by James Duncan
Of course, Ordulf knew nothing about fighting with knives, but his arrogance and sense of invincibility due to his size, strength and youth prevented him from thinking this through. The barge moved off from the dock, and the lively late winter current swept them swiftly along as they huddled and shivered on deck.
The journey passed uneventfully at first. Two stops in small, quiet riverside inns along the way were pleasant and allowed the smiths to talk openly away from the strictures of the forge. Ordulf had come to appreciate the generous and caring side of his employer away from the pressure of work, even while he remembered with a shudder the full strength of his rage and the sting of his whip.
On the second night, the master shocked him as they ate some stringy mutton broth and some surprisingly fine bread. ‘I knew it wasn’t you who damaged that sword.’
Ordulf gagged and spluttered out his mouthful.
‘But you whipped me for it!’
‘Yes. You needed a right good whipping – not for the sword, but to jolt you out of complacency. That sword, once you re-did it, was the best work you have ever produced.’
Ordulf sat there, red-faced in outrage, while the master continued calmly spooning the broth into his bearded mouth.
‘But… you whipped me!’ Ordulf cried, raising his voice another level. ‘Was that little shit Henrick ever even punished?’
‘In a manner of speaking, yes,’ the master intoned, wiping drips from his beard. ‘He’s dead.’
That brought Ordulf back down to earth with a thud. ‘He’s what? Did you kill him?’
‘No, don’t be absurd. He ran away after your whipping. I sent two apprentices to bring him back. He tried to evade them by jumping into the river to swim across. He drowned.’
The master sighed and continued, ‘The boy was a waste of space. I knew from his guilty face that it was him, but everyone heard him accuse you and they all wanted to believe it. They all hate you, partly for being so good and partly for being so much bigger and stronger, but mostly for constantly rubbing their faces in it. I could have argued that the boy was lying and punished him, but they would all have cried foul and favouritism. Perhaps some of them would have lied and claimed to have also seen you damage the sword.’
He sat back, bowl finished, and munched on the last corner of his bread. ‘So, I could either risk open revolt, or I could end it by punishing you. In the process, I would get to hammer some sense and humility into you. You were drifting along, not using all your skill. Jesus, the arrogance of youth.’ Herman shook his head in exasperation. ‘What do you even want from your life, boy? Do you ever even think about it? Do you have any ambition beyond getting by with the least effort you can manage?’
‘I work hard!’ protested Ordulf stridently, angrily even. ‘I’ve always worked hard for you!’
‘With your arms? Yes,’ replied Herman. ‘But up here’ – he tapped his forehead – ‘you do as little as possible. I’ve never met anyone with so much skill, so much arrogance about it and such little ambition to use it.’
Ordulf sat, thunderstruck. The truth of the smith’s level words hurt almost more than the whipping had. It was true. He had always behaved as if he was better and, at the same time, neglected to put his full effort into his work. He had often deliberately annoyed the other smiths. He cringed at the childishness and arrogance of his past, for the first time laid so bare before him.
‘Now listen here, boy, and listen good,’ the master said, pointing at Ordulf with a mutton bone he had been chewing the last vestiges of meat from.
‘You are the best damn journeyman smith I have ever seen. One day soon you will be better than me.’
Ordulf tried to get out a mealy-mouthed protest.
‘No, don’t protest, no false modesty. You have believed it yourself for a while.’
Ordulf slammed his mouth shut. It was true he believed that, although he often doubted it when confronted with the sheer arrogance of the thought.
‘So here’s my advice to you, my lad. Don’t come back.’
The master smith gazed sadly across the table at him. Ordulf’s face fell, and he gaped at Herman. ‘What do you mean? You don’t want me back? I promise, I will be less trouble. I will work with the others better. Master, don’t abandon me, I beg you.’
‘No, boy, you mistake me. I would have you back – hell, I would make money off your work for a decade and retire a fat and happy old man.’ He sighed and leaned back. ‘No, I’m saying you are too big for my country forge, in skill and body. You need to make your own way in the world. You need to find your own path. Find a real master swordsmith in one of the big cities – there are some superb swordsmiths in Hamburg who would love to have a talented journeyman like you. You could make your name there and be someone. Your future at my forge wouldn’t even be half as bright as that.’
Ordulf sat and stared at his bowl long enough for the broth to go cold. He had never considered a life outside Minden. He realised with a jolt that he had been content simply to continue, letting others decide his fate, never even considering trying to control it himself. He felt foolish and small.
Finally bringing his gaze up to the older smith, he nodded. ‘I understand. I was happy at the forge, and that was enough.’
The master snorted in derision. ‘I didn’t work as hard as I did to get to where I am to then watch you bumble through a copy of my life with such lazy ease.’ He reached into his vest and brought out a small purse, which he dropped onto the table with a meaty thunk of coins.
‘I’ll be going back with the barge the day after tomorrow and like as not I won’t see you again. Here is a bonus for securing that sword deal with the count, a thank-you from me. Use it to start a new life when you get back from this damn fool crusade.’
‘A bonus? I didn’t do anything for that.’
‘The lord hired you as much as he hired me. Now, that’s a purse of one hundred silver coins, and if the last advice I ever give you is to never say no to fair money, then it will be great advice. Now take the damn purse before I change my mind.’
Ordulf’s eyes bulged in his head. One hundred silver coins! That was a king’s ransom for a low-born peasant. He stammered out a string of thank-yous, and Herman waved it off. ‘I’m a rich man now, lad, and I don’t mind sharing it with those that helped me.’
The two men sat in silence as Ordulf stared in shock at the purse of silver, sticking his fingers in and stirring the coins around as if to check they were real. Herman sat awkwardly and looked around the dark room before clicking his fingers at Ordulf to get his attention.
‘Now, one last bit of advice, and then I’m going to bed. That lovely young alehouse girl over there has been giving you the eye all evening. Whatever you do or don’t do about that, guard that purse most carefully. She will strip you of that silver much faster than she would strip you of anything else, you understand me?’
Ordulf went bright red and ruefully nodded his head. Pausing, he reached into his belt bag and proffered the purse to the master smith, who chuckled. ‘You want me to keep this safe until tomorrow, eh? Smart lad. That’s the first good decision you have made in a while. Now, I’m off to bed. I know you’ve made a lot of swords, but I doubt you ever had much time to use your own on someone, eh? Well, that’s one area you will have to learn about without my help!’ The master roared with laughter, slapping the embarrassed smith’s shoulder, and then walked away, calling out to the smiling girl as he passed.
‘He’s all yours, lass! I need him bright and early tomorrow, though, so don’t you ruin him.’
The girl sheepishly sidled over to the door to the back rooms, trying to avoid the gaze of the few remaining patrons but keeping her smile and wide eyes firmly locked on Ordulf.
With a lack of confidence he hadn’t felt in a long time, Ordulf gingerly slipped out of his seat and followed the disappearing girl into the darkened depths of the building.
The morning arrived, and the master was sitting impatiently on the barge w
hen Ordulf came hurrying down the steps with his cloak in one hand and assorted possessions in the other.
‘Ah lad, good of you to join us,’ the smith intoned with mock seriousness. The guards chuckled as they stepped aboard and poled away from the bank.
The flustered Ordulf, refusing eye contact and looking straight ahead, sat down on the box next to his employer and tried to behave as though everything was normal. His desperately strained face caused the smith to burst into fits of laughter until tears ran down his cheeks and froze in his beard in the freezing morning air.
‘My God, lad, that good, eh? No wonder you were late.’
Ordulf pulled his cloak tighter around himself and quipped, ‘Sorry, I… um. She realised we still had business to attend to this morning. I… lost track of time.’
‘Oh, hear that, lads,’ the smithy laughed, gesturing at the guards. ‘He’s had one little sword fight with a girl and he thinks he’s a man who knows about business! Here,’ he said, handing over the purse to the red-faced young man. ‘I hope you didn’t lose too much of the contents of your own purse last night.’
‘A small number of copper pieces maybe,’ Ordulf replied. ‘But I checked my purse was still on my belt this morning before… well, you know, before she, um…’
Suddenly he froze, and his eyes went wide. He tore aside his cloak and slapped his hands to his belt. There was no purse on it. Standing and turning a circle, looking desperately at the deck, he shouted a great curse and looked back along the river to the receding shape of the dock disappearing into the mist.
‘God damn her!’ he shouted. The master smith roared with laughter and held his hands across his belly, laughing so hard that when Ordulf angrily shoved him, he fell to the deck and rolled around in mock submission, hands still clutching his belly as he struggled to draw breath.
Ordulf stood on the deck boiling with rage. ‘There were three damn silver pieces in that purse! And a handful of coppers.’ He cursed again and sat on the box trying to ignore the hysterical laughter and jibes of the other men while they continued their slow course downriver.
‘You can’t trust a girl whose head and hands are both busy at your waistline, boy,’ the master smith said as he finally got control of his breath. ‘A man doesn’t have the wits to keep track of the activities of all those parts of her. Didn’t anyone ever teach you that?’ The smith fought back tears from his position flat on his back as the wizened navigator cackled from the tiller position behind them.
Ordulf sat back down and said nothing, but he scowled with anger and embarrassment. He prepared himself for more pearls of wisdom from his hysterical companions. Maintaining his stony stare downriver into the mist, he pulled his cloak around him and brooded.
It was going to be a long day.
Chapter 7
The Drums of War
Bremen
February 1116
Bremen was a bustling market town in the spring and summer months, but even now in the last vestiges of winter, with ice floating on the river that bordered it and crops yet to be planted, the town was heaving with life. As the barge pulled up to the docks late that afternoon with the day-long jests of his companions still burning his ears, Ordulf gazed in wonder at the hive of activity.
Outside the walls, vast fields and temporary stables teemed with huge warhorses and herds of smaller riding and pack animals. The docks were crammed with boats unloading supplies. As they finally found a spot to unload and the captain shouted into the chaos, trying to hire some men to unship the cargo, Ordulf leaped ashore and was promptly spun around by a pair of men carrying a huge crate between them.
Dodging both them and their curses, he stood gazing in wonderment at the very visible sinews of war gathering here in the central town square. A major contingent of the Frankish crusaders was using Bremen as a staging area, while the Saxons and other Germans mostly gathered at Hamburg, three days’ ride to the north-east.
Hassled dockworkers were paid a few coins to help unload the barge, and the precious boxes of swords were carried up onto the docks. The count’s men were there to meet them. They opened and checked the crates, counted the swords and checked their condition. The leader of the group, a grizzled Saxon veteran called Henry, whistled in appreciation at the blades, running his fingers down their flats and testing their edges with a fingernail. The bargemen were desperate to leave; they were being harangued by the next boats trying to get alongside. The master smith received his note of payment, which he would present to the count’s representative back in Minden for remittance, and shook hands with the soldier.
He walked towards Ordulf and put one meaty hand on his shoulder, clasped the other to his elbow and gave him a firm squeeze and a broad smile.
No words passed between them. Ordulf was lost for what to say. For a moment, he contemplated all manner of niceties but couldn’t decide which one to use. The master smith smiled knowingly, patted him on the back and released his grip. He set off, walking past him towards the barge, and was gone into the crowd. Ordulf felt very lost and confused on the edge of that bustling street, the petty concerns of the day’s taunting forgotten by the seismic change of the moment. He had nothing but the clothes on his back, his equipment and the money in his purse. He had no friends, acquaintances or family ahead of him. He was suddenly and utterly alone. The weight of it was crushing.
His new employer strode over to him. Henry had a black, wiry beard and was wearing a no-shit-taken expression. Ordulf tried to look unaffected and missed his mark.
‘So you’re the smith?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Don’t call me sir – I’m not a fucking knight. I’m Henry or just “mister” to you. Put your bag on that wagon. I assume you can’t ride a horse, so you get to be baggage for four days on that wagon, or you can jog alongside us when you fancy. Up to you. Just don’t slow the group down or you will get my boot so far up your arse you will be able to taste the dust on it.’
And that was Ordulf’s introduction to campaigning. He immediately missed the warmth and familiarity of the forge and his harsh but inspirational master more keenly than he thought possible. He also missed the already forgiven girl from last night. No one had ever smiled or looked at him that way. He missed her touch, and he missed the softness of her… well, the less he thought about that the better, he supposed. He thought he was unlikely to see the likes of her again on campaign.
He strode by the wagon for the short but slow trip through the town. He wanted to bounce around in that unsprung wagon as little as possible over the coming days. Henry had with him five other armed men, all mounted, and a wagon driver with a lad to help him manage his team of four horses. It was a large wagon, but even so, one hundred swords in boxes of ten took up much of the space. The rest of the wagon was full of other crates and equipment they must have collected from Bremen. There was just enough space left for him to perch on the back on a box next to his bag of possessions. As the wagon finally pulled out of the town gates through the throng, which parted to let the armed men through, he jumped up onto the wagon. He would see how fast they went before risking a jog alongside.
He needn’t have worried. The roads were thick with travellers going both ways and progress was slow. Henry cursed and shouted and moved people out of the way, but most of the time walking pace was all they could manage. The four-day trip took seven, and Ordulf walked as much as he could, trying to get used to the distances and his boots. His feet were sore and blistered in camp every night. There were few inns with space to rent, and the party just camped in fields most nights, the fires of other travellers dotting the roadside.
This didn’t seem to bother the soldiers. The escort were all old veterans, and they could make or break camp in less time than a pot takes to boil over a fire. They shared their rations with him, and he responded by buying items of food or skins of ale from roadside sellers when they found some, the only times the men showed him anything other than disdain.
Ordulf hardened u
p a lot on that journey. The cold, the footsoreness, the utter lack of empathy from his companions. He got a first taste of what campaigning would be like. By the time they reached Hamburg, he was striding alongside the wagon all day, keeping pace and earning some guarded respect from his surly companions.
They arrived from the south-west to a slight rise overlooking the great city. Hamburg was on the far side of the Elbe, a mighty torrent, swollen by winter rain and crossed by two large, wooden bridges. The whole city was packed onto several large islands near the far bank and was totally surrounded by water. Thick stone walls surrounded it, and a citadel loomed squat over the town to the east. It was truly a magnificent sight.
As at Bremen, but on a larger scale, the fields and barns around the city were full of camps, equipment, horses and livestock as far as the eye could see. It seemed to Ordulf that all the world was in arms and arriving here. It was as great a host as he could imagine existed. But his unimpressed companions assured him it was at most a mid-sized force.
‘Remember that army we marched into Mecklenburg with?’ said one of the soldiers to Henry.
‘Aye, now that was a proper army. Lad, you wait until we move to the border in a couple of months. Then you will see a real army.’
‘In a couple of months? What? I thought we were leaving in three weeks!’
The soldiers all laughed together. ‘Shit, son,’ said one, ‘there has never been an army born, especially one composed of this many contingents, that has done anything when it said it would or gone anywhere when it expected to. No, the fat lords won’t move this circus one inch until every last opportunity for delay or self-promotion is over with.’