The Fell Sword (18 page)

‘Sorry!’ said Duke, in the same semi-demi-mock-rueful tone he used with the master.

‘The third way is to build something like a barrel of iron staves, and hoop it, and forge weld the whole.’ Edmund held up his first successful model. ‘Everyone look at this.’

Sam Vintner, the eldest, held the octagonal tube for a few breaths. ‘It failed,’ he said flatly.

Edmund sighed inwardly. ‘It failed after twenty shots. My forge welds weren’t good enough.’

Sam pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Do it on a mandril?’ he asked.

Edmund had to bite a comment. He didn’t like having his work questioned. But if he slapped Sam down now— Still, he was human. ‘Of
course
I used a mandril,’ he said.

Sam shrugged to show he meant no harm. ‘A red-hot mandril? To keep the heat?’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Edmund, intrigued.

Sam grinned. ‘I’m making this up as I go along. But it stands to reason, don’t it? You need the welds to be as strong and smooth inside as out, right?’

Edmund nodded, already thinking through to the end of the argument. ‘In fact, the welds
only
have to be strong and smooth inside.’

The middle apprentice took an apple out of his back and started eating.

‘Tom?’ asked Edmund.

Tom shrugged. ‘Just tell me what to do,’ he said.

‘Talk about the project,’ Edmund said. ‘That’s what we’re doing. When you are an apprentice, mostly no one asks your opinion; the more senior you are, the more your master will consult you.’

Tom nodded. Took another bite of apple. ‘Sure, boss. I’ll bite. Why not cast ’em?’

Edmund had the first one he’d cast. He handed it around. ‘Bronze,’ he said.

All three boys groaned. Bronze cost twenty times what iron cost.

‘Cast them in iron,’ Tom said.

Edmund chewed on the idea for a moment. ‘I’ve never cast anything in iron,’ he said. ‘Have you?’

All three apprentices shook their heads.

Edmund shrugged. ‘I have heard cast iron is brittle. I’ll ask Master Pye.’

‘And I imagine that, if you cast them, the bore will be rough when you want it smooth,’ said Duke.

Tom finished his apple and threw the two small bits of the core he’d left into the forge fire.

Edmund shook his head. ‘Let’s start with a heated mandril,’ he said.

The boys all nodded.

‘Tom, you and Duke make a mandril. Here’s my old one. One inch in diameter, no taper. Best make three.’

‘Has to be steel,’ said Tom.

Edmund shook his head, stung. ‘Of course it does.’

‘It’ll deform with heat,’ said Tom. ‘And if it’s hot enough to keep up the temperature in the welds, it’ll end up welded to the barrel staves.’

Edmund was beginning to see why Master Pye had been so willing to part with Tom. ‘That can probably be controlled by careful judgement,’ he said. ‘And a little judicious use of water or oil.’

‘Sure,’ said Tom, by which he pretty obviously meant,
Wait and see. I’m right.

Edmund ended the day feeling that Mr Smyth’s hundred gold leopards might be harder to obtain than he’d expected.

But in the evening, he dressed in good wool and linen, hung his buckler – all steel, burnished like a lady’s mirror – on his belt with his sword – also his own work – and after preening in Mistress Pye’s glass for a moment, he walked out into the evening air. Summer was on the wane, and darkness was coming earlier – sad news for all working folks, for whom long summer evenings meant relaxation, warmth, and gossip.

He crossed the square to his sister, who stood with four other girls. They fell silent as he approached. Anne – his favourite, although nothing was settled, as one might say – smiled at him, and he returned her smile. She had full lips and large eyes; a kirtle that fit a little more tightly than most girls’, in a fine burgundy. She sewed for her living, and was already fully employed, running shirts and braes for Master Keller, the tailor, to half the court. Her white linen shift had fancy threadwork at the neck and cuffs, but all her patient labour didn’t catch his interest as much as the creamy white tops of her breasts and the swell of her hips.

‘See something you like?’ said his sister, and slapped his side – hard.

No man is a hero to his sister. He rolled away from her follow-on blow and looked rueful. ‘The sele of the day to you, ladies.’

‘Now he’s a perfect, gentle knight,’ Mary said, and laughed. ‘Don’t you have somewhere you’re supposed to be? We’re talking. Girl talk.’

‘A court boy tried to put his hand down Blanche’s gown!’ said Nancy, who was too young to know you didn’t say such things in front of a brother.

Edmund bridled. ‘What court boy?’

Blanche was his sister’s best friend – tall and blond and elegant. She worked at the palace, and gave herself airs. But she looked less haughty than usual today. ‘I gave him no cause,’ she said. ‘He just – grabbed me.’

Edmund didn’t like this, the more so as his sister wanted a palace position, too.

‘What were you doing?’ he asked.

‘Ninny!’ said his sister. ‘It’s not her fault, you gormless fool. Sod off – go hit someone with your sword.’ She made a shooing motion with her hand. ‘Go away!’

She threw a slight smile in the last motion – almost a wink. They were brother and sister and he got the message. ‘Your servant, madam,’ he said with a deep bow.

Across the square, two dozen boys took turns playing at sword and buckler. The game was a complex one with many unwritten rules. Boys and men used sharp swords – so the only target permitted was the buckler. Some games allowed the defender to move the buckler, and some specified that the buckler had to be hit a certain kind of blow, and some boys had elaborate sword and buckler chants, with each boy going through a particular rhythm of blows and blocks to a rhyme or a poem.

Edmund fancied himself a fair blade. He practised at the pell in his master’s yard; he had a chance to watch real knights and men-at-arms test new weapons. Master Pye sometimes even took lucky apprentices and journeymen with him to the palace to watch the Royal Guard practise, or to see knights prepare for the tournament.

He paired up with Tom, who, despite being three years his junior, was already fully his height and weight. They started slowly, and Edmund requested a halt to take off his cote and retie his hose. Tom shook his head. ‘Why wear a cote and tight hose to the square?’ he asked. ‘It’s like you was dressed for church!’

Other, older boys rolled their eyes. Most boys over fifteen dressed up to go to the square.

Edmund smiled to himself and folded his jacket.

He and Tom had a fine bout – long enough to work up a good sweat, skilful enough that the other young men pressed around, watching them. Edmund was the better blade, but Tom was so
fast
that the exchanges were never one-sided.

Eventually, though, as the younger boy’s wrist started to tire, Edmund began to strike his buckler faster and harder. And then Tom stepped back and raised a hand – at first Edmund thought it was surrender, but then he saw what Tom had seen – the other young men were watching something else.

The four new boys stuck out from the moment they entered the square. They wore bright clothing, where most apprentices wore drab or black. The leader – and there was no mistaking that he was the leader – wore hose that were striped in three colours, in the Gallish fashion, aping the look of the new foreign knights and making him look like a fool to Edmund. But he noted that all the girls turned to look at this display.

The new boys talked loudly, too, and swaggered. The thinnest of them – a boy so thin he was on the edge of invisibility – managed to take up so much space that he bumped into one of the boys watching the sword and buckler play.

The local boy stepped back and mumbled, ‘Beg your pardon’ automatically.

The colourful boy shoved him. ‘Hey, fuckwit, watch where yer going!’ he said, and his mates laughed.

The boy who’d been shoved looked resentful, but didn’t take the matter up.

The thin boy whooped. ‘Look at the pretty sluts,’ he said.

Tom sighed. ‘They want trouble.’

Edmund had just heard his sister called slut. He was doubly maddened to see several of the girls giggle and look at the brightly clad bastards. But his sister met his eye firmly.

He was a journeyman. It wasn’t his place to get in brawls.

But his three apprentices were watching him. Sam smiled, Tom frowned, and Duke was picking up his buckler.

The leader had the short hair the Galles wore, and his, like Duke’s, was white-blond. He had sharp features and a long dagger on his crotch, with a sword on his left hip. He rubbed the hilt of his ballock dagger. ‘Which of you bitches wants it?’ he asked. He laughed. ‘You, sweet?’ he said, stepping close to Mary.

Their behaviour was absurd. But Edmund had heard about them – gangs that acted like Galles, and kept to what they called the ‘Rule of War’. Some of them really were the squires and pages of de Vrailly’s men, and some just dressed to be like them.

The thin boy cackled. ‘They all want it,’ he shouted. ‘There’s not a man with balls here!’

Edmund stepped out of the crowd of apprentices. ‘Get lost,’ he said. It wasn’t said as mildly, as drily, or as loudly as he’d intended, and worst of all, his voice rose as he spoke. His hands were shaking.

The colourfully dressed boys were scary.

‘What was that, little fuckwit?’ asked the leader, whom Edmund had christened Blondie. ‘Go hide in your bed; the hard boys are here.’ He put his hand on his dagger. ‘Want some of this?’

For days afterwards, Edmund would think of witty replies. But at the time, he just shrugged.

‘What’s that?’ said the boy, and drew both weapons.

Edmund was Harndon born and bred. He knew that lower-class boys were tough as nails and fought differently from apprentices. On the other hand, he’d used weapons since he was a boy, and he was a Harndonner – he didn’t make way on the street for anyone.

He plucked his buckler onto his fist. ‘He drew first,’ he said cautiously, to the crowd of apprentice boys.

Blondie made a sly cut – a long, leaping cut from outside engagement range. It was a fight ender. And a move that would probably lead to a murder trial.

Edmund got it on his buckler and almost lost the fight immediately, as the other boy tried to power over the rim of his little shield and into his shoulder with his hilt. He had a feeling of unreality. The fool was really trying to kill him.

Then the reality of it hit him.

He got his sword out of his scabbard in time to stop two strong cuts to his open side, and blind luck and long training left his buckler in the way of the dagger strike – which nonetheless licked past his buckler and pricked his arm.

He backed away.

‘I’m going to
fuck you up
,’ Blondie said, just as one of his mates slammed his fist into Edmund from behind.

Everything happened at once.

The punch shocked Edmund – but it fell on bone, and it turned him and made him stumble to the left. Blondie attacked, stamping his foot and cutting heavily at Edmund’s unshielded side – even reeling in pain, Edmund had the boy summed up. He only had three cuts.

Unfortunately, his stumble didn’t save him and he fell.

But he rolled, cut low, and connected.

It was the first time Edmund had ever used a blade with intent – and even hurt and desperate, he had a heartbeat’s hesitation in putting his full force into the blow. But it landed hard enough, and Blondie gasped.

Edmund got to his feet to find that a dozen apprentices were burying the thin boy in fists.

Blondie’s hose were ruined, and blood was spreading over his shin.

He backed away. ‘I’ll be back with twenty bravos,’ he said. ‘My name is Jack Drake, and this square is mine. And everything in it.’

Edmund would, under other circumstances, have let him go except for the last comment. He followed the retreating boy.

‘Coward,’ he said. It was the first thing in the fight that went the way he wanted.

Blondie paused, and then laughed. ‘I’ll be back, and then you’re dead,’ he said, and his boys came and helped him walk. But as soon as they were clear of the ring of bystanders, the man called Jack turned and came after Edmund.

He cut at Edmund’s head again – outside line, high to low.

This time, no one hit Edmund in the head and his sword licked out, picked up the cut and forced it down even faster across his opponent’s body and onto Edmund’s buckler as he stepped forward. He bound the man’s arms under his buckler, and slammed his pommel into the man’s mouth, making teeth fly.

The same motion threw the man to the ground. Edmund kicked him. The man threw up.

‘Kill him!’ shouted several apprentices.

The thin boy had been beaten bloody. The other two were across the square.

Edmund had every eye on him. Anne looked—

‘Yield,’ he said, putting his sword at the man’s throat.

‘You better fucking kill me, fuckwit,’ Drake said. He spat another tooth.

Edmund shrugged. ‘You are wode,’ he said. ‘Insane!’

The other man’s eyes bored into him. ‘This square is
mine.
’

Edmund didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t just kill the bleeding man in cold blood. And his insistence was as frightening as his original challenge.

‘That’s why I’ll beat you, fuckwit,’ Drake said. ‘You haven’t got the balls—’

A board hit Drake in the head, and his body sagged. Tom leaned on the board – a door lintel from a building site. ‘My da says you have to kill ’em like lice,’ he said.

‘What about the law?’ asked Edmund. He couldn’t tell whether the man was alive or dead.

‘I don’t see the sheriff,’ said Tom. ‘Good fight, by the way. Nice move.’ He laughed. He sounded a little wild, but his hands were steady. ‘Let’s take him somewhere – the monastery. Monks always know what to do.’ He shrugged. ‘He’s not dead. You gonna let him live?’

Edmund found his hands were shaking hard. ‘Yes,’ he said. And knew he’d regret the weakness. But he also knew he couldn’t kill Jack Drake in cold blood. Not and be the same man afterwards.

Albinkirk – Ser John Crayford