“Is not her husband gone with his battalion to the southern defense?” he inquired. Grier narrowed his eyes at the young smith.
“Never you mind, boy,” he spat. “You have two score and four shoes, and all those arrows to finish.” He waved towards the huge stack of bundles. “See you close up at sundown.” With that Grier hurried out the door and was soon out of sight. Joseph continued pumping the bellows, though with a bit more force than necessary.
In the middle of hammering a glowing strip of metal around the curved horseshoe shaping anvil Joseph thought he heard a woman’s voice outside. Laying the hammer down, he wiped his hands on his apron and went to the door. A young woman in a blue gown and veil stood by a petite-looking horse. Her face was turned away, toward the market. A uniformed man stood nearby, holding the reigns of her horse.
“My lady?” Joseph’s greeting sounded abrupt--even to him--but he stood fast. He neeeded to get back to his work.
“Oh,” she returned; she seemd startled by Joseph’s sudden appearance. She looked past him--briefly--as if looking for Grier.
“Smith Greir is gone for the day. I am Joseph, his aide.” A small smile grace the young woman’s face.
“I see,” she said gently. “I need... well, my mare needs, new shoes.”
In spite of his better judgment Joseph found himself enjoying the sight of the young woman before him. Her fair skin and fine features were visible even through the veil; Joseph admired the shade of her eyes, like the color of molten gold. Dark red hair framed her face, caught up in a finely-woven net popular among the townswomen. Her manner of dress did not appear overly fancy, but finely-made. Feeling his irritation at being interrupted drain away, Joseph went over to the horses side. Kneeling down, he examined each of the small hooves. He stole upward looks at the pretty visitor, meeting her shy glance more than once.
“You may leave the horse today,” he said, standing. “I’ll stable her away from the stallions. The shoes should ready by noonday.” The manservant stepped forward with a money bag. Joseph waved it aside. “Pay when it’s finished. Four silvers.” The manservant nodded, putting the pouch in his tunic. The young woman took the servant’s arm and nodded at Joseph as they walked towards the market.
Watching the young woman walk away Joseph suddenly realized he was covered in soot and sweat, and probably smelled strongly of horse. He tied up the fine pony to the hitching post and patted the braided mane reassuringly. Back inside the smithy Joseph threw himself into making the small shoes, affixing them to the horse’s hooves as gently as possible. When the sun was almost at the top of the sky Joseph dumped a bucket of clean water over his head in the cover of the smithy, trying to rub some of the soot away.
“Grier!”
A harsh, angry voice rang out from outside the smithy. Joseph wiped his face off and stepped out the door; an older man of medium height stood without, dressed in the manner of a farmer. The man was a bit taken aback, expecting the small, grimy blacksmith, not this formidable figure; he recovered quickly, however and rage once again overtook his features. “Where is Grier?!” The farmer glanced at the dark opening to the smithy. “Is he hiding in there? Come out you illegitimate swindler! Come out and reckon with me!”
“He left this morning,” Joseph said calmly. “I am Joseph, his aide”
The farmer studied the new face briefly and then nodded, slowly.
“Grier shoe’d my good plow-horse two months ago,” the man stated, far more quietly. “Now my horse is lame! I took him to the other blacksmith; the shoes Grier fitted were for another horse! They do not fit my horse at all!” The farmer’s face grew redder as he spoke. “Grier has been over-charging me for years, but this is the last straw. Now I have to sell my horse to the butcher, for meat! I do not have enough silver to buy another plow-horse. We’ll starve this winter!” Joseph looked at the man carefully; he could see no falsehood in his face. Indeed, the old farmer seemed desperate.
“Bring me your horse,” he instructed the man. “I am not Grier.” The man’s face brightened considerably and disappeared out the door. Within a few moments, the farmer lead a middle-aged horse over to the smithy hitching post. The animal’s gait indeed seemed hampered by a pronounced lameness. As he watched the horse limp by Joseph felt moved; the animal could have had many good years left in it but now was good for nothing but slaughtering. As the farmer held the horses bridle Joseph knelt down and examined one of the hooves; he saw at once that the shoe was far too big for the hoof, and had worked loose. The nails were sloppily driven, further proof that Grier had been the smith responsible. Joseph let out a sigh as he stood to face the farmer. The gray-haired man was soothing his horse with soft sounds, his face pained as the animal shifted its weight off the injured leg.
“What did you pay Grier for the shoes?” Joseph asked. The farmer looked grim.
“Same as always,” the man told him. “Six silvers.” Joseph almost swore; townsfolk paid only four silvers.
“If the money was returned to you, would you then have enough to purchase a plow-horse?” he asked, quietly.
A small amount of hope glimmered in the farmer’s eyes.
“If I sell the nag to the butcher as well... then, yes,” he said, looking back at his horse.
“Wait here,” Joseph told him, shortly. Dodging around the side of the smithy, he ducked into the stables behind. Taking out his money bag Joseph counted out six silvers; the precious coins felt heavy in his palm and for a moment, he hesitated. The small amount in his hand represented half his earnings this last month. A sigh escaped him. Turning, he walked back to the smithy yard.
The farmer looked at the coins in his hand as if they were not real.
“Do not tell Grier,” Joseph told him. “I would lose my position here.” For the first time, the farmer’s face relaxed; he nodded and even allowed himself a smile. Taking the young smith’s hand, he shook it firmly.
“The Lord bless you, son,” he said, with frank sincerity. “’Twill keep us alive, this will... what, with my sons dying at the Battle of Munitio and my horse gone, I’d have never broken ground to plant.” He clapped Joseph on the shoulder and happily put the coins away in his tunic.
At the mention of the name Munitio Joseph winced. In his mind scenes hearkened forth from that battle, the scores of kingdom men advancing only to be mowed down by the Westerly arrows, darkening the sky like locusts. The image of the brave soldiers falling down slain while their general fled conjured up a deep grief in Joseph, so much that he felt unable to speak for some moments. “My name’s Mordecai,” the farmer said, taking off his straw hat. “I’ll find some way to repay you.”
Before the young smith could reply the farmer led the lame horse slowly away, into the market. The man’s step seemed lighter now than when he had come. Looking after him Joseph beheld the lady and her manservant standing fairly close by, watching the farmer and the horse as well. The young woman glanced at him, a soft smile blossoming on her face. Ashamed that she’d heard of his employer’s swindling Joseph felt his face grow red and turned away to the hitching post. Taking the petite horse’s bridle, he led the fine animal to its owner.
The young lady seemed pleased with the shoes. Her manservant, Harold, inspected each and stood, nodding to his mistress.
“Will they need to be adjusted often?” she asked, stroking her horse’s mane. Joseph considered this.
“You could come back in... seven days, to see if they still fit properly,” Joseph said, trying to speak calmly. “Sometimes shoes can work loose. You don’t want your horse to go lame.”
At this, the manservant coughed into his hand and looked away.
“No indeed,” the young lady returned. “We will return, as you suggest. Thank you.” She looked over at her servant. Harold took out the money pouch and gave five coins. “An extra coin, for such fast work,” the girl explained hastily. Joseph was about to protest but the girl’s quick smile stole away his words. He stood there in the yard with a hammer in one
hand, watching as she walked her own horse through the market, towards a fine carriage. Harold helped his mistress up and hitched the horse to the back before climbing beside the uniformed driver.
As they drove off, the young woman stole a last look at Joseph. Some moments later, the young smith realized he was staring at nothing and went back inside the smithy. Stoking up the forge fires, Joseph found his mind wandering to more pleasant thoughts than ironwork and arrows. He dove into his work with double zeal, unwilling to experienced Grier’s wrath. Sparks flew and the bellows roared, and more irons lay in the fires than the old smith had ever attempted in one day. As twilight fell, Joseph wearily swept out the smithy, banked the fires and closed up the doors. Heading back to the stables, Joseph fed Belator the last of the hay and sunk into his mat for a well-deserved rest. For the first time in weeks, however, the tired smith did not dream of battles, nor of his cursing employer, but of a maid... with gold-colored eyes.
At dawn Joseph stepped out the stable door, and nearly tripped over a bundle of hay on the ground. It was enough feed for Belator for a week, tied neatly with twine. Next to the hay a small basket sat, covered with a wicker lid; unfastening it, Joseph saw loaves of rough bread within, a bundle of dried fruit and a few strips of smoked meat. Looking around he saw no one. A rare smile flitted over Joseph’s face as he lifted up the basket and hay and bore it inside.
“Thank you Lord, for Mordecai.”
Taking a portion of meat, he tore off some of the bread for his breakfast. Belator munched the hay as his master stood in the door, looking out at the dew-covered yard behind the smithy.
THE YOUNG woman returned seven days later, accompanied by her manservant and mare. Joseph told her to come again in a week for more adjustments. Harold never said anything about this, but grinned a good deal as Joseph explained why more adjustments might be necessary. The young lady seemed to accept the explanations without the slightest hint of suspicion. She began bringing a different horse from her father’s stable each time. Apparently all her father’s horses were in dire need of replacement shoes. Grier’s abuse, the hot toil of the forge and the scoffing of the officers at the sparring matches seemed more tolerable in the wake of the young lady’s brief visits. Her presence felt like a fresh breath of air.
Some of the officers at the fort found out that “the peasant swordsman” worked at Grier’s forge. Word got around to Von Curtis and his fellows. They went to the smithy and demanded copious work on saddles and weaponry and made it a point to complain about the quality of Joseph’s work to Grier. The old smithy gradually became more and more irritated at his assistant for causing trouble. Only the fact that Joseph had doubled the forge’s profits kept the greedy smithy at bay.
Weeks turned into months, months into a year. The sparring matches had invoked a sort of weekly entertainment for the town and the amount of spectators grew. Officers now lined up to try to defeat Joseph, but always it would come out in a draw. The general over the fort--a General Octavian Hays--watched every match from his carriage. He mentioned the “peasant swordsman” often at supper to his wife and daughter.
“It is amazing the restraint he shows,” Hays said one night at the table. “He never has drawn blood. I am amazed he doesn’t go into the army, but he apparently will not even hear of it. I have made a tidy profit betting on him. Never draws blood. Amazing.”
His daughter spoke up.
“Wouldn’t he be executed if he struck an officer?” she asked.
“Unprovoked, yes,” her father answered. “But this is a mutual agreement to spar in a match.”
“I would like to see this sparring,” the young woman said, stirring her soup thoughtfully.
“I have heard that there are many officers that come to fight this... peasant,” said the general’s wife. “Elizabeth, you should go. There are many men among them who are in want of a wife; not a Sergeant of course, but a captain... or better, a wealthy landed colonel.”
To this her daughter said nothing, but the General laughed.
“She’ll be married soon enough,” he said. “Come along with me tomorrow, my dear and you can watch all you like.”
The next day, sparring had begun by the time the general drove up in his carriage. As usual, Hays watched from beyond the crowd. This time, however, his veiled daughter sat with him.
“There are so many officers lined up,” Elizabeth said, looking at the rope square. “Are they all going to fight the peasant?”
“Yes. Well... fight is more a barbaric word for it,” the General explained. “They are sparring, really. Getting valuable practice... here comes the peasant now.”
Elizabeth gasped a little as a tall, burly young man stepped into the ring.
“Father, that’s the blacksmith!” she blurted out, surprising the General.
“What blacksmith?” he asked, looking at her, puzzled. Elizabeth blushed, hoping he wouldn’t see it through her veil.
“The blacksmith that Harold found,” she explained hastily. “He has done all the work on our horses’ shoes these last few months.”
“Is he the one doing such excellent work on my saddles?” Hays said, shading his eyes and looking at Joseph. “My horses have never been so well shod.” He thought for a moment. “I have been desirous to meet him,” he said, rubbing his chin with his white glove. “Perhaps I should go to the smithy.”
“We could have him over for supper, Father,” Elizabeth suggested, quietly.
Her father stared at her for a moment beofre a smile overtook his face.
“A peasant blacksmith, for supper?” he repeated. “Your mother would be displeased with me for days...” He chuckled to himself. “Brilliant. Ask Harold to invite the Spartan on the morrow.”
The first match began. Over the heads of the assembled spectators, Elizabeth could easily make the young blacksmith. Watching him move and dodge the parries and thrusts from his opponent, she held her breath until the draw was called. Joseph’s opponent shook hands with him before withdrawing from the square.
“He is skilled,” Elizabeth remarked, leaning back against the carriage seat. Her father nodded.
“Indeed he is,” the general returned, watching a new match begin. “My officers have too little experience with such swordsmanship.” Elizabeth looked at her father questioningly.
“What do you mean, father?”
“Well, any farm hand can pick up a blade,” Hays replied. “Their fighting style is often crude... hardly any control unless they’ve been trained. This young man makes a good deal of my officers appear unfit for battle. I wonder who trained him.”
Elizabeth watched the match closely. The young captain sparring with Joseph seemed eager enough to increase his own skill; most of his fellows were outside the square, some appeared uneasy, while other jeered at the peasant swordsman.
“Are not your officers trained to fight at academy?” she asked, turning back to her father. Hays’ brow wrinkled thoughtfully.
“They are, to a degree,” he informed his daughter. “But he has more skill than even they. Some of my captains are... well, I suppose they feel slighted by the comparison. Indeed, these weekly matches are the talk of the town; the peasant swordsman accrues praise and the townsfolk cannot help but gossip about my captains’ lesser abilities.” The general was quiet some moments before speaking again. “I know it is unlikely, but the way he moves indicates much training. Somewhere the boy learned ancient fighting stances, skills for which the Kingdom knights of old were feared and renowned for.”
Elizabeth mulled over this information in her mind.
“Do you mean he was a solider?” she asked. Hays shook his head.
“Unlikely. The army would not have discharged such a valuable fighter... and a smith to boot. Perhaps he grew up among soldiers... a father or uncle may have taught him the sword.”
They watched the rest of one match before driving the carriage homeward.
ELEVEN
Visiting the general’s home filled J
oseph with simultaneous feeling of curiosity and dread. The building itself struck him as intimidating as he rode up on Belator.
The three story stone structure rose stately from a sprawling lawn--just outside of town--among several other estates on the edge of a small forest. Sitting at a long dining table, Joseph felt entirely inadequate in his plain clothes. He’d paid to bathe at the inn--with strong soap--and laundered his best clothes in preparation, but the shining gold decorations of the table and silken drapes in the room made him feel as if he were covered in mud. General Hays appeared friendly, however, setting his guest at ease with compliments on his work with his horses’ trappings.
Soon the conversation turned to the sparring matches.
“I am curious, Joseph,” Hays began. “Blacksmiths can forge a sword and engrave it... but, rarely do they wield it with skill.” The hidden question hung in the air. Joseph offered no explanation. The older man studied his guest’s face. “Your matches attract large crowds,” he went on. “It has even been reported to the province marshal that my captains are being bested by a blacksmith.”
Joseph met his gaze.
“Perhaps the Academy needs better instructors, general,” he said. Hays let out a snort of laughter; he sobered and leaned forward a little, a glass of wine in one hand.
“Perhaps,” he assented. “Regarding these matches, though... I note that you always fight to a draw. I respect your ability and that you do not exert your full potential on my officers. However, would it be any harm to let some of them win once in awhile?” Joseph’s face betrayed no sign of surprise at this request. The general went on. “It would greatly ease the minds of the noble families in this town--whom have I might add--paid handsomely for their sons to be trained as officers.” Joseph returned the general’s gaze
“I will bear your suggestion in mind, sir,” he said.
The Road To The King (Book 1) Page 15