Tempered Steel

by Paul J Bennett

Summer 1094 SR

  * * *

  The white-hot iron was pulled from the coals and placed directly onto the anvil. As it was struck by a hammer, the sound rang loudly, echoing throughout the heated interior of the workshop. An older man neared the forge, leaning closer to examine the smith’s work.

  “Not bad,” Tomas said. “I’ll make a smith of you yet.”

  Charlaine stepped back, wiping the sweat from her brow. “Thank you, Papa, but there's still so much work to be done.” She resumed her endeavours, once again filling the small room with the sound of her hammering.

  “Is that the sword I had you start last week?”

  “It is,” she said between strikes. She beat the iron some more, then quenched it in the water bucket, listening as the water hissed. Using the tongs to extract the blade, she turned to her father. “What do you think?”

  “Impressive, and a far better piece than I would have been able to make at your age. You’ve got all the makings of a master bladesmith, Charlaine.”

  “I have a good teacher, but you didn’t come here just to compliment my work.”

  “True,” he admitted, “though it certainly deserves high praise. No, I came here to see if you can do a favour for me.”

  “Another sword? Don't we have enough orders already?”

  He chuckled. “I hoped I might be able to pry you away from the forge for a while. I have a weapon that’s in need of delivery.”

  “Can’t you go?”

  “I’m afraid not, I have to go to the guildhall.”

  “Can’t the delivery wait until you get back?” she asked. “In case you didn’t notice, I’m rather busy here.”

  “So I gathered, but the baron is in a hurry.”

  “Baron Verfeld?” Charlaine asked.

  Tomas stood, hands on hips, staring at her for a moment. “Do you know of any other baron in these parts?”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Good. Take the horse, and for Saint's sake, get yourself cleaned up first.”

  “Really, Father? I would have thought the baron would be delighted to greet a sweaty, stinking smith.”

  “I might remind you you’re not a full one yet, at least not until I’ve paid your dues to the guild," he said. "Now, go and wash up, and tell your mother you’ll be late for dinner.”

  “You think I’ll be late?”

  “It’s nearly five miles to the baron’s keep, and he’ll likely keep you waiting some time before he’s ready to see you.”

  “Then what’s the hurry? It’ll take longer to saddle the horse than it will to ride there.”

  “You should know better than to keep a noble waiting,” he chided her. “Now, run along and be quick about it.”

  “Yes, Father,” she replied, pulling off her apron.

  Charlaine stepped out of the workshop into the open air. It was a warm summer's day, but compared to the heat by the forge, it was a welcome relief. She looked skyward, then back at her father. “Plenty of time yet.”

  “Perhaps,” said Tomas, “but the baron can talk your ear off, and you want to be back before dark. These are dangerous times for a young woman to be outside the town alone.”

  “Agnes will protect me."

  “I admire your faith, but Saint Agnes no longer walks amongst us mortals. It's common sense that will keep you safe, not a long-dead saint.”

  “How is it,” she asked, “that Mother can be so devout while you appear to care so little for the Saints?”

  “Is that what you think? That I don't care? I worship the Saints, much as your mother does, but I believe a person's destiny is in their own hands, not guided by unseen forces. It’s hard work and constant practice that has made me a master smith, not some random acts of kindness from an ancient prophet or two.”

  “I doubt Mother would agree with you, but I understand what you’re saying. Fear not, Father, I shall be careful.”

  He nodded his head. “Good, that's all I can ask for. Now, I must get changed and be off before that rascal Donvin monopolizes the guild master's time.”

  Charlaine watched him enter the house, his steps fuelled with purpose. She hung back a moment, enjoying the feeling of the sweat evaporating from her wet skin before she turned, ready to copy his actions.

  The warmth of the sun invaded her thoughts as she entered through the side door into the kitchen, where her mother was kneading dough.

  “And where do you think you’re going, child?” Estelle deShandria was an older version of Charlaine, with long, dark hair and a dusky complexion that was typical of Calabrians.

  “I’m not a child anymore, Mother. I’m twenty-three.”

  “That still doesn’t answer my question.”

  “If you must know,” said Charlaine, “Father is sending me on a delivery, a sword for the baron.”

  “Then you’d best get cleaned up. You can’t go there looking like that!” Estelle admonished.

  Charlaine resisted the temptation to bite back, instead taking a deep breath and answering as politely as possible. “Why else would I come in from the workshop?”

  “Fine,” her mother retorted, “then be off with you, but mind you wear your best dress. This is the nobility we’re talking about.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” said Charlaine, her calmness once again threatening to crack, “but I must hurry. I’ll talk to you later.”

  She rushed from the kitchen, taking the stairs up to her tiny room. Her family made a tidy sum from the smithy, and her own elevation to that profession would doubtless bring even more business their way, but there were times that she felt trapped, forever treated as a child by her mother.

  Her father entered the kitchen. “I’m off to the guildhall,” he announced.

  “Again, Tomas? Some days I swear that’s all you do anymore.”

  “Official business today. It’s high time Charlaine became a master.”

  Estelle stopped kneading the dough and looked up in surprise. “Is she ready?”

  “As ready as she’ll ever be. She’s already more than capable of forging swords, and her skill will only grow with time.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’ve been a smith all my life,” he replied curtly. “I think I’m more than capable of judging her work.”

  “I didn’t mean to indicate you couldn’t, but there’s more to being a smith than simply skill at forging. Does she have the nose for business?”

  “You, of all people, should know that, Estelle. Who do you think has been keeping the accounts of late?”

  “And what will you do? Two smiths can't work the same forge.”

  “I wasn’t intending on it,” Tomas said, “but we have the room to build a second one. Then we can double our output and reap the rewards.”

  “My husband, always looking to the future.”

  “We have to make a profit where we can. She won’t stay unmarried forever.”

  “Who says she won’t? You’ve seen her at work. Surely you don’t think she has time for men?”

  “Why not, Estelle?” he said. “I seem to recall similar things were said of me.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, “and you’d still be single if I hadn’t come along.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, dear husband, that you always got absorbed in your work. You still do, as a matter of fact, just like our daughter, but one day someone’s going to come along and capture her interest, much as I did with you.”

  He smiled. “You still do.”

  “Still do what?” asked Charlaine, re-entering the room wearing a pale green dress.”

  “Never mind,” said her mother. “Now, come here, your hair looks atrocious.”

  Charlaine stood still as her mother braided her hair. She looked to her father, who watched as deft fingers twisted the strands into a semblance of order.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be off to the guild?” Charlaine reminded him.

  “So I am,” said Tomas. He moved closer,
and his wife paused her work while he planted a kiss on her lips. Turning to Charlaine, he kissed her forehead. “Be good,” he said, “and Saint Agnes will reward you.”

  She grinned, knowing full well that her father was teasing her.

  “I will,” she promised, “and may the Saint's Blessings be upon you.”

  He disappeared through the door, and her mother resumed her work.

  “I don’t know why you don’t wear your hair shorter,” Estelle said. “Surely it would be easier than having to go through this every day.”

  “And look like a man? No, thank you!”

  “You’re doing a man’s job."

  “I know,” Charlaine replied, “but that doesn’t mean I want to be mistaken for one.”

  “What’s this now? Vanity?”

  “Hardly."

  “Does that mean a boy has caught your eye?”

  “No,” Charlaine said, “it does not. Honestly, Mother, that's the only thing you talk to me about anymore.”

  “It’s important that a woman find a stable marriage, Charlaine. What about Eckhart, he’s a smith just like you?”

  “Mother, you can’t be serious. That man has slept with half the women in Malburg.”

  “That makes him experienced,” her mother replied, “and as a smith, he could provide you with a comfortable living.”

  “I can do that for myself, and I can make far better weapons than that immature lout!”

  “He’s the same age as you!”

  “Really? He acts so much younger.”

  “You know," Estelle continued, "I was younger than you are now when I met your father, and he wasn’t the most cultured of smiths.”

  “So you delight in telling me, but I’m not you!”

  Her mother finished the braid, then turned her daughter to look her in the eyes. “I only want what’s best for you,” she said.

  Charlaine softened her features. “I know you do, Mother, but I’m more than capable of looking after myself.”

  “I worry about you, that’s all.”

  “That’s all well and good, but you need to stop interfering in my life. Maybe one day I’ll meet the perfect husband, but I’m in no hurry.”

  “But you are open to it?” her mother persisted.

  “Yes, of course,” Charlaine replied, “but I’m not prepared to give up my trade for it.”

  “I doubt you’ll find someone willing to take you up on that offer.”

  “Then I’ll live alone!”

  “No,” Estelle retorted. “You’ll live at home with your parents.”

  “You make marriage sound so appealing all of a sudden,” said Charlaine.

  Her mother laughed, breaking the tension in the room. “You’d best get going before the baron gets upset.”

  3

  Dinner

  Summer 1094 SR

  * * *

  Dinner found Ludwig sitting next to Prior Yannick. The Holy Man was a tall, lanky individual, far from what Ludwig had expected from a member of the Church.

  “I hear you’re new to town, Your Grace,” said Ludwig.

  “So I am,” the prior replied, “though I have, of course, visited towns of similar size in the past.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, how long have you been a prior?”

  “This is my first assignment in that capacity, but I was a Holy Father for a number of years. Did you know my predecessor?”

  “Not well,” Ludwig replied, “though I did, of course, attend services regularly. Would you mind answering a question?”

  “If I can.”

  “Why has the Church seen fit to post a prior to Malburg? Wouldn't a simple Holy Father have been sufficient?”

  Baron Verfeld spoke up. “Don’t be impertinent, Ludwig.”

  “No,” said the prior, “it’s all right. Let me answer.” He turned to Ludwig. “In larger cities, a prior oversees all the Holy Fathers, but, as you’ve pointed out, Malburg has only one Temple of Saint Mathew. Normally, that would entail a single Holy Father, but the surrounding area includes the villages of Eramon, Roshlag, Voslund, and Karlsrun.”

  “And Freiburg,” added Ludwig, “not to mention our own village of Verfeld, but not all of those are serviced by Holy Fathers.”

  “True,” said Prior Yannick, “and yet someone must oversee their spiritual needs.”

  “And will you be performing the rites in Malburg?”

  “When I can,” said the prior, “but my duties will see me travelling quite regularly. Why, this very month, I must visit the capital itself.”

  “Harlingen?”

  “Yes, have you ever been there? I hear it’s quite the city.”

  “So I’m told,” said Ludwig, “but I’m afraid I’ve been no farther than the borders of the barony.”

  “You surprise me,” His Grace added. “I would have thought someone of your upbringing would have travelled widely.”

  “I would certainly like to see the Continent,” said Ludwig, "but I’m afraid my duties here preclude that.”

  “Leave the travelling to me,” interjected Berthold.

  Ludwig looked across the table at his slightly younger stepbrother. “What makes you think you’ll be travelling?”

  “Simple,” Berthold replied. “I’m not needed here, and I’m sure Mother would like me to receive only the best education. They say the tutors in Harlingen are outstanding. Isn’t that right, Your Grace?”

  “Well,” said the Holy Man, "I’m hardly in a position to confirm that until I’ve actually set foot in the place, but I do hear the scholars there are second to none. Tell me, Berthold, are you from this region?”

  The younger Altenburg sat back in his chair, swishing some wine around his goblet. “No,” he finally said. “I hail from the distant land of Reinwick. Have you heard of it?”

  “It’s in the north, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is. On the shores of the Great Northern Sea, to be exact.”

  “It must have been quite a shock to move here, away from the coast.”

  “So it was, but most of the people here have been welcoming.” He shot a dirty look at Ludwig, but the prior gave no indication of seeing it.

  “It’s always nice when one is welcome. Tell me, does the whole family attend services?”

  “When we can,” answered the baron, “though we tend to share our devotions between the orders.”

  “So you’re not committed to Saint Mathew? I must say I find that surprising.”

  “We certainly attend our fair share of services, but my dear wife worships Saint Agnes, and so we make special consent to her wishes.”

  “Ah, yes, I understand completely. Our orders frequently work together, you see.”

  “Have you met the Prioress of Saint Agnes?” asked Ludwig.

  “As a matter of fact, I have,” said Prior Yannick. “We shared a meal only yesterday. Mother Ophelia is a remarkable woman.”

  “Did you meet any Temple Knights?” pressed Berthold. “I only ask because my dear stepbrother is fascinated by them.”

  “One was present, though I must confess I never got her name.”

  “I was quite surprised you didn’t bring some of your own,” said Ludwig. “Do they not guard high-ranking Church officials?”

  “Of course, but I hardly thought it necessary when visiting your father. I was led to believe that the barony has been peaceful for years.”

  “And so it has been,” offered the baron. “You were quite right to leave them behind, despite my son’s desire to meet them.”

  The prior turned to Ludwig. “You are more than welcome to come down to the temple and meet some if you like. I’d be happy to introduce you.”

  “I would like that very much,” said Ludwig, turning to the baron. “With my father’s permission, of course.”

  “An excellent idea,” agreed Lord Frederick. “I shall have Kasper make the arrangements, shall I?”

  “Kasper?” said the prior.

  “Kasper Piltz,” expla
ined Ludwig, “my father’s righthand man. He handles all the details of daily life, freeing up my father for more important matters.”

  “Not that such a meeting is trivial,” insisted the baron, “but I’m afraid my responsibilities to the king keep me exceedingly busy.”

  “Well,” said the prior, “I shall be happy to do my part to continue the education of your son.”

  “And I shall be glad of the assistance. He’s always wanted to be a warrior, you know.”

  “I did not, though I must say it’s surprising. I’ve never known one to take such an interest in OUR Temple Knights before.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” said Berthold. “He’ll talk with anyone.”

  “Berthold!” snapped the baron. “Mind your manners. You’re insulting our guest.”

  “I take no offense,” His Grace replied. “It is always good to see someone taking an interest in matters of the Church. I wish more young men would do so.”

  “Your Grace,” interrupted Lady Astrid, “have you seen much of the Continent?”

  “Alas, no, though I have seen the southern coast.”

  “The Shimmering Sea?” said Ludwig. “I hear it’s rife with pirates.”

  “I was based in Corassus, and the Holy Fleet there acts as a nice deterrent.”

  “So no pirates, then,” grumbled Berthold.

  “Some,” admitted Prior Yannick, "but not nearly so many as you might have been led to believe. There is far more strife in this area of the Petty Kingdoms, or so I understand.”

  “There is?” said Ludwig. “That’s news to me.”

  “Then maybe you should spend more time studying politics,” suggested Berthold.

  “My son is right,” said Lady Astrid. “Ludwig spends far too much time practising his fighting skills. He needs to learn diplomacy, Frederick. Why don’t we send him to Grislagen?”

  “No,” insisted the baron. “I think it best we keep him here in Hadenfeld. He is, after all, a relative of the king. We can hardly have him serving a foreign lord.”

  “Then let us send him to the capital. Mayhap he can learn some manners there?”

  “I hardly think this is the place to discuss such things,” the baron retorted.