Sword of Shame

Prologue
–In which Michael Jecks tells of the creation of the sword and its first shameful use.

Act One
–In which Bernard Knight's Crowner John buys his officer a new sword, but soon regrets his generosity.

Act Two
–In which Ian Morson relates Nick Zuliani's deadly involvement in election fraud and murder in Venice in 1262.

Act Three
–In which Michael Jecks' Keeper Sir Baldwin and Bailiff Puttock learn how the sword could have been used in a martyrdom.

Act Four
–In which Susanna Gregory's Matthew Bartholomew and Brother Michael are sent to the remote Cambridgeshire village of Ickleton to investigate why the manor is behind with its rent. They discover passions and tempers running high.

Act Five
–In which Philip Gooden's player Nick Revill arrives at a snow-bound
house to discover that, even after several hundred years, the Sword of Shame can still wreak havoc and murder.

Epilogue
–In which Ian Morson comes up to modern times.

‘May I see it?'

Sir Ralph de la Pomeroy eyed his guest for a moment, then wandered to the chest that stood at the wall, its lock gleaming in the flickering light from the fire. ‘It's a beautiful piece of work,' he said.

It was still in its original, slightly scratched, leather scabbard, a simple enough sheath with bronze at the point and mouth. From it protruded an unadorned hilt with a simple disc pommel and cross-hilt fashioned to look like two dogs' heads, mouths gaping. He took it up, hefting it in his hand again. Even with the scabbard covering the blade, it had a natural balance about it–almost a
life
. It felt as though it held a strange energy all of its own. His fingers tingled merely to grasp the hilt.

Sir Ralph passed it to the priest and stood away, still dubious about this man.

Bartholomew of Holsworthy was English, and Sir Ralph was not entirely sure where the man's loyalties lay. He appeared always to be content with the change of government, but so many folk were still living out in the woods beyond the reach of the law that no one could be fully trusted. This man had lived here before the Norman adventure, and must have known and liked many who'd been executed.

The priest's breath caught in his throat as he drew
the blade from the plain sheath with its ox-hide covering. He traced the fine engraving and felt the thickening in his throat at the thought of the two brothers; he was forced to blink to conceal the tears.

‘I know this sword.'

 

The blade had been long in the making. Bran the smith had started work on this, his greatest undertaking, twenty years before the invasion.

Blond, heavy-set, with eyes the colour of cornflowers on a summer's afternoon, Bran showed his parentage. His mother had been raped by Viking invaders during the worst of the reign of Hardacnut, the son of Cnut, who treated this kingdom like his personal purse. He was determined to rival the navies of the Vikings, and set about building many ships, and when the people complained bitterly at his sudden imposition of taxes, Hardacnut came marching with his men. One of them was Bran's father.

His mother had enough love remaining in her for Bran, but after what the Vikings did to her family, wiping out all the menfolk, she had nothing but revulsion for those responsible, and the man who raped her beside the body of her murdered father was the focus of all the spite and bile in her damaged soul.

It was because of his conception that he had chosen to become a smith. Working in the fields with those who taunted him about his bastardy was impossible. In preference he chose the solitary work of a bladesmith.

Not that it had been a bad life. He was married to his darling Gytha, a dark-haired, slender, lonely woman who cared nothing for his birth, but only that he was a kind, gentle father to their children. Not many men were as lucky as Bran, he reckoned. A beautiful wife, two sons: one fair like Hardacnut's men, the other more dark like Gytha's folk. Curious how in his family
the boys had taken on the appearance of their forebears.

Enough wool-gathering! The iron and steel had been heated, and now his eyes told him that they were at the perfect temperature. He began the long process of beating them together until the heat and the hammering welded them into one coherent strip. Then he hammered them again, reheated the resulting bar, and beat yet another strip of red-glowing metal to it.

After that he deliberately left it alone for several days. It was like a good cider, he always said–cider tasted better for being left to mature, and his blades strengthened with age. You couldn't hurry a good blade.

It was almost two weeks before Bran returned to it. He took it in his hands and studied it critically. Wiping it on a corner of the great leather skin he used as an apron, he looked at it carefully before deciding how to proceed, and then set it back in his forge. First he rounded off the end which would become the point, and then he reheated it and beat it until the bar grew longer and flatter. The next day he began to give it shape, and he hammered the heated metal into a diamond section.

There were many more stages in the creation of the sword, each of them undertaken with the maximum of care, the swordsmith roaring and cursing when the coals flamed too hotly and the metal began to glow too furiously; taking the utmost caution to make sure that the metal was at the correct temperature at all times, never too hot, never too cold for the task at hand, and then the quenching, to give the metal its flexibility and strength.

The blade was finished. He had taken a week and a half just to smooth the rough metal with his big circular stone. While Dudda, his older son, cranked the handle, the smith ran the blade gently over the
rotating sandstone, slowly removing burrs and imperfections. Then they went to the second, finer wheel, and began the smoothing and polishing process, the old smith frowning as he gazed at the metal while it changed from blackened, dull grey to a shining white steel. Still scratched, he set the blade on his workbench and began to polish it with his fine stones, while Brada, the fair-haired second son, sat in the corner of the room and played with off-cuts of metal.

And when all was done, he sat on a stool with a mug of ale in his fist and stared at the blade with pride, saying to his sons, ‘When a man holds this blade in his hand, he shall be invincible. No invader shall succeed against it. The man who wields it defending our country shall always overcome!'

 

When the invasion came, Bran was long dead.

On the ship, Rollo saw a great, thunderous, foaming immensity slamming down on the heads of the men before him. He had time, just, to grab at the mast as the grey/green flood poured towards him, drenching him in an instant.

Rollo fitzRollo, Breton staller to King Edward, set his jaw as he stared ahead between the men bent at the oars. He could show no weakness, not here on the ship with all his men about him. If they saw him worry they would panic. Even now he could see some eyeing him covertly as they strained against the waves.

Hunching his shoulders, he felt the full weight of his mail. It had been smeared with oil before leaving the port, as had his sword and his daggers, but the long byrnie felt as though it was more of an encumbrance than protection. He hated water. Water was the natural enemy of any warrior; how could a man fight when his mail coat and weapons were rusted? And a knight always feared the depths aboard ship, with twenty
pounds of steel at shoulders and breast, drowning was inevitable. No, no warrior liked water, he told himself disconsolately, rubbing absent-mindedly at a patch of rust.

A man had to risk all to win renown: that was the thought uppermost in his lord's mind, he knew. Casting a look at the ship ahead of them, he squinted at the man who stood staring fixedly ahead, his back to Rollo. This venture would result in their deaths, or utter glory. To thieve the goods from a merchant at the roadside, that was one thing; this–stealing a kingdom–this was another entirely.

Spray jetted over the prow, and he blinked away the salt. If he were to die, Edith would be safe. He didn't want to think of the dangers to his woman of being widowed with a young child to support. At least he had done his best for her. Edith was at William's castle, and she should be safe enough there. As safe as anywhere else. She wouldn't be able to return home to Britain if Rollo and his men failed.

Water! Another wave burst upwards at the prow, and he ducked in a vain attempt to avoid it as foam swamped the crew. Rollo wiped his eyes, swearing under his breath. If he survived, he would never again go to sea. At least his sword would be safe in its new sheath. The lining of sheep's fleece should protect it from this foul weather.

He was miserable. Every breeze made him shiver, as though he was clad in ice, even his fine linen shirt was drenched. The flesh of his face was taut, like old leather that had dried too quickly in front of a fire, he thought, and then he caught sight of his reflection in a facet of a burnished steel shield-boss, and he grinned sourly at the sight.

The distorted reflection showed a powerful man of three-and-thirty, tall, swarthy, dark-eyed, with a square
jaw that was closely shaven–there was no telling when he'd see a barber once they'd landed. His shoulders' breadth was almost the same as those of Mad Swein, the axe-wielding mercenary, and his thighs were as thick as a bull's neck. He was the picture of an experienced warrior, yet his eyes were scared.

Now, glancing about him at the men at their oars, forty of them, bent and grunting with the effort as they came closer to land, he told himself again that this was right. This was what King Edward would have wanted. Yet the doubts remained, and that was why he had the appearance of a haunted man.

When he had learned his swordsmanship, he had always been told to watch the eyes: the eyes would always give away his enemy's intentions. A sudden narrowing was all a man needed to warn of impending attack. After all, it took time to swing a two pound sword. If a man was forewarned, he could protect himself.

Always, when he looked into another man's eyes, he assessed the character of the man. If he had to gauge his own quality in the reflection, he would think himself weakly, mortally fearful. It was no more than the truth, he confessed, forcing his gaze from the mirror.

Only a short while ago he had been a resolute and confident figure. As King Edward's Breton staller, he was used to having the ear of his king at all times. The staller was the king's own representative in the lands he commanded over the water. While King Edward lived, he had no more devoted man in his service. But now the king was dead; Rollo had been forced to seek a new lord, and he had found his man in William the Bastard of Normandy.

The clouds parted. Ahead there was a clear view as a yellow sun pierced the mists. Until now the seas had been grey and a mistiness had lain over the ships. It
gave the men a feeling of enclosure, as though God had taken them into His care and was leading them to a landing He had chosen. Rollo sincerely hoped it was the landing which the Abbot of Fécamp had recommended. My lord Abbot had owned lands about here, around a place called Steyning, and he had given William and his ship masters descriptions of the best landing places and the type of country they could expect inland.

Now they could see the land ahead of them, and the men all paused, as though they realized that this green, lush view would hold either their fortunes, or their graves.

Through the gap in the clouds Rollo felt a sudden warmth, and glanced over his shoulder. The sun was beaming down at him, and he was gladdened to think that perhaps this meant God was smiling on him and this whole venture. He knew that Harold had a great number of men he could call on. If he called up the
fyrd
, he would have a much larger force than this, and yet if God was with William, even Harold must fail. And die.

Rollo straightened his back and bared his teeth. This was a good day, a good day to fight.

A good day to die.

 

Yes. Bran was long dead by then.

Although he had made more blades, he was convinced that he had poured his finest craftsmanship into the one. The effort involved with others seemed pointless. They would not respond in the way that this would; it was perfection. He would sit up late at night with a jug of ale and stare at it, occasionally picking it up and testing the balance, longing to see it with hilt and sheath, but reluctant to sell it on because it would feel as though a part of him was sold with it.

Eventually the decision was taken from him. After six years Bran died. Brada had trapped a wily old wild cat, and Bran was scratched while trying to help his son kill it. The wound soured, and he died one night in early winter, listening to the sobbing of his family all round him. The last words he heard were Dudda's hissed accusation to Brada: ‘This is all your fault! You killed father!'

Even when the young priest, Bartholomew, buried the smith's body, watching him placed kneeling in the grave, Dudda was not talking to Brada. It hurt their mother terribly, with so much already to mourn.

Later, Bartholomew was present when the blade was sold in Exeter. It had been bought by a tranter who carried it with three and twenty others in a wrapped bundle, and the vicar, as Bartholomew now was, saw it on a bench at the fair. He saw the mark of Bran stamped into the hilt, and touched it gently, remembering the kindly smith he had buried all those years before.

A short while later, it was a trader from London who saw the blades and wandered over to look at them. Bartholomew greeted him reservedly. He was suspicious of ‘foreigners'.

‘I am Paul from London. I may be interested in some blades–what have you here?'

‘Fine blades, master,' said the tranter.

‘So you say,' the merchant said drily.

Bartholomew felt urged to respond in Bran's defence. ‘These were made by a great smith locally. They're his best work.'

‘Aye? I've heard that line before,' Paul said cynically.

‘It is said, “He who lives in falsehood slays his soul; he who lies, his honour”,' Bartholomew said sententiously. ‘I do not lie–these blades are marvels of his craft. I would be proud to wear a blade like this.'

‘You buy it, then!'

The vicar smiled sadly. ‘I wish I could afford it.'

‘Come on, then. Let's see them,' Paul said to the tranter.

He was a sharp-eyed man, Paul. Brown hair worn long under his old leather cap, and his belly showed his wealth. He had a belt strong enough to take the weight of his gut as he walked about the market, his thumbs hooked in it near the buckle. He was always smiling, and his thin lips were pursed in a whistle as he passed the stall, but then his square face took on a more serious, speculative expression.

It took his notice as soon as he caught sight of it. The workmanship was exquisite compared to the others. As he picked it up and held it at arm's length, he could feel the life in it. Surprised, for a sword blade would usually only appeal to him once it had been dressed with hilt and guard, he eyed it more closely. It was uniform, with a noticeable taper and sharp point. Over thirty inches long, he guessed. The polishing had smoothed the blade to a gleaming silver, and as he looked at it, there were no indications of pitting, just a perfect mirror-finish.