Last, there was Adjudant Cornay, a solid soldier who had been in service of le Roi two years longer than Marc had. The man was approaching his thirties, and his hair was more salt than pepper. He was tall, built and his skin was worn from the weather. He says that’s from his time as a merchant sailor.

When they first met, Cornay had given him one of those stares. The one that soldiers gave a new officer as they pondered how many grand ideals they needed to be excised from their minds before they could be trusted.

When he caught Marc’s rigid demeanour, crisp drill, and ability to take command those thoughts were dismissed. They had been cut from the same cloth and even fought in the same conflicts.

It was Cornay who recommended they integrate with the townspeople. Marc’s soldier side had been tempted to say ‘no’ in the name of discipline, but their practicality paid off in the end.

The men ended up in cells for the night, requiring a prisoner watch. That meant there were fewer soldiers in attendance tonight. The additional watches ensured the men did not hurt themselves, or anyone else, until they addressed the situation. The men on duty will learn of what they missed, and ensure no one else spoils their fun ever again.

Meanwhile, Sergeant Chabanel, with his blond hair and blue eyes, suffered heavy losses in a recent clash with the Spanish. While they were quick with sending them conscripts this time, that meant fresh troops they needed to train and integrate. That puts a strain on everyone else, and my gift to them lets them know I’m aware of their challenges.

It created challenges for the sergeants to keep the soldiers in line, but there was no better alternative. Sometimes the decisions he made, like frequenting a local tavern with his men, fell into a grey area, but soldiers needed more than discipline.

A young and busty brunette came along with a fresh bottle of wine. As was the custom, he took the first sip before deciding whether to accept or reject the bottle. Tonight he noted several peculiar stares from the rank and file. Not exactly making me feel at ease…

“Merci, that will do,” Marc said. “Please leave the bottle.”

Six months later, at the tender age of twenty-one, Marc was in a tavern with his senior staff. By now, he should have had a subordinate officer, but the promise of men and equipment seldomly materialised. Instead we are told to make due. 

The fortification that housed his garrison was built for a force the quarter of their size. To accommodate the men, those not on duty were free to go into town, since the kitchen was inadequate for their numbers. The garrison interacting with the locals helped relations immensely. They actually look forward to our return…

“You’ll need this,” Bertrand said before tossing him a golden object.

When Marc caught it in mid-air, he discovered it was his Father’s signet ring. In actuality it belonged to him, but the transition was too new to adjust in terminology.

He slipped it on and found that it fit his pinky finger perfectly. Marc smiled at his mentor for remembering the one thing that would identify his authority. Father must be rolling on his grave right now… or over a spit in Hell…

“I see I made the right choice!” Marc said before marching smartly towards the stables.

“I’ll do my best,” Bertrand said. 

Given time, the full weight of the responsibilities given to Bertrand would make themselves felt. However, Marc would not be here to see for himself as he had to get ready to leave. At least I’m already packed.

“You’ll make a fine Steward,” Marc said. “You have the heart to help our people, and I have the courage to keep the enemy at bay… I must go.”

Marc was about to kick off towards the stable, when he caught the sound of Bertrand clearing his throat. That had often how he reminded his students they forgot something. What did I forget?

“Given the time, you three shall be my witnesses,” Marc went on. “I hereby declare that Bertrand Comminges will stand as my Steward during absence. Given my obligations, I must report to the garrison.”

There were no words exchanged. They all shared the same slack jaw and wide eyes, as though they never expected it, including Bertrand. Being elevated to act in the Comte’s place in his absence as a guardsman was quite the leap.

“I have full trust in your abilities,” Marc said. “Rule as I would, and while war is upon us, find a way to give our people some room to breathe. Had my Father been alive still, the locals would have revolted and surrendered this land to Spain.”

“I’ll do my best,” Bertrand said.

“We are at war with Spain,” Marc said. “That cancels my leave of absence, so I’ll have to head back to my garrison.”

Those words were purposefully loud enough for those lingering to hear. That was purposeful, because he had to get around the fact he was needed in two places at once. 

“You three,” Marc said looking at the nearest guards and messenger. “I’ll need your names.”

Without hesitation all three complied. He first turned to the messenger and said. 

“I formally accept this letter and responsibility bestowed upon me,” Marc said. “My first duty as Comte is to assign a Steward who will comply with the King’s direction.”