Spring arrived, and with it, new growth in the valley of Rocca Falcone. The green shoots in the fields grew into healthy young plants of wheat and barley. The previously empty valley was now filled with orderly rows of thriving crops, showing clear signs of a good future harvest. The people tended the fields with a devotion born of genuine ownership. They were no longer simply surviving; they were cultivating a fortune.
The work on the great water mill continued, the nearly-completed structure a bold statement of future ambition rising by the stream. The fiefdom was a hive of purposeful activity, a place transformed.
It was on a bright morning in late spring that the horn blew from the watchtower at the valley's entrance. It was not a sound of alarm, but of formal announcement. Alessandro went to the parapet, a cold feeling coiling in his gut. A small, well-appointed party of five horsemen was making its way up the path. The banner they flew was not that of a local baron or a mercenary company. It was the crossed keys of Saint Peter, the personal standard of the Bishop of Veroli.
The Bishop had sent his eyes.
Alessandro composed himself, descending to the bailey to greet the emissary. The man who dismounted was not a simple priest. He was in his forties, with a lean, intelligent face, and wore the fine purple robes of a Monsignor. His name was Valerius, and his eyes were sharp, missing nothing as they swept from the disciplined men-at-arms holding their pikes to the new timbers on the keep's roof. He was a diplomat, a man sent to assess, not just to collect.
"Lord Alessandro de' Falchi," Valerius said, his voice smooth and cultured. "His Grace, the Bishop of Veroli, has heard whispers of the remarkable happenings at Rocca Falcone. He sends his blessings, and his curiosity."
"Rocca Falcone is blessed to receive the Bishop's attention, Monsignor," Alessandro replied, his voice a perfect blend of youthful respect and lordly confidence. "We have been hard at work. Allow me to show you the fruits of our labor."
What followed was a tour designed to showcase competence and piety in equal measure. Alessandro led Valerius to the overlook above the valley floor. The Monsignor audibly drew in his breath. The sheer scale and perfection of the fields were beyond anything the rumors had suggested.
"A truly magnificent sight," Valerius admitted, his eyes narrowed in calculation. "His Grace will be most pleased with his double tithe from such a harvest." It was a polite reminder of the debt.
"We aim to be God's most productive servants in the diocese," Alessandro replied smoothly.
Next, he showed him the water mill. Valerius's carefully composed expression finally broke. His eyebrows shot up as he took in the massive overshot wheel and the complex, half-finished gear system within the mill house.
"A gristmill?" he asked, a note of pure astonishment in his voice. "Lord Alessandro, such projects… they require immense capital. The Bishop was not aware that House Falchi possessed such resources."
"Our resources are faith, hard work, and the wisdom of our ancestors, Monsignor," Alessandro said, gesturing vaguely towards the Roman ruins on the ridge. "Our valley is built upon their bones. I have merely learned to listen to the lessons they left behind in their stonework."
That evening, over a simple dinner of roasted fowl and the last of their drinkable wine, the true test began.
"We heard you had dealings with the good Abbot Paolo at San Zaccaria," Valerius probed casually. "He is a shrewd man. I trust your arrangements were mutually beneficial?"
It was a question layered with meaning: What did you trade? What new alliances have you made?
"The Abbot is a man of great learning," Alessandro deflected. "We discussed advanced farming techniques. He was generous enough to share some of his abbey's finest seed grain to aid my experiment. He believes, as I do, that any success at Rocca Falcone only brings more glory to the region, and by extension, to its spiritual father, the Bishop."
Alessandro masterfully framed his deal as an act of regional piety, with the Bishop as the ultimate beneficiary. He was a loyal vassal, improving his lands for the good of the diocese. Valerius listened, nodding slowly, his sharp mind dissecting every word.
The next morning, the Monsignor prepared to depart. He had seen enough. His face was a mask of polite admiration, but his eyes held a new, more complex light.
"Your progress is more than remarkable, Lord Alessandro, it is… unprecedented," Valerius said as he mounted his horse. "His Grace, the Bishop, will be most interested in my report. He is a great supporter of lords who show such initiative and piety."
He gathered his reins, then paused, fixing Alessandro with a final, meaningful look.
"He is also a staunch opponent of those who grow too ambitious, too quickly. A tree that grows too fast may have shallow roots, easily toppled by the first storm. A careful balance, my lord, must always be struck."
With that cryptic warning, Valerius and his retinue rode away.
Alessandro stood watching them go, the warmth of his success turning to ice in his veins. The message was clear. He had proven he was a good investment. In doing so, he had also just announced himself as a new, unpredictable piece on the great chessboard of Italy. The Bishop was no longer just his creditor. He was now a strategic problem, a powerful patron who might one day become a very powerful enemy.