The announcement came during the morning briefing, a ritual that had become the harsh but accepted start to every day at Eskildsgård. Stig the blacksmith, his face an unreadable mask of soot and pride, stood before the Baron's desk.
"The toy is finished, my lord," he rumbled. "Forged to your exact drawings. It is waiting in the yard."
Christian looked up from the report on fodder consumption Erik had just submitted. A faint smile touched his lips. "Excellent, Stig. Then today, we put it to the test. After the midday meal, we will all assemble at the west-leech field."
The west-leech was infamous. It was a patch of stubborn, clay-heavy soil that had been breaking plows and the spirits of farmers for generations. Choosing it was a deliberate act of supreme confidence.
News of the trial spread through the estate like fire through dry grass. When Christian arrived at the field that afternoon, nearly every tenant and farmhand was there. They formed a wide, silent circle, their faces full of morbid curiosity. In the center of the field sat the two contenders. First, the traditional Eskildsgård plow, a massive contraption of wood and iron, looking ancient and immovable. Beside it, looking almost comically delicate, was the "Model 1," its sleek iron frame and elegantly curved moldboard gleaming in the weak sunlight.
Stig stood with his arms crossed, his expression a mixture of paternal pride in his flawless craftsmanship and grim certainty that it would fail.
"First, the old way," Christian announced to the crowd.
A seasoned farmer named Peder, a man known for his skill with oxen, stepped forward with his team of four massive beasts. With shouts and cracks of a whip, the team strained forward. The heavy plow lurched, dug into the earth, and began to move. It was brutal, inefficient work. The plow tore a shallow, jagged furrow, leaving behind large clods of earth and uncut weeds. After twenty meters, the oxen were heaving, their flanks slick with sweat.
"Enough," Christian called out.
Now it was time. Two of Erik's best-rested oxen were led forward and hitched to the new plow. A murmur of doubt rippled through the onlookers. Two oxen for the west-leech? Impossible.
Christian handed his coat to Lars and strode to the plow. He took the handles himself. The crowd fell silent, their skepticism warring with their shock at seeing their lord prepare to do a farmer's work. Christian felt the smooth wood of the handles, gauged the angle of the share, and gave a low, calm command to the oxen. "Forward."
The animals moved. The plow's iron share bit into the earth with a clean, slicing sound.
And then, the magic happened.
Instead of tearing the earth, the plow seemed to glide through it. The precisely curved moldboard lifted the sod, turned it over in a smooth, continuous wave, and laid it down perfectly, burying the weeds completely. The furrow was deep, clean, and uniform. The oxen moved at a steady walk, their effort visibly less than half of what the previous team had expended.
Christian guided it for another twenty meters, the machine performing exactly as his 21st-century knowledge predicted it would. He then stopped and relinquished the handles to a young, strong farmer whose eyes were wide with disbelief. The farmer took over, and the plow continued its effortless advance.
The silence of the crowd broke. It was not a cheer, at first, but a collective gasp of astonishment. They were farmers. They understood the language of the soil, of straining animals and aching backs. What they were witnessing was not just a better tool; it was a miracle.
Stig the blacksmith walked forward, his skepticism shattered. He ignored the plow itself and knelt, running his thick, calloused fingers along the edge of the new furrow. He examined the perfectly turned earth, the complete burial of the stubble. He stood, looked at the still-fresh oxen, and then turned his gaze to Christian. He said nothing. He simply gave a slow, deep nod. It was a blacksmith's highest praise: the concession of a master craftsman to a superior design. In that single gesture, Christian's authority was forged anew, not in command, but in irrefutable proof.
A triumphant smile finally broke across Christian's face as the tenants began to cheer, their doubts washed away in a wave of excitement. They were mobbing the new plow, touching it, marveling at its construction. He had won. He had proven that his methods, his madness, would lead them to a better future.
It was in this moment of victory, as the cheers of his people washed over him, that he saw Lars.
The valet was riding hard from the manor, his face pale with urgency. He galloped right to the edge of the field, dismounted, and pushed his way through the celebrating crowd. In his hand, he held a single letter.
The festive atmosphere died instantly as every eye turned to the valet and his message. Christian's smile faded. He saw the letter's seal before Lars even reached him.
It was black.
The cheers of his tenants became a distant buzz. The triumph of the plow, the promise of the harvest, all of it vanished. He reached out and took the letter, his hand steady, as he stared at the stark, official symbol of death.