by James Duncan
‘I thought the count was one of the leaders? He seemed like a man of action,’ said Ordulf.
‘Aye, he is, one of the better ones is our lord, thank the Blessed Virgin, but he isn’t in charge. His lord, the Duke of Saxony, isn’t even in charge. No, Henry is in charge.’
‘Oh, very funny,’ sighed Ordulf, not understanding the soldiers’ odd humour.
‘Not me, you white-arsed muppet, Emperor Henry. Rumour has it he is coming down from his palace to lead this shit show himself. Which will make our lord count the third tier, barely even at the table when it comes to decisions. Which is a right shame – he’d sort this mess out in a hurry.’
Ordulf shook his head, bemused. He has always thought of armies as well-organised and disciplined groups. But then he knew less of armies than he knew of women.
When the carts rolled into the Lower Saxon camp area on the near side of the river, Ordulf could see that most of the contingent was not there yet. There were neat rows and clusters of tents mostly standing empty around cold, bare firepits. Horse lines set up behind the camp stood mostly empty. The cart’s escort swiftly unloaded the boxes into a storage area, under the eye of a man Ordulf would come to know as the camp master, and then simply walked away. No instructions, no advice.
He stood there like a lost lamb in the middle of the quiet camp, just looking around him for any inspiration as to what he should do. He could see, from what he had witnessed of the other camps they had passed so far, that this was one of the most organised and disciplined, but he realised he had no idea what to do, and no idea who to report to. In his mind, he had imagined being greeted by the count. But now he realised that that was impossibly naïve. The count would be off somewhere conducting important business, he was sure. Ordulf simply wandered over to the side of what he didn’t know was the training square and sat on a box.
‘Move,’ said a gruff voice a short while later.
He jumped to his feet and skittered to the side. The fat, greying man he had seen supervising the unloading of the cart opened the box and rummaged around in it. Finding what he was looking for, he noted it on a parchment with a list of something on it.
‘Who are you, anyway?’ he asked, without looking up.
‘I’m Ordulf, the swordsmith the count requested.’
The man scanned down his parchment and then grunted, ‘You aren’t on the list.’
He turned to walk away.
‘What?’
‘You deaf? I said, you aren’t on my list, so you aren’t supposed to be here, so fuck off.’
‘What? But I travelled for over a week to get here, on the request of the count!’ Ordulf protested.
‘I don’t give a shit. You aren’t on my list, so you aren’t my problem, so fuck off out of my camp,’ the man said over his shoulder as he waddled away.
Ordulf stood there, dumbstruck. There was no one else around except soldiers, no one else to ask. He shouted at the receding camp master, ‘I’m not a sodding box of carrots – of course I’m not on your list!’
The distant figure stopped, his shoulders visibly clenched. The figure turned around to start waddling back. With more purpose this time.
Oh shit, thought Ordulf. I’m here for less than a turn of the glass, and I’ve just pissed off the guy in charge of the food. The guy in charge of eating the food, too, it looks like! The self-amusement of that internal joke failed to overcome the sense of dread bearing down on him.
‘Now look here, boy… ’
‘That will be enough, Orbert. Thank you,’ came a voice above and behind Ordulf.
‘But sir!’ the fat camp master whined, ‘this lad is interloping into my camp, and he has a rotten mouth on him and all!’
Ordulf turned around to see a well-dressed knight on a horse arriving behind him.
‘This lad is sorry for upsetting you, aren’t you, lad?’ the knight said, fixing Ordulf with a pointed stare.
‘Uh, yes sir. Of course, sir.’ He turned. ‘I’m sorry, Mister Orbert.’
Orbert resumed his waddling, whinging overly loudly to himself.
The knight whistled to a stable boy, who came running to take his horse while he dismounted. He turned to face Ordulf. ‘I’m Sir Hans Metel of Oldenburg, one of the count’s vassals and, I believe, a near neighbour of your own home town. You are Ordulf the smith, from Minden, are you not?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Ordulf bowed his head deeply.
‘Good lad. Now don’t mind Orbert over there. He is a very strange man and not right in the head, but he is the best camp master in Christendom for all that. You probably noticed this is the most orderly camp in the city.’
‘I did, sir.’
‘Well, that is mostly Orbert’s doing. His only drawback is his inflexibility over his lists. I will make sure you are put on it or you won’t eat. The men are fiercely loyal to him, perhaps second only to the count. That’s because Orbert is the one who feeds them and keeps them warm. Now, I know you are new to campaigning, but there is only one thing a soldier cares about more than food and warmth, and that’s money. Orbert is in charge of distributing all three. So don’t get on Orbert’s bad side, you hear?’
Ordulf nodded rapidly.
‘Excellent. Now, the army has set up a smithy down by the river.’ Sir Hans pointed down the slope where Ordulf could now see smoke rising from behind some trees. It’s been arranged for you to share that space, so grab your tools and I will show you where. Do you have everything you need?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Excellent. Come now and bring everything with you. Anything you leave unattended in a military camp is as good as gone – into Orbert’s lists or someone else’s bags.’
Sir Hans led him down the slope to the sprawling, makeshift smithy. A dozen forges were set up along the flat meadow bordering the river under a jumble of temporary, interconnected shingled roofs. There were grinding stones of all descriptions, workbenches, boxes and boxes of materials and shelves, and racks and all manner of other equipment. Ordulf had never seen anything quite like it. He could see dozens of smiths and workers there, forging, grinding, making leather fittings, repairing kit. It was ten times the size of his forge in Minden.
The whole thing was set up in the shadow of the main bridge into Hamburg. The bridge was long, and broad enough for two carts to pass each other and leave space for those on foot either side. The roadway was formed by wooden planks the thickness of Ordulf’s leg laid on huge, square trestles formed from a single trunk each. It was an impressive and dominating structure. Sir Hans took him to the end of the sprawling forge area that sat in the bridge’s shadow and gestured to a big smith who was inspecting a rack of spearheads. The man nodded and walked over.
‘This is Ordulf, the smith for the Lower Saxon contingent. Please show him the facilities and let him have what he needs.’
‘Right you are, m’lord,’ said the smith, wiping his hands on a rag.
Sir Hans turned to Ordulf and smiled thinly. ‘When we have repairs that need doing or new weapons that need making, someone will come and let you know. Until then, practice your art, help the master smith here and make yourself useful.’
‘Yes, Sir Hans.’ Ordulf returned the smile and made his awkward half bow. Sir Hans strode off and left him there with the burly master smith, who had folded his arms and was looking Ordulf up and down.’
‘Yer a damn young ’un. You an apprentice?’
Ordulf bristled and then realised his journeyman smith badge was in his bag. ‘Journeyman of the Bremen Cutlers’ Guild,’ he said with no attempt to conceal his pride.
‘Oh, a journeyman, eh? Of Bremen? Oh, my apologies, young man,’ the smith said with a pained expression and a barely suppressed giggle. ‘I’m Master Gunther, of the Bavarian Swordsmiths.’ Ordulf’s eyebrows perked up. Even he knew the Bavarian Swordsmiths were said to be the best in all Christendom.
‘Pleased to meet you, Gunther,’ he said evenly.
‘Master Gunther,’ said the big smith, a
ll trace of amusement gone.
Ordulf paused for a moment, trying to control his annoyance. ‘Yes, Master Gunther. Sorry.’
‘Good lad, you’ll learn. Now I see you’ve got your own tools, but if you need more the racks are down there. I’m making a batch of spearheads – you made spearheads before?’
‘Yes, but…’ Ordulf started, not wanting to get roped into other work immediately.
‘Great, you can help me out. Let’s see if you know yer business.’ The smith tossed Ordulf a set of bowed tongs that were used to grip the hollow shaft of a spearhead, and he had to drop half his kit just to catch it. Gunther walked towards the forge whistling and yanked a big dog’s head hammer from a rack as he went, snapping at a boy to start working the bellows. He shoved a blank spearhead billet into the fire and then looked at Ordulf, who was still standing there dumbly, tongs in one hand and toolbelt hanging from the other.
‘Fuck ye waiting for?’ said the master. ‘Come on.’
Ordulf sighed and dropped the toolbelt and went over to join the big smith, muttering under his breath.
A couple of weeks later, Ordulf hadn’t heard from anyone beyond a few Saxon men-at-arms who turned up with weapons that needed sharpening or repairing. He went up to the camp every day for food, but there was nothing else to do there, so he spent all his time at the forge or the tent in the field behind that he shared with some of the other smiths.
He had initially resented the Bavarian smith, Gunther, but he quickly realised, much to his annoyance, that the man was much more skilled than Herman had been and undoubtedly much more skilled than he was, and he found himself learning rapidly by helping the man work. Gunther was also cheerful and didn’t mind Ordulf questioning everything he did or even suggesting alternatives.
They shared ideas and different designs and techniques. Ordulf found himself learning about forging barbed arrowheads and curved, eastern-style swords, and he was shown how to turn a sheet of iron into a shield boss using a wet leather bag of sand to make the deep bowl shape. When Gunther was busy or didn’t need his help, he experimented with the new techniques on his own or played with different tools and materials.
In the evenings, the smiths sat around a fire and joked and told dirty stories and drank watered ale under the stars. Ordulf’s life was a pleasant cycle of forging, chatting, drinking and sleeping, and he had never known a better time.
It wasn’t until early spring had really broken that the crusader army seemed to finally buzz with purpose. The rest of the contingents had started arriving, and the alehouses were filled to bursting, with more seating laid up outside, until the local militia had to try and evict the hundreds of drunken soldiers in an event that became known as the Battle of the Five Taverns by the soldiers gleefully recalling the great rout of the town militia the next day. This caused something of a crisis with the crusade leadership, who relied on the town’s good favour to be able to remain.
For a whole week, all common soldiers were banned from the town by order of the duke. The soldiers were doing what bored soldiers do: getting restless. Everyone was wondering why the crusade hadn’t started. But behind the scenes, the cogs of war were turning and plans were taking shape.
It was on one of the slow days, when Ordulf had finished his day at the forge and was starting to run out of ideas, that Sir Hans arrived in the smithy without warning.
‘Have the forge facilities been useful and sufficient?’ Sir Hans said by way of greeting.
‘Oh, yes, m’lord, quite sufficient,’ Ordulf said politely.
‘I have damaged my sword while sparring. I need you to repair it or make me a replacement.’
Sir Hans drew the damaged weapon and laid the sword on a nearby workbench. Ordulf picked up the blade and examined it. The blade was bent about three finger widths off line at the tip, and there were several notches in the edge on one side, as well as heavy scratches on both flats. He screwed up his eyes and looked down the length of the blade to try and identify the exact point of the bend. It was about one-fourth of the way inwards from the tip.
‘Well, can it be repaired?’ Sir Hans sounded irritated.
‘No, I do not think so, sir. The damage is too deep, and the weapon left behind would be weak.’
‘Damn,’ said the knight, looking bitterly disappointed. Breaking a sword was an expensive mistake, even for a wealthy knight. ‘Could you make a replacement blade?’
‘Yes, sir, I could. Would you like me to copy this one? Or I could make a newer style. Master Gunther is adamant that newer, more tapered swords are superior.’
‘A thrusting sword, eh? A maille breaker. Hmm, yes, I have seen some of those here with other knights. An excellent idea, as I would like to try one. Do that for me, will you? The master will provide whatever you need.’
Ordulf bowed and stood back as the knight left. He then picked up the damaged blade and clamped it in a vice. He filed the peened pommel cap off and then stripped the guard and pommel from the damaged sword. The steel of the blade would be remade into something else, probably knives or spears, and he would reuse the guard and pommel on the new sword to save time. Nothing would be wasted.
The Bavarian smith helped him forge the new blade in exchange for helping in the man’s hammer team. It was the first time he had forged the different, more tapered blade style, but Gunther was adamant that this design was the future.
When the work was finished, Gunther passed an appraising eye up and down the sword, turning it in his hand and examining every feature while Ordulf waited in nervous excitement.
‘That’s a damn fine job, young ’un,’ the smith finally said, putting the sword carefully down on the table beside them. ‘Would ’a been better with a new pommel – balance is a bit wrong – but you did well with the time and materials ye had.’
Ordulf smiled broadly and blushed, mumbling his thanks.
The master smith looked at him inquisitively for a moment. ‘You got plans for when you finish with this crusade?’
‘Uh… no. No, I don’t really,’ he said with a hint of embarrassment.
‘You not going back to your old forge?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Oh yeah, why not?’
‘I… uh.’ Ordulf tried to work out a way of saying it that didn’t make him look bad. He could hardly say Master Herman didn’t want him to return. ‘It’s a bit… small.’
The bladesmith laughed his slow, hearty laugh. ‘Too small for you, eh? Yeah, I can see that in you. You got ambitions, then? Aspirations of something bigger?’ The tone was slightly mocking, and Ordulf bridled.
‘Yes, what of it?’
The smith raised his meaty palms in a placating gesture. ‘Nothing wrong with it, lad. You got the skill – you just need to learn more.’ Ordulf grunted non-committally. The smith picked up an oily rag and carefully wiped his fingermarks from the blade. ‘Look, when you get back, I reckon I could use a lad like you. You got rough edges, and your design is a few years out of date, but that isn’t surprising for a country smith.’
Ordulf looked away in irritation at the continued insults, his pride pricked but his vanity listening intently to the offer he could feel coming. ‘When you get back, come with the Bavarian lot down to Regensburg and look for me. Ask for me at the Cutlers’ Guild, tell them I invited you, show them your badge and they will bring you to me.’
Ordulf nodded brusquely, trying to hide his excitement. The Cutlers’ Guild at Regensburg was reputed to be perhaps the finest in all Christendom.
‘You got nothing to say to that? Fuck me, lad, half the boys here would cut an arm off to get that invite!’ The big master laughed his hearty laugh again. ‘The pride in you, lad, it’s quite something. We’ll soon forge that out of you. It’s the last thing between you and being a great smith.’ The master chuckled and walked away, back to his own work. Ordulf stood there, filled with excitement and annoyance in equal measure. The opportunity to work at the guild in Regensburg might give him the future
he wanted, but Gunther thought he would change him? Nonsense. There is nothing wrong with me.
He received a summons from Sir Hans to come to the camp training square with the swords. He took the new sword and went back across the fields and up the slight hill to the Saxon camp. When he arrived, he saw that the count was in the central training square, sparring with Sir Hans with practice swords. Both men were stripped to a simple tunic and hose. Nearby, a wooden cross was dressed in what looked like a sack of straw covered with a gambeson, an old, padded jacket of the type he had seen the soldiers wearing, with a maille shirt over the top.
‘Ah, young Ordulf. Good lad. Come and join us.’ Sir Hans stopped and waved his hand for a drink of water. He was sweating profusely in the warm spring sun.
Ordulf jogged over, holding the wrapped sword in both hands. He proffered the hilt to the knight, and Hans brandished it in the light. He looked down its edges and then took a few swings, rolling it in his wrists and judging the weight.
‘Sir Hans told me you were making him a new sword, to a new design,’ said the count, coming over to join them. ‘I was interested to see him judge this new creation of yours. Perhaps I will want one too?’ He smiled affably at Ordulf, who nodded politely and tried to make himself invisible, the habit of a lifetime being hard to overcome.
Sir Hans was looking at the blade quizzically. ‘Well, it’s certainly interesting. Its balance is definitely nearer the hilt than I am used to. It is light and easy in the hand. But I don’t feel any great cutting power in the swing. However, I can feel that it would be steady and easy to direct in the thrust, and that point looks wicked. I bet it will go through maille like a spearhead.’
He flipped the sword over and proffered it to the count, who took it and repeated the actions of judging and checking it. ‘My God, it does feel different. And I can’t get past how odd it looks. I do wonder if this will be too light and narrow. Could you parry with it?’
