Chapter 430: The Clown Noble, Belair
After receiving Councilor Yorn into the manor, the banquet convened by Belair could be considered officially underway.
Those still hesitating in the manor courtyard weighed their options briefly. Upon seeing Councilor Yorn’s guards subtly forming a barricade at the entrance, they chose to enter after all.
Belair gave the frightened guests little time to recover. As soon as everyone had entered the manor, he began, “I believe everyone has heard of my name—Belair Perk. Of course, perhaps you’ve encountered it in the epic tale of Knight George, where I appeared in the role of a clown.”
He spoke directly, his tone carrying a touch of self-deprecating humor, as though he wasn’t talking about himself, but rather describing a fine performer.
However, the audience exchanged uneasy glances.
They all knew the origin of that name. Even those who hadn't known before had guessed his identity after a short time mingling within the manor.
Of course, they had treated it merely as an amusing rumor, never taking it seriously.
After all, as the saying went: a bard’s tale is hardly reliable.
But now Belair had openly acknowledged it. He was the clown from that story. And judging from his tone, it seemed the bard hadn’t even exaggerated much.
This realization left them unsettled.
A noble, revealing such disgraceful history in front of them, made it difficult to believe that this was merely a joke made in jest to belittle his own reputation.
“Haha, it seems Baron Belair understands just how foolish his actions were back then,” Councilor Yorn suddenly laughed aloud. The bluntness of his words prompted many to silently set down their wine glasses.
Even if they hadn’t believed this to be merely a casual gathering hosted by Baron Belair, the arrival of Councilor Yorn, Belair’s self-deprecating introduction, and now Yorn’s endorsement, steadily elevated the significance of the event. Most of them understood—this might be something with deep implications.
Not merely a matter of life and death—but perhaps something tied to the very things they desired most.
Like power. And profit.
Upon hearing Councilor Yorn’s words, Belair only gave a carefree smile and said, “At that time, fools like myself were everywhere. You all experienced those years as well, so surely you understand the difference between then and now.”
Several among the audience nodded in agreement.
Most of them were illegitimate sons, whose status in their families had been barely above that of slaves. If not for the Church of the Sanctuary and the establishment of the New Kingdom, they’d have had no opportunity to host a banquet like this.
Even those born to the main lines of the gentry families agreed with his words.
Back then, they could seize land at will and hold power like lords within the territory they enclosed. But now, as their families expanded, they had been driven out of the villages and forced to build manors on the outskirts, facing hostility from village guards and commoners alike.
There were downsides, yes. But the upside was that they no longer had to worry about being butchered by the nobles above them like grain in a warehouse. At least the current Senate and Kingdom upheld laws. They no longer had to hide their wealth. They could now hold a banquet with such a mix of ambitious people openly, without fearing noble retaliation.
Or perhaps, those nobles now had to live like they once did—constantly watching for knights sent by the Senate.
And they, in turn, could now strive for greater power—so long as they abided by the law.
And just as they believed themselves to be devout believers, they never thought themselves to be lawbreakers.
Upon hearing Belair’s words, they were suddenly reminded—it had only been seven or eight years since those days. Not even half a generation. And yet, so much had changed.
They looked around at this beautiful manor, sunlight filtered through colored glass, painting the interior with rainbow hues.
The transparent windows allowed the daytime light to fill the hall, while the fresh flowers perfumed the air.
What a stark contrast to the suffocating, reeking fortresses of the old lords.
When York City was first built, many had said it was only for show, that it wouldn’t hold under attack. Compared to a lord’s fortress, it was utterly impractical.
But now, everyone praised the elegance of these new manors. Even the old noble fortresses had been abandoned, replaced by grand new residences.
Many among them, merchants, had been the ones supplying building materials for these new noble homes.
As they pondered this, Belair’s meaning became clearer.
This so-called “Clown Noble” from the epic of Knight George—he intended to stand with them.
He had walked out from the role of a clown in a legend and chosen to become a true noble.
This speculation sparked energy among the guests. Their gazes darted between one another.
Belair observed this livelier atmosphere and narrowed his eyes slightly. Raising his voice a little, he declared, “I won’t deny my past actions. They were, indeed, shameful for a noble. But precisely because of those actions, more people came to know me—Baron Belair, the Clown Baron.”
“Not just the gentlemen here, but even every commoner in York City—or rather, all across Greenwood—knows of a baron named Belair.”
“I doubt any noble’s fame spreads wider than mine. Not even Marquis Richard or Marquis Gregor can match it.”
“Indeed, indeed,” Councilor Yorn chuckled, nodding. “Not just in Greenwood—your name is known even in the North and the Woodlands. My bards tell me the story of Knight George is quite popular.”
“Even I can’t match that level of fame.”
“Oh no, no, how could I possibly compare myself to the esteemed Councilor Yorn?” Belair quickly responded. “You are a noble councilor, and I’m just a clown from a tale.”
“Hahaha.” Councilor Yorn laughed. “But your fame is real. And it’s precisely because of that fame that the Consul came to know you, and recognized your baronial title. Without it, you might have lived your life as nothing more than a clown.”
“A baron—not only a clown in the stories, but even in real life—how amusing.”
Though his words seemed insulting, they clarified why Baron Belair had suddenly appeared on the scene.
A few of the more astute attendees appeared thoughtful, as if sensing something more.
At that moment, Belair spoke again. “Indeed. I am truly grateful to the Consul for his recognition. I was once just an independent noble. Now, I have been welcomed by the Consul himself, who did not hold my offense against Knight George against me.”
“The Consul is truly a man worthy of respect. Praise be to the Consul.”
As Belair finished, he bowed slightly, as if Agamemnon himself were watching.
“Yes, of course we must praise the Consul. Who wouldn’t respect the Consul?” Councilor Yorn rose as well and bowed with reverence.
The others suddenly felt as though sharp gazes were pressing down on them.
They, too, bowed—half out of reverence, half out of fear—reciting together, “Praise be to the Consul.”
The chant was so unified that once it ended, they looked around and exchanged awkward but polite smiles.
Yet, after this symbolic gesture, the tension seemed to ease slightly.
After all, when only one person acted foolishly, it was humiliating—but when many did so in unison, it became solidarity. And when those among the group included nobles and a councilor, it felt like something one ought to do.
Rising from his bow, Belair looked at those hypocritical smiles. They reminded him of the expressions worn by the gentry during feasts at his old fortress—back when his territory had reached its peak, aided by George.
He took a deep breath and cast aside those memories. Smiling, he said, “Of course, receiving the Consul’s recognition is like being reborn for me, and for that, I am deeply grateful.”
“But such a lowly man’s gratitude likely means little to the Consul. Yet if I do not repay him, how could I possibly stand firm in Greenwood?”
“So I thought of the Consul’s family. As you all know—The Adams Family—renowned for producing the finest weavers in the kingdom.”
“The fame of the Adams Family surpasses even that of a clown noble like me. Many among you are merchants. As you transport York Territory’s silk to other lands, you must have seen how others marvel at it. The Adams Family’s silk is more than just protection from the cold—it is a symbol of status.”
“What noble would be taken seriously if he attended a banquet not wearing clothes made from Adams silk?”
Everyone listened attentively to Belair. Now that the Consul had been invoked, no one believed this was a matter to take lightly.
They feared missing even a syllable.
Belair continued, “And this Adams Family recently submitted a proposal to the Senate to establish a Weavers’ Guild. I believe you gentlemen are all aware.”
Of course they knew.
It was the first guild proposal not originating from an official faction.
Though the Senate had approved it, the matter had since stalled without progress.
At first, it had sparked much discussion. But in time, with other developments, people gradually forgot.
Now, Baron Belair had brought it up again.
Their eyes couldn’t help but drift toward Councilor Yorn, still seated with a calm smile.
This man, they knew, was the one who truly understood the forces at play behind the scenes.