The Medieval Murderers: Sword of Shame

Dudda wanted to be fighting Vikings, not some Norman bastard.

Cerdic the sheathmaker was an older man than Paul, with hair as black as a raven’s wing. His language was strangely accented, because he came from the barbaric far north of the country originally, but his abilities with wood and leather had brought him here to London, where his marvellous sheaths won praise from all who saw them.

Short and thickset, he had a cast in one eye that made it difficult to tell where he was looking as he spoke. A long scar that rose from his wrist up to his elbow was the remaining evidence of his youth when he had last fought in the fyrd.

Today he took the sword with a low whistle of appreciation. ‘This is the best you’ve made in a while. What does this say?’

Paul smiled and ran his finger down the inscription that had been engraved in the fuller. ‘“ Qui falsitate vivit, animam occidit. Falsus in ore, caret honore ”-that is, “He who lives in falsehood slays his soul. He who lies, his honour,”’ he translated loosely.

‘Well, with a moral like that, your sword will need something to set it off,’ Cerdic said. He was quiet a moment, holding the sword in his hands and considering. Taking it up in his hand, he felt the balance and swung it about him at breast height. ‘Bloody good!’

‘I’ll leave it with you, then.’

Cerdic scarcely acknowledged his departure as his friend left his workshop. He was still feeling the weight of the sword, testing it for its centre, setting his head on one side as he looked down its length, and then nodding to himself. Finally, he sat on a stool and looked at the hilt.

The basic form of the sheath was already prepared-he stored many blanks of wood. Shaped, lined with fresh sheepskin, glued together and wrapped in good leather, with carving on the hide itself, many were long enough to suit this blade. He’d want some good decoration for the sheath, too. Some good bronze. He had some which would be adequate for workaday blades, but nothing for this. With a slate and block of chalk, he made a rough outline of the sort of pieces he wanted, and paid a lad to take it to his favourite supplier. The he began to rummage through his stock of wooden blanks.

It was late in the afternoon when he began to hack into the hard wood he had selected. The adze was sharp as a chisel, and it took little time to shave off the inner surface with a sweeping, careful stroke, the blank resting on the floor and held in place by straps. He had already marked out the dimensions of the sword in chalk, and now he cut out the form of the blade, pausing every so often to rest the sword in the space to ensure it fitted. The precise size didn’t matter too much. It was a case of making the hole large enough for the blade, together with its protective sheepskin case, to fit.

His workshop was a small lean-to near the London Bridge gate, and from his open doorway he had a good view of the travellers coming and going along that great roadway. Usually he would win good custom from the people who came up this way because he was on the route to the street of armourers, and many men had need of the smiths. There were always swords to be rehoned, sharpened or replaced. With the ever-present threat of war, men looked to their arms, and even if the sword was good and strong, all too often the sheath was beyond repair. One sword could have six or seven sheaths in a man’s lifetime if he was regularly off on journeys.

Today a pair of men arrived. One, a vicar, looked exhausted. Priests tended to be bad customers, they rarely had to wear their swords on their hips when they travelled, but left them safe while others defended them from attack. This man wore nothing. However his companion was interesting-he looked wealthier than Cerdic’s usual customer. He had dark hair braided in two long plaits, and his clothing was worn and faded, the russet cloth of his cloak was thinning and stitched together to mend the many tears. A youthful face, but sad: a man who’d seen much of life already. His sword was all but hanging out from a broken sheath. ‘My horse. It stood on the thing last night,’ he said bitterly.

‘Master,’ Cerdic said with a grave nod. Warriors deserved respect. ‘Let me have a look. Ach! It is stuck in here. The sheath is ruined, but I fear the sword may be too. I’ll have to cut the sheath away to see how the blade has suffered.’

‘I am called to go with the fyrd…That sword. Let me try it.’

Cerdic nodded and passed it across to the man, trying not to grin. As soon as he’d entered the room, the traveller’s eyes had gone to the sword on Cerdic’s table. And no surprise-it was the most beautiful piece of work in the room. It all but glowed, and the covetous eye of the warrior had fixed on it in a moment. Anyone who lived by the strength of his arm must be attracted to a weapon that had clearly had so much time lavished upon it.

‘Master, this is beautiful! It reminds me…’ the man said, holding it out before him. He turned his wrist, and the metal flashed backwards, wickedly, before coming to rest pointing at the doorway. He span on his heel and raised it to an imaginary enemy, then let it slash down, continuing the movement up and behind him, bringing it around to his breast and pausing, studying it closely again.

‘My old sword is damaged; I need a new one. I can’t count on a sword that is liable to shatter.’

‘Ah, that’s not mine to sell.’

‘I am a thegn: Dudda son of Bran,’ Dudda said with quiet menace. ‘I will have this sword, no matter what it costs.’

Cerdic nodded. ‘Then you’d best speak to Paul. I can introduce you.’

‘Paul…’ the priest said, running a finger over the insciption on the blade and frowning as he recognized the quotation. ‘I wonder…’

Rollo was glad to have Swein at his side as he mounted his horse. The great beast was comforting, a good, biddable brute, but if it came to charging a shield wall with lances pointing at them, Rollo would be happier knowing that Swein was near.

Swein was one of those northmen who inspired terror in his enemies and commanded respect from his comrades. Rollo had seen him in battle, and he felt that the Norse blood flowed vigorously in his veins. With an axe in his fist he was the picture of a berserker, worth more than twenty ordinary members of the fyrd.

For all that, he was sure that Swein was not from Scandinavia. The man’s accent was more Saxon than anything else. Rollo reckoned he was the son of a minor thegn who had embarrassed his master and been forced to flee. Perhaps he had killed a man and couldn’t afford to pay the fine? Whatever the reason, Rollo was simply glad that he was here with him in William of Normandy’s host with the other mercenaries. They’d have need of men like Swein if they were going to break the Saxon shield-wall.

He had served in the fyrd himself. Standing in the shield-wall with farmers and peasants, linking shields and grasping their swords or lances. So long as they worked in unison, the enemy would break on them like the tide on an unforgiving shore. And when the moment was right, the shield-wall would begin to shove forward, swords rising and falling to hack at any within range. The line of warriors would stamp forwards, trampling dead and wounded alike, while men behind would stab and slash at the bodies in case a man was feigning death and intended to rise up among the men of the fyrd to cause mayhem.

Yes, the fyrd was strong, and provided that their commander had time to run them through their paces, giving them their commands for even a half day, there was little which could be done to overwhelm them.

That was Rollo’s fear: that the fyrd might arrive prepared. The men under Harold were strong and determined, as they should be for they were fighting for their kingdom. But the Normans under William were determined too. They had the sea at their backs, and if they failed, they would die.