Sword of the Crown

by Paul J Bennett

  He made a face, “Well, it’s not every day I hear yelling outside, and then my daughter bursts into the room. Or did you forget that a window faces onto the training yard?”

  “Oh, I forgot,” she admitted, “but the knights are coming here, they were duelling, and then Gerald stopped them, and now they’re mad at him, and they’re coming up here to complain.” She rushed out the words, fearful that they would arrive at any moment.

  “I see,” her father said. “Well, you might as well sit at the table so you can see how punishment is handed out.”

  “Surely you’re not going to punish Gerald?” she questioned.

  “No, of course not, my dear. I’m going to punish the knights.”

  “But they're knights, and Gerald’s a commoner. I thought…”

  “Yes, Gerald is a commoner, but he is also my Sergeant-at-Arms, and as such, has my complete trust. He's my representative, and any disobedience to him is disobedience to my authority. Do you understand?”

  She was about to answer when Gerald and the two knights arrived at the door, which Beverly had failed to close. A gaggle of other knights followed them, and she saw her father put his hand to his forehead for a moment. It was a habit he often did when presented with a difficult problem.

  The knights filed into the room, respectful of the silence.

  “Well, what’s this all about?” said the baron, rising from his chair.

  The knights all started talking at once, while Gerald kept his silence.

  The baron held up his hand to stop them. “You,” he said, pointing to Sir Miles.

  “This commoner,” the young knight said, “tried to assign us to guard duty.”

  “And?” enquired the baron.

  “Knights do not stand guard. They are the vanguards in battle, the hammer that destroys the enemy on the field of glory.”

  “I see,” said the baron, “and you?” he indicated Sir Thomas.

  “I've raised this issue before, my lord. It is unseemly that a commoner should order about knights; are we not nobles?”

  Fitz turned to Gerald, “Might I ask, Sergeant, what brought about this punishment?”

  Gerald stood rigid, looking directly at the baron, “They were duelling, my lord.”

  Fitz turned to look at the two knights, “Is this true?”

  They both nodded, “But that’s not the point, my lord.”

  “Oh, I think it is precisely the point, Sir Miles.”

  Beverly watched her father closely as he wandered about the room, deep in thought. He’s already made up his mind, she thought, but he wants them to wonder what’s going to happen. She looked at the faces of the knights, faces of concern, of worry, even. Then she looked at Gerald. He looked calm. He knew exactly what was going to happen!

  The baron completed his circuit of the room, making direct eye contact with each of his knights. He turned his back on the group of them and winked at Beverly, who was on the other side of the table. “How dare you!” he yelled as he turned to face the assembled group.

  Beverly intensely observed the knights and witnessed Sir Thomas and Sir Miles smile. They were sure that Gerald was about to get into trouble.

  “How dare you impugn the character of my Sergeant-at-Arms,” he said dramatically, pointing at Gerald. “I have known this warrior for years; he has fought to keep the people of this realm safe. He killed his first soldier at, how old were you?”

  “Thirteen, my lord,” Gerald replied neutrally.

  “Saxnor’s balls, half of you weren’t even born yet. You, Sir Miles, how many men have you killed?”

  The young knight looked embarrassed, “None, my lord.”

  “I would hazard a guess that Sergeant Matheson here, has probably killed more raiders than the lot of you combined, and yet you have the audacity to complain about him? Let me make this quite clear gentlemen, and I use the term loosely. An order from Sergeant Matheson is an order from my own lips. Do you understand that?”

  The knights nodded meekly.

  “There will be no more talk of duels, and no more complaints heard about the sergeant. As for the punishment,” he paused for dramatic effect, and Beverly watched him smile slightly as he turned to face them again, “I would have let that stand, but since you’ve complained about it, I think it only fair that I increase it. As a result, you two will not only carry out guard duty at the sergeant’s request, but you will also clean out the stables. I shall make sure the stable master is informed that these duties will continue until I say otherwise. You are dismissed.”

  The knights began filing out of the room, “Not you, Gerald,” the baron said, and the sergeant remained behind.

  The room emptied save for Fitz, Gerald and Beverly, who was expecting her father to perhaps rebuke the sergeant. It was dangerous to anger a noble. Much to her surprise he poured a cup of wine and passed it to Gerald.

  “Were they truly duelling?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid so, my lord.”

  “It’s true,” piped in Beverly, glad to see her trainer was not in trouble. “I heard them arguing. Sir Thomas doesn’t like Sir Miles.”

  “They’re bored, my lord,” offered Gerald. “They need something to distract them.”

  “They could be sent out on patrols?” offered Beverly, eager to participate.

  “Hmm,” pondered her father, “you may be right.” He turned towards Gerald, “Let’s add knights to the patrols, and make sure those two don’t get put together for now. Perhaps if we keep them tired, they won’t have time to argue.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The baron turned to his daughter. “Well, my dear,” he said, “what have you learned today?”

  Beverly looked at her father. “Knights are stupid?” she offered.

  Her father laughed, and Gerald almost spit out his drink. “I daresay, in this case, you might be right, but not all knights are stupid. They just don’t follow a code.”

  “A code?”

  “Yes, a set of rules if you like; guiding principles. I always try to instil a sense of duty in my knights; they must protect everyone, not just the nobles, for without the common people, there can be no nobility. Many of the knights who come here have yet to learn that lesson, and today was a good example of the entitlement to which they have become accustomed. Knights used to swear fealty to a lord, but these days all the knights must take an oath to the king, who then decides which noble they will serve.”

  “So when... I mean, IF I were a knight, I would pledge my loyalty to the king?” she asked hesitantly.

  He smiled at her, “My dear, we all serve the king, but once knighted, you would need to find a worthy sponsor.”

  “Like you, Father?”

  “Your father is a very worthy man,” said Gerald, “but you can’t serve your own family as a knight, you have to serve someone else.”

  "Why is that?" she asked.

  "Following the farmer's rebellion in '93," explained her father, "the granting of knighthood became the exclusive domain of the king. You see, the king had witnessed the power of the knights in battle, and feared that they might be used against him in the future. It wasn’t until about 30 years ago that King Harran relented, and permitted some knights to choose their sponsor."

  “But whom would I serve?” she asked.

  The baron smiled at her. “You have many years before you have to worry about that. You’re an accomplished rider, and you’ve started training with the sword, but you have a long way to go to become a knight.”

  Beverly was shocked; her secret was out.

  The baron had spotted the look on her face, “Oh, come on now, we all know that you want to be a knight. There’s nothing wrong with that, but it takes time.”

  “But,” she stammered, “I thought women weren’t allowed to be knights.”

  “My dear,” he said, “you can be anything you want to be. If you want to be a knight, we shall make sure you’re the best knight in the kingdom. Isn’t that right, Gerald?”
/>   “Yes, my lord.”

  Eight

  The Smithy

  Summer 945 MC

  The crops yield had tripled over the past few years, resulting in a surplus of food that provided the baron reason to celebrate with a grand feast. In the two years since their duel, Sir Thomas and Sir Miles had settled their differences, and the younger knight had matured into a decent warrior. Gerald had no more problems with either of them, and the entire barony was at peace. Even the raiders were thinning out, for there had not been a raid for months.

  It was a warm midsummer day, and Beverly had just finished practicing with Gerald. Now ten years old and having a firm grasp of sword basics, Gerald had begun teaching her how to use other weapons, though some were still too big for her to wield with competency. In particular, she liked the warhammer, but found the grip difficult to handle, so after practise she took the weapon down to see Old Grady, with the hope that he might be able to balance it.

  Grady, strangely enough, was not at his forge, so Beverly took the opportunity to look around. She was peering into the forge itself, not in use, but still quite hot, when a young voice interrupted her.

  “Can I help you, miss?”

  She wheeled around to see Aldwin looking at her.

  The boy turned red, “Sorry, m’lady, I didn’t know it was you.”

  “That’s all right, Aldwin,” she said, “I was just having a look around. Is Grady about?”

  “He’s down at the market, m’lady, waitin’ for the new shipment of black iron.”

  “Perhaps you can help me then,” she said. “How long have you been working here?”

  “Almost three years, m’lady, ever since the baron rescued me.”

  “Well, you see,” she said, producing the hammer, “I’ve got this weapon here, but I can’t grip it properly. I was wondering if Grady might be able to give it a new handle?”

  Aldwin took the hammer and swung it experimentally. “It doesn’t need a new handle, m’lady, just a new wrapping. I can do that for you.”

  She stared at him, trying to detect if he was serious. “If you would be so kind,” she said. “How long would it take? Should I pick it up in a few days?”

  “It should only take a few moments if you’re willing to wait,” he offered. “Why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll start on it right away.”

  Beverly looked around, but couldn’t find a place to sit.

  Aldwin looked up from the hammer and realized her confusion, “Just a moment, m’lady,” he said clumsily and disappeared into the back room. A moment later he appeared with a stool. He set it down, wiping the seat with a cloth, “There you go.”

  “Thank you.”

  She watched him as he returned to the workbench. He placed the hammer into a vice to hold it and removed the end of the handle. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I’m removing the cap so I can get to the handle wrap. You can see here, the handle is wood, but the end cap helps balance it and stops the wrapping from coming loose,” he explained as he worked. The whole process so enthralled Beverly that she stood up and walked over to get a better view.

  Aldwin was careful, taking his time, working deliberately. Once he had the cap removed, he slowly unwound the old leather strips that had formed the grip. These were then tossed aside as he looked about the workshop, laying eyes on some new strips of leather. He retrieved these and experimented with them by partially wrapping them around the handle. After one or two tries, he laid the leather down on the workbench and grabbed a sharp knife, then began cutting the leather into thinner strips.

  “How will the leather stay in place?” she asked. “Won’t it slip off?”

  By now she was right beside him, watching closely.

  “I’ll use some glue to hold it in place, plus it’ll be wrapped carefully and be slightly damp.”

  “Damp? You’re going to make it wet? Why would you do that?”

  “That way, when it dries, it will shrink and make a tighter fit.”

  “That’s clever, Aldwin,” she observed.

  “I saw it happen to Grady once, by accident. I thought it might be useful one day.”

  He finished cutting the leather and then tried a test fitting. It did the job, so he placed the leather in some water. While it was soaking, he fished out a jar, removing its lid and used a spare piece of leather to start liberally painting the handle with the contents. “We have to make sure the leather's not too wet,” he said, and Beverly recognized the determination in his face. He was concentrating on the handle, being careful not to make a mess. “Can you hand me the leather strip?” he said, forgetting who he was talking to.

  Beverly dutifully handed him the carefully trimmed leather and he starting wrapping it, as tight as he could. As it got to the end of the handle, he cut off the excess, leaving just enough to go under the end cap.

  “There,” he said with some pride, “how’s that?”

  He turned to Beverly, with a smile of success. His whole face lit up, and she realized how proud he was of the job he had done.

  She smiled back at him, “That looks amazing, Aldwin. You must have practised that many times to be so good at it.”

  He turned a bright shade of red, “Actually, I’ve never done it before,” he said, then hastily added, “m’lady.”

  He cleared his throat nervously, and then looked back to the hammer. “If you find it a little unwieldy, I could add some weight to the end of the handle; it might balance it better for you.”

  “Could you? That would be perfect,” she said, still staring at his face.

  “The only thing is, I’ll have to wait for the glue to set. If you come back later, we can try some weights to see what you like, then make the changes.” He kept his eyes on the hammer the whole time he spoke.

  Beverly looked at the hammer held in the vice, then looked back at his face. It was still bright red, and she questioned the reason for his discomfort. Was he embarrassed? She suddenly figured out the cause. It had to be her; she was standing very close to him, could even smell him, so she abruptly stepped back. “Thank you, Aldwin,” she said. “What would be a good time to come back to see you,” she paused, “to try the weights, I mean.”

  “I should think by the time the sun goes down it will be ready.”

  “Won’t you be done work by then?” she asked. “I don’t want you working longer because of me.”

  “It’s no bother, m’lady,” he said, perhaps a little too quickly. “I’d work anytime for you.” As if realizing what he just said, or fearing he might have offended her, he turned an even brighter shade of red.

  Beverly decided it was best to ignore his embarrassment. “Very well, Aldwin,” she agreed. “I’ll see you just after dark.”

  Wandering out of the smithy, she found she was hungry, so she made her way to the kitchen where everyone was hard at work. The Keep provided the meals for the soldiers and servants, keeping the kitchen in full use from before sun up to well past sundown. She wandered through the kitchen and was mostly ignored by the staff, for she was often a visitor down here, usually to retrieve some food for her father. One of the servants looked up from their work and called out.

  “My lady, is there something I can get you?” she asked.

  “Just a little peckish, Rose,” Beverly replied. “What have you got that’s not too much work, I don’t want to be a bother.”

  “I’ve got some ham that’s been roasting, why don’t I cut you off a slice or two, and maybe some fresh bread to go with it.”

  “That would be nice, thank you.”

  The cook led her over to a small table, off to the side and plated up some food. Moments later she was nibbling away at the food absently, thinking about her encounter with Aldwin. Her mind was having trouble processing things, and her look of confusion must have been evident, for after only a moment, Rose returned.

  “Is something wrong, my lady?” she asked. “Is the food all right?”

  The servant’s enquiry
pulled from her musings. “Oh yes, everything's fine Rose. I was just…thinking.”

  “You be careful now,” said Rose, smiling, “you don’t want to go thinking too much.”

  Beverly laughed. “Rose,” she asked, “can I ask you a question?”

  The older woman wiped her hands on her apron and stood, waiting. “Go ahead then,” she prompted.

  “I was down in the smithy,” Beverly began. “I went down to see Old Grady, but he wasn’t there, so I talked to Aldwin instead. He helped me with a war hammer that I have; only he was acting sort of strange.”

  “Strange? How was he strange?”

  “Well, he was reworking the handle, and so I came over to watch and he…”

  “He what, my lady?”

  “Well, he turned red and got nervous.”

  “That’s to be expected, my lady. He’s not used to being around nobility; he’s just a smith’s apprentice. Plus, I doubt he has many friends. Grady keeps him in the smithy all day long. He sleeps on the floor, you know.”

  “On the floor? How barbaric.”

  “My lady, it’s common for apprentices to sleep in their shop. It's how they look after things.”

  Beverly didn’t think it was very nice, but decided not to say anything else about it. She finished up her meal and headed back into the Keep with the intent of seeing what her father was doing. Running up to the map room, she found it empty and wondered where he had disappeared to. She asked a servant who told her that the baron was in the stables, which she found strange, as her father liked to ride first thing in the morning. Perhaps something had come up? She resolved to discover what had him in the stables at this time of the day and headed over there immediately. She arrived to find her father cleaning a stall with a pitchfork.

  “Father? What are you doing?” she enquired.

  Her father turned to face her, resting on the pitchfork. “Ah, Beverly,” he said, “I wondered what you were up to. Having fun?”

  “Yes Papa, but what are you doing? We have a stable master to do that.”

  "The stable master’s wife has gone into labour,” he said, “so I thought I’d lend a hand and do his work for him, to free him up for his wife.”