by Nancy Morse
Though taller than she when they’d first been installed, the bellows were a welcome improvement over the foul tasting air tubes. As she’d grown her father had adjusted the length of the lever, but it still took strength to force air out of the giant machine. Transporting the huge double bellows from Cruggleton had been a feat. That was also the reason they’d remained in Lincluden and not fled with Gilbride. Gorrie was convinced his Master would return.
Brig wasn’t so sure, though she fervently hoped he was right. She feared Gilbride, but had no desire for her homeland to be swallowed up into the Scottish kingdom. Her ancestors were Vikings, her language and customs different from those of the Scots. Her people had prospered for generations without foreign interference.
“There’s trouble abrewin’,” Gorrie muttered, jolting her thoughts back to the forge. “Mark my words, laddie.”
Brig was prevented from replying by the deafening ring of his sledgehammer striking the steel ingot he was fashioning into a sword. She seized the opportunity of the brief respite to wipe the sweat from her brow and swig a mouthful of water from the dipper.
“Keep that flame aburnin’ bright, laddie,” her father admonished.
Confident he had exhausted his arsenal of conversation, Brig resumed her post behind the bellows and put her back into forcing air into the forge fire.
Being a man and plying a man’s trade had its benefits. Her father would never have allowed a girl to express opinions about Gilbride, or about anything that went on in Galloway. The work had made her strong. Some might think her too muscled for a lass, but she didn’t care. She liked being a lad. The maidservants and peasant women of her acquaintance talked of nothing but marriage. However, it seemed to her what they sought was a protector, a provider. She didn’t need protection. Her father had taught her well; she knew how to use the weapons he fashioned. He told her she was a gifted swordsman, but she doubted that was true.
She roamed freely, usually unaccompanied. No one challenged the dirty urchin with the tufts of red hair. No one cared.
“Aye, trouble,” Gorrie mumbled again to her surprise. “Uchtred, God rest his soul, would ha’ made peace wi’ them Normans in England, formed an alliance agin’ King William the Lion, so we could stay out o’ Scotland’s clutches.”
Her Da’s unusual willingness to share thoughts that if overheard might result in his death gave her confidence. “But Gilbride isna in favor o’ Normans,” she replied.
Gorrie shook his head, his eyes fixed all the while on the glowing ingot trapped in the firm grip of the iron tongs. Its slowly changing shape fascinated Brig. “Nay. Despises ‘em as much as he hates the Scots. When he heard of William’s capture at Alnwick he slaughtered the bailiffs and guards the king of Scotland had set over us.”
Brig recalled the lead weight that had lain in her belly when news had reached them of Gilbride’s reign of terror.
While she shared her father’s pride in the beautifully crafted weapons he manufactured, to her mind they should be used for defence, not for brutal maiming, torture and slaughter.
“I s’pose Uchtred wasna in favor of the killin’,” she ventured. “That’s why Gilbride did away wi’ him.”
To her surprise, her Da stopped hammering and stared at her, his dirty face streaked with rivulets of sweat. “We musna say too much. But mark my words, Brig, trouble will come. The Plantagenet English king willna allow Gilbride to control Galloway. ’Tis too close to Cumbria and their stronghold in Carlisle.”
This was the first time he’d shared his fears. She too feared what lay ahead, but sought to reassure him. She scooped water from the bucket and handed him the dipper. “Dinna worry, Da. We’ll stay out of their way and let them get on with their struggles. When all’s said and done, they’ll always need an armorer.”
Gorrie slurped greedily, then wiped a dirty forearm across his brow. A rare smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
She was glad she’d lightened his load, but her words didn’t ring true in her own ears. She didn’t have it in her to sit back and do nothing when all she loved was under threat.
Carlisle
Carlisle Castle, Cumbria
Matthew was an accomplished horseman. His Norman forebears were members of the legendary cavalry that turned the tide at Hastings in William the Conqueror’s favor. Riding was in his blood.
However, he was happy to dismount from his faithful Belenus after three tough days traversing the Pennines as second-in-command of a sizeable army. The sight of Carlisle’s tall tower was welcome indeed after miles of bleak and barren moorland, relieved only by clumps of bracken and heather.
However, the Pennine hares were plump and tasty. At the end of long days in the saddle, the becks and streams provided a chance to cleanse away the dust and sweat, despite the icy lick of the water.
Carlisle, northwestern outpost of King Henry’s kingdom, was already crammed with English soldiers. The Scots had laid siege more than once in recent years. Matthew’s superior officer, Blaise Le Cordier, negotiated with the Castellan for their mercenary routiers to camp alongside the River Eden. However, the remainder of their regular army would set up their tents on the other side of the castle on the banks of the Caldew.
The plan was to keep the troublemaking mercenaries from Brabant and Aragon out of harm’s way. They’d already instigated violent arguments on the journey, resulting in three deaths. Matthew was, as usual, put in charge of the routier camp.
Le Cordier, a career officer descended from a noble family named in the Domesday Book, despised the mercenaries. Matthew recognised in many of them the frustrations of young men obliged to earn their keep by putting their lives in constant danger for the highest bidder. Far from homes they hadn’t seen in years, surrounded by people who didn’t speak their language, hated by the very foreign masters who employed them, they stuck together, though the worst violence was usually between the Brabançons and the Aragonese.
The hostility of the hot-tempered Spaniards in particular increased as the air chilled in the Pennines. However, for some reason, the hired soldiers respected Matthew, if grudgingly. He supposed they recognised he too was landless, forced to earn his living through warfare. He praised the saints every day for the stroke of luck that had enabled him to unhorse William the Lion. His subsequent speedy rise through the ranks had saved him from the life the routiers led. The Norman blood in his veins helped. He had only to mention he was a descendant of the Montbryce family to see disdain turn to respect. Even the haughty Le Cordier had suddenly become talkative and friendly.
He never mentioned his Frankish ancestry. Weapon-smithing didn’t carry a lot of weight with men like Le Cordier.
On the journey he’d learned a great deal about Galloway from his Commander. “Norse-Gaels,” the arrogant Norman explained, hacking up and spitting out phlegm. “Ostmen, they call themselves.”
“From the East?” Matthew queried.
“Oui, although they are mostly descended from Vikings who settled in Ireland and the land of the Gaels, or from folk they conquered.”
Matthew stifled an urge to snort. Normans were proud descendants of Vikings who’d migrated to the valley of the Seine, yet Le Cordier spoke of the Norsemen as if they were barbarians. It was highly likely his own ancestors were Vikings.
“Consider themselves too good to be subjects of the King of Scotland,” Le Cordier said with great sarcasm. “Ironic we’re now going to help the Lion regain control of them.”
Satisfied all was well in the camp, Matthew eased off his best boots and settled onto his camp-cot, listening to the raucous singing and dancing of the Aragonese. It occurred to him he probably had more in common with the people of Galloway than he did with King Henry. The monarch touted his descent from Norman kings, but his father had been a hated Angevin, Jeffrey Plantagenet, and the recently humiliated King of Scotland was his own cousin. Henry was helping William gain control of Galloway because he controlled William.
The Shearing
Lincluden Castle, Galloway
“I’ll nay argue with ye further,” Gorrie declared. “Either ye cut yer hair, or we forget the scheme. The Plantagenet King’s army is only an hour away. If ye want to carry on as my apprentice—”
Exasperated, Brig tore off the tam under which she’d tucked her lengthening hair. “I’d a notion to grow it into a queue,” she protested. She didn’t want to reveal she’d caught a glimpse of herself in a maidservant’s mirror and been aghast at the red tufts sprouting from her head. No wonder the castle’s maids went into fits of giggles whenever they set eyes on her.
Gorrie chuckled, eyeing her up and down. “Nay. A queue would make ye look too much like a young lordling.”
He closed one eye, a frown wrinkling his already furrowed brow.
“What is it?” she asked nervously.
Her father studied his feet. “Ye mun do summat wi’ yer womanly parts,” he rasped, his ruddy face redder than usual. “They’re gettin’ bigger, and there’s an army o’ men on the way.”
She looked down at her breasts. When they’d first started to grow, she’d concealed them by wearing more voluminous shirts. But her Da had the right of it. Working in the forge had developed more than just the muscles in her arms and legs. “I’ll cut my old shirts into strips for binding.”
Her father seemed satisfied and went back to hammering. It was important he carry on his craft when the invaders came. An army needed someone capable of repairing weapons and armor. There was no finer craftsman in the whole of Galloway than Gorrie Lordsmith. The invasion might prove to be a godsend. As a youth she’d be able to come and go at will and spy on the enemy whereas the unwed girls of Lincluden were secreted away in the Abbey.
Resigned to the inevitable shearing, she turned her back and perched on the edge of the low stone wall of the smithy. “Do yer worst,” she sighed, the tam clutched in her grip.
Gorrie brandished his spring scissors and took hold of a length of hair. He hesitated, causing her to glance up at him. He was wiping away a tear with the back of his hand. “Eh, lass,” he said hoarsely, “I wish this wasna necessary. Yer Ma’s likely turnin’ o’er in her grave. Forgive me.”
It was the first time he’d ever uttered such a notion. She put a hand on his arm. “’Twill grow again. Dinna fash.”
“Someday ye’ll boast lovely tresses down to yer waist,” he rasped. “Like yer Ma.”
The prospect was alarming. Her Da reminisced often about her mother’s long chestnut tresses. According to him, long hair attracted men, and she’d no wish to do that. She screwed her eyes tight shut, fighting back tears as the steel chewed into her hair. By the time he was done, her scalp ached. She ran a hand over the tufts. The metallic crunch of the sharpened blades had again robbed her of the one thing of beauty she might possess. But that was a foolish notion. Anxious to remove the sadness from her father’s face, she smiled weakly and gathered the shorn locks from the ground. “Best to burn it,” she murmured.
“Aye,” he mumbled.
They watched as the flames consumed in moments what had taken sennights to grow.
“Now to make bindings,” she said, flattening her breasts with her palms.
His face reddened further. “I canna help ye with that.”
First Meeting
There was no marker to indicate the army had passed into Galloway, but Matthew knew it when harassment from unseen skirmishers began. Rocks bounced off byrnies, raising the ire of men who marched in armor in unseasonably hot weather. Some Aragonese became particularly incensed and it took considerable persuasion to prevent them pursuing the culprits. “It’s what they want,” Matthew yelled. “Once you’re isolated they’ll cut you down.”
He reprimanded them for shooting crossbow bolts at the unseen enemy. Ammunition was too costly to waste. It was a relief the attackers didn’t seem to have the deadly weapons. Stones might bruise and mayhap even break a bone, but they were unlikely to be lethal.
Undergrowth had to be cut back as they made their way through forests to the River Nith. Once they reached the river, the going became boggy as sunny skies gave way to torrential rain.
Matthew thanked God for his horse. As always, the animal took it all in stride, seemingly knowing what his master wanted even before he did. To the casual observer, Belenus probably seemed like a placid, obedient horse. Matthew knew the fiery spirit lurking within that could spark to life when called upon, as it had when he’d unhorsed William. It was the reason he’d named the steed for the Celtic god of fire.
Le Cordier had decided Lincluden Castle would be the base from where they would scout the Nith, searching for the best place to construct a large castle to control access to the sea and the hinterland. Word had come that King William was of the opinion Lincluden itself was too far north and too old to form the basis of a strong fortress. Once Matthew set eyes on the dilapidated castle he suspected William simply wanted something grander. But at least the rain had stopped.
They’d expected more opposition, but none came as they rode at last into the small bailey, after passing what looked like an abbey on the way.
“Not a soul about,” Le Cordier declared, scanning the deserted bailey.
Matthew looked around. It was too quiet. Was it simply that the local inhabitants intended to show displeasure at their arrival, or was it a trap?
Even the boisterous routiers hushed as hundreds of men tensed, listening for the slightest sound that might indicate trouble.
Tired horses snorted. Steam rose from puddles of rainwater as the sun gained a foothold in the sky. From some distant place a sound reached their ears. A rhythmic pounding. Metal on metal.
It dawned on Matthew his heart was beating in cadence with what sounded like a hammer. “A forge, I believe,” he said to the frowning Commander.
Le Cordier’s face brightened. “Bon! We’ll need the services of a smith.”
It was Brig’s suggestion they keep the forge working, though the rest of the castle’s inhabitants had either secreted themselves indoors, or fled into the countryside. “It will bring us to their attention,” she insisted to her reluctant father. “They will know immediately there is a smith here.”
Her heart, already thudding with every blow of her Da’s hammer, raced erratically when two enemy soldiers trotted around the corner of the undercroft where the forge was located. That they were mounted spoke of their rank. They were both tall and broad in the shoulders, heavily armored, their faces half hidden by their helmets. Exactly what she’d expected.
She forced herself to keep pumping the bellows, though it was unlikely they would notice a mere lad. As she’d hoped, they watched her father. Nervous pride filled her when he carried on his task as if they weren’t there.
One of the soldiers shouted something. His manner was arrogant and though she didn’t understand his words, she suspected it was French he spoke. This was no doubt the superior of the two. He bristled when Gorrie ignored him, his face reddening as he looked to the other man.
“Blacksmith,” the second soldier shouted.
Despite the heat of the forge, a shiver trickled up Brig’s spine. Not only had he spoken in the language of the Gaels, but something about his voice tightened her throat. Unlike the other man he seemed amused.
The urge was to correct his pronunciation and then to protest that her Da wasn’t a mere blacksmith, but that would draw attention she didn’t want.
Gorrie thrust the ingot back into the hot embers, lay down the hammer and turned slowly, wiping his hands on the blackened cloth hanging from his leather apron. He bowed slightly, just enough, she thought, to appease the first man’s ruffled feathers. “I’m not a blacksmith, m
y lords,” he said politely. “I’m the armorer.”
This seemed to please the first man. The scowl left his face as he replied. The second man translated what he’d said. “We are in need of an armorer.”
To her surprise, the soldier who seemed to know a few words of her language dismounted, drawing her attention to his horse. It was an unusual reddish brown color.
“I am Matthew de Rowenne,” he said, “and my Commander is Capitaine Le Cordier.”
The captain dismounted, but she barely noticed, so taken was she with the red horse.
“You there, lad.”
She blinked. Surely de Rowenne wasn’t speaking to her. She dug her nails into the wood, suddenly realizing she’d forgotten to put on her leather gloves.
He held out the reins. “Your master’s fire needs no more air. See to our horses.”
She stumbled forward, stubbing her little toe on the stone platform on which the bellows sat. Tears welled as pain throbbed. Trying unsuccessfully to stop the trembling in her hands, she took hold of the reins of both horses, her gaze fixed on the reddening toe.
De Rowenne chuckled. “Don’t you know you should always wear shoes in a smithy,” he said softly.
She glanced up sharply into ice blue eyes full of amusement. She wanted to kick him in a place she knew would hurt because other boys had told her so. How did this arrogant Norman know when a fire needed more air? She clenched her jaw and averted her gaze, her eyes drawn to the blood red glass of the brooch that secured his cloak. Symbols had been engraved into it. It looked old and valuable. Probably bought with wages paid by his English king.
But his interest in her was fleeting. “Take good care of our horses,” he said sternly, waving her away with a gloved hand.