The Medieval Murderers: Sword of Shame

‘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.