The Medieval Murderers: Sword of Shame

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.