Work on the north pasture drainage project became the talk of the estate. Dozens of men, under Soren's meticulous direction, dug the precise, geometric trenches dictated by the Baron's plans. They laid the custom-fired clay pipes in beds of gravel, shaking their heads at the strange new method, yet unable to deny the immediate result: for the first time in living memory, the boggy pasture was becoming firm, dry land. The young lord, they whispered, was a madman, but perhaps a brilliant one.
Christian let the whispers cement his reputation. He had established his authority and proven his engineering prowess. Now, he had to attack the most formidable fortress on his entire estate: tradition.
One evening, he instructed Lars to summon the heads of all twenty tenant families to the manor's great hall. They arrived after their supper, shuffling into the vast, stone-flagged room, their work-worn clothes looking out of place beneath the high, beamed ceiling and the stoic gazes of the Eskildsen family portraits. They clutched their caps in their hands, nervous and uncertain.
Christian did not stand behind a lectern or at a high table. He stood before the massive, cold hearth, on the same level as them, forcing them to meet his eye.
"Thank you for coming," he began, his voice carrying easily in the hall. "I have been walking the fields. I have been studying the yields. Eskildsgård is a good estate. But it can be better. It can be the most prosperous barony in all of Denmark."
He paused, letting the bold claim settle.
"For centuries," he continued, "we have farmed as our fathers and their fathers did. We plant our wheat, we plant our barley, and we let a third of our land sleep, fallow and barren, to recover its strength. This is the way. But it is not the best way. It is wasteful."
A murmur went through the crowd. To speak against the fallow field was like speaking against the church or the King. It was the natural order of things.
"From this season forward," Christian declared, his voice hardening, "no field at Eskildsgård will lie fallow."
The murmuring grew louder, laced with shock and fear. An old farmer at the front, a man named Hemming with a face like a weathered oak root, found his courage.
"My lord," Hemming's voice was raspy but respectful. "If you do not let the land rest, it will turn to dust. The soil will bleed out. Our yields will fail. We will starve. This is madness."
"It would be madness, Hemming, if we did not give the soil something back," Christian countered, meeting the old man's challenge head-on. "We will not let the fields lie empty. We will plant new things that feed the soil. We are adopting a four-field rotation."
He began to pace before them, his voice that of a lecturer, a visionary. "Imagine your land in four parts. In the first, we will plant our cash crop, our wheat. In the second, we will plant a root crop—turnips. In the third, another grain like barley. But in the fourth, the field you would have left barren, we will plant clover."
He saw only blank confusion on their faces.
"The turnips will break up the soil and can be stored to feed our livestock through the winter," he explained, simplifying the science. "More food for the animals means more animals can survive. More animals means more manure. More manure means richer soil for the next year's wheat. Do you see?"
He turned back to Hemming. "And the clover, old man. This is the true magic. It is a plant that does not just take from the soil. It puts strength back into the earth. It will nourish the field better than a year of barrenness ever could. It provides yet more grazing for our animals. Nothing is wasted. Everything works together."
He stopped pacing and faced them, his expression deadly serious. This was the heart of his proposal. "I know this is new. I know it is frightening. So the risk will be mine. For the first year, House Eskildsen will provide all the turnip and clover seed to you, at no cost. For any family that adopts the four-field system, I will reduce your yearly rent by one-quarter. The risk is mine. The reward will be ours."
He let the offer hang in the air. Free seed. A massive reduction in rent. It was an offer of incredible generosity, yet it felt like a command.
Hemming spoke again, his voice trembling slightly. "And… and if we do not, my lord? If we wish to farm in the old way?"
Christian's face became stone. "Then you will pay the full rent, and you will find your lease is not renewed next season. This is the new way at Eskildsgård. I am investing in your prosperity. I expect you to invest your labor. You are dismissed."
He turned his back on them, a final, non-negotiable gesture. The farmers stood for a moment in stunned silence, then slowly, quietly, filed out of the great hall, their minds reeling. They had been given an incredible opportunity, wrapped in an undeniable threat.
Christian listened to their anxious, muted voices fade away outside. He felt the immense weight of his gamble. He had declared war on a thousand years of agricultural tradition. He was staking his starting capital, his political stability, and the very livelihood of his people on a system they did not trust.
The seeds of revolution had been sown. Now he had to wait, and hope they would take root in the stubborn Danish soil.