Chapter 126: Assigning the Marshlands

The morning sun was warm.

Emeric stood at the edge of the drained marshland. The trenches were still there—dry now, the water redirected to the pools on either side. The land stretched before him and he couldn’t believe it actually worked. He had made sure to sketch it all out in theory but seeing it in practice was a different story. The chaos of the last few days had not let him admire the result of their work.

Now it was time to put it into actual use.

Farmers from the village had gathered and where whispering nervously in front of him. He had ordered for some of the best farmers to gather at the marshland. There were twelve of them, both men and women. He knew that their experience was no joke because he instantly noticed their hands were calloused. They were also amazed with the land with something like wonder.

"This was a swamp," one of them said. "A useless swamp. And now..."

"Now it’s farmland," Emeric said. "Your farmland. If you want it."

They stared at him.

"You’re giving us land?"

"I’m giving you work. The land belongs to the estate. But you’ll farm it. You’ll keep a share of the crops. The rest goes to the estate as tax."

The farmers exchanged glances.

"That’s... fair," the old woman said. "Fairer than the last baron."

"I’m not the last baron."

She nodded slowly. "No. You’re not."

Before long, he had measured large bits of the farmland and divided it up amongst them.

The farmers moved into the fields and the work had begun. They worked in teams. Some plowed the soft earth into rows while others planted. The water from the pools would be used as a contingency. The earth still held a lot of water that didn’t necessarily drown the crowds but was enough to help it grow.

Emeric supervised more out of curiosity than the supervision itself.

He would help out occasionally, maybe row here and there.

The farmers watched him in a curious, wary fashion. But something was changing. Something in their eyes.

Was it respect? He wouldn’t know.

By midday, the first field was planted.

The farmers stopped to rest. They sat in the shade of a lone oak. They ate bread and cheese. They drank water from the pools.

Emeric sat with them.

"You’re not what I expected," the old woman said.

"What did you expect?"

"A noble. Soft hands. Soft words. Soft everything."

He looked at his hands. Blistered. Calloused. Covered in dirt.

"These aren’t soft."

"No." She smiled. "They’re not."

---

That afternoon.

Emeric walked through the village.

The repairs were almost done. The houses were being rebuilt and the roofs were fixed.

The villagers were working alongside the artisans. Maybe they had found a way to work together.

The children ran between the workers. The women brought water. The men lifted beams.

Emeric watched.

It’s working, he thought. It’s actually working.

This was the ideal partnership he had hoped for.

That evening.

The sun was setting when Emeric finally returned to the estate.

He was exhausted and his body ached. His hands were raw. His back was sore, but somehow, he felt satisfied.

He had not seen Isolde in days. He had been working late. Rising early. Barely sleeping. He missed her.

He crossed the courtyard. Entered the mansion .

The servants greeted him. Bess. Nella. Marta. Pip. And new faces. He didn’t recognize them. Maids. Servants. Graves had told him they needed more hands and he would be hiring some from the capital based on the mistress’s needs.

He had okayed it half hearted and just went about his other business.

He would need to familiarize himself with them later. He needed to know exactly who was coming and going out of his home.

"My lord."

"Where is my wife?"

"The library, my lord. She’s been there all day."

When he walked in, the library was transformed.

The water damage was gone. Well, not gone but cleaned. The shelves were clean. The books had been sorted all over and the floor was polished. The windows gleamed, showing that somebody had worked on it. The curtains smelled fresh.

Seven maids worked around the room. Dusting. Arranging. Sorting. Two more stood near the door. Waiting.

Isolde sat in her chair. Directing.

"No, the histories go on the left. The poetry on the right. The other types of fiction that we can’t make a category for should go in the back. Yes. There. I would sort them out later."

She looked up when he entered.

"Emeric."

He crossed to her. Knelt beside her chair. Kissed her.

The maids giggled. The new ones. Bess and Nella exchanged glances.

"Welcome back," Isolde said.

"I’m home."

She touched his face. Her fingers traced the line of his jaw. The dirt on his cheek. The exhaustion in his eyes.

"You’ve been working too hard."

"I know."

"You need to rest."

"I know."

She smiled and held his hands.

"The library is almost done. The water damage is fixed. The books are sorted. All that’s left is the leak in the ceiling. Bjorn says he’ll fix it tomorrow."

"Good."

"The servants are new. From the capital. They’re... learning."

He looked at the maids. They curtsied. Nervous. Eager.

"They’ll learn fast."

"I hope so."

He stood up, looked at the library, the shelves and at the books. Basically giving the whole place another once over.

Then he reached down, slipped his arms under her. Lifted her from the chair.

She gasped. "Emeric—"

"Alone time."

"The servants—"

"Can wait."

He carried her toward the door. The maids giggled. Bess and Nella exchanged another pair of glances as they noticed the lady’s cheeks were flushed.

"Emeric. Put me down."

"No."

"Emeric—"

He kissed her softly and she melted against him.

"Alone time," he repeated.

She sighed. "Fine."

He carried her out of the library. Down the hall. Toward their chambers.

The maids watched them go, giggling and whispering.

The walk was very short but his blood was pumping from the impatience.