A Song Of Steel (The Light of the North saga Book 1)

by James Duncan

  As a young man, refused the opportunity to go by his father, a country knight of no great significance. He had watched with intense jealousy as the great crusader lords had returned from the east to acclaim and near-worship from their peers. Men his age had gone out to the Holy Land as squires of no name and returned as celebrated knights. The missed opportunity galled him. When his father had finally coughed himself to death in 1100, he had thrown himself into the service of the old Duke of Saxony, earning a name as a skilled knight and loyal follower, befriending and serving his son, Lothair. When the old duke had died and Lothair had succeeded the duchy, he made his loyal friend Adolf the lord of the new county of Schauenburg, a good sized rural county seated at his family manor, and the two ambitious young men had set about building their reputations and holdings.

  North of Saxony lay the Elbe River and beyond that the lands of the Wagrians that sat at the base of the Jutland peninsula. The Empire had long wished to tame those wild tribes of Wagria, and Lothair raised his forces to attempt the task. Lothair was no military man, but he was a cunning politician. He had given command of first a large detachment, and then his army, to his friend, the lord of Schauenburg.

  As they followed the rutted track Adolf saw a leafy stem of one of the roadside bushes leaning out over the path ahead of them. He reined his horse to a halt and looked at Hartung. ‘You see that hanging plant? It is your enemy. Do you think you can part that stem, at a gallop, without either half touching you or your horse?’

  The boy looked up and appraised the odd challenge. His father was prone to eccentric tests. ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Good. How would you do it?’

  The boy thought again for a moment. ‘I would slice it with a rising cut from the left,’ he said, somewhat uncertainly.

  ‘A rising cut over your horse’s head? Be sure not to slice off an ear. It won’t thank you for it; I’ve seen that before.’

  Hartung looked at the stalk again uncertainly. ‘Well then, perhaps…’

  ‘No, you have made your decision. There is rarely time to change your mind. Now execute the attack with skill and ensure the right result. Go, now!’

  Hartung stuttered but then nodded, drawing his old arming sword and putting his boots into the sides of his horse. It was only a riding horse, but it was trained for the charge and barely protested as the boy forced it into a gallop within just a few strides, hooves gripping well on the firm surface of the earthen road. Hartung let the reins go loose in his left hand, guiding the horse with his knees, and crossed his sword over, dropping it down on his left side, point facing forward, as if to threaten his imaginary foe with a thrust to the face. He judged the distance to the stem, and at the last moment, he flicked his wrist and swept the point of the sword up, almost kissing the left ear of his horse. The front of the blade sliced through the stem, and the flicking motion of the blade carried the cut half beyond him, falling to the right. The remaining half of the stem, suddenly unburdened by the hanging weight, sprang back, and horse and rider passed into the gap between the two.

  Adolf let out a whoop of delight as his son reigned in and returned. The movement had been near perfect. His son even blushed as the count and his footmen applauded the display.

  Hartung gave a curt nod of acknowledgement and fell back into step alongside his father.

  ‘Well cut, my boy. Well cut.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’

  ‘Do you understand how that cut could be used?’

  Hartung nodded. ‘I imagined that perhaps I was representing a thrust to the face, drawing my enemy to parry and strike me to the chest. But that flick would push his blade high and give me an opening to cut with the back edge.’

  ‘No, you would be going too fast, and you would be past him before you countered.’

  ‘Oh.’ Hartung sounded disappointed.

  ‘But you are rarely alone in a mounted fight. The man behind you would have had an easy strike on an unbalanced enemy, and your sword would have been perfectly positioned for a new attack on your second enemy. How would you have attacked the second enemy from that position?’

  Hartung nodded in understanding. ‘My hand was high and my point downwards, so I would have thrust for his chest and been able to parry, if needed, by turning my wrist.’

  ‘Excellent!’ exclaimed Adolf. ‘You get it entirely. Now remember that lesson. You do not have to strike an enemy to defeat him. Rely on your fellows and deliver to them easy kills, but also remember your enemy’s fellows and be guarded against them.’ Adolf smiled broadly, proud of his clever lesson and the skill his son had showed. The little cortege continued its slow way back to Schauenburg.

  Castle Schauenburg was a fortified manor, nestled on the hill above the villages and pastures of the broad river valley below like a bird of prey above a flock. The views from its upper floors were magnificent, and from his bedchamber Adolf could, and often did, gaze out over his first domain. When he and Lothair had driven the Slavic tribes from the lands north of the Elbe and secured the entire base of the Jutland peninsula, Lothair had made him Count of Holstein, as the newly conquered lands were known by the Empire, and also lord of Stormarn, the county that included the prosperous city of Hamburg.

  The gift was enormous. Adolf had, in ten short years, transformed himself from an obscure knight to one of the most powerful counts in all of Saxony, and the lands he held in Lothair’s name, particularly Hamburg, made him rich beyond his wildest dreams. But yet he still chose to live in the house his father had built, in the least significant of his holdings. It was called a castle but was a parody of the name; it was merely a largish manor house, which he had greatly expanded, with a wall and small gatehouse. But it was his home, and he eschewed finding or building a great castle that befitted his station and that would be far less comfortable and practical to live in.

  It was also the home where he had raised his son. Adolf had married Hildewa when he was a young knight of no fame and she the daughter of an old knight of no renown. Their son Hartung had been born before he set out on his great adventures, and he was loath to uproot them from this quiet country town, where he was the most important man for miles around, and move them to Hamburg, where the powerful moved like smoke through rushes and politics governed everything. His wife had no experience of the ways of the court in the big cities. She was a wonderful wife and mother, and a superb administrator of his affairs when he was away, but like him had no interest in fine society and the politics of the big cities.

  So in his birthplace Adolf remained, and he was content to visit his other holdings periodically to scare his stweards and pore over their accounts.

  And yet his idle hands yearned for more, for a return to glory, and as he trained his son to the life of a knight, he envied him his adventures yet to come.

  The party finally passed through the wooded lane that led to the gates of the castle, and Adolf tried to hide his stiffness as he dismounted, cursing his body, which felt every one of its nearly forty years after a long day in the saddle. He kept a broad smile fixed on his face as his weary party dismounted and set about dealing with the horses and their cargo.

  Leaving the work in the yard to others, he strode to his private quarters with only one thing on his mind: getting someone to fill the bath.

  As he was lying back in the broad, round tub, relaxing in the cooling water, Hildewa came into the room. It wasn’t usual for her to come into the bathhouse when he was using it, and for a moment his interest was stirred, and he smiled at her coyly. But her expression poured cold water on that intent and made it clear that was not the purpose of her visit.

  ‘I have just spoken to Hartung who seems very excited about the prospect of going on the crusade with his new sword and his father.’ Her tone poured ice water on any desire he had remaining.

  ‘Ah,’ Adolf replied awkwardly.

  ‘Why would you say he was going with you?’

  Adolf raised his hands in defence. ‘I did not tell him he was coming.�
��

  ‘But did you tell him he was not?’

  Adolf paused, and his defence deflated. ‘I did not.’

  ‘You took him on a trip to gather equipment for the crusade, to buy him a magnificent new sword, and you did not tell him he was not to be joining you?’

  ‘No.’ Adolf looked away, embarrassed. He had been so focused on his own dreams of glory that he had forgotten his son might have them.

  ‘Well, now he thinks he is going, and he is telling everyone he is going.’

  ‘Damn. Well, now he has told everyone, and he is so intent, perhaps I should take him.’

  ‘Husband, you cannot take him. He is but fourteen years old!’ Her stern demeanour cracked, and she sounded plaintive.

  ‘Many men his age will be going as pages, squires even.’

  ‘And how many of them will return?’ his wife half shouted, pointing a thin finger at his eyes.

  ‘We cannot keep him here forever, Hildewa. One day he will have my title, and he must have earned the respect of his peers. He must prove himself, as I did.’

  ‘You were nineteen when you went to war. He is not ready!’ She grabbed his hand and squeezed it. ‘Please, husband, do not take my boy to war – I cannot bear it. I thought you were done with campaigning. I would not waste my breath stopping you this time… but not my son.’

  Adolf looked into his wife’s eyes and relented, gently squeezing her hand in return. ‘You are right. I will tell Hartung, and he will hate me for it.’

  ‘He will forgive you, and he will be alive.’

  ‘One day soon you will have to let him make his own way, Hildewa,’ Adolf said, smiling up at her sadly as she perched on the edge of the tub.

  She let go of his hand and got up. ‘Not today.’

  Adolf could still feel the damp in his hair as he went out to the courtyard. He sighed as he found Hartung fencing with practice swords with the old guard master who often trained with him when Adolf was not at home. He watched for a while. He had to admit, the boy was good. Quick, and with a keen eye. Nevertheless, the guard master was far too wily and soon disarmed the boy with a neat reverse and a pommel strike to the forearm. Hartung yelped in pain and dropped his sword, shaking his hand and trying to massage the feeling back into his numbed fingers. He looked up and saw his father and went red in the face, humiliated.

  ‘You fight well, son,’ said Adolf with rare affection. The surly boy mumbled something without looking up at him, still gently massaging his wrist and ignoring the sword that the guard master was proffering him.

  ‘I will be ready when we leave for crusade, Father, I promise,’ he said defiantly, and Adolf’s heart sank. Adolf dismissed the guard with a subtle nod, and the man bowed and left with the swords.

  ‘Hartung, there is something we must speak of. Come, we will have dinner and speak about your future.’ Adolf immediately regretted his neutral choice of words as his son’s face perked up and he smiled at his father excitedly.

  Damn.

  Adolf, Count of Schauenburg and lord of Holstein and Stormarn

  Chapter 6

  Forging a Future

  In the forge in Minden, the rest of that autumn and the winter that followed passed to the beat of hammer strokes. The forge was a bustling hive of activity throughout the short days, beginning at dawn and continuing well into the evenings, lit by the fires of the forges and extra torches set up through the yard.

  The steel for the swords arrived in rough bars or rods from the smeltery. The master smith supervised the selection of suitable pairs and then the forging of these onto the sides of bars of wrought iron to form a sword billet. The blade that could then be hammered from that billet would have strong, hard edges and a soft centre that could flex and absorb blows.

  The billets were then hammered into the basic shape of the sword, teams of apprentices and journeymen working the sledgehammers as the master smith directed them in the glow of the forge. Then, when the blade was finished, they would harden and temper it. Ordulf loved this part. This was the dark art of swordsmithing. It was always conducted at night with just the light of the forge and a torch by the anvil. The temperature of the blade in the forge had to be just perfect, and the only way to judge was experience. The master smith taught this skill carefully and through much repetition.

  For the count’s new sword, Herman let Ordulf do the process himself without aid for the first time, the master watching like a hawk. At his direction, the bellows were pumped more slowly and steadily than for forging, the forge fire lower and more subdued than normal.

  Ordulf sawed a blade back and forth through the fire, carefully watching the colour of the blade and the way the sparks flew from the coals. When he judged the moment was right, he pulled the sword from the fire with the tongs and held it, smoking and glowing, in the cool night air. As the glow receded, a ripple of darkness spread out across the metal. The wave of darkness spread through the whole of the blade until it was gone and the blade had cooled to black.

  Chasing out the shadows, the master called it. And with the shadows gone, the blade would be ready for hardening. It was truly a beautiful moment, in the dark of the evening and the quiet of the usually bustling forge. Ordulf liked to think that those shadows being forced out let some light or soul into the sword.

  Once the blade was cool, Ordulf once again heated it rapidly in the forge until it was glowing like a sunset on a clear day, then whipped it from the coals and plunged it into a barrel of water to instantly cool. One blade in about five or ten would crack or shatter at this stage and some others would fail to harden. The steel they received varied, and that was the nature of the craft. Those that survived might still not be suitable for finishing. But as the steaming blade emerged from the water, it was intact, and he laid it aside to cool. Herman grunted at him gruffly, a distinct mark of approval.

  Ordulf picked up the now cooled and hardened blade from the bench in front of him. He tapped it with a small bronze hammer, and it rang like a bell. Then he ran a handsaw blade over the edge. The smith, carefully listening, looked at him and nodded. The pitch was right. The note was high and clear, and the saw blade screeched and did not mark the blade. The blade was hard and uncracked internally. It would be suitable for Count Adolf’s new weapon.

  The blade would have to be carefully tempered overnight by the apprentices, gently baking it in a brick oven built for the purpose. The blade had to sit in the brick oven for half the night at a temperature just high enough to make meat gently sizzle, then be removed to cool and left until morning. With the first blade done, and Herman satisfied, the forge was extinguished, raked and left to cool for the night.

  Once the grinding of a blade was finished, a process that took nearly two days per blade, the final edge was applied by hand with sharpening stones. The master inspected and tested each blade by cutting scrap leather and then sent it for the fitting of the cross guard, handle and pommel, a simple job of fitting pre-made parts done by the apprentices. The cross guards were of the simple bar pattern, with a slight incline towards the blade starting from the centre. The handle was wooden, ribbed in shape and wrapped in leather. The pommel was a hollow rounded block of iron, impressed with the shape of the cross on one side and the count’s coat of arms on the other, which the smith had stamped into them as they lay red hot on the anvil. The sword’s tang, the sliver of steel than ran from the blade up through the handle, protruded through the pommel and was carefully hammered flat, peened into a dome, sealing the pommel and handle tightly in place.

  The swords were elegant and simple, made to the latest designs and fashions. They were austere, as befitted a crusader, but also decorated subtly to show their quality.

  By the third week of the first month of the year 1116, the swords were completed, a full month ahead of schedule. The smith paid his exhausted staff an extra ten silver pieces a man for the apprentices and twenty for the journeymen and gave them the week off. He was worried that one or two might not return. They had become hi
ghly skilled over the winter with so much practice, and the money might tempt them to go elsewhere looking for new adventures. He supposed it mattered not. He could hire anyone he liked now with his money and reputation.

  He opened his strongbox; there were only five hundred silver pieces left, but the other half of the payment was now due. Once that was paid and he had settled his remaining debts with all the various suppliers, he would be left with around four thousand silver pieces. An unimaginable profit from a single winter’s work. He was a man utterly at peace with the world. He could sell the smithy and buy a nice plot of farmland with a house on it to retire to and spend his days managing tenant farmers on his own land if he was so inclined. But he was not. He was a man born to the fire of the forge and would never leave it while he had strength in his arms.

  He supervised the preparation of the shipment of swords. He and Ordulf shepherded some day labourers as they went down to the town docks and packed the boxes of swords onto the barge they had hired for the journey downriver to Bremen. There, they would hand over the consignment to the count’s people who would take it overland to Hamburg under escort. The journey down the River Weser was about seventy miles and would take three days, with overnight stops in two small towns along the way. A couple of dozy-looking guards in ancient maille shirts and carrying rusty spears would be their escorts, but the river and the area was very safe, especially with so many armed crusaders passing through, and Herman didn’t want to waste coin on lots of guards who would be more likely to draw attention than provide real security.

  Ordulf carried a scant few possessions for his great trip on the crusade. He carried his core tools including his favourite hammer and tongs, spare clothes, a new and fine warm woollen cloak he had bought with his bonus, spare boots with long tops for marching and some other assorted gear he thought he might need. He also carried all his money for buying whatever else he needed, which was thirteen silver pieces and a small purse full of coppers. Hardly a fortune but more money than a simple peasant might own at one time in his life. He also carried a long knife of his own forging, with a blade as long as his hand and a single curved edge leading up to a straight spine. It had a small iron guard at the base of the blade, a wooden handle and a small iron pommel peened to the tang. A simple but strong construction, it was suitable for eating and general use but also, if it came to it, for defending himself and the contents of his purse.