Sword of Shame Read online

  ‘Where did you say you found this, friend?’

  ‘In an old widow’s place. She died a while ago, and this was under her bed, if you’ll believe me, master,’ the tranter smiled. ‘Her man was a smith–might have made this for himself, eh? One of a kind, I’d reckon.’

  Yes. One of a kind, Paul thought. He bought the lot, giving his farewells to the priest and the tranter. Once back at his workshop in London, he set it on a bench and studied it. There were six other blades he was working on, two new, and four older ones which needed new hilts. As he worked at these, every so often his attention would wander over to the new blade sitting on his workbench, and he took to touching it, glancing about his room as he wondered which style of hilt would best suit this sword.

  The cross was easy. He had seen a sword made by another man some little while before, who had taken a bar of steel and created a piece of art by hammering the two ends over and cutting them until they resembled a pair of dog’s heads, one at either side. He would do that for this too, he told himself. And the grip would be good lime wood, with wire and leather wrapped well about it. Above would be a plain steel pommel. There was no need to over-decorate this weapon.

  It would be a sword any man could desire. A sword of honour, dignity, and purpose.

  The landing was not as bad as Rollo had feared. Their enemy was not yet warned, although Rollo was sure that he had seen flames in the distance, as though a great signal fire had been lit.

  His ship raced on and on, until the beach seemed impossibly close, and then, at the last minute, the oars were raised safely away at the shipmaster’s bellow, and there was a moment’s dread silence.

  All over the boat men braced themselves. They knew little what they might meet, but they were only too aware of the reputation of their enemy, a wonderfully resourceful, cunning warrior who had beaten all. He was there, somewhere, and his rage at learning of their invasion would be uncontrollable. Many of them would soon be dead. Swein the axeman flexed his arms and smiled widely as he caught sight of Rollo’s set expression, and Rollo grinned in return.

  Then they were thrown to the deck. There was an awful grating, and the ship shuddered and jerked, before toppling gently to rest at an angle.

  At Rollo’s feet, two men collided, their heads slamming together. He shouted to the men at the prow and immediately they began to leap into the waves and thrust themselves through the water, standing on the beach with axes, swords and spears in their hands, waiting to see if any would contest their landing. As the bridgehead grew, some ran forward to a small hill from where they could view the surrounding land while the others disembarked and began unloading stores.

  On board, Rollo pushed and bellowed at the remaining men. As he prepared to jump himself, he realized a man still stood by him: one of the two who had knocked heads. This man wore a steel and leather cap, while the other had been bareheaded. The cap’s metal edge had smashed through the thin bone of the temple, shattering his eye-socket, and blood smeared the planks beside him. Two sailors glanced at the body, then dropped it into the sea.

  Rollo was about to shout when he realized that the man was weeping.

  ‘He was my brother.’

  ‘You’ll join him if you don’t get off the ship and help,’ Rollo grated, and swung over the ship’s side.

  Paul was a master of his craft, but when the sword was dressed, a large pommel of steel balancing the weight nicely, the cross with dogs’ heads to protect the hand, a plain black leather grip bound with silver wire, he felt that there was still something missing. Struck with a thought, he took it to a friend, a jeweller.

  ‘Ulric, take a look at this!’ Paul said, taking the waxed leather wrapping from it as he entered the little shop.

  ‘A lovely piece,’ Ulric said. He was a heavy-set man with a thick greying beard and narrowed brown eyes that scowled all too easily, the legacy of long years working gems and gold into intricate patterns.

  ‘Could you carve me an inscription?’ Paul asked.

  Ulric shrugged. Paul had often come for fine work. ‘What do you want?’ he asked as he picked up a burin and eyed it speculatively.

  On the beach, as the knights calmed frightened horses and saddled them before riding out and ensuring the host was safe from attack, the carpenters were already at work bringing the heavy sections of pre-built castle from the ships and heaving them over to the chosen site. The hammering and shouting continued from first light through that long day, and in all that time Rollo had no break, just snatched bites of bread and a hunk of cheese washed down with brackish water from a skin. By the end of the day he was exhausted, and he dropped onto his blanket with relief. He didn’t even recall closing his eyes, but fell immediately into a deep sleep.

  The next morning was chill, and Rollo had to crouch at a fire to warm himself, idly thinking again of his wife and their child. He had been fortunate, Edith was a woman with intelligence and beauty. Before he wed he had been a member of Edward’s bodyguard, but it was his attachment to Edith that had established him in authority. Edith was the daughter of King Edward’s cousin, and as soon as Rollo married her, he found he had more money and influence.

  And then Edward died, and Rollo found himself abroad as the new king was elected. Harold had taken charge, of course. He was the strongest contender–there was no doubt of that. The Godwinson was revered for his victories over the Welsh; he was the country’s best general. But Harold had never trusted Rollo. There was nothing for him under Harold’s reign. Better to try to win the kingdom for another man, and take what he could.

  William claimed his right because Harold was his vassal.

  Two years before Harold had been shipwrecked and captured by Count Guy of Ponthieu at Beaurian who had hoped to ransom him. William forced the Count to release Harold to his protection, and while Harold was in his care, he made his captive swear an oath of support. An oath sworn under duress holds no legal standing, but William was confident. He had bullied and slaughtered his way to maturity, killing all those who plotted against him. Power for him was something to be used, not harnessed or jealously hoarded.

  Edith and their child needed a secure future, and the best manner of winning it was here at Pevensey, fighting for William.

  Bran’s son Dudda had never married. After his father died, all the fault of that fool Brada for catching a wild cat, the family had been thrown into poverty. Dudda had stayed with his mother to support her, but Brada had soon left. Dudda heard he’d gone to the coast, seeking a ship in his shame.

  It was no more than he deserved. Meantime, while he assuaged his guilt with exile, Dudda was left to look after the homestead. He was by no means a master of the craft of smithing, though, and soon his mother had succeeded in persuading him to join the household of a local thegn. As she said, at least he would be guaranteed his bread and ale each day.

  The king himself saw Dudda fight one day, and rewarded him with coins and a promotion. Now he was in charge of his own small host in Sussex. Courageous to a fault, he would always throw himself at an enemy with reckless abandon, and never more so than when attacking the blond warriors from the northern seas. He hated the Norsemen with a passion.

  The memory of their treatment of Bran’s mother still poisoned all his thoughts of Vikings. He refused to admit that he had any trace of Viking blood in him, and lived only to kill them. It was this which infuriated him when the new king took the host north to protect his new kingdom from Harold Hardrada’s invasion. Dudda should have been there too. It was little consolation to hear that King Harold Godwinson wanted him here to protect the coast against the forces of William the Bastard of Normandy.

  Dudda wanted to be fighting Vikings, not some Norman bastard.

  Cerdic the sheathmaker was an older man than Paul, with hair as black as a raven’s wing. His language was strangely accented, because he came from the barbaric far north of the country originally, but his abilities with wood and leather had brought him here to London, where his marvellous s
heaths won praise from all who saw them.

  Short and thickset, he had a cast in one eye that made it difficult to tell where he was looking as he spoke. A long scar that rose from his wrist up to his elbow was the remaining evidence of his youth when he had last fought in the fyrd.

  Today he took the sword with a low whistle of appreciation. ‘This is the best you’ve made in a while. What does this say?’

  Paul smiled and ran his finger down the inscription that had been engraved in the fuller. ‘“Qui falsitate vivit, animam occidit. Falsus in ore, caret honore”–that is, “He who lives in falsehood slays his soul. He who lies, his honour,”’ he translated loosely.

  ‘Well, with a moral like that, your sword will need something to set it off,’ Cerdic said. He was quiet a moment, holding the sword in his hands and considering. Taking it up in his hand, he felt the balance and swung it about him at breast height. ‘Bloody good!’

  ‘I’ll leave it with you, then.’

  Cerdic scarcely acknowledged his departure as his friend left his workshop. He was still feeling the weight of the sword, testing it for its centre, setting his head on one side as he looked down its length, and then nodding to himself. Finally, he sat on a stool and looked at the hilt.

  The basic form of the sheath was already prepared–he stored many blanks of wood. Shaped, lined with fresh sheepskin, glued together and wrapped in good leather, with carving on the hide itself, many were long enough to suit this blade. He’d want some good decoration for the sheath, too. Some good bronze. He had some which would be adequate for workaday blades, but nothing for this. With a slate and block of chalk, he made a rough outline of the sort of pieces he wanted, and paid a lad to take it to his favourite supplier. The he began to rummage through his stock of wooden blanks.

  It was late in the afternoon when he began to hack into the hard wood he had selected. The adze was sharp as a chisel, and it took little time to shave off the inner surface with a sweeping, careful stroke, the blank resting on the floor and held in place by straps. He had already marked out the dimensions of the sword in chalk, and now he cut out the form of the blade, pausing every so often to rest the sword in the space to ensure it fitted. The precise size didn’t matter too much. It was a case of making the hole large enough for the blade, together with its protective sheepskin case, to fit.

  His workshop was a small lean-to near the London Bridge gate, and from his open doorway he had a good view of the travellers coming and going along that great roadway. Usually he would win good custom from the people who came up this way because he was on the route to the street of armourers, and many men had need of the smiths. There were always swords to be rehoned, sharpened or replaced. With the ever-present threat of war, men looked to their arms, and even if the sword was good and strong, all too often the sheath was beyond repair. One sword could have six or seven sheaths in a man’s lifetime if he was regularly off on journeys.

  Today a pair of men arrived. One, a vicar, looked exhausted. Priests tended to be bad customers, they rarely had to wear their swords on their hips when they travelled, but left them safe while others defended them from attack. This man wore nothing. However his companion was interesting–he looked wealthier than Cerdic’s usual customer. He had dark hair braided in two long plaits, and his clothing was worn and faded, the russet cloth of his cloak was thinning and stitched together to mend the many tears. A youthful face, but sad: a man who’d seen much of life already. His sword was all but hanging out from a broken sheath. ‘My horse. It stood on the thing last night,’ he said bitterly.

  ‘Master,’ Cerdic said with a grave nod. Warriors deserved respect. ‘Let me have a look. Ach! It is stuck in here. The sheath is ruined, but I fear the sword may be too. I’ll have to cut the sheath away to see how the blade has suffered.’

  ‘I am called to go with the fyrd…That sword. Let me try it.’

  Cerdic nodded and passed it across to the man, trying not to grin. As soon as he’d entered the room, the traveller’s eyes had gone to the sword on Cerdic’s table. And no surprise–it was the most beautiful piece of work in the room. It all but glowed, and the covetous eye of the warrior had fixed on it in a moment. Anyone who lived by the strength of his arm must be attracted to a weapon that had clearly had so much time lavished upon it.

  ‘Master, this is beautiful! It reminds me…’ the man said, holding it out before him. He turned his wrist, and the metal flashed backwards, wickedly, before coming to rest pointing at the doorway. He span on his heel and raised it to an imaginary enemy, then let it slash down, continuing the movement up and behind him, bringing it around to his breast and pausing, studying it closely again.

  ‘My old sword is damaged; I need a new one. I can’t count on a sword that is liable to shatter.’

  ‘Ah, that’s not mine to sell.’

  ‘I am a thegn: Dudda son of Bran,’ Dudda said with quiet menace. ‘I will have this sword, no matter what it costs.’

  Cerdic nodded. ‘Then you’d best speak to Paul. I can introduce you.’

  ‘Paul…’ the priest said, running a finger over the insciption on the blade and frowning as he recognized the quotation. ‘I wonder…’

  Rollo was glad to have Swein at his side as he mounted his horse. The great beast was comforting, a good, biddable brute, but if it came to charging a shield wall with lances pointing at them, Rollo would be happier knowing that Swein was near.

  Swein was one of those northmen who inspired terror in his enemies and commanded respect from his comrades. Rollo had seen him in battle, and he felt that the Norse blood flowed vigorously in his veins. With an axe in his fist he was the picture of a berserker, worth more than twenty ordinary members of the fyrd.

  For all that, he was sure that Swein was not from Scandinavia. The man’s accent was more Saxon than anything else. Rollo reckoned he was the son of a minor thegn who had embarrassed his master and been forced to flee. Perhaps he had killed a man and couldn’t afford to pay the fine? Whatever the reason, Rollo was simply glad that he was here with him in William of Normandy’s host with the other mercenaries. They’d have need of men like Swein if they were going to break the Saxon shield-wall.

  He had served in the fyrd himself. Standing in the shield-wall with farmers and peasants, linking shields and grasping their swords or lances. So long as they worked in unison, the enemy would break on them like the tide on an unforgiving shore. And when the moment was right, the shield-wall would begin to shove forward, swords rising and falling to hack at any within range. The line of warriors would stamp forwards, trampling dead and wounded alike, while men behind would stab and slash at the bodies in case a man was feigning death and intended to rise up among the men of the fyrd to cause mayhem.

  Yes, the fyrd was strong, and provided that their commander had time to run them through their paces, giving them their commands for even a half day, there was little which could be done to overwhelm them.

  That was Rollo’s fear: that the fyrd might arrive prepared. The men under Harold were strong and determined, as they should be for they were fighting for their kingdom. But the Normans under William were determined too. They had the sea at their backs, and if they failed, they would die.

  Bartholomew was exhausted. He was in London with Bishop Leofric, and had been sent to acquire provisions for the household. Many were congregating on London, desperate to hear how the battle had gone in the north where good King Harold was protecting the realm from the devils from over the sea.

  The thought that the Norsemen could be ravaging the lands was terrifying. Down in Wessex, the folk had grown used to peace. The Danes tried to land and ransack towns and churches when they could, and while their attacks had grown rarer, no one could forget the tales of men hacked to death, women raped and discarded to lie beside their dead husbands and children, farms laid waste, priests cut down before their altars…Bartholomew was terrified that all this could come to pass again. Well, if the land was invaded, he would go with the host to
protect his land, his people. He wouldn’t wait to be slaughtered.

  He wanted a sword too. He walked with Dudda to Paul’s shop, a pleasant house in West Ceape, the busy road that held so many stalls and shops. Inside there were weapons of all descriptions, all serviceable, and some beautifully made.

  ‘I have met you,’ Bartholomew said when he saw Paul. ‘You bought blades from Exeter.’

  ‘I seem to recall your face,’ Paul admitted cautiously. A merchant should always be wary of those who claimed to remember him–it could be this priest remembered a bargain that went sour.

  ‘You picked up a marvellous blade there. We saw one like it earlier today,’ Bartholomew murmured. ‘One that had a lovely inscription on it.’

  ‘Oh, of course. Yes, I remember now. That is a magnificent sword, isn’t it? It took time and skill to have it mounted.’

  Bartholomew studied the swords about the room while the other men argued about the price of the sword. It would be a source of pride to Bran, he felt, were the old smith to know that the sword would be bought and used by his own son.

  It was as he haggled over another, cheaper but serviceable sword, that the cry was heard in the streets.

  ‘The Normans! The Normans have landed!’

  Two days later, Rollo took a force of thirty men to engage any small groups nearby. They must harry any attempted muster, and send messengers if they found a large force.