Eleanor Caldwell was publicly shamed by her sister and ex-husband during the Order's Consecration, accused of sabotaging his ascent, but then a decree from the High Council stunned everyone.
The echoes of Bethany’s cruel words still resonated in the quiet corners of my new office, a stark reminder of the personal cost of my unexpected elevation. Yet, the information she’d inadvertently revealed about Marcus, Arthur Beaumont, and Elder Shaw refused to be ignored. My immediate priority as the new High Steward of the Northern Vows was to understand the fiscal reality of my new domain.
The next morning, I requested a comprehensive overview of the Northern Vows’ recent financial activities.
Arthur Beaumont, the Senior Scribe responsible for the Order’s financial administration, arrived precisely on time, carrying a leather-bound ledger and a thin stack of printed reports. He was a small, meticulously dressed man, his hair always perfectly parted, his spectacles perched precariously on his nose. Today, however, a faint tremor ran through his hands as he placed the documents on my polished desk.
He carefully avoided my gaze, his eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder.
“Good morning, Head Steward Caldwell,” he said, his voice unusually strained, almost a whisper. “You requested the Northern Vows financial overview.”
“Yes, Arthur, please,” I replied, gesturing to the chair opposite me. “Thank you for coming so promptly.”
He sat down stiffly, clasping his hands together so tightly that his knuckles gleamed white. His usually composed demeanor was visibly fractured.
“These reports,” he began, his voice still reedy, “detail the operational expenditures and income for the Northern Vows over the last quarter.”
He flipped open the ledger, his fingers fumbling slightly with the pages.
“As you can see, our tithes have been consistent, and our communal support strong.”
He pointed to a column of figures, but his finger trembled, and he quickly withdrew it.
“However,” he continued, rushing through the explanation, “there have been a few… discretionary allocations.”
My gaze sharpened, recalling Bethany’s words. “Discretionary allocations?”
“Yes, Head Steward,” he mumbled, refusing to meet my eyes. “These are for… community welfare initiatives. Special projects that required expedited funding.”
He turned a page abruptly, avoiding any further discussion of the term.
“For example, the upkeep of the missionary outposts in the North,” he rattled off, pointing to a different set of figures, “and contributions to the Youth Development Program.”
His explanations were vague, almost rehearsed. I noticed several entries labeled “Miscellaneous Operating Costs” that were unusually large, far exceeding standard administrative expenses. The numbers were concrete, but their descriptions felt purposefully opaque.
“Could you elaborate on these ‘discretionary allocations,’ Arthur?” I asked, my voice calm but firm. “I don’t see specific project names or detailed breakdowns for some of these larger sums.”
He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. He adjusted his spectacles, then pushed them back up his nose.
“They are for… ongoing support,” he stammered, his eyes darting to the window then back to the desk, never quite landing on my face. “Approved by… by previous administration.”
The reference to Marcus was unspoken but clear. A cold dread began to settle in my stomach.
“I understand. However, as the new Head Steward, I need a clearer picture of where these funds are specifically directed,” I pressed, picking up one of the printed reports. “For instance, this entry here, for 15,000 Order Guilders. It’s simply listed as ‘Community Welfare – Urgent Need.'”
Arthur wrung his hands together, his gaze now fixed on the top of my desk. He seemed to shrink in his chair.
“That was… a particularly sensitive situation,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible. “Confidential.”
“Confidential?” I raised an eyebrow, a flicker of suspicion turning to alarm. “Funds disbursed from the Northern Vows are for the community, Arthur. Confidentiality cannot supersede accountability.”
He cleared his throat, a small, choked sound.
“Of course, Head Steward,” he said, trying to regain some composure, but failing. “It was just… an exceptional circumstance. Under the direct purview of Elder Shaw, I believe.”
Another piece clicked into place. Bethany had said “only Elder Shaw approved.” It seemed Elder Shaw was involved in these “special projects.”
“Arthur,” I stated, leaning forward slightly, “I need to know the exact recipients and purposes of all these ‘discretionary allocations.’ And I need it in writing.”
He visibly paled. A bead of sweat traced a path down his temple. He looked trapped, like a small animal caught in a snare.
“I… I can try to compile more detailed reports,” he stammered, picking at a loose thread on his cuff. “It will take some time, as these records were… archived differently.”
His reluctance, his visible fear, was a far more telling sign than any explicit confession. The vague explanations, the rushed cadence, the desperate avoidance of my gaze – it all pointed to something being deliberately obscured. The ledger itself, while meticulously kept, felt like a carefully constructed facade.
“I expect a full report by the end of the week, Arthur,” I said, my voice unwavering. “Every guilder accounted for. Every ‘special project’ clearly defined.”
He nodded, a jerky, anxious movement. He then quickly gathered his documents, his hands still trembling.
“Thank you, Head Steward Caldwell,” he said, almost fleeing his seat. “I will… I will get right to it.”
He practically bolted from the office, leaving behind the heavy silence and the undeniable feeling that I had just uncovered a shadow lurking within the Order’s financial heart. His fear was palpable, a chilling sign that he knew far more than he was letting on. The books were not just ambiguous; they were designed to mislead.
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