Read Chapter 12: The Broken Chain

The Free Hounds spent the rest of summer in the forests west of Arras.

They were no longer merely mercenaries.

They were an army too small to claim territory and too large to disappear.

Men kept joining.

Some were deserters. Some were peasants with military experience. Some were criminals looking for protection. Martin turned many away. Those he accepted swore to the rules before receiving the broken-chain badge.

By September he commanded one hundred and thirty-eight fighters, plus wagoners, smiths, cooks, and families.

A company had become a moving village.

That frightened him more than battle.

Food consumed most of his attention. Ysabeau calculated daily grain needs with the severity of a tax collector. Horses required even more.

“We cannot live by protecting hungry people,” she said. “Hungry people pay in gratitude.”

“Which weighs little.”

“And buys nothing.”

They needed a base.

Brother Matthieu suggested an abandoned fortified manor near Saint-Riquier. Its lord had died without heirs, and rival claimants were too busy litigating to occupy it.

Martin laughed. “So we steal it from lawyers?”

“Temporarily.”

They repaired the walls, cleaned the well, and named the place Chainbreak Hall after the badge. The name sounded grander than the cracked roofs deserved.

Local villages brought produce in exchange for patrols. Craftsmen arrived. A widow opened an alehouse in the old stable. Within two months, Chainbreak had a market every seventh day.

Martin began hearing petitions.

A farmer complained that Free Hound horses had damaged his beans. A smith accused a spearman of refusing payment. Two brothers argued over a stolen pig.

“I am not a judge,” Martin said.

Ysabeau handed him a stool. “Sit.”

He made rulings.

This, more than anything, changed him.

A captain could order men to march. A leader had to explain why a farmer's beans mattered to men carrying swords.

The Concord noticed.

One October morning, a herald arrived under flag of truce.

He represented Eustache de Marconne.

Lord Marconne offered Martin pardon, legal recognition, and a yearly contract worth more than all previous Free Hound earnings combined.

“In exchange for?” Martin asked.

“Road security.”

“Whose roads?”

“Commercial routes designated by Lord Marconne and his partners.”

Ysabeau almost laughed.

The herald continued. “Your company would also cease interference in lawful grain transactions.”

Martin looked around the hall. On one wall hung Hugues's old sword. Beneath it, the company rules had been copied onto a wooden board for men who could not read.

“Tell Lord Marconne no.”

The herald sighed. “He expected pride.”

“It is not pride.”

“What is it?”

Martin thought of mouldy wheat in a locked shed.

“Bad arithmetic.”

The herald left.

Three nights later, Chainbreak's western granary caught fire.

The flames were seen before they spread, but twelve sacks burned.

A captured arsonist carried a silver coin sewn into his belt.

Freshly minted.

Clean-edged.

Martin recognised the habit.

Marconne had answered.

Chainbreak Hall's first market almost ended in blood because two merchants brought grain at different prices. Villagers accused the higher-priced seller of profiteering. His guards drew knives. Free Hounds stepped between them.

Martin was asked to set a single fair price.

He refused.

“Then what are we protecting?” Agnès Courtois demanded. It was the first time he met her.

“Trade without swords deciding it.”

“That merchant charges twice the other.”

“Then buy from the other.”

“He has only twelve sacks.”

Martin saw the problem. A market could be free and still become cruel when scarcity removed choice.

They compromised. Merchants could set prices, but anyone using Free Hound protection had to post them publicly before market opened and could not raise them during the day. Grain taken from seized Concord stores would be sold at a fixed lower rate to households first, then traders.

It was clumsy policy invented in a muddy yard.

It worked well enough.

Martin found this more exhausting than battle. On a battlefield, an order succeeded or failed quickly. Market rules produced consequences days later in places he could not see.

Ysabeau began keeping records of prices, quantities, and complaints.

“You enjoy this,” Martin accused.

“I enjoy knowing where the flour went.”

“Same thing.”

“No. Enjoyment is cheaper.”

Those notebooks later became the model for the public inventories that weakened the Concord. At the time they existed because one widow with a wagon refused to trust anybody's memory.