Conrad Starguard-The Radiant Warrior

by Leo Frankowski

  I suppose it was hard on the pig, but I can think of nothing worse to do to an animal than killing and eating it, and I am not about to become a vegetarian like Adolf Hitler.

  Thom moved the stick back so that the pig could stop. "The speed control," he said. "I think we'll have to switch pigs about three times an hour. It's cheaper than men, though."

  I could see that it was time to go back to Okoitz.

  I was in the saddle when the innkeeper brought me a stirrup cup and a pouch of gold. "Seven thousand pence, my lord. Your profits for the first month of the Pink Dragon," he said.

  I thanked him and rode off. Seven thousand pence in a single month! That was twice what I paid for the place, back salaries and all! Well, it would keep the foundry going no matter what else happened. If I couldn't get land of my own, that foundry might be all that stood between us and the Mongols.

  Anna seemed inordinately proud of her new red velvet barding. She held her head high with her neck arched and walked with a gait she'd never used before. It was a sort of hopping thing, with her left front and right rear hooves hitting the cobblestones at the same time. I guess it was impressive because a lot of people came out to watch.

  But it was rough on my lower back, and as soon as we left the city gates, I urged her into a more comfortable gallop.

  She ran the entire way to Sir Miesko's manor, again without working up a sweat.

  Krystyana greeted me, but at first I almost didn't recognize her. Her actual appearance hadn't changed, except that she wore her hair differently. But something about her bearing, the way she held her shoulders back, the way she glided instead of clumping along like a gawky adolescent . . . But there was more, much more. Something that I couldn't quite define. Somehow, a pretty duckling had turned into a swan.

  "Welcome, Sir Conrad. I've missed you." She had the same calm smile that made Lady Richeza so radiant.

  I was home.

  * * *

  I hated to leave, but I was worried about my projects at Okoitz so we set out the next morning. Halfway to Okoitz, we met Sir Miesko on the road.

  "Sir Miesko! It's delightful to see you again. We have just come from your manor, and all is well."

  "That relieves my mind, Sir Conrad. In truth, I worried about Richeza all winter. For my own part, I have sent Boris Novacek on his way to Cracow with half a dozen mule skinners, seventy-five mules, and a gross of barrels of wine."

  "And how are things going at Okoitz?"

  "Amazing! Your loom and wheels are turning out cloth by the mile, and that huge mill of yours is half up!"

  "Half up! I've stayed too long at Cieszyn."

  "All seemed to be going well. But aren't you being rude, Sir Conrad? You haven't introduced me to your lady."

  "But you already know her. Surely you haven't forgotten Krystyana."

  "What? Damn, but you're right! But her bearing, her poise—"

  "It's entirely your wife's doing, Sir Miesko. Krystyana visited her for a month, and you see the results. I didn't think to buy a present for Richeza, but if you want a loom and some spinning wheels, or even the fittings for a mill, you have only to ask."

  "I might just take you up on that, for you have gained a prize of great value. But now I am anxious to see my wife again, so I bid you good-bye, Sir Conrad, and you, my Lady Krystyana."

  As Sir Miesko rode away, Krystyana looked at me. "He called me a lady!"

  "You'd rather be a gentleman?"

  "Of course not! But surely I'm only a peasant girl."

  "Well, you'll always be a pretty wench to me, Krystyana."

  "He acted as though I was of the nobility!"

  "So, noble is as noble acts. Come on, let's get going."

  "But I'm not noble, am I?"

  "Do you expect to be beaten about the head and shoulders with a sword? I don't know if there is a ceremony for elevating a common woman, but as far as I'm concerned, you can be whatever you want to be. Let's ride."

  The mill was nothing like half done, but good progress was being made under Vitold's supervision. The "basement" for the lower tank had been dug, and the new well was in. Most of the upright logs had had their sides flattened, and some of them were already in place. All according to plan. The main shaft was finished, ready for the brass collars, but here there was a discrepancy. I had assumed that the cam would be a separate piece, but Vitold had cut the cam and shaft out of a single log more than two yards across! I had allowed an extra yard in diameter to provide room for clamping the cam to the shaft, but single-piece construction let him reduce the cam diameter from three to two yards while still giving a meter's travel on the follower wheel at the end of the A-frame.

  This in turn permitted raising the top of the clean tank half a yard, increasing its volume by sixty tons of water. Also, the turret could be lowered by half a yard, saving materials and work. It was an excellent improvement. Now if I could only teach Vitold to read blueprints!

  "You're doing a good job, Vitold."

  "Thank you, Sir Conrad. We're way ahead of where I thought we'd be. It's these axes you showed Ilya how to make. The old axes needed sharpening every hour, but since he treated them, they last for days!"

  "Hmm. Good. Tell Ilya to come to me the next time he's free."

  "I'll tell him when he gets back, Sir Conrad. He's been gone for a week getting supplies."

  The count's hall was humming with activity. Natalia and a girl I hadn't met were running the loom at a remarkable pace, and six other "handmaidens," most of them new, were spinning busily. Eleven huge bolts of cloth were proudly stacked in a corner, and the girls all seemed to be having fun.

  Five of the count's knights were in attendance, but the count was out with a party making the rounds of his lands and the manors of his knights. The journey was partly social, visiting his subordinates; partly economic, to ensure that things were managed well; partly judicial.

  The knights and barons had the right of low justice, that is, jurisdiction over offenses punishable by fines, flogging, and up to a year's forced labor, subject to the count's review. The count reserved for himself the right of high justice, and his word could have a man hanged. For eight months of the year, he was out riding circuit half the time.

  Except for Sir Stefan, who was still making himself unpleasant on my behalf, the knights were essentially a decent lot, if somewhat extroverted. They tended to spend their afternoons in fighting practice, their evenings in heavy drinking, and their mornings sobering up.

  I spent some of my afternoons with them, but they were slow to pick up on fencing, and I wasn't worth much with a lance and shield.

  Evenings were like being back in the air force again. They were especially pleasant since Sir Stefan had the dusk to midnight guard shift. We sang songs, told stories, and swapped lies with boisterous good humor. Yet I always had to watch what I said so as not to violate my oath to Father Ignacy, and much of their conversation revolved around hunting and hawking, of which I was ignorant. Then, too, they were very heavy drinkers. While I like to drink, too much of it spoils lovemaking, and sex doesn't give you hangovers.

  Following local custom, the knights had left their wives at home to manage things. There were now a dozen ladies-in-waiting, six of them new since Mary and Ilona had been pronounced pregnant and married off. This left us with plenty of variety, although Krystyana was still the best-looking of the bunch.

  The other knights were courteous to Krystyana, but at bedtime they paired off with other girls. After a few nights, I got to sleeping with Krystyana regularly even though there were quite a few I hadn't sampled. I just didn't want her feelings hurt.

  * * *

  I looked up Angelo Muskarini, the Florentine walker.

  "You have strange things going here, Sir Conrad."

  "How so?"

  "You told me not to criticize your loom and spinning wheels. Your loom looks crude, but it makes more cloth—and faster—than any that I have ever seen. And your spinning wheels are amazing! They make a hun
dred times the thread that a distaff can!"

  "Better than the wheels in Florence?"

  "There are no spinning wheels in Florence, nor any in Flanders, either. This is a new thing under the sun!"

  Huh? I'd thought that they had spinning wheels in the thirteenth century. Oh, well. "I'm glad that you approve. So what's so strange about our goings-on?"

  "Because, Sir Conrad, you are doing everything else entirely wrong! You have the finest methods for spinning and weaving that I have ever seen, but you aren't even sorting your wool! Your ideas of combing and carding are a joke, and no one here has ever heard of warping, or dyeing, or fulling!"

  "Well, we're new at this. Talk to Vitold and Ilya about any special tools you'll need and figure out what you'll need in the way of dyeing vats and so on. The count wants a dozen looms going by winter, which means a dozen of our six-station spinning wheels. We'll need enough of the rest of this stuff to keep them fed. How are you doing for dyes and other chemicals?"

  "I have plenty for now, but with a dozen looms—"

  "Figure out what you'll need for a year and we'll place an order with Boris Novacek. I still owe him a favor."

  I spent some of my time watching the mill go up, although Vitold really didn't need any help. Mostly I worked on the scale model of the dry mill.

  The basement of that mill was to be eight yards deep and insulated with two yards of sawdust. It was to serve as an icehouse, a communal refrigerator. Come winter, two-thirds of its volume was to be packed with snow, the rest in storage shelves. According to my crude estimates, the snow should last at least twelve months. We would be able to store some of the vegetables and meat from the next harvest through the winter.

  In external appearance, the dry mill looked like the wet mill, except the circular work shed was missing. The only attendant building was to house a threshing machine. The dry mill's construction was lighter, because it didn't have to support twenty-five hundred tons of water.

  Internally, it was designed quite differently. The ground floor had a huge, three-yard grindstone, which was turned by a shaft connected to a ten-yard solid wheel just below the turret. Four circles of carefully placed vertical pegs rose from the wheel, and on the shaft above it were eight matching rows of radial pegs. The shaft was offset by a yard from the center line of the mill. Between these sets of pegs was a movable lantern gear with sliding concave brass rollers to mate with both sets of pegs. By moving the lantern gear, the miller could get four different speeds, both forward and reverse.

  The space between the gears and the stone was mostly taken up by twelve grain hoppers. Each had a chute at the bottom to direct grain to the hole in the top of the stone. Outside, a system of pulleys and dump buckets filled the hoppers.

  One of the knights, Sir Vladimir, seemed to have some mechanical ability. He got interested in the model and started helping me with it. After we had worked together for a few hours, I asked, "What's wrong between you guys and Krystyana?"

  "Why, nothing. Everyone has been most polite to her."

  "You've been polite, but you haven't taken her to bed. Do you think that I have some exclusive right to her?"

  "No, it isn't that. It's just—oh, I don't know."

  "But she's the prettiest one there."

  "I know, but—well, it just wouldn't seem right. She doesn't act like a peasant girl. You don't just grab a lady and drag her to your room—"

  "I've never seen a wench here who needed dragging. Anyway, you know she isn't noble. Her father is a peasant right here in Okoitz."

  "I know, I know. But you've asked me and I've answered you, so let's let the matter drop," he said. "Now, explain again why it is necessary for the rollers on the lantern gear to be able to slip sideways."

  After about a week of monogamy on my part, Krystyana sort of withdrew. I put this down to feminine moodiness and continued my sampling for a week.

  Ilya the blacksmith returned with five men and fourteen pack mules loaded with hematite, a red iron oxide. A small placer mine some thirty miles away made a limited amount of bog ore available. Ilya had spent much of the winter preparing to make charcoal from the branches of the trees we had cut, but somehow I had never realized that he actually made his own iron out of ore and fuel.

  To make charcoal, Ilya and his helpers cut and split wood, which he piled in a single huge stack. As soon as the weather broke and the ground thawed enough for digging, the stack was covered with a full yard of dirt. Only a small hole was left at the top and an even smaller one at the bottom. Then he lit the stack. Over the next few days, he dug sampling holes to see how the burning was progressing. When the wood was completely charred, he filled in all the holes, let the fire smother, and went off for iron ore.

  "Got a hundred pairs of hinges that I promised people, Sir Conrad, plus I figure you'll need some iron for that thing." He gestured toward the half-completed mill.

  "You're right, Ilya. Later on we'll talk about a saw blade. I saw those axes you made. Nice work. I'm amazed that you made so many of them in only five weeks."

  "Five weeks? That didn't take me five days! Those are the same axe heads we used last winter, only I cemented them. Cementation didn't change the shape of the iron bars I made into steel, and the old axe heads already looked like axe heads. I took the handles off and put them in the count's last pickling crock with plenty of charcoal and heated it up. Didn't go a whole week, though. A kid I had keeping the fire going fell asleep the third night, and the crock was cold in the morning. I still haven't found the bastard; he's been hiding from me. But those axe heads hardened up all right, so I guess it's okay."

  "Congratulations, Ilya. You have just invented case hardening. What you have is steel on the outside and iron on the inside. Not a bad thing for an axe."

  "Heh. Thought it might be something like that. This saw you want, does it have to be steel?"

  "It sure does."

  "Then you better find me some more clay pots. There is not one left in Okoitz, and the cooks are not happy. Neither will be the count if he gets a taste for sauerkraut."

  "I know just the place. There's a brass foundry in Cieszyn where they use a lot of fire clay. Some of the workers should be coming here in a few weeks to deliver fittings for the mill. I would have sent an accountant to them by now, but I think I need the count's permission to swear the kid in. Maybe you know him, Piotr Kulczynski."

  "Know him! That's the bastard that let my fire go out. You're going to be shy one accountant if I find him!"

  "Not a chance, Ilya. You hurt that kid and I'll hurt you. Like I said, I need him. Anyway, he taught you something about steel, so call it even."

  "Well, seeing as how it's you asking, I'll let the kid off. I'll be busy making iron for a month, but after that I'll need those crocks."

  Ilya actually made wrought iron in the same crude forge that he used for everything else. He layered charcoal on the bottom of his forge higher than the nozzle of his bellows. Then he carefully put lump ore on the side away from the bellows and more charcoal on the near side until the forge was heaped high.

  He started a fire and worked the bellows gently for two hours, adding a mixture of fine ore and charcoal as the mass in the forge was consumed. Then he called for assistants, who worked the bellows hard. After three hours of this, constantly adding ore and charcoal, he dug into the burning mass with large pincers and pulled out a glowing spongy mass.

  This was immediately placed on the anvil, and three burly men beat on it vigorously with sledgehammers. Ilya kept turning the mass so that it was shaped into a crude rod.

  When the rod cooled, it was put back into the fire; another spongy lump was fished out, and then the process was repeated. Two men were still working the bellows and adding ore and charcoal.

  Each rod was pulled and beaten and reheated four times before being set aside to cool. By the end of the day, six men working twelve hours had consumed forty kilos of ore and two hundred kilos of charcoal. But they had made less than ten kilos of w
rought-iron bars.

  "You know, Ilya, once we get the wet mill built, we'll have machines to work the bellows and a trip-hammer to beat your iron. We'll build you a bigger forge, and you'll be able to make ten times the iron working alone."

  "Bellows that work themselves? Hammers that swing on their own accord? You might as well tell me that fishes can fly!"

  "I know of one that does."

  "Sir Conrad, if you hadn't been right about steel, I'd call you the greatest liar in Christendom. As it is, well, you tell me what you want and I'll make it. But I'll believe those hammers and bellows when I see them!"

  * * *

  Krystyana was still acting standoffish, so finally I asked her about it.

  "Sir Conrad, it's not that I'm putting you off, it's just . . . oh, you'd call it a superstition."

  "Try me, pretty girl."

  "Well, it's something that Lady Richeza told me about."

  "Yes?"

  "Well, she said that if you count the days after your . . . your time and sleep alone from the end of the first week to the middle of the third, you won't get pregnant. I know it's silly, I know it's superstitious, but I don't want to get pregnant and I don't want to marry a peasant and I don't want to be old at twenty and dead at forty and—" She was in my arms, crying uncontrollably.

  Once I got her calmed down, I said, "Don't worry, pretty girl. You don't have to be anything that you don't want to be. As to this abstention during certain times of the month, well, in my country it's called the rhythm method, and the Pope has approved it. It works most of the time."

  She cried some more, and after that I settled down to a program of fifteen days a month with Krystyana and the rest of the time spreading myself around.

  I had a model of the cloth factory built by the first of May. We were running out of room in the bailey, so I made it a three-story building, as high as the church.

  The top floor, with a high, peaked roof, was filled with a dozen looms. The middle floor held the spinning wheels and the combing and carding equipment. The ground floor was for washing and dyeing, with additional space for storage. I added a treadmill-powered lift to carry materials up and down.