The Copper Sign (7 page)

Order was essential in a forge. The various tongs, hammers, and other tools had to always be in the same place so they would be quickly available when needed. Donovan’s workshop was organized almost exactly like Llewyn’s, and it would not be hard for her to find her way around.

“Just who do you think I am? Do you think you can just walk in here and tell me what to do?” Donovan seemed both angry and surprised.

“My name is Alan, I have worked in a blacksmith shop for quite a while, and if I may say so never heard the name of Donovan the swordsmith until a few days ago.” Ellen was astonished herself at just how impudent she could sound, but she kept on talking. “I don’t know you even if you are the best swordsmith in East Anglia. And who gets to decide that anyway? I came to you because a blacksmith I highly respect recommended you. He thought you could teach me more than he did.”

“Well, now, tell me who that might be?” Donovan didn’t seem to care too much about the opinions of other blacksmiths.

“My master’s name is Llewyn, and I think you know him well.”

When he heard the name Llewyn, Donovan’s eyes narrowed to little slits. He was clearly angered. Ellen even worried he might attack her, but he just snorted with contempt. “Llewyn couldn’t do it.”

“He thought he wasn’t good enough for you.”

Donovan flared up. “But he thinks you are, is that right?”

“Yes, master,” Ellen replied calmly.

Donovan was silent for a long time, his face not disclosing his thoughts.

“If you want me to test you, come back tomorrow before noon,” he said finally, and turned away.

“I’ll be here!” she replied proudly, picked up her bundle, and closed the door behind her without another word.

When Glenna and Donovan were sitting silently alone at supper, his wife was the first to break the silence. “You must at least give the boy the chance to show what he can do or you will always wonder whether Llewyn was right.”

“Llewyn wasn’t good enough,” Donovan replied roughly. “How could he judge whether…?”

“Nonsense. Not good enough? Don’t make me laugh. He wasn’t able to stand up to you. You surely know he could have done it! But you were too strict with him, never praised him, never told him you believed in him. I know how much you miss him. Don’t reject him again. This lad is his present to you, a sign that Llewyn has forgiven you.” With a gesture of determination, Glenna swept a few crumbs from the table.

“Forgiven me? I did nothing wrong—I always treated him like a son. What is there to forgive?” Donovan jumped up from the table.

“Even a son would have eventually fled from a father like you. He could have been your equal, but you never gave him time enough—you were too impatient. You learn quickly and remember everything, but you can’t expect that of everyone. You have a very special talent, something not everyone has. He had to work hard for the things that came to you so easily. Please listen to me. Give the boy a chance…for your sake as well!”

“But what good will that do? I have tried for years to find an apprentice and never had one that did not break down and quit after just a short time. Maybe I ask too much from them, but I can’t work any slower, and I can’t always repeat everything. It’s just not possible.” Donovan’s fury had given way to despair. “I lost Llewyn because I cannot be patient enough, but why should I take in a boy who is a complete stranger?”

“What do you have to lose? If he’s no good, send him away.” Glenna looked at him, pleading.

“Every time I send a boy away, it’s like losing a battle. I don’t want any more defeats.” Donovan was dejected and holding his head in his hands.

“Don, please think about how it was when Art came here. You didn’t want to take him because he was such a big man. ‘He’s dumb and strong,’ you said, and you believed he could never keep up with you. Nevertheless, you got accustomed to working together, you got to know each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Would you be able to get along without him today?”

“No, of course not,” he grumbled. “But Art is no apprentice!” he protested.

“Please, Donovan, I know Alan is the right apprentice for you. I can feel it!”

For a while, the smith said nothing, and then he continued. “I told him he can come tomorrow if he wants to take the test. We’ll see if he dares. In any case, I won’t make it easier for him just because Llewyn has sent him.”

Glenna seemed happy with this reply. She was sure the lad would make the grade. If Donovan took him on as an apprentice he would be particularly demanding with him, precisely because Llewyn had sent him. But if he was good, Donovan would see it, and it would make him happy.

Ellen had left the workshop without stopping to see Glenna again. Even though she would have liked to speak with her again, she didn’t want Donovan to see her and think she needed to go to anyone to seek sympathy. Donovan’s stubbornness and prejudice were deeply offensive to her. Even if he was in fact one of the best swordsmiths in England, did that give him the right to treat other people like that?

Of course, she knew that masters had very special rights while apprentices had only obligations. Time would tell if she ever would be able to make it to the rank of apprentice. First she would have to pass the test. When she thought about what would happen the next morning she felt a tingling in the pit of her stomach—a mixture of hope and fear. Ellen tried to tell herself she was good enough to pass the test. If not, would Llewyn have made her promise to take it? Seeking some assurance, she decided to go to a church. It certainly wouldn’t hurt to ask the Lord for His help.

Ellen spent the night in a corner of St. Clement’s Church and in the morning set out on her way to see Donovan. As she entered the workshop, the smith greeted her very cordially, and Ellen wondered what might have caused his change of heart.

Donovan had a simple way to decide whether a boy would be any good. He took out fragments of bloom iron and showed them to Ellen. “I assume that up to now you have worked only with wrought iron in bars or rods?”

Ellen nodded.

“This is bloom iron—raw iron just as it comes from the bloomery, which has not yet been wrought. When you examine the spongy texture of each piece, you will see the edges all look different. It is that texture that tells me how to work the iron later and above all whether it is suited for the softer but ductile core of the blade or the harder and more rigid jacket wrapped around it. All you must do is to sort the pieces according to whether they are suited for the jacket or for the core. A grainy, shiny texture indicates the iron is hard while an even, finely grained quality shows it is soft. In addition, you can detect impurities like slag by differences in color.” Donovan handed her one piece of each, nodded, and pointed to the pile of bloom iron in front of them. He seemed almost jubilant. He probably used the same test for all the young men who wanted to serve an apprenticeship with him, and they probably all failed.

Blacksmiths who made only simple tools, fittings, and frames of black iron worked with wrought iron that they could work with right off—that’s why Ellen had never heard of bloom. But she had listened carefully to Donovan’s explanations and remembered every single word.

Sitting down cross-legged on the hard clay floor of the shop, she picked up the pieces he had shown her, examined them carefully once more, and then tried to determine their characteristics. Donovan acted as if he were busy with something else but was watching her surreptitiously. Calmly, she took the first two pieces, weighed them in her hand, then eyed them closely, turning them, smelling them, and touching them all over. After a while, she placed them on the ground in front of her: one on the right and one on the left. Then she took the next piece, examined it in the same way, then put it down on one side or the other.

The longer she looked at the bloom iron pieces the more she understood what to do. She was sure even Donovan needed time to sort them out. Even though she knew practically nothing about making swords, she was certain the quality of such a weapon depended to a large degree on the material it was made of. She decided to make two additional piles alongside the two large piles. When she was finished, she stood up and went over to Master Donovan.

The expression on his face was impossible to fathom.

“Master, I am finished.”

Donovan walked over to the piles with her.

“Here is the material for the jacket, there’s the material for the core of the blade, and alongside them I have placed the pieces that seem to me especially impure.”

Donovan looked at her skeptically but with interest, then turned to the two larger piles. He examined each piece individually, as Ellen had done, and nodded only after he had examined them all.

Ellen could see he was pleased with her work, but when he turned to look at her, his face was dark again. What in the world had Llewyn had in mind when he sent her to him?

Ellen considered Donovan arrogant and rude. Nevertheless, something special had clicked in her while he was explaining the job to her—something she could not put into words but brought them together despite their differences. They both seemed to attack a project in the same way. Donovan’s explanations were terse, to the point, and precise, and not at all like the instructions from Llewyn or Osmond.

“I’ll think about whether I can take you on. Come back in the afternoon when I have made my decision,” he said, looking at her darkly, as before.

This old curmudgeon just can’t stand me,
she thought.
But I don’t care much for him either
. As she left the forge, she met Glenna, who was hanging up clothes on the line.

“Hello, Alan!” she called out cheerfully, waving to Ellen like an old friend.

“Greetings, mistress,” Ellen replied politely, but it was impossible not to hear the disappointment in her voice.

“Well?”

“I did what he asked of me.”

“Were you able to sort out the bloom iron?”

“Yes, I did it correctly. He looked at every piece, one at a time, and put each one down again where I had placed it.”

“Well, then I must congratulate you. But why do you look so sad?” Glenna took a large sheet and hung it over the clothesline.

“The master has not yet decided. He wants me to come back later. I don’t think he likes me.”

“He is a bitter old grumbler and needs a little time. It’s not you he can’t stand, but himself. Also, he is still angry at Llewyn, but things will work out, believe me!” She gave Ellen a look of encouragement.

While Donovan made Ellen feel rebellious and uncomfortable, Glenna gave her a feeling of security and motherly affection.

“I’ll be back, then,” Ellen said halfheartedly, and decided to go back again to the market square.

When Ellen arrived at the place she had seen the fish-pasty vendor the day before, she couldn’t find her. It was noontime, and her stomach was growling. She looked around carefully in the crowd—after all, the vendor still owed her a pasty. Just as she was about to leave, the girl approached, waving cheerfully.

“That silver piece yesterday was worth much more than my pasties and the basket. The knight could have had three baskets full of them and still they would have been overpriced. And my basket was not even full!” She picked out two nice pasties and handed them to Ellen. “Here, these are for you!”

“But you gave me two!”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” she replied, her cheeks aglow.

“Thanks! These are the best I ever had!” Ellen bit into the first one. “By the way, I found the smith I asked you about yesterday, and I’ll learn this afternoon if he will take me on.”

“Oh, I hope it works out,” the girl said with a seductive wink. “Then you can come and see me more often.”

She is actually thinking of me as a boyfriend
, Ellen thought with dismay, nodding to her briefly before plunging back into the crowd and sauntering across the market square.

Through the crowd she caught sight of a stately gentleman. Ellen’s heart skipped a beat, and she was so anxious she felt rooted to the spot. Sir Miles! But when the man turned to the side and she could see his face straight on, she realized she had been mistaken. With a sigh of relief, she continued on until she heard two women squabbling.

Curious onlookers had already gathered around them, and Ellen joined them. A burly market woman with dirty brown hair was hawking all kinds of ribbons and braids, simple ones made of cotton, costly ones of smooth silk or brocade, plain ones, and others woven in many colors, some elaborately embroidered, others long, short, thick, or thin.

An angry customer was shouting so loudly her voice nearly broke: “I paid you for thirteen ribbons, each an ell in length, and now you want more money, you shameless swindler!”

“You paid me for thirteen plain ribbons, but five of the ribbons you picked out are of silk, and embroidered, and they cost more, and so do the four woven ones you took. So you still owe me half a shilling.”

“Go and get the market inspector!” suggested the woman at the next booth. “These rich young women are either dumb or trying to cheat honest people. You should not let her get away with that.”

The customer no doubt suspected she was wrong. When faced with having her complaint referred to the market inspector, she mumbled a few curses, took out the money the merchant had demanded, and paid. Only after she had turned around did Ellen see who the customer was. She hadn’t even recognized Aedith’s voice.

“Get out of my way!” the woman shouted impatiently to the amused crowd standing around her.

Ellen knew that Aedith hated nothing more than to be ridiculed. The merchants would be watching out for her in the future.

With a haughty expression, Aedith elbowed her way past Ellen shouting, “Why are you staring at me like that, you silly brat?” Ellen seethed with rage and without thinking stuck out her foot to trip her sister, just as she used to do. Aedith stumbled, and the people laughed even harder at her. Surprised and angered, she looked around. For a brief moment Ellen looked into her eyes, saw how she was crying, and suddenly felt sympathy for her.