I dried off with a piece of rough hemp. It felt like sandpaper. I threw on a fresh tunic and some clean pants. Thankfully, these didn't smell like horse shit. I was still going commando. The cold draft up my legs was intense. But it felt good. My perfectly average medieval cock needed the fresh air after shrinking in that freezing bath.
I walked down to the Great Hall. Do not picture a grand castle room with roaring fires and roasted meat. Lower your expectations. Now lower them again. The Great Hall was basically a giant, damp cave. It smelled like stale beer and mouse shit. My "throne" was a wobbly wooden chair. It looked like trash.
Willem was already there. He was pacing back and forth on the uneven stone floor. He hugged his old ledger to his chest. His sixty-five-year-old face had a permanent scowl.
"My Lord," Willem said, stopping his pacing. "Old Farmer Jeb is waiting. He is very upset."
"Send the old man in," I sighed. I slumped into the wobbly chair. "Let's hear how much more of my money doesn't exist."
The heavy oak doors creaked open. Old Farmer Jeb walked in. He looked exactly like a starving peasant. He was hunched over, weathered, and wearing patched rags.
But I did not care about Jeb. I stared at the girl hiding nervously behind him.
It was Bess.
Damn. She wore the same rough dress from the courtyard. The thick wool hugged her wide hips and thick thighs.
Medieval fashion is a war crime. If I ever invent the modern sundress, these girls are going to be lethal. Put a light, breezy floral print on that thick peasant body? It would cause more casualties than the King's entire army.
She had been working in the dirt all morning. Her face was red and flushed. Heavy sweat shined on her neck and dripped down into her massive cleavage. The tight dress barely held her chest in.
She stepped closer. The drafty hall carried her smell right to me. It was earthy and rich. She smelled like turned dirt, crushed weeds, and heavy, musky body sweat. She hadn't seen soap in days. It was an absolute S-tier smell.
Jeb dropped to one knee. His old joints popped loudly. Bess bowed her head next to him. The angle gave me a fantastic view down her dress.
"Lord Voss," Jeb said. His dirt-stained hands shook. "The harvest is bad, My Lord. The dirt is dry. We pulled what we could, but it is not enough. The King's tax collectors are coming soon. They demand their seventy percent. If we pay them, and then pay the Keep's twenty percent... my family will starve. We will be eating rocks before the snow falls."
I leaned forward and rested my chin on my hand.
This economy is an absolute joke. A ninety percent tax rate? If I did this in a video game, my players would find my house and break my computer. These poor bastards break their backs in the mud just to give away all their food. And the King probably wipes his ass with silk.
"Willem," I called out. I kept my eyes locked on Bess's flushed face. "What happens if they don't pay the King's seventy percent?"
"The King's men take it by force, My Lord," Willem said grimly. "They take the grain, the animals, and maybe a few hands if anyone fights back."
"Right. And what happens if they don't pay our twenty percent?"
Willem blinked. "Then... we throw them in the dungeon, My Lord."
"Our dungeon door is broken. A family of badgers lives down there," I pointed out. "Basically, if I demand my cut, Jeb starves. If I don't, he might actually survive the winter."
"That is the harsh reality of Aldoria, My Lord," Willem sighed.
"Fuck Aldoria," I said flatly.
Jeb gasped. Bess looked up, her wide eyes staring at me in shock. Willem actually dropped his book. It hit the floor with a loud smack.
"M-My Lord?!" Willem sputtered. His face turned purple. "You cannot speak treason in the Great Hall!"
"I can speak whatever I want, Willem. I am the Lord of this dogshit Keep. Here is the new rule. Jeb?"
"Y-yes, My Lord?" the old man stammered. He looked terrified.
"I am waving the Keep's twenty percent grain tax for your family."
The Great Hall went dead silent.
"You... you are?" Jeb whispered. Tears filled his old eyes. "Praise the Gods! Praise you, Lord Elaric! You are a merciful ruler!"
"Hold on, Jeb," I interrupted. I held up a finger. A slow, degenerate smirk spread across my face. I looked right at his daughter. "I didn't say it was free. I am waving the grain tax. You still owe me a debt. And since you have no money, you will pay in labor."
Jeb looked confused. "Labor, My Lord? I am too old to work the walls..."
"Not you, Jeb," I said smoothly. I pointed directly at the sweating, thick-thighed prize next to him. "Her."
Bess flinched. Her hands tightly gripped her skirt.
"The Keep needs more staff," I lied. "My floors are dirty. My laundry needs washing. I have a very strict standard for hygiene. Bess will work here as a maid. She will live in the servant quarters and eat our food. Her work covers your debt."
Willem stared at me in horror. He knew exactly what my "hygiene standards" meant.
Jeb looked torn. Working at the Keep meant Bess got free food. That was a huge deal for a starving village. But the rumors about the mad, perverted Lord were definitely spreading.
I stood up and walked down the stone steps. I stopped right in front of Bess. She trembled slightly. The heavy, musky scent of her field-sweat washed over me again. I took a slow breath, savoring it.
"What do you say, Bess?" I asked quietly. "Are you willing to get your hands dirty for the Keep? I promise you, the work will make you sweat."
Bess swallowed hard. She looked at her father, then back at me. Her chest turned red.
"I... I will serve the Keep, My Lord," she whispered.
"Excellent," I smiled. "Willem, write it down. Jeb's taxes are paid. Bess, go to the washhouse. Tell Marta you are on the team now. And tell her I expect to inspect your dirty work clothes at the end of the day."
Jeb bowed a dozen times. He dragged a shocked Bess out of the hall and toward the kitchens. Willem finally found his voice.
"You will bankrupt us, My Lord!" Willem wheezed, grabbing his chest. "We need that grain! We cannot eat a peasant girl's labor!"
"Willem Gruntfucker," I said, patting the old man's thin shoulder. "You lack vision. Grain feeds the stomach. But an S-tier sweaty maid? That feeds the soul. Now, go get me some wine."
As Willem walked away, muttering prayers, I smiled. The Keep was broke and the King was a tyrant. But my harem was growing, and my Sniff Shrine had a new donor.