyll, his gaze steady on the men laboring in the distance, replied calmly, "We do as we are told, Glyn. The young lord must make his own way. He'll face losses, as all leaders do, and from them, he will grow."
Glyn sighed, his shoulders sagging with resignation. "Aye," he agreed, though his voice carried a note of doubt. "Youth often brings bold ideas, but the land does not bow to haste."
The two men stood in silence for a moment, the sounds of labor filling the air around them. Pwyll's mind churned with thoughts of Ethan's unconventional plans, a mix of skepticism and cautious hope taking root within him. He had seen many lords come and go, each with their own vision. Only time would tell if Ethan's would bear fruit..