by James Duncan
Ordulf thought the young man looked like a total joke, his tunic and hose absurdly over-elaborate for the small country town of Minden. It was the sort of clothing he had seen in Bremen on market day or during his few trips up to Hamburg with his master. Clothing chosen to impress, but there was no one here worth impressing. Just sheer vanity and pride, then.
Regardless, Ordulf had been well schooled by his master in the requirements of his rich customers, and so he stood quietly at the back of the room to wait on his master’s convenience, trying as hard as possible to seem not to exist. The young lord’s eyes wandered around the room, passing through Ordulf as if he were not there, confirming that he was doing his job correctly. The room was the main place of business for the forge. Comfortable seats were arranged around a small table in one corner, and a counter ran along the back of the room upon which the wares could be examined. On the walls were examples and patterns of various types of weapons available to order. It was a tidy and presentable space, if a little dark and small compared to the more prestigious smithies in Bremen or Hamburg.
His master was behaving in that special, uncharacteristically obsequious way that he reserved for the higher gentry. It was all Ordulf could do not to laugh and he managed to merely breathe more loudly than strictly necessary.
‘Do you require any more adjustments to the belt or scabbard?’ his master intoned, bowing in front of the young man half his size and spreading his palms outwards, a concerned and quizzical look on his face. ‘If so, I will send it straight for such changes, as you require.’
‘I am sure it is quite fine,’ the young lord replied, not looking at the master or indeed the scabbard or belt, which he had briefly and disinterestedly tried on.
‘Superb, Master Hartung. Then I shall have the blade finished and the scabbard fitted to it by matins the day after tomorrow.’ He bowed deeply. ‘Is there anything else you require?’
The young boy simply turned around and left with a half flick of his fingers to indicate that the meeting was over. Ordulf let out a surpressed chuckle, to be met with instant hot rage from his master. The burly master smith closed the distance to him in half a heartbeat and, despite being shorter, seemed to stare down at the cowering seventeen-year-old journeyman.
‘Think that’s funny, boy?’ He emphasised ‘boy’ as if it was a vulgarity. ‘That’s your food just walked out that door. That’s your bed, your roof, your very reason for existing and not being returned to the filthy milkmaid from whose belly you gushed forth. Do you understand me?’
Master Herman was a force of nature both in form and personality. Thick arms protruded from his massive chest, perched atop ludicrously short legs. The only man Ordulf knew with arms as strong as his own, he was a powerhouse of a smith who could swing the heavy hammer from dawn to dusk, day after day. A thick, wild beard was paired with a nearly bald head. His moods ranged from blazing fury to cold indifference, and unlike any other man Ordulf had met, he could switch between the two in a heartbeat. He was truly a unique man in Ordulf’s limited experience.
Herman had lived in Minden all his life and been at this smithy since joining as a boy of six years to sweep the forge floor at night. He had eventually risen through the ranks to buy it from the previous master when the old man could no longer swing a hammer. Now, in his mid-forties, Herman had built this smithy up into the envy of the whole county with his smithing skill and his ferocious management of his workers.
The master smith turned around, leaving the questions unanswered, as they were intended to be. Instantly cool again, he said, ‘Now bring me the sword, and we will set the fittings before we peen it together tomorrow.’
Ordulf slunk out of the room and returned to the forge. On his way through the central courtyard, he passed Henrick, one of the particularly useless apprentices they had that year. The boy was red-faced but Ordulf thought nothing of it. The boy was overweight and lazy and was always red-faced.
Ordulf went to the cradle and the sword. Something was wrong. It was the other way around to how it had been left, tip facing away. Brows furrowed, he picked it up and inspected it. That bloody halfwit Henrick had probably been playing with it. He hoped the boy hadn’t dropped it or hit something. He desperately searched the blade, checking for marks or scratches.
His heart sank like a stone. He ran his eyes to the very tip and saw that it was bent and chipped. He cursed out loud. That couldn’t just be straightened or polished out. It would ruin the entire profile of the tip. The whole point would have to be re-ground and profiled and then repolished back up the entire length of the blade to get a consistent finish. That bumbling moron had set him back five days’ work, at least. Oh God, they only had two days to finish it. His mind raced. They could not fail to deliver; this was their most important customer.
By God, he would have that apprentice flayed to the edge of his life. Just as he turned to run to his master, a huge, meaty hand slammed down on his shoulder and whipped him around. He was presented with his master’s boiling red face an inch in front of, and a foot below, his own.
‘Henrick says he heard a clatter and saw you picking up the sword from the ground!’ He shook the big journeyman. ‘What did you do, boy?’ Spittle flew from his lips up onto Ordulf’s chin. ‘Show it to me now!’
Ordulf opened and closed his mouth like a landed fish, speechless at the betrayal and shocked into silence. The moment to protest came and went as the master found the damaged tip and exploded into incandescent rage.
The world seemed to slow down and blur. Orders were shouted, but he didn’t hear them. Rough hands grabbed his wrists as the other journeymen took him in their grip, dragged him into the smithy and held him down over an anvil. A whir and blur of noise and anger surrounded him. He heard everything and nothing. He was in total shock over the suddenness of the events. In front of his nose, the forge scale left on the anvil vibrated and moved with the movement of his breath and the pounding of feet around the forge. His whole world narrowed and shrank to that chattering forge scale flake.
As his eyes regained their focus and his hearing came back, leather was thrust into his mouth. The sudden realisation of what was happening hit him like a rush of wind the second before the knotted leather thong hit his bare backside like a chain of lightning bolts. He roared and struggled to throw off his fellow journeymen. Despite his own huge size and strength, the three of them held him down as the blows rained like the fire of God on his exposed rear. Ten strokes, twelve? He wasn’t sure. Suddenly the blows stopped, and he lay there, panting, across the anvil. He opened his eyes and struggled to focus them as he sank to his knees beside the forge.
For a long moment, he hung there before the agony really kicked in: a dull ache followed by burning fire. He groaned and, as he opened his eyes once more, saw Henrick, eyes pinned wide and legs quivering, standing in the background. Henrick looked back, seeing nothing in the quivering, pain-filled face but the promise of revenge. Henrick gurgled and ran back to the bunkhouse, blabbering incoherently.
The master’s lecture was almost as painful as the whipping. One month’s pay deducted and his status reduced to lowest journeyman, Ordulf would work under supervision until he was trusted again. He would prostrate himself in front of the customer and beg forgiveness for his stupidity. How could a journeyman not know better than to play with a sword? He wasn’t a knight; he was a peasant whose usefulness only extended to his skills in the forge. If he lost his master’s trust in that again, he would be thrown out into the world as nothing, to be a labourer or a beast of burden on a farm.
With the mental whipping concluded, he was thrown into the bunk room and told not to reappear for two days until the lordling returned.
For two days, unable to sit down or lie comfortably, Ordulf raged and sulked in his room. He plotted his revenge, he planned great speeches pleading his innocence and he lived in utter terror of losing his position as a smith. He thought himself a superb smith, not just for his age but in absolute terms. He had a
lot to learn, but he felt he could see the hot metal. He could see inside it: its twists, its imperfections, its structure. He felt he could plan his hammer strokes in real time to caress or stretch or bludgeon the steel into shape as required.
His blades warped less, and required less finishing, than any other smith’s he had seen in this smithy, or indeed in the forges he had visited in Bremen. Sure, he was guilty of great pride, but was it not deserved? For two days with no food, he worried and sweated and slept fitfully. On the second day, the door burst open and his master’s scowling face appeared in advance of his massive chest.
‘You fucking stink. Go and wash your filth off and be ready to see the lordling. If he demands your punishment or objects to the delay, you had better be ready to hand me the hammer that I will crush your balls with, you little shit. Do you understand me?’
The master smith turned on his heel and stormed out. Shaken and crestfallen, Ordulf dragged himself to the kitchen and got a pail of water to wash himself with. Changing into his least-worst working clothes, he slunk to the main room like a man being dragged to the gallows.
He stood in the centre of that room for what felt like an eternity, but was probably only as long as it takes a priest to say Mass, when the door opened and the lordling’s servant came in. He walked up to the master smith, ignoring Ordulf, and performed a perfunctory bow.
‘My lord regrets that he is unable to attend today. He will visit you at noon in three days to collect his sword. I assume all is well with it.’
Stunned at this turn of fortune, the master babbled, ‘Of course. Convey my assurance that we will be ready and waiting for him at whatever time is convenient to him.’
‘Excellent.’ And with that the attendant swept out of the room.
Ordulf let out the breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding and nearly sank to the floor. His master was giving him a wry grin. ‘Someone up there loves you, boy,’ he intoned, waving vaguely at the ceiling. ‘Now go finish the fucking sword. You have two days, and if it isn’t perfect, I’m going to wear your ears for jewellery, since you clearly don’t need them for listening. You got me, boy?’
‘I’ve got you, Master.’
‘Don’t fucking stand here flapping your mouth at me. I pay you to work, not talk. Now get going. You’ve got two days to do three days’ work, and you ain’t even managed three days’ work in three days before now, not in your whole, miserable life.’ The language was as harsh as ever, but the master had a barely suppressed grin on his face, and he gave Ordulf a hearty pat on the back as he walked out of the door. Ever the mercurial character, his master would run hotter than hell if things were going wrong, but as long as all was well, he was a reasonable man.
Ordulf practically ran to the back room. The sword point was being carefully recreated by a worried-looking journeyman. He looked up as Ordulf ran in.
‘Master says I’m to finish the sword,’ Ordulf blurted out.
‘Lord Fancy Pants didn’t kill you, then? Thank fuck for that. I hate polishing,’ replied the other smith, standing up from the workbench before he farted, grunted and left to go about his other work.
Chapter 4
A Clatter of Swords
When the lordling did arrive in the forge yard, he unexpectedly came with his father, who was the lord of the neighbouring province and a great and powerful man. After furiously bowing and begging his lord’s forgiveness for the state of himself, his forge and his unkempt workers, the master smith invited the lord and his retinue to meet in the main room, even as he worriedly eyed the number of them and wondered how they would all fit in.
‘No need, good man. It’s a fine day, and I would rather conduct this affair outside in the air,’ said the lord. One of his footmen promptly appeared with a folding chair and set it out for his lord to sit in the shade under the edge of the sloped forge roof. ‘Conclude your business with my son, and then I will talk to you on another matter.’
‘Certainly, my lord. Thank you, my lord.’ The master bowed and retreated from the seated noble.
The lordling stood, much less assuredly this time under the gaze of his father, as a table and a tightly bound roll of reeds on a stand was brought out into the yard. Journeymen and apprentices lurked in the shadows and peered through windows, keen to watch the proceedings. Ordulf, who was standing behind his master with the carefully wrapped and scabbarded sword, looked everywhere for Henrick but didn’t see him. He hadn’t seen him in the last four days. He had done nothing but sleep and refinish the sword, cooped up in the back room.
He was still furious about the whole episode, but he acknowledged that the adversity and the desperation to be perfect had brought out his best work. The sword was, quite simply, gorgeous. The finish on the blade was as smooth as a lake on a calm spring morning. The guard and pommel shone like the sun out in the daylight, and the hilt was fitted to perfection. This was the best-finished sword he had ever made.
When his master indicated to him, he came forward to the table and handed it over, keeping his head down, trying not to exist. The master laid the sword on the table and uncovered it with a small flourish.
He stepped back and, with his open palms, invited the lordling to examine the sword. Along with its fittings and scabbard, it had cost enough to rent a small farm for a decade, so even for the great lord, it was a serious expenditure.
The sword was in its scabbard and belt. The belt was of rich black, tanned leather, decorated with gilded fittings, buckles and bronze rivets. The lord’s coat of arms was engraved into the fitting above the sword itself and replicated on the outside of the scabbard. The scabbard was covered in the same rich black leather, banded underneath with iron over a double-leaf wooden core. The sword fitted inside snugly, requiring a sharp tug to free it from the throat so it would not rattle or fall out. The top of the scabbard was covered with a gilded cap with the cross emblazoned on the outside.
The lordling stepped forward and ran his hands over the leather and fittings. Even the lord himself perked up and craned his neck to see the details. An attendant helped the son to fit the belt, and he walked around in a small circle, testing the weight and feel of the belt with the sword mounted to it. All his earlier hesitancy and arrogance were gone. He was, after all, a man who had been training for swordplay since he was half his current age. He turned to face the reed bundle and dropped into a fighting stance, front foot forward, knee bent, back foot opening out. He took a step away. He grasped the hilt and drew the sword in a wide flashing arc before bringing it down to inspect it, left hand lightly holding it near the tip.
He spun and swung it a few times to test the weight and balance, circling with his feet. Then he abruptly turned, leaving the sword trailing behind his shoulder, and swung down with a vicious cut from a high guard at the roll of reeds on the stick. There was a thunk, and the top of the reed bundle toppled without moving sideways more than a handspan. The lord and his men applauded the little display, and the master smith beamed. The lord leaped from his chair to examine the sword himself and twirled it and rolled it in his hands.
‘Master smith, this is a magnificent sword. How dare you make my son a better one than I myself carry?’ he intoned, casting a grim look at the smith.
The master’s face fell and drained of colour. ‘My lord, I… I beg your forgiveness for my thoughtlessness.’
The lord chucked and broke into a smile. ‘I jest with you, master swordsmith. I expected nothing less from a smith of your reputation. The one in my own town is good for nothing but horse tack and watchmen’s spears.’
The master stammered and nodded his head vigorously in relief. Ordulf had forgotten not to exist and was beaming broadly off to one side. Suddenly the lord’s eyes turned and locked with his. Ordulf froze. He then panicked, lost the smile and returned his eyes to the ground, cap in clenched hands in front of him. His mind raced; he had never made eye contact with a great noble before. Oh God, had he caused offence? He knew he couldn’t afford to create anot
her round of trouble.
There was a moment of silence that seemed like an age but was probably no longer than it takes a horse to swat at a fly. He wondered what was going on. Surely the lord had simply moved on and was looking elsewhere? He risked a quick glance up. Oh God! The lord was still staring at him, except he was now only half the distance away and closing in purposeful strides.
Ordulf opened his mouth to apologise before remembering that you never speak first to a noble and slammed it shut again. He could feel himself sweating profusely. The sweat was making the healing wounds on his backside itch like the devil but, by God, he couldn’t scratch them now.
Oh, sweet mother of Jesus! The lord had arrived in front of him. What should he do now? The lord was only slightly shorter than Ordulf, who was usually a giant among men. The lord stopped and addressed him.
‘You there, young lad. I saw the pride of craftsmanship in your eyes as I praised this blade. Is this your work?’
Ordulf opened his mouth, and some incoherent stammers leaked out before he slammed it shut once more and bowed his head.
The lord turned to the master smith with an amused grin on his face. ‘Is he simple, or is he just encountering his first great lord?’
‘His first great lord, m’lord,’ the smith replied, wringing his hands as he watched the scene, desperately hoping his wayward journeyman wouldn’t cause some great offence.
‘Ah, I see. Look up at me, lad. It’s allowed, I won’t punish you for looking at me. I’m really just a man like you, except smaller and with more important parents.’
‘My lord!’ the lord’s chamberlain protested quietly from behind him. Ordulf let out a shocked squeak and suppressed a laugh, but the tension was broken. He met the lord’s gaze and inclined his head awkwardly.