by James Duncan
‘Ah, there we are. You have returned to us. Don’t mind my chamberlain over there. He is overly obsessed with protocol and will harangue me at great length for talking to someone so far below my station so candidly. You see, I am supposed to give orders and occasionally dish out punishment to someone like you, nothing more. In fact, I am probably supposed to have someone else do even that for me.’ He smiled warmly and brought the sword up for inspection. ‘But this is your work, isn’t it? I saw your pride as you handed it over.’
‘My master designed and directed its forging, my lord,’ Ordulf spluttered, ‘and the whole company did parts of work on it, too, if that pleases your lord.’
‘Your lordship.’
Ordulf looked at him blankly.
‘When you say “your lord” to me, it sounds like you mean my lord, the Duke of Saxony, who probably isn’t all that pleased by that answer – in fact, he probably cares not one jot. What you meant to say was “your lordship”,’ the lord said, an amused expression on his face.
‘Yes, my lordship. S-s-s-sorry, m’lordship.’
The lord chuckled and continued. ‘So you honourably note the contributions of all the other members of your fine company of smiths, but I ask again: Who really put their soul into this blade? Who made this blade whole and beautiful? I feel a great love of craft sunk into this sword; the detailing is perfect, the lines and joins immaculate. I have owned many swords in my lifetime, seen many more, swung a few in battle. And this, young lad, is an exceptional-looking sword. Tell me, is it as good as it looks?’ The lord became stern, his eyes narrowing, his voice taking on a rough edge. The air suddenly felt colder, like a winter’s morning despite the sun.
‘This sword will bear responsibility for guarding the life of my firstborn son, my heir, the entire future of my family line and my legacy. If it looks pretty and doesn’t work properly, it counts for nothing. Nothing!’ The lord barked the last word and stood in front of the shaking young smith, sword between them, eyes boring holes into Ordulf’s very soul.
‘It’s a strong sword, m’lord, well forged and ready for battle,’ Ordulf managed to force out through quivering lips.
‘The boy speaks out of turn, but he speaks the truth, m’lord,’ the master interjected with a bizarrely high-pitched voice, the amount of hand-wringing he was doing having reached the level at which it could now be heard as a sweaty squeaking.
‘You certain of that fact, lad? You willing to bet my son’s life on it?’
‘I, uh… Well, yes, my lord.’
‘That’s all very well, as it’s not your life to bet. How about your own life? Would you stake your own life, which probably means as much to you as my son’s does to me, on this sword, that it is as good as it looks? That like a drunken sot at a dance you didn’t forget inner quality in the search for outer beauty?’
There was a stony silence around the yard. Ordulf breathed hard and then, calmly and quietly, replied, ‘Yes, m’lord. I would stake my life on the quality of that sword.’
‘Excellent,’ said the lord, turning and striding towards the table that the sword had been laid on. ‘Let’s take you up on that immediately, with a better test than some reeds.’
The table was a simple, portable thing, with boards as thick as a thumb laid side by side on some crosspieces.
Sweeping the stuttering master out of the way, the lord violently turned the table onto its side with a thrust of his boot. He swung the bright blade over his head with all his strength and down into the edge of the boards. There was a resounding crack that echoed around the packed yard and startled the tethered horses as the first board split to half its width and jagged splinters flew out.
The lord kicked the blade free of the cloying wood, raised the blade again and hammered it down into the damaged board, which split in half and parted. Again, the sword rose. Again, the lord roared and brought it flashing down into the ruined table. And again, and again, cutting chunks out until the last board had split and the end of the sword had buried itself in the dirt of the yard, the table completely split asunder.
The lord let go of the hilt, leaving the sword swaying, embedded in the earth. Straightening, he shook the splinters out of his dark-green hose. He plucked an errant one from his thumb, and bright blood showed. There was a shocked silence after the sudden violence of the last few moments.
‘Son,’ the lord called.
‘Yes, Father?’ The lordling stepped towards his father, regaining his composure.
‘Inspect that blade and hilt, and if it is damaged or unacceptably affected or loosened in any way, kill the boy with it. He gave his word.’
Gasps and whispers circled the yard. Master Herman rushed forward. ‘M’lord,’ he called to the retreating green-clad back as the son pulled the sword free of the dirt. ‘M’lord, please, I beg you, don’t commit violence here! The boy is arrogant and doesn’t know his skill yet. The blade he made may not be perfect, but he is a good lad, and he is learning well.’
The lord turned abruptly, causing the smith to nearly crash into him. ‘Master smith, do you believe that blade to be anything less than perfect? If so, how dare you sell it to me for my son? Say nothing more or I will assume you were knowingly selling me sub-standard weapons. Your reputation, and the life of your lad, rests on the quality of your work now. You should hope your confidence in the blade is deserved.’
As the lord returned to his seat, he smiled to himself. He loved acting the great lord and doing outrageous things. It really was one of the highlights of his life. People would speak of this event in reverential whispers for miles around, adding to his already fearsome reputation. Craftsmen would put extra effort into work done for him; swindlers would think twice before looking his way. The boy was in no danger. The lord had known from the feel of cutting those boards that the sword was solid and undamaged – he was merely making a show of it.
He accepted the cup of wine that his attendant had somehow provided. The lord swept his gaze over his son, who was alternating between swinging the sword and holding it up to the light, inspecting it, and then he fixed his stare on the lad whose life hung in the balance.
He found a steady gaze fixed back on him. He found himself to be mildly disappointed. The lad clearly also knew the sword to be fine. He went from feeling disappointed to feeling highly impressed when Ordulf inclined his head in a subtle bow. The lad was thinking ahead; he also knew how this would benefit his reputation. The lord laughed to himself as he realised the big, cocky bastard was actually grateful.
‘Father,’ his son’s annoyingly high-pitched voice called out. ‘The blade is fine, and the hilt solid. There is no serious damage beyond a small notch in the edge and some scratching across the middle of the blade from it. You must have hit a nail. Yes, I see the two halves of it here.’ He pointed to the ground beneath the ruin of the table.
The lord smiled and turned his head to the young smith. ‘Lad, what is your name?’
‘Ordulf, my lord.’
‘Ordulf, I congratulate you on your work. I am Adolf, Count of Schauenburg and lord of Holstein and Stormarn.’ He rose to his feet and clicked his fingers at his attendant, who produced a small number of silver coins as if by magic.
‘Ordulf, I would consider it a signal favour to me if you would take this token of my appreciation and repair the scratches on that blade. Two days should do it?’
Normally, Ordulf would have groaned inwardly at the thought of another two days of polishing. But he found himself longing for more of this great man’s praise and leaped to the task like a hound off the leash. ‘Of course, my lord. It would be a pleasure,’ he replied, bowing deeply.
‘Excellent. Master smith, I am most pleased by your service. Now we must retire inside to discuss another job I would have you do for me, if you would be so kind as to lead the way?’
The master bowed sharply, relief worn like a mask across his features. ‘Thank you, my lord. Of course, my lord. Please, this way.’
In the bac
k room of the forge that had become his virtual prison for days, Ordulf was selecting the stones and leather he would use to clean up the light marking on the blade. He couldn’t help but smile and whistle a happy tune. He had been awed and seduced by the power Count Adolf exuded, breathless at the way he had controlled the attention of everyone present, thrilled by the praise that had been publicly bestowed on him so soon after his whipping and humiliation. He felt vindicated and appreciated, a feeling so rare under the harsh eye of Master Herman. He suddenly realised that for the right man, he fucking loved polishing.
Chapter 5
The Country Count
Count Adolf settled into his chair in the centre of the main room. Somehow, the chair that he had stood up from in the courtyard had moved there before he arrived. He did not concern himself with how his chamberlain achieved these things, but the man really was excellent, if a bit haughty and fussy.
The master smith, much more comfortable now the drama was over and his customer was not only happy but offering more business, stood in front of him by the counter, waiting to be addressed.
‘So, to the main business of the day. Are you aware of the preparations for the crusade?’ the count asked.
‘Yes m’lord. I have been preparing a few items for men participating in this great campaign,’ the smith replied.
‘Good. Are you also aware that I spent ten years clearing the lands to the north-east of the Elbe, between Hamburg and the lands of Denmark, under the instruction of Lothair, our duke?’
‘I did not know that, m’lord. Apologies. I am aware of the campaign, of course, and I made my reputation supplying weapons to men headed to that war.’
‘War! Ha!’ the count guffawed. ‘That was no war. It was like clearing mice from a barn: long and tedious and with much killing of inferior creatures. But, regardless, that has put me in a position of much demand for this crusade, given my experience in the area. Now, between you and me, I had thought to stay and manage my lands here for a while, but my duke calls me, and I must answer.’
He waved a hand airily. ‘I digress. The point is that I must summon my vassals and commit a large force to the coming crusade. I intend my force to be the best contingent and thus be allocated the best positions and tasks. Part of this will be ensuring my men are well armed and armoured.’ He slapped his hand on his thigh with each of the final words for emphasis.
‘Now, I already have every low smithy and armourer between here and Hamburg making horse tack, maille, shields and spears. What I need is someone who can make a batch of arming swords of simple design and high quality. Nothing flashy, mind you; these are swords for war.’
The smith bowed low and excitedly babbled, ‘M’lord, I would be honoured to complete such an order for you.’
‘Of course you would. It would make you a small fortune.’
The smith raised his hands, and his eyes widened in protest. ‘M’lord, I would give you an excellent price; my taking would be very modest, I assure you.’
‘Yes, you will give me an excellent price. But, still, it is a large order and, of course, you will do well by it. Now, to the requirements. My noble vassals, of course, provide their own equipment and have their own swords. However, my men-at-arms of lower rank may not have good swords or even swords at all. In addition, swords break and are lost in combat.’
Herman nodded sagely in understanding.
‘So, for my contingent of four hundred and fifty men-at-arms, I would like one hundred spare swords. Made to a simple pattern, ready for battle, no extravagances other than my coat of arms upon the pommel. I will need them when we leave Hamburg in the spring in four months’ time. Can you do this?’
The master smith’s mind raced. He had never made such a large batch of swords before. Normally, such orders would be completed by the big workshops in Hamburg where teams of workers would make batches of simple swords fit for a lower-born man-at-arms or a household guard.
His company, with himself as master, four journeymen and eight apprentices working on their three forges, usually made between three and four swords a week during busy times. Twelve weeks would be, at most, fifty swords. But that was for custom pieces with varying decoration and individual design. Could they make a single, simple pattern twice as fast? He thought they could.
‘Yes m’lord, such an order is possible.’ He nodded his head fervently.
‘Excellent. If you say you can, then I expect nothing short of success. Do you understand me? You have seen today how seriously I take such claims, yes?’
The smith gulped nervously. ‘I understand, m’lord.’
‘I offer one hundred and fifty silver pieces per sword. I trust that will be sufficient?’
The smith hesitated briefly. One hundred and fifty silver pieces was a low price for a sword. Normally, his work started at two hundred and went as high as the masterwork for a thousand silver pieces that he had just sold to the count’s son. However, having a consistent pattern with no embellishments would save a lot of time and cost and, in any case, fifteen thousand silver pieces was more money than he had ever seen in his life.
‘I accept that price, m’lord,’ he said with a deep bow.
‘Excellent. There are a couple of other things I need. A new sword for myself in the latest style. It is to be a battle sword, but also take care to make it impressive – I have a reputation to uphold.’
‘Certainly, m’lord. It would be a great honour to make a new sword for you. I will make it myself.’ The smith beamed.
‘No, actually, I want the young lad to make it. I want you to focus on the supervising of the hundred blades – that is the more important job. I have many swords. I want to test the young lad’s capabilities because, you see, the last thing I require of you is him.’
‘You want the lad, m’lord?’ the smith asked, puzzled. ‘But for what reason would you require a journeyman smith? He is a crucial part of the operation here, though I would never tell him that. Without him, I don’t know if we can make the hundred blades.’
‘As to your first question, I want to take a smith with me on crusade. Experience has shown me that having a competent smith with your party is a huge advantage. Weapons get damaged, break and go missing. I need someone who can repair them, maintain them and possibly make new ones if we find a suitable smithy. I am assured that the Norse have a smithy in every village. As to why that lad? I see something in him that I like. A certain toughness and self-assurance. He will need that on campaign.’
The smithy started the hand-wringing and babbling again. The count raised a hand to cut him off.
‘Don’t worry, master smith. I only need to rent him for the duration, and he will not be involved in the fighting. He will be quite safe and return to you at the end of the crusade. I am sure he will also learn and develop his skills and perhaps be even more useful upon his return. Also, I won’t need him until we leave, so you may send him along with the swords when they are ready.’
The smith could see that he had no refusal open to him, so he sighed and assented with a nod. ‘As you say, m’lord.’
‘Now, what do you pay him?’
‘Two silver pieces a week, m’lord. Three extra when he completes a job.’
‘Two! My, that is affordable. I will pay you three a week for the duration of his absence, to cover his cost to you and the cost of replacing him.’
This news perked the master up again. ‘That is most kind, m’lord. I will be able to hire a good man from Bremen to cover his absence.’
‘Excellent. Then we are all agreed? Good. My man here will stay and deal with the particulars. I have to be away to deal with other matters of preparation.’
The lord stood and raised his arm so that his attendant could attach his cloak. Everyone in the room bowed, and he turned to leave, shouting for his horse. His horse was already there and ready, of course, but he liked shouting for things. It was one of the perks of his station in life. He threw himself up into the saddle, eschewing the proffered s
tool that was placed for him. He felt alive and was basking in the sunlight and the feeling of power that came with organising his own army.
For five years, he had managed his estates and watched his son grow, settled minor disputes and attended on his lord, the duke. It had been five years since his last campaign against the northern tribes that had finished with his triumph and his being raised to the title of count. In the northern campaign, he had been the commander of an army and the conqueror of new lands, receiving praise and jealousy in equal measure from his peers and his superiors. He had never been satisfied by anything since.
He could barely suppress his delight at being sent to war again. He laid his spurs into his horse, surprising the poor beast as much as his followers, and set off down the road that would lead home, trailing dust and panicked attendants in his wake.
Hartung was the first of his people to catch him up on the road outside Minden that led back to his own estates and to his fortified manor that sat on the hillside just over ten miles away. The boy loved to ride and was a talented horseman. Despite his many flaws in temperament and discipline, his physical skill on a horse and burgeoning talent as a swordsman gave Adolf hope that his only son would make a great man of himself, and a worthy successor.
The count slowed his childish flight and smiled warmly at his son, who gave him a clipped smirk in response, and the two men settled their mounts into a walk as they followed the broad road home. Soon, his mounted page arrived in a flurry of dust and apologies, then a while later harried footmen and attendants appeared, riding or leading horses, some weighed down with other purchases they had made in the town. They were flustered and sweating and casting resentful looks at the back of their master’s broad frame, looks that he could not see but felt nonetheless.
Adolf felt a small prick of guilt for the trouble he had put them through, but it was quickly quashed. It was a fine day, and he was simply enjoying life too much to care for the problems and petty grievances of his retinue. He had worried for years that his time of glory was over, that he would grow old and obscure, strangled of the opportunity for further military success or renown. But now he was shortly to ride to war, on a crusade no less, the highest expression of honour.