'Aye,' nodded Wolfgang. 'We have heard reports that troops, officers and men loyal to the King are being sent to the north.'
Peter Stahl shook his white head. 'It’s a sad thing to be fighting in your own land.'
'Aye, but it keeps food on our table, Grossvater,' said Wolfgang comfortably. 'Besides, the reports I have heard tell me the country is, in the main, behind the King. Newcastle is a loyalist stronghold, and we have the likes of Lord Warenford, arming to defend his own.'
'No, brother, that is not true.'
John's words were quiet but everyone stopped eating. In the silence Wolf put down his knife.
'What do you mean?'
'Warenford is not arming for the King.' He looked around the table at the anxious faces. 'Warenford is raising an army for the Pretender.'
They stared at him.
'Damnation!'
'As you say, Grossvater.'
The old man leaned forward. 'Johannes – you are sure of this?'
'Almost certain. When I was there he held a ball, and amongst the guests were a dozen or so men who are amongst the most powerful families in the county, and sympathetic to the Stuart cause.' He shrugged. 'There is much passive support for the Pretender, but how many of them will ride out with Warenford, I do not know.'
Wolfgang's usually cheerful countenance had turned very grim.
'John, if those swords find their way into the hands of the rebels – '
'I know. They are all of them stamped with our crest. If the cause does not succeed we will be branded traitors.'
'You are no longer part of the company, Johannes, you do not need to be involved in this.'
'Sir, I delivered them, of course I am involved.'
'What can we do?' whispered Maria, looking at her husband.
Wolf grimaced. 'We must tell the government.'
'And lose your good name?' retorted John. 'Let us at least try to extricate ourselves first.'
'Then what do you suggest?'
'The swords are presently secure in Warenford Keep. I do not believe the earl will move them unless the Pretender marches south, so we have a little time yet.'
'You think we can recover them?'
'Aye, brother, I do, or at the least destroy them.' A wry smile twisted his mouth. 'We may be despised for our trade, but we will not knowingly supply both sides in what could be a bloody civil war.'
While Maria and Wolfgang spent an hour before bedtime with their children, John took his pipe and joined his father in the little sitting room, where they passed the tobacco jar and sat in companionable, smoky silence.
'Tell me, Grandfather,' said John at last. 'Who is the best bladesmith in the village?'
The old man removed the pipe from his mouth and fixed his grandson with eyes that had lost none of their sharpness.
'And why should you ask that, Johannes. Do you require a sword?'
'Aye, Grossvater, the best.'
'For ornament, my boy, or combat?'
John's jaw was set and he was in unusually sombre mood.
'For combat, sir.'
The old man replaced his pipe and puffed away in silence for several moments.
'Well my boy, if I wanted a sword for myself, I should ask Dieter the hammerman to make me the hilt, a polished silver affair with double quillons and a fine basket guard to protect the hand. Old Simon would engrave it. His eyes are not as good as they were, but he is still the finest artist we have. Then I would ask your brother to find me the best piece of thrice-forged blister steel.'
John sat forward. 'Yes, yes, but which of the men would you have work it?'
The silence was marked by the ticking of the clock for several moments before the old man grinned, showing his blackened teeth.
'Why Johannes, I would ask you to do it.'
John reared back in his chair.
'Me! But I cannot – I am not able! I have been away for so long.'
'When you were a small boy you were forever in the forge. Do you remember your father giving you a small hammer so that you could work the steel because you were too small to lift the real one? And you were so eager. You have a feel for it, Johannes. You know when to work the blade, when to turn it and when to rest it. It is a gift.'
John shook his head. 'But I have no experience, sir. Grandfather Crewe took me to live in Durham when I was but fourteen. This needs someone who has spent all their life in the forge. Someone like Wolfgang.'
'True, and Wolf is a fine craftsman, but I watched you on your visits here, when the Crewes deigned to let you come. You would go to the forge and work beside Wolfgang.' He broke off as the door opened. 'Hah, there you are, Wolf, come in! Tell your brother how good a bladesmith he is.'
Wolfgang grunted. 'Much as it pains me to say it, little brother, but you have an unseemly knack of producing a well-tempered blade. Oh yes, the Crewes took you away, changed your name from Stahl to Steel and turned you into a fine gentleman, but it is in your blood, boy.'
The old man waved his pipe towards them.
'It's a gift, I tell thee, Johannes. When your father gave you up we lost a fine bladesmith.'
Alive to the hurt in his brother's eyes, John threw up his hands.
'Go to, Grossvater! You know Father would never have agreed to my going if he had not been confident that Wolf was the best person to run the business, which he has done to good effect. Why, the Wolf's head is a respected symbol throughout the country. You know yourself that working the steel is only a part of that success.'
'I thank 'ee, John, but I admit I do not have your talent.' Wolf raised an eyebrow as he looked from his brother to his grandfather. He asked gruffly, 'But what has prompted this discussion? Do you want to come back?'
John was quick to deny it.
'No, no. However, I do have some interest in producing good quality steel. I have been studying the problem, and corresponding with a gentleman in Handsworth, a Master Huntsman. I called upon him some time ago and we discussed new methods. I have heard that he is producing good steel now, instead of importing it. Do you see what a difference it would make if we could control the quality of our steel?'
'We?'
'Aye, Wolf, for I am still a member of this family, and I have an interest in improving the business. But I digress. For now, I merely need a new sword.'
'A dress sword?'
John met his brother's enquiring gaze, a slight upward lift to his mouth.
'No, Brother. A battle sword. One that will match the Warenford Reaper.'
CHAPTER EIGHT
John knew he must find steel of just the right quality. Weeks went by, his wound healed, but still the elusive bar was not to be found. A dozen times he picked a piece of steel, only to toss it aside after the first stage of drawing out. Three weeks later and he was no closer to his goal.
Dispirited, John rose one morning and went out, but instead of entering the mill he wandered past, listening to the thump, thump of the water-driven hammers as they tempered the steel. They never stopped. The river turned the wheel ceaselessly, day and night, driving the gear wheels: no aching muscles, no need to sleep.
Time was moving on and John felt a burning frustration. How long dare he wait before making a push to ensure Lord Warenford did not use his family's swords against the crown? Surely that was what he should be working for and he did not require any special weapon to prevent the loss of his family's good name. But his frustration went deeper than that. Warenford had bested him in a duel. Smashed his sword and pinked him neatly in front of a crowd of onlookers. In front of Mistress Ellingham.
He pushed that thought away. She was betrothed to the earl and out of his reach. But still his pride was wounded and he must address that. The hammers thudding away in the mill produced some of the best steel in England. It was good enough for a thousand swords, he thought, but not for the blade he needed to regain his own honour. And if in the process the earl was proved to be a traitor, then perhaps, perhaps the engagement might be broken…
Wolfgang found him sitting at the riverside, watching the water tumbling through the valley.
'The leaves are falling,' said John. 'It is October and I am no nearer to making the blade I want.'
'There's some new blister steel in the crucibles now,' said Wolf, sitting down beside his brother. 'Best Swedish bar iron. Seems a good batch. We'll be pouring it into the ingot moulds today, if you want to come and see it.'
John nodded, but did not raise his head. Wolfgang put one big hand on his shoulder.
'Bear up, little brother.'
'Do I ask too much, Wolf? Am I searching for a mare's nest?'
'No, John. You want the best, and you'll know when you see it. Come on.'
They walked back to the firing house where the special clay crucibles held the melted blister steel. Inside the building, the heat was overwhelming. The familiar smell of the acrid fumes filled John's nostrils as Wolf tapped out the plug and the molten steel poured into the mould. John stared at the glowing liquid, feeling the heat burning his eyes as he scanned it for the impurities that would float to the surface, forming blisters and leaving the good steel to settle beneath in an unblemished bar.
Wolfgang looked up. 'Well, little Brother?'
John nodded. 'It looks good.'
He felt a bubble of excitement within him. Perhaps this time the steel would be good enough. He walked out, too impatient to wait around for the bar to cool. When he returned to the forge he found Wolf was there before him, and he was grinning.
'Look, John.' He pointed to the large grey slab of steel. 'Purest I've seen for some time. Try it.'
John threw the leather apron over his head, drew on a pair of thick gloves and lifted the bar, weighing it in his hands as he tried to bring all his senses to bear.
'There's a few imperfections at one end, but those can be removed.' He turned the bar over. 'The rest of it looks fine, the weight's right. Dammit, it even smells good! Very well: let's try it.'
* * *
'Where's John?' Maria Stahl came into the sitting room shortly before the dinner hour to find only her husband and his father there.
'He said to go on without him,' said Wolf.
She tutted in annoyance. 'And I sent the children out to pick blackberries especially for him today!'
Wolf shrugged. 'He will have them when he comes in. He's still at the forge. He was there most of the night, because that's the best time to watch the metal as it changes from blood red to white-hot.'
'Oh? Is he happy with the steel this time?'
'Aye. He's drawing it out now.'
'Should you not be doing it?' she asked. 'Surely it is years since he worked steel.'
'Hush. woman. What do you think he has been doing with himself these past weeks?' demanded Wolfgang, his warm smile robbing his words of offence. 'Rest easy, my love. His wound is mended now and this exercise is good for him, he was growing fat living the life of a gentleman in Durham.'
'But it is not right,' declared Maria. 'He has been away so long. This is not his life any longer.'
Wolf held up one huge hand.
'John knows what he is about, my dear. He could come back to this after a lifetime away and still produce a better sword than any man I know.'
Peter Stahl looked up.
'He is a bladesmith,' he said simply.
Wolf nodded. 'Aye, Grossvater. He is a bladesmith.'
John worked on the blade, heating no more than a hand-span at a time until it was red-hot. Then he began the rhythmic hammering, his left hand clutching the tongs that held the blade, flicking it over and over while the water-driven hammer beat a relentless tattoo on the steel. Finally he paused, satisfied with the work so far, and carefully put the blade back into the forge to heat another length.
'Well, Brother, how goes it?'
'It's coming on.' John used his arm to push a lock of hair back from his forehead. 'It feels good, but there's a long way yet to go.'
'Then get to it. The packman has arrived with reports that the rebels have had their first victory. They are coming south.'
'Grossvater, are you awake?'
Peter Stahl yawned and sat up in his chair, blinking.
'Is that you, Johannes?'
'Aye, sir,' said John, standing in the sitting room doorway. 'Do I disturb you?'
'No, no, my boy. Come in.' The old man saw the length of cloth in John's hand and his eyes gleamed. 'It is finished?'
'Aye,' said Wolf, following his brother into the room. 'It is finished.'
John dropped to his knees before his grandfather's chair and laid the bundle on the old man's knees. Carefully he opened the cloth.
Peter Stahl stared down at the elegant sword, straight-backed and with a finely-honed blade curving to a sharp tip. A silver basket guard spiralled around the hilt, which was capped with a pommel in the shape of a wolf's head. He picked up the sword and balanced it on two fingers placed just below the guard.
'It is good.'
'Thank you, Grossvater. I did as you suggested, sir. Dieter made the hilt for me, and Simon engraved it. You see, the handle is of fine silver wire, to give a better grip.'
The old man held up the weapon, his eyes shining. 'It is like the swords we used to make when I was a boy, before the mills took over. Then each one was unique, a work of art.'
John grinned at his brother, who rolled his eyes at this much-heard argument.
'You know we need the mills, sir, for the numbers required of us,' Wolf reminded him. 'All the same, it is good to know we still have the skills here in the valley.'
John looked at his hands.
'Aye, and I have the blisters too.'
CHAPTER NINE
'Well, there's the Keep, sir.' Matthew trotted up beside John as they reached the rise that gave them their first view of the castle. 'It looked forbidding enough in the summer, but under this lowering October sky – Ods' blood, 'tis the stuff of nightmares.'
John stared across the meadows to the coast and the grim building on its wave-swept ridge. A leaden sky and stormy sea provided some grounds for Matthew's observation but of more immediate concern were the heavy rain clouds gathering on the horizon, promising a wet end to their journey.
'It's hunger making you fanciful, Matthew. We should stop and eat.'
'What, here?'
John's eyes gleamed.
'Aye, here. We are best to do it now, while the rain holds off. We'll sit at the roadside while we enjoy the food our kind landlady packed up for us at Alnwick.'
Matthew shook his head but said nothing as they dismounted and tethered the horses. He pulled a bundle wrapped in a chequered cloth from his saddlebag while John produced a bottle of wine and two horn cups from his own pack and they made themselves comfortable in the lee of a thick hedge that protected them from the chill wind.
'Just like boys again, Matty,' declared John, regarding the selection of food now spread out over the cloth. 'Bread, cheese, a ham pie and even a slice of pease pudding! You remember how we used to go rabbiting and Cook would give us just such a meal to sustain us?'
'Aye, but we were schoolboys then, Master John. The Lord knows what your aunt Crewe would say if she could see you now.'
'Well she cannot, Matty, and in any case, I think you wrong my aunt. She could not object to my dining en route.'
'She would object to you sitting on the roadside like a common packman.'
John laughed. 'Go to, Matthew! I swear you think too much of my consequence. Take off that Friday face and have some of this excellent pie.'
Shrugging, Matthew sat down beside his master and began to eat, grudgingly admitting that it was exceedingly good pie and agreeing that there was nothing to beat such a meal, taken under an open sky.
'It's the fresh air, Matthew, it sharpens the appetite.' John looked up at the sound of a horse approaching.
Soon a great-coated figure appeared mounted on a sturdy black horse. As he approached them the stranger took off his tricorne hat, revealing a grave, weather-beaten face wit
h a pair of sharp brown eyes that now looked appraisingly at the pair by the roadside. John nodded in his friendly way.
'Good day to you, sir.'
The sharp eyes quickly ran over both men and horses.
'Good day to you, sirs. Is anything amiss?'
'Lord no,' replied John. 'We are merely breaking our journey with an al fresco luncheon.' The rider eyed their repast with some longing and John added, 'Come and join us.'
The man hesitated. 'I have been in the saddle since dawn … '
'Then rest a while with us.' John broke off a piece of pie and held it up. 'We have plenty here for three.'
The temptation proved too great.
'If you are sure, sir, then thank you, I will.' He jumped down, secured the reins to the hedge and came over to sit beside them. 'And where might you gentlemen be heading?'
'To Sleaton,' began Matthew, but was silenced by a quick dig in the ribs from John, who handed the newcomer a piece of pie and some bread before explaining.
'My man and I are travellers, you see.'
'Is that so? And why would you be here, if I might be so bold as to ask?'
John smiled at him.
'We are doing a little tour,' he said easily. 'Many gentlemen undertake it.'
The man scratched his head.
'Seems a mighty strange thing to do.' He bent his shrewd gaze upon John. 'You have no occupation?'
'My family is in trade, but I was taken to Durham at an early age by my mother's family and brought up as a gentleman. Thus, I am now fit for nothing but idleness.'
John's greatcoat was undone and as he spread his arms it fell open to reveal a dark blue riding coat fashioned from fine wool. That and the quantity of white ruffles at his neck and wrists appeared to reassure the stranger that he was indeed a man of substance, but he still shook his head, saying in a resigned voice, 'Well, I'm danged if I understand the ways of the gentry!'
'Then do not try,' John advised him with a grin. 'Matthew, give our guest your cup of wine. You may drink it from the bottle.'
The stranger might not understand his companions, but he was not loath to share their refreshments and now regarded the horn cup with satisfaction.
The Bladesmith Page 6