Sword of the Crown

by Paul J Bennett

  She spent all her off-duty hours in the smithy, watching him work. He toiled over the details, and she saw the dedication, the look of enjoyment, as he laboured. He would talk as he did so and she was fascinated by the increasing knowledge of his craft.

  * * *

  Insisting that a knight needed to dress themselves, she had asked the smith's apprentice to move the straps forward, so that she might be able to fasten them alone. It was ungainly at first but slowly, through a process of trial and error, they arrived at a design that worked. Gerald was so impressed by their handiwork, that he recommended it to all the knights, but they wouldn’t listen. Why would a knight need to dress himself; that's what servants were for.

  Though technically not a knight, she was armed and armoured as one, and she certainly had the skill of one. It was not an unusual occurrence for her to lead a patrol, having earned the respect of the common soldiers through her constant concern over their safety, and her obvious ability in the role. The knights followed her orders, for she was the baron’s daughter, but they did not respect her. They saw her as an interloper, someone who threatened their way of life. She heard rumours that they spread about her, but chose to ignore them. She gave up wishing to be a knight; only the king could knight someone, and that was very unlikely. She strove, instead, to be the best warrior she could, to guard the lives of everyone in Bodden, and keep them safe.

  * * *

  Now a seasoned patrol leader, Beverly took out troops on a regular basis. The knights were left for Gerald to deal with and so Beverly commanded the Bodden Horse, a collection of mounted warriors with field experience. It was on a particularly quiet day in the middle of a warm spell when Beverly led her patrol back through the outer gate to Bodden. They rode through the town, the commoners stopping to wave, as they made their way to the inner courtyard. Sergeant Blackwood was her second-in-command, and when she dismissed the men, he made sure they looked to their own horses, a touch she insisted on. She joined them in the stables, seeing to Lightning herself, listening to the banter. It had become a ritual, after each patrol, to talk about the day's activities while they brushed down the horses. She was accepted by these men, and here, there were no knights to belittle her accomplishments.

  After finishing tending to Lightning, she made her way to the smithy. She was looking forward to talking to Aldwin, for the new adjustments to her armour had gone very well. So deep in thought was she, imagining his smile that she almost walked right into the door. She stepped back in amazement; the door to the smithy was closed. It was never closed, this was most strange indeed.

  She grasped the iron ring and pulled, but to her dismay, the door would not budge. She rattled the door some more, but it seemed determined not to open. Someone had locked the smithy up, and she suddenly felt dread in her heart.

  Intrigued to discover what had happened, she made her way to the map room where, doubtless, her father was dealing with this very problem. As she entered, she saw him speaking with Gerald and Sir Walter, the most senior knight.

  “I suppose we’ll have to send to Wincaster,” the baron was saying.

  Gerald saw her enter and nodded his head, causing the baron to look toward the door.

  “Ah, Beverly, my dear, good to see you. I’m afraid we’ve some bad news.”

  “What is it, Father?” she asked, apprehension in her voice.

  “The old smith, Grady, has passed away. He collapsed in the smithy and was dead almost instantly.”

  “That’s terrible,” she said, somewhat relieved.

  “Well,” he continued, “it wasn’t exactly a surprise; he was, after all, an old man.”

  “We were just saying,” added Sir Walter, “that we’ll need to send to Wincaster for a new smith.”

  “Aldwin should be the new smith,” she burst out. “He’s more than capable. I’ve seen his work.”

  “I’m afraid, my lady,” continued the knight, “that Aldwin is far too young. He can’t possibly take on the mantle of a master smith.”

  “It's true he’s young,” said Beverly, “but his work is superior. He’s by far the best smith in Bodden; he’s been doing most of the work for months.”

  Her father looked at her with an intense gaze. “And how would you know that?” he asked.

  “I’ve seen him; he’s a very hard worker. He spends hours every day working at the forge.”

  “I’m not convinced,” said her father, after a brief pause. “He’s still quite young, as Sir Walter indicated.”

  “Go and look at his work, Father,” she pleaded. “See the quality for yourself.”

  “Very well,” he said at last, “let us go and examine his work. Gentlemen, if you’ll join us?”

  They made their way down to the smithy. The baron produced a key ring, handing it to Gerald, who then opened the door. The smithy was empty, and Beverly was shocked by the solitude found within. No forge warmed the room, no glow from hot coals, nor any light streamed in through the windows, which were shuttered.

  Gerald opened the shutters to let in some light, while the baron and Sir Walter wandered about the room, viewing the works in progress.

  Beverly walked over to a work table. “Over here is where he keeps the items he’s working on, look at this,” she said, producing a half-finished sword.

  The baron lifted the sword carefully and held it to the light. The weapon was not yet complete, but already he saw the fine edge that was being developed.

  “And over here,” she said, continuing their tour of the room, “is where he finishes the weapons, polishing them and wrapping the handles.”

  Once again they followed her, Sir Walter lifting a fine dagger to examine it. He nodded in appreciation, then placed it back on the workbench.

  “He even works on armour, here’s an example of greaves he’s been working on, look at the detail.”

  It was Gerald’s turn to look on with appreciation, for the greave was embossed with delicate scrollwork, making it look like a piece of art.

  “He’s a dedicated worker, Father; I’ve seen him work for hours on a single blade.”

  Baron Fitzwilliam regarded his daughter with an intense stare; she suddenly realized she had said too much.

  “She’s right,” he said, “Aldwin is perhaps the best smith I’ve seen in Bodden.” He turned to Gerald, “Tell Aldwin that he’s the new master smith. Oh, and he’ll need a family name.”

  “Aldwin has no family, Father,” Beverly dared to add.

  He looked to Sir Walter, “We can’t just call him Aldwin, he’s not a boy anymore.”

  “Strong something?” the knight suggested.

  “How about Strongarm?” Gerald offered. “He certainly has the muscles.”

  “Very well, tell Master Aldwin Strongarm that the smithy is his.”

  Gerald nodded in acknowledgement and left.

  Baron Fitzwilliam turned to his senior knight, “Sir Walter,” he said, “would you give us the room, please?”

  The knight bowed, “Certainly, my lord,” and left them.

  There was an awkward silence between them, and Beverly suspected what was about to happen.

  “Father, I-”

  “Don’t,” he interrupted. “Don’t say a thing.”

  She struggled to say something, but he forestalled her with his hand.

  “I know,” he said, “that you have feelings for Aldwin. I can hear it in your voice; see it in your face.”

  She couldn’t stand it anymore, “Father, I l-”

  She was immediately cut off. “Don’t say it,” he warned, “or you will tread down a dark path.”

  Beverly loved her father, but for the first time in her life, she saw the lines that crossed his face. He was getting older, and the strain of being in charge was wearing on him.

  “My dear,” he continued, “I am sympathetic to your cause, but it simply cannot happen. You and I are nobles, and Aldwin is a commoner.”

  “I know, Father, but-”

  “Let me continue
, please. I know this isn’t easy. Nobles are as restricted in this society as commoners. Oh, we have the wealth, and the nice clothes, but we are as much prisoners of this life as they are. In some ways, we have less freedom. As a noble, your life is in the hands of the king. In times past a noble would marry for love and, if the king approved, the marriage would go ahead, but these are different times, my dear. I know what it is like to give one's heart to someone else. I was fortunate enough to find your mother, but I fear you will not be so lucky. You are the daughter of the Baron of Bodden. One day I will die, and you must marry. If you are lucky, you will marry someone who you can learn to love, but if not, you must do your duty.”

  As he looked at her, she noticed the sadness in his eyes. “And I know you think you could run away together,” he continued, “but how would that work? You would be hunted down and brought back, that’s how. The king would not allow a single noble to destroy a system that has worked for hundreds of years. Even if you did manage to get away, how would you earn a living? No one in Merceria would hire Aldwin; he would be an outcast. And without a sponsor, you could not even afford to look after your own armour. And what would be the other option? To keep Aldwin on the side? As soon as you marry, your husband would be rid of him, and then you’ve have taken away his livelihood.”

  Tears were forming in her eyes, “It’s not fair, Father. All I wanted was to be with him, he’s my friend.”

  He walked over to her, and embraced her, while she sobbed into his arms. “I know, my dear, life is cruel, but we must make the most of it.”

  He held her for a few more moments, then released her, placing her at arm's length, to study her. “See here, now,” he said, “you must do right by Aldwin. I know how you feel about him, yet fate would deny your heart. You will still need to visit him for weapons and armour, of course, but from now on you will be supervised at all times when in his presence. Your friendship may continue, but nothing more.”

  With tears still streaming down her face, she nodded.

  “Let me hear you say it, Beverly,” he said gently.

  “I agree,” her voice breaking as she whispered the fateful words.

  “Might I ask for one favour, Father?”

  He smiled at her, “Of course, my dear.”

  “May I be the one to tell Aldwin?”

  “Of course, but someone must be present, you understand?”

  She nodded her assent, too grief-stricken to speak.

  “Who would you like to be present?”

  “Gerald will do,” she said in resignation.

  “Excellent choice, my dear. He will keep your secret, so you needn't worry about word getting out. Now, let’s go and get you sorted out. You don’t want to talk to him looking like you are now, do you?”

  She shook her head, and her father led her away from the smithy.

  * * *

  It was sometime later when Beverly returned to the workshop, her escort, Gerald in tow. She had been present when her father had given instructions to him; he had been firm that he was to give them some privacy, but that they should always be in sight. She entered the smithy while Gerald stood by the door.

  Aldwin was just heating up the forge, and while the coals were warming, he was rearranging some of the tools. She saw him turn to face her upon her approach, and then he noticed the guard by the door. His face fell momentarily, followed by the clenching of his jaw. He looked at her and smiled, but there was a sadness behind his eyes. He knew what was coming, she thought, and she steeled herself.

  “Aldwin, I…” she took a breath, “I can’t spend so much time down here anymore.” She glanced at Gerald by the door; it was so hard meeting Aldwin's eyes, but she forced herself to turn back to see his tears forming. “It just, well, it just can’t be. We’re from two different worlds. I wish I weren't Lady Fitzwilliam, that I was just a commoner.”

  “Shh,” he said, his voice breaking as he spoke, “I know.”

  She stared deeply into his eyes, wanting desperately to tell him how she felt, but part of her knew she would fall to pieces.

  He cleared his throat and leaned in close to speak quietly. “I have always loved you, Beverly, and I always will. I know that there can never be anymore between us, but I’m all right with that. So I will make your armour, and when you wear it, it will be as if my arms are holding you. When you use your sword, you will know that I have crafted it to keep you safe. One day you will wed, and I will not lie, on that day I will shed my tears. But I will be happy for you and I will serve you all my remaining years. I give you my word.” He looked over at Gerald, but Gerald turned away, and Aldwin planted a soft kiss on her forehead. “Now go,” he said, “I have work to do.”

  She watched him turn away and walk towards the forge. She stared at him for just a moment longer, then turned to Gerald, “I'm done,” she said, tears flowing freely from her face. They walked back to the Keep in silence.

  Thirteen

  The Long Winter

  Winter 951/952 MC

  Beverly’s eyes flew open when the carriage jolted her awake. It took her only a moment to remember where she was, and why. She had left Bodden several days ago; several days of listening to Lady Constance Braddock, wife to Sir Walter, the woman her father had appointed as her chaperone. She had endured her company for far too many hours to not be able to perceive the stern look she was being given.

  “I don’t know why you have to wear that thing,” her new 'best friend' said in disgust.

  Beverly looked down at the sword strapped to her waist. “This?” she asked innocently.

  “Yes, it’s not very ladylike. Why do you insist on wearing it?”

  “Because my war hammer is too awkward in the carriage,” she said, smiling.

  “Humph,” uttered Lady Constance.

  Beverly looked again at the red-faced woman sitting across from her. She was trying to be civil, but the constant lectures about not being ladylike were wearing thin. Her father was sending her to Hawksburg, ostensibly to visit her cousins, but she knew the real reason; he wanted her away from Aldwin. Of course, Lady Constance knew no such thing. From her point of view, it just looked like a visit to see Beverly's cousins. She had nothing against her cousins, of course, but she didn’t really know them. She had met her uncle, for he had visited Bodden before when he delivered Lightning to her. Thinking of her horse tethered behind the carriage, she decided the cabin was too stuffy and slid the window down, eliciting a cry from her chaperone as a blast of cool air entered the carriage. She whistled loudly, and Lightning, the faithful beast that he was, trotted up beside them.

  Standing, she hiked up her dress and then opened the carriage door. Lady Braddock cried out in dismay, but Beverly moved quickly, leaping onto Lightning, pulling herself deftly into the saddle, then urging her steed on, easily out-pacing the carriage. Watching her two escorts trying to keep up, their smaller horses straining with the effort, she laughed. The wind blew her hair out behind her as if she was flying, making her feel alive. She slowed the pace and surveyed the countryside, taking in her surroundings. They had only travelled three days of the much longer trip from Bodden to Hawksburg. The land here was open, hedged in on one side by the great forest known as the Whitewood, to the north, in all its majesty. Above her, a hawk drifted in the wind, and she watched it with interest as it circled around and then flew northward.

  A recent drizzle had left the air feeling damp. Beverly sensed the moisture in the air, mixed with the scent of pine trees. The unpaved road they travelled on was little more than ruts in the ground. Generations of wagons had passed this way along with countless feet and horses hooves. The roadway was just a path, a well-worn path, and she wondered what it had been like centuries ago. Who had been the first to travel this route? She circled back to the carriage, feeling sorry for her guards, and picked a more sedate pace. Lightning appeared content and almost pranced, perhaps sensing her need for freedom.

  Two hours later they stopped to water the horses. Lady
Braddock had to answer the call of nature, leaving poor Richardson to escort her to a bush, holding up a sheet for her privacy. Beverly led Lightning down to the small stream where the carriage horses were watering and let him drink. She was rubbing his neck, scanning the area, when she observed the same hawk as earlier. It was sitting on a nearby tree, looking directly at her. She walked toward it, resting her hand on the hilt of her sword.

  The hawk flew off at her approach, landing further back in the trees. Behind her, the rest of her group tended to the needs of the horses. Confident she was not going very far, she continued towards the bird. It remained where it was. It was then that she noticed eyes staring at her from the woods, many eyes. A moment later, she saw a wolf step out of the tree line. Several more followed suit, but she didn’t feel threatened. None of these beasts were snarling or growling, and she suspected something else was about to make its presence known.

  Sure enough, when the wolves parted, a woman stepped out of the woods. At first, Beverly thought it was an Elf, for she was tall and thin, but she lacked the drawn face and pointed ears of the elder race. She had long black hair that was tied in a braid down her back. The multi-coloured green and brown dress she wore made it difficult to distinguish her clearly against the backdrop of the forest.

  “Greetings, Beverly,” the woman said.

  Beverly was astonished to hear her own name. “How do you know who I am?” she asked.

  “Come now,” the woman said, smiling, “how many red headed women wearing swords live in this area?”

  “You have the advantage of me,” Beverly countered, “for I know not who you are.”

  “My apologies,” the woman said, “I am Albreda, the Woman of the Whitewood.”