—GRANGES—

The crops did not take long to grow after our weeklong efforts. Cauliflowers and carrots sprung up from the soil; strange new crops that the villagers gawked at.

“Are you sure they're edible?” Harlan asked as he stepped closer, making Wilbur and I chuckle.

I stood at the edge of the fields, the wind carrying the sweet scent of ripened wheat. Ealhstan had his arms folded, gazing out with an expression of calm pride. Wilbur lingered nearby, carefully inspecting a cluster of vines that coiled around a wooden trellis, his fingers tracing the plump grapes.

“Well this is new,” Agate murmured, carefully passing the white and orange crops, voice brimming with appreciation.

"It will help the children of Kent grow into fine young warriors," Wilbur said. "Though that crops for now are delicate. I’ll need to monitor it closely.”

Agate gave Wilbur a soft smile. "My peoople are calling you the Green Sage of Rothfield, you know.” And then she left.

Wilbur snorted. Woodrow, Ealhstan, Claude, and I laughed. “Green sage? Goodness.”

—GRANGES / EALHSTAN’S POV—

The evening air of Rothfield hung with the earthy scent of freshly turned soil and dew-damp stone. Ealhstan, standing amidst the skeletal frames of unfinished walls, glanced up at the sky where twilight’s last light cast a pale purple glow across the fields and the sprawling monastery granges. This evening, the brothers had resolved to begin construction on a small brewery, nestled beside the granges; a place where they could process the grains they had so painstakingly cultivated.

Ealhstan’s imposing figure moved with a deliberate grace that belied his raw, otherworldly strength. His broad shoulders shifted beneath his tunic as he hoisted a massive timber beam, muscles tensed but unstrained. With ease, he lifted the heavy oak pillar into place, positioning it upright between two foundation stones. The iron bands that secured the wood creaked and groaned, but his grip held steady, unwavering.

“Careful there,” Wilbur called out from below, adjusting the thick hemp ropes coiled around the timber’s base. His brow was furrowed with concern, though it softened as he watched Ealhstan maneuver the beam with practiced precision. “We can’t afford to split any of these columns. There’s no more timber like this left in the stockpile.”

“I’ve got it, Brother,” Ealhstan replied, his deep voice carrying over the sound of clinking metal and wood. He gave a small, reassuring smile, then shifted his weight, pulling the beam flush against its frame. The entire structure shuddered as he released it, but the column stood firm, perfectly balanced.

The brewery’s foundation was of stone and wood. Ealhstan’s every movement was methodical and careful, a display of both raw strength and mindful craftsmanship. He fetched stones quarried from the mountains and stacked them with measured precision. His large hands shaped the mortar, smoothing it between the stones with surprising dexterity, ensuring no gaps remained. The walls slowly rose, stone by stone, forming the base of what would soon house the brewery’s mash tuns and fermenting vats.

Ryne and Claude moved between the men helping Ealhstan, hauling smaller supplies; wooden planks, iron nails, and crates of provisions for the laborers. Despite their strength, they couldn’t match Ealhstan’s. Occasionally, they would stop and watch, marveling at the sheer power he wielded.

Claude wiped the sweat from his brow, adjusting his grip on the iron sledgehammer he was carrying to help secure the framework of the upper levels. “Sometimes I wonder if Ealhstan could raise the whole monastery by himself if he wanted,” he muttered to Ryne with a wry grin.

Ryne chuckled softly, but his eyes were serious as they followed Ealhstan’s movements. “Perhaps.”

Claude and Ryne moved to the edge of the construction site, where Ealhstan had begun setting up the massive wooden casks that would form the heart of the brewery. Each cask, made of tightly bound dark oak trees and reinforced with iron bands, was designed to hold hundreds of gallons of fermenting barley mash. Ealhstan shifted them effortlessly, guiding them into the carved stone recesses that would keep them stable. His movements were smooth, almost serene, despite the weight of each barrel being enough to crush an ordinary man.

“Ready for the next one, Claude?” Ealhstan called, gesturing for Claude to help steady the ropes.

Claude gripped the hemp lines, bracing himself as Ealhstan hefted the next cask. With a fluid motion, Ealhstan lifted the enormous barrel, turning it upright with the ropes taut and Claude anchoring the base. For a moment, the cask teetered, and a murmur of concern rippled through the watching craftsmen. But then Ealhstan set the barrel down gently, perfectly aligned with the rest.

“Well done, Brother Claude,” Ealhstan said, clapping Claude on the shoulder with a hand that could easily flatten a helm. “You’re getting the hang of it.”

The rest of the evening passed in a steady rhythm of labor. Ealhstan alternated between laying stones for the outer walls and setting up the interior supports, while the others moved with a quiet efficiency, passing tools and materials between the different sections of the brewery. Wilbur supervised, occasionally offering guidance or encouragement.

By midnight, the framework was complete. The bright moon casted sharp shadows across the half-built structure. Ealhstan paused, wiping his brow with a linen cloth. He glanced at the half-finished walls and the rising beams, then nodded to himself.

“It’s coming together,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “We’ll have the roof up before the first rains if we keep this pace.”

Claude, resting beside a stack of iron nails, looked up at him. “Brother Ealhstan, how do you know so much about building?”

Ealhstan’s smile was faint, almost wistful. He spoke slowly, the structure of a lie passing his lips. “Before I was a warrior, before… everything else, I was a stonemason. My father’s trade. I helped build churches, manors, even a few keeps in the north. Back then, I used my strength for this,” he gestured at the stone and timber rising around them. “For creating." Not destroying, Ealhstan thought.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Ryne stepped forward, wiping dirt from his hands. “And you’re still creating. You’re giving this place a future, Brother.”

Ealhstan’s gaze lingered on the growing structure, his expression thoughtful. “Perhaps,” he said quietly. Then he shook himself, a resolute light returning to his eyes. “But there’s still more to do. Tomorrow evening, we would make the roof beams. If we finish the upper framework by then, Wilbur can begin setting up the mash tuns by next week.”

And so they continued the next evening, the air filled with the sound of hammering, the scrape of wood, and the low murmur of voices. By midnight again, the outline of the brewery was fully visible, its form a promise of the warmth and sustenance it would one day bring to the people of the monastery. Ealhstan stood at the entrance, arms crossed over his broad chest, his face lit by the glow of the communal fire. He looked down at Ryne and Claude, the pride and satisfaction clear in his eyes.

“Good work, brothers.”

And with those words, they set down their tools, gathered what little food and drink they had, and shared a humble supper among the granges, the scent of earth and new timber mingling with the quiet camaraderie of those who build together.

—GRANGES—

Gaelmar visited me once more, and we both prayed to awaken another portion of the granges, its dark dead soil now ready for more advanced crops made for brewing.

The fields stretched out before us, a broad swath of dark, fertile earth shrouded in the ghostly embrace of dawn’s mist. The chill of the morning air clung to my skin as I hefted the spade, feeling its familiar weight in my grip. It was a sturdy tool, its wooden handle worn smooth from years of labor, its blade dulled from seasons of turning soil. Today, however, it would breathe life into these empty furrows, preparing the ground for a new crop that would delight our villagers.

That night, Wilbur joined me. His movements were careful, almost reverent, and I could see the concentration etched on his face. He crumbled a handful of dirt between his hands, the rich, loamy scent mingling with the crisp air. I watched him drop a few of his new liverfert fertilizers into the soil.

I poked my finger in the soil and smiled. “Dark and well-aerated. Should take well to both the hops and barley.”

“Aye,” Wilbur nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “It’s quite near to the stream, too.”

We worked in silence, the only sounds the rustle of burlap and the steady rhythm of the spade’s descent. I watched as Wilbur followed behind me, scattering barley seeds with a practiced hand.

“Mind the spacing, Ryne,” Wilbur chided gently, pausing to adjust the placement of a few scattered seeds. “Barley needs room to breathe. Too close, and they’ll strangle each other, fighting for sunlight and nutrients.”

I nodded and took a step back, mindful of the advice. We moved down the furrow, each of us falling into the familiar rhythm of labor. For a time, all that existed was the soil beneath my boots and the steady rise and fall of the spade.

When the barley was finally sown, we turned our attention to the hop trellises standing at the far end of the field. A series of stout poles rose from the earth, each connected by ropes that would one day support the climbing vines of the hop plants. I remembered setting those poles with Ealhstan, driving them deep into the ground with a strength only he could muster. They stood now like sentinels, ready to bear the weight of the coming growth.

Wilbur fetched a set of young hop rhizomes, each wrapped in damp burlap to keep the roots moist. The rhizomes were knobby, gnarled things, more like the severed limbs of some twisted creature than the start of a thriving plant. Wilbur knelt beside one of the trellis posts and dug a small hole, setting the first rhizome into the earth with a careful touch.

“Hops need strong support,” he explained as I joined him, holding another rhizome ready for planting. “These vines can grow up to twenty feet in a single season if they’re healthy. Their roots go deep. We need to give them room.”

I followed his lead, lowering the rhizome into the hole and covering it with soil. We moved from trellis to trellis, planting the rhizomes in neat rows at the base of each post. With each rhizome set into place, Wilbur poured a measure of liverfert around the roots.

“This’ll give them a good start,” Wilbur murmured.

I stood back, surveying the fruits of our labor with a quiet sense of pride. The barley furrows ran in neat, even rows, and the hop rhizomes were tucked snugly at the base of the trellises. It would be weeks, normally, before we saw the first signs of growth. But Wilbur’s potent fertilizers will make it harvestable in days.

“Will the hops really make that much difference in the ale?” I asked as we packed away the tools, my voice breaking the silence between us.

“Aye, and not just for the flavor,” Wilbur replied, his gaze lingering on the newly planted field. “Hops act as a natural preservative, helping the ale last longer without souring. They’ll also balance the sweetness of the barley with their bitterness, making for a more refined brew.”

He turned to me, his eyes alight with a quiet enthusiasm I seldom saw. “With this harvest, we’ll be able to make a true monastery ale. Give the people of Kent a little more warmth this cold summer.”

—BREWERY—

The monastery’s new brewery, with its stout stone walls and timber-framed roof, stood proudly against the backdrop of the mountain. The scent of fresh mortar and cut wood lingered in the crisp air, mingling with the earthy aroma of brewing grain. Inside, the space was dimly lit by narrow, arched windows. Wooden beams arched overhead like the ribbed vaults of a miniature cathedral.

Claude followed Wilbur’s measured steps into the heart of the brewery, where rows of casks lined the walls and a broad, open floor gave way to large wooden vats. A rich variety of brewing instruments, from ladles and mash paddles to woven sieves, hung neatly on the far wall. The copper stills and fermentation vessels gleamed under the faint light, and the air was cool and moist. Wilbur moved with a quiet authority, his hands tracing over each piece of equipment as if reacquainting himself with old friends.

“Here we begin the transformation,” Wilbur murmured, his voice low and steady. “Grain into bread of the liquid sort.”

Claude nodded, brow furrowed in concentration. He’d proven himself with sword and spear, yet the brewing process felt strangely elusive. It suited Wilbur. It was part alchemy, part agriculture, and wholly foreign to his rougher skill set. But he was determined to learn, not just for the practical use but for the joy it brought to those around the hearth in quiet moments of rest.

“Now, pay close attention,” Wilbur continued, gesturing to a large wooden vat filled with hot water. “The first step is mashing. We steep the crushed barley grains in this hot water to draw out the sugars and create what we call the mash. The temperature is crucial, mind you. Too hot, and we’ll ruin the enzymes. Too cold, and the sugars won’t extract properly.”

Claude nodded, kneeling beside the vat. The water was steaming, but not boiling, and he could see the plump grains swirling gently beneath the surface. He picked up a mash paddle—an oaken rod with a flattened head, used for stirring—and dipped it into the mixture, feeling its resistance as he slowly stirred.

“Like this?” he asked, glancing up at Wilbur.

“Good. Now keep it moving. Gently, evenly. You want to keep the heat distributed.” Wilbur leaned in, his fingers resting lightly on the rim of the vat as he peered down into the murky liquid. “Think of it as though you were guarding a flame in a strong wind. Nurture it, coax it. The mash will reward you with a sweeter wort.”

Time slipped by in companionable silence as Claude stirred, the steam rising in delicate tendrils around his face. The rhythmic motion felt almost meditative, and he found himself falling into a steady cadence, the paddle swishing quietly through the mash. When Wilbur finally nodded, satisfied, he motioned for Claude to stop.

“Now we let it rest,” Wilbur said, straightening. “Let the grains work their magic for an hour or so. In the meantime, we can start with the mead. Did you bring the honey I aske you to buy from the market.”