The air of the northern fields still carried the cloying, ferrous scent of the recent battle, but as the contingent neared the gates of Pasttó, the stench of war was replaced by the dust of the road and the growing murmur of an expectant crowd. Count Alban Cortés rode at the vanguard, his dented armor serving as the finest banner of his victory. Beside him, Miguel maintained an upright posture, though his muscles protested against the strain of a body not yet accustomed to the rigors of horsemanship.
Upon crossing the threshold of the walls, the sound was deafening. Thousands of commoners, whose lives depended directly on the integrity of those ramparts, thronged the streets. These were not mere cheers; it was the catharsis of a people who had stared into the abyss of a siege and been rescued. They knew, through the grapevine, that the young heir's wit had transformed a certain defeat into a masterstroke of an ambush.
"Hail to the Count, steadfast defender of the realm!" a man shouted from a balcony, waving a soiled rag as if it were the finest silk. "Hail! Hail to the Young Master!" a thousand others responded, creating a wave of sound that made Miguel's chest vibrate.
Alban, his gaze fixed forward but with a slight smile of satisfaction, leaned toward his son. "You must greet them, son. Let them see your face; let them read in your features the security they crave. The legitimacy of the nobility springs not only from the blood in your veins, but from the respect the people feel for your station. Defending them is the best way to ensure a prosperous future for your rule. A peasant who loves you is a soldier who never needs to be conscripted by force."
Miguel nodded, raising his hand in a measured wave—neither too haughty nor too familiar. Soft power, he thought to himself.
The path to the castle was a parade of sun-weathered faces and eyes bright with hope. Miguel observed the details others ignored: the condition of the facades, the quality of the people's footwear, the variety of goods in the stalls beginning to reopen. The County of Pasttó had potential, but it was a subsistence economy in dire need of a technological leap.
Upon reaching the fortress, the atmosphere shifted from public jubilation to military efficiency. They dismounted before the stables, where a young groom, pale and trembling, took the reins. The previous groom had not survived the "interrogations" of the Count's specialists following the discovery of his treason.
Miguel paused for a moment before the keep's entrance, evaluating the structure. The moat was deep—about a two-meter drop onto wooden stakes, sharpened and darkened by moisture. The curtain wall, three meters of solid ashlar masonry, featured well-placed battlements that allowed for an enviable vertical defense. The drawbridge was the heart of the system, capable of isolating the manorial "island" from the rest of the urban tumult.
Capacity for two hundred men in a total siege, Miguel calculated mentally. The weak point will be logistics: water access and grain storage.
They entered the great hall, a vast space with high ceilings where hearth smoke mingled with the scent of parchment and wax. There waited the Council—the men who kept the county's gears turning while the Count wielded the sword.
"Gentlemen, apologies for the delay," Alban announced, pulling off his leather gauntlets with a sharp flick. "We were managing the cleanup of the field. You know the way of it: burning the enemy dead to ward off plague, burying our brave with honor, processing captured gear, and classifying prisoners."
The Count sat in his oak chair and fixed his gaze on a short man with a severe expression. "Father Guillermo, as the highest representative of the Church, I charge you with a general mass for the souls who perished defending their homes. Let the people see that God is with us in both life and death."
"It shall be done as your Grace directs," the priest replied in a tone Miguel found excessively frigid. "In fact, we commenced preparations as soon as word of the victory reached us. The Church requires no reminders of her duty, my lord."
Miguel narrowed his eyes. Someone's ego is bruised, he thought. Father Guillermo did not seem to enjoy receiving direct orders in public. In this world, the Church was a state within a state, and such friction of powers could be a ticking time bomb.
"Excellent," Alban continued, ignoring the cleric's tone. "Raúl, take note of the fallen. Their families are to be exempt from taxes for a full year. It is the least we can do. Furthermore, the kin of the fallen shall have absolute priority in any employment or commission from the manor. I want no orphans begging in my streets."
Raúl, a thin, gray-haired man who exuded an aura of technical competence, nodded immediately as his quill raced across the parchment. "Certainly, my lord. It shall be done at once. If I may, I have the preliminary calculations of the damage to the outlying villages here. Fortunately, most of the populace took refuge behind the walls before the impact, which drastically reduced civilian casualties."
Raúl is the key man, Miguel decided. He seeks precision. A technocrat in a world of mystics.
"Perfect, Raúl. Proceed with the exemptions and leave the report on my desk," the Count concluded, before turning to a plain-looking man, someone who would fade into any crowd. "Master Giuseppe, you have the task of ending this conflict. I grant you plenipotentiary powers as my negotiator. You will depart with a mounted escort for the Marquess of Narico's domains under a flag of parley. Discuss the terms of peace. You know my conditions; secure them and buy us the time necessary to build a force that no one dares ignore."
Giuseppe nodded without saying a single word. That laconic nature was his greatest weapon: a diplomat who reveals nothing is a diplomat who makes no mistakes.
"Si vis pacem, para bellum," Miguel whispered to himself. He was surprised by his father's management. He had the image of medieval lords as tyrants who saw their serfs as cattle, but Alban practiced a form of intelligent paternalism. He knew that a well-fed and grateful serf produced more and complained less. He was an exception to the exegetical rule of the age—an anomaly of autonomy.
"For now, that is all," Alban said, rising. "I shall call for you if any urgency arises. Son, go bathe. I expect you in the dining hall with your mother."
Miguel gave a brief inclination of the head. "Of course, Father."