Erwin's first week as Duke started with a funeral.
The procession for his late father took place under overcast skies and a light cold drizzle, a fitting end for man who sat in Connlaoth's most troubled seat of power. Hundreds of mourners dressed in blacks had turned out for the burial, commoners and noblemen alike. It was a smaller turnout than for the funerals of Avery and Caspian Carwick, but those two had been part of a lineage that had ruled Wulfbauer for generations while Marsden Therrien had held the Dukeship for all of two months. The turnout was smaller this time around for another good reason: the people were frightened. Frightened that the Dukeship was cursed, and that the bad luck might rub off on them too.
Erwin sat through the funeral in stony silence, watching as priests of Ansgar carried his father's mahogany casket into the Wulfbauer Mausoleum, where dozens of past Dukes were interred. He knew that his father would have wanted to be buried at home in Arbutus Vale, but that was before he assumed the duchy's highest position of power. Now it was all about politics and maintaining face. Briefly he glanced over to his siblings huddled in a mass off to the side and felt his heart break for them. His youngest sisters were red eyed and tearing, his brothers fighting back their own emotions. He would have mourned with them. But he was Duke now.
The ride back to Wulfbauer Keep took a mere twenty minutes. Squires took his horse to the stables, and servants took his black cloak and riding gloves. Still clad all in black and followed by a dozen of his new advisors, the Duke stepped through the empty halls of his new castle to the massive study. Under the vaulted ceilings and ornate chandeliers, the advisors rolled out several large parchments out on the room's massive table while servants brought hot tea for all. A tall, older looking man pointed down to the map.
"Now, your Grace, this patch of land up here is the Province of Breckenridge, who produces the Duchy's main supply of-"
"I'm quite aware of our Duchy's geography, Mr. Warbly," interrupted the Duke with a serious glance up at the man. "Will they produce?"
"Ah, well... um... my apologies, your Grace, ah..."
"Will. They. Produce?"
Thankfully, a younger advisor, from behind Mr. Warbly, slipped to the front of the table and pointed down to the map. "No, your Grace. Already the crops are failing, a month earlier than last winter. From our best estimates, the Duchy will be short six thousand bushels of wheat grain."
Erwin gave the young man a long hard look before nodding his head. "And your name is... Halbrook? Thank you Mr. Halbrook. Mr. Warbly, thank you for your time, your horse will be waiting for you at the front gates."
Before Mr. Warbly could stammer out a protest, servants were already gesturing for the disgraced and dismissed old man to follow them and out the castle. Meanwhile, Erwin look a sip from his tea cup and glanced around the study momentarily. His eyes landed on the painting of his late father hanging on the wall right above the hearth. His brow furrowed slightly and he ran his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair.
"Can we have that painting removed from this room? It belongs in the Hall of Dukes now."
The chandeliers jingled softly above them.