The name 'Brother Matteo' hung in the air, heavier than a siege stone. Panic flared in Bastiano's eyes, but Alessandro's mind, the 21st-century mind, went cold and sharp. He was no longer a boy digging in the mud; he was a CEO facing a hostile takeover from a vastly superior corporation.
"Do not open the gate," he ordered, his voice low and urgent. "Bastiano, listen to me. Every word."
The old steward, desperate for direction, nodded dumbly.
"Take two men. Hide the rabbits and birds from the snares. Hide them anywhere. Under beds, in the old cellar, I don't care. They must not be seen. Have Enzo bring the men back from the swamp. Tell them to look busy mending the palisade, something a visitor would expect to see. And you…" Alessandro looked Bastiano in the eye. "Go to the storehouse. Take the last few sacks of grain and stack them in the corner. Cover them with old blankets so it looks like they are merely the front of a much larger supply."
"My lord, that is deception!" Bastiano hissed, scandalized.
"That is diplomacy," Alessandro corrected him sharply. "Go. Now."
As Bastiano scurried off, Alessandro ran to his own chamber. He splashed his face with the icy water, scrubbing the grime away. He combed his dark hair with his fingers and donned the best tunic he owned—a deep blue garment, threadbare at the cuffs but clean. It was the armor he would wear for this battle.
When he descended to the main hall, he was no longer the mud-caked laborer. He was Alessandro de' Falchi, Lord of Rocca Falcone. He ordered the main gate opened.
Brother Matteo was a man who embodied the prosperity of the Church. His brown habit was made of thick, clean wool, a stark contrast to the patched rags of Rocca Falcone's peasants. His face was fleshy and well-fed, his cheeks rosy from the cold, and his eyes were the sharp, intelligent eyes of an auditor, not a mystic. He was flanked by two guards in leather jerkins bearing the Bishop of Veroli's crest, their hands resting casually on the hilts of their swords.
"Lord Alessandro," the cleric boomed, his voice filling the hall. He made a perfunctory sign of the cross. "It is good to see you have recovered from your illness. A miracle of the Lord's grace. I offer the Bishop's condolences on the passing of your father."
"Your Grace is kind to send you, Brother Matteo," Alessandro replied, bowing his head with a practiced humility he did not feel. "My father rests with God. And I live to serve Him, and His servant the Bishop."
The pleasantries faded as quickly as they came. "A laudable sentiment," Matteo said, his eyes scanning the hall, noting the soot-stained walls and the lack of tapestries. "It is in that spirit of service that I have come. The Bishop requires the autumn tithe, so that the Church may continue its good works and feed the poor of the diocese."
This was it. The demand. Alessandro didn't hesitate. He let out a heavy sigh, a performance of pious burden.
"Brother Matteo, you find me in a moment of great transition," he began, his voice full of earnest emotion. "My father, God rest his soul, was not a… forward-thinking man. He left these lands poor. The soil is thin, the harvests meager. To pay the tithe now would be to hand you little more than dust and stones, an insult to the Bishop's greatness."
Matteo's expression hardened slightly. He had heard excuses from a hundred minor lords. "The Lord asks for a tenth of what you have, Lord Alessandro. Not what you wish you had."
"Exactly!" Alessandro's eyes lit up, as if the cleric had made his point for him. "And I mean to give the Bishop a tithe worthy of his station! A tithe that will echo in Veroli for years to come! Will you allow me to show you, Brother?"
Before the confused cleric could refuse, Alessandro was leading him towards the stairs to the parapet. They emerged into the cold wind, the full panorama of the valley spread before them. Alessandro ignored the pathetic fields. He pointed directly at the massive, ongoing scar of the drainage project.
"That," he announced, his voice ringing with passion, "is the future of Rocca Falcone. And the future of our tithe to the Holy Church."
Matteo stared. "You are digging a ditch, my lord."
"I am reclaiming God's earth!" Alessandro corrected him, spinning his desperate act of survival into a grand gesture of faith. "For generations, this bog has been a blight upon my domain. A place of sickness and waste, a testament to inaction. I have decided that my first act as lord will not be to manage decline, but to create abundance. In God's name, I am draining the swamp."
He guided the cleric to a spot on the wall overlooking the exposed patch of black earth. Enzo, on cue from Bastiano, had left a small pile of it on a wooden board.
"Look, Brother." Alessandro crumbled the rich, dark soil in his fingers, letting it fall through the air. "This is the soil beneath the water. Fertile beyond imagining. Next spring, this entire valley floor will be planted. The harvest will not be double our usual. It will be ten times as much. An impossible bounty."
Matteo's shrewd eyes narrowed. He looked from the soil to the raw ambition in Alessandro's face. He was a man who understood accounts, and he was beginning to calculate.
"A bold plan," the cleric admitted.
"A blessed plan," Alessandro countered. He bowed his head again. "Brother Matteo, send a message to the Bishop. Tell him that Rocca Falcone is too poor to offer a worthy tithe this autumn. But tell him this: I pledge, before God, to pay this year's tithe and next year's tithe from the bounty of these new fields. Not a tenth, but a fifth of my entire harvest. A double tithe. A testament to my faith in God, and my loyalty to the Bishop."
He had laid his trap. He was deferring the debt by doubling it. A gamble so insane it had to be believable.
Brother Matteo was silent for a long time, his gaze fixed on the valley. He was weighing the certainty of a few sacks of grain now against the promise of a vast windfall later. He saw a boy, yes, but one with a fire he had not expected. A boy investing everything in a single, monumental project.
Finally, he turned. "A double tithe," he repeated slowly. "The Bishop is a patient man when the faithful show such… initiative. I will carry your pledge to him." He fixed Alessandro with a hard stare. "You have until the next autumn harvest, Lord Alessandro. Do not make a liar of yourself. The Bishop's patience has its limits."
The threat was unspoken but absolute.
As Brother Matteo and his guards mounted their horses and rode away, a wave of relief washed over Bastiano. But Alessandro felt no relief. He felt only the crushing weight of the promise he had just made. The swamp project was no longer about surviving the winter. It was now a debt of honor, a political vow to one of the most powerful men in the region.
He had just gambled the future of his house on a field that didn't yet exist.