AU: This is somewhere and sometime not yet clearly defined in my mind, but the bunny wanted out and I had to go with the bunny. As to my other, unfinished stories, I will get back to them sometime. Unfortunately I got bummed off with Castle (or at least the writers) and needed some time away. Added to all sorts of changes in life (moving house and possibly selling the business amongst them), I've had little time to sit back and write. To those of you who have messaged, thanks for your continued interest in my stories and I promise to do my best to wrap them up over the winter. To all of you who might have got this far J …. Hope you enjoy, but don't expect too many (or any) updates soon. However I would like to know what you think! Thanks, Turret
NB: Fighting iron (steel)
FORGED IN HEAT
The ring of hammer on iron resonated out over the river clearing, an almost rhythmic beat which rose up the mountainside behind and lost itself amongst the trees which clad the higher slopes. Young Richard leant against the wooden post of the smithy's and watched his father at work, the strong features, barely masked by the neatly trimmed silvery beard, blazed in the orange glow of the furnace, the easy rise and fall of the muscular arm creating a larger-than-life, shadowy imitation against the rear wall.
The bright orange glow of heated metal began to dull as the hammer beat out the newest blade against the anvil. His father struck the steel one more time and then raised it to squint along the elongated strip of almost-formed sword, experienced eye checking for imperfections, for variations in thickness or almost-imperceptible cracks which might indicate a badly tempered blade.
His eyes shifted sideways, glimpsed his son near the entrance and he set the blade down on the anvil, a smile cracking his face and showing strong, white, even teeth. He jerked his head and young Richard grinned as he made his way over to where his father stood before the furnace.
James Hunter puller the smaller apron off the hook on one of the posts and threw it over towards his son who was showing all the signs of growing into an equally large version of himself. Still only twelve, he was tall for his age, his shoulders beginning to show the work he put into the smithy, legs strong and powerful from the five mile walk each day to and from the local chapel where the priest tried his best to drill the basics of reading, writing and the mathematics into the restless minds of a handful of kids who would much rather be out in the forest hunting for game or diving into the deep river pools near Ronik's Gorge or catching tadpoles and dropping them down the back of Lucy Cooper's dress.
Hunter senior carefully placed the almost-finished blade on the rack as his son donned the leather apron, pulled the straps round and tied them off at the front. Satisfied he rolled his shoulders as he'd often seen his father do before starting work for the day. Moving over to a rack at the back of the shed he pulled out a length of steel. To call it a blade at this stage would be a misconception.
It was not the first 'blade' he had shaped; from the age of seven, when he was first able to wrap his small hand around the smoothly-worn haft of the light hammer usually kept for the more intricate work, his father had allowed him to progress from the pumping the bellows to working at the anvil. Patiently, over the months and then the years, James Hunter had shown his son how to judge the correct heat from the glow of the metal … neither too yellow nor too white, the glow had to be just right.
As he grew and his hands became larger and more calloused, he was able to start using the heavy hammer. At first he had been able to deliver no more than a half-dozen blows before the weight of the hammer and the heat of the furnace became too much. Now, at twelve he was able to work for several hours, his arm no longer screaming from pain as he developed the rhythm of beating metal, letting the bounce of hammer on steel do the initial work, his muscles taking on the slack only on the final raise before allowing the hammer's own weight to pull it down for the next blow.
But as he stared down at the length of metal in his hands, he knew this blade was different and couldn't help smiling to himself as he ran his hand over the still rough metal. Till now, he had simply hammered out the bars of fighting iron his father had prepared in the smelting yard at the back of the shed. This curious mix of soft iron and hard iron was completely of his own making, as, guided by his father's careful and sometimes mysterious instructions, he had smelted his first piece of fighting iron.
It had been a cold morning, the sun hiding behind a steely-grey sky and a chilly breeze blowing down the mountainside. They had each sat on upended logs which served both for seating and work surfaces as the need arose. Richard had shivered when an icy finger of air had found its way under his shirt and then watched attentively as his father carefully unwrapped a cloth-covered bundle.
The item revealed had been a book, its leather covers worn and cracked, the letters faded to little more than a feathery shadow of themselves. With great care, his father had opened the cover and turned the brittle pages till he'd found the place he wanted. Clearing his throat and throwing Richard a sharp glance to make sure he was attentive; his father had begun to recite mysterious words in his deep, deliberate voice.
"Take soft iron pieces of small price, and put it into a pot, strewing upon it, cover it, and make a good fire about it: then at the time fit, take the pot with iron pinchers; and striking the pot with a hammer, quench the whole herness red hot in water; for so it becomes hard ... but, lest the blade should be broken, and flie in pieces, there must be strength added to hardness. Workman call it a return. Take it out of the water, shake it up and down in vinegar, that it may be polished and the colour be made perspicuous: than make red hot a plate of iron and lay upon the same: when it shows an ash colour, cast it again into water, and that hardness abated, and it will yield to the stroke more easily: so of a blade you shall have one that will resist all blows."
It was several moments after his father had stopped reading and sat staring at him with raised eyebrows that Richard had realised he was staring back agape and slammed his mouth shut. The words had meant little to him apart from those he was able to pick out as everyday ones.
Carefully his father had rewrapped the book in its cloth, set it down on a nearby log and picked up a piece of iron about two foot long and of the thickness of his rather large thumb. Handing it to Richard he had pointed to it and said, "I want you to try to bend that."
Looking rather sceptically at is father, the young lad had put all his effort into bending the metal rod. After several fruitless moments, with perspiration cooling on his brow, Richard had given up, shaking his head at the impossibility of the feat. "Now strike that stone with all your strength," had added his father, pointing to a rock about the size of a head which rested on the ground beyond them.
Wordlessly acquiescing, Richard had hefted the bar in his hand, then struck the rock as hard as he could. Much to his surprise, and once he'd recovered from the tingling sensation the shock of the blow had sent up and down his arm, he'd noticed the bar was bent slightly around the point of impact and after staring at the deformed rod for several minutes, had turned inquiring eyes towards his father.
"That son, is wrought iron. Imagine what would happen if you went into battle with a sword made from that." Richard had stared at the bent piece of metal in his hand, had looked closely at where the iron had struck a ridge in the stone and acquired a slight indentation and scratches. He'd looked at the rock, saw where the bar had also left its mark, an almost-white scar of chipped stone.
"If you're going to make a sword, a sword that you'll be depending on to save your life, you need to be sure that it will withstand not just a single strike, but many strikes; strikes against shields, against armour, against other blades … against bone and flesh and wood and dirt. To make such a sword, you need to use fighting iron, and no bladesmith, no swordsmith is worth a jot unless he knows how to make his own!"
"But don't you buy your fighting iron from the traders?"
"Only when required to produce large amounts of blades, such as last year, when the King went to war against Raghan; making fighting iron is a complex process … something of a mystery also .… it takes long hours and tremendous skill to produce. I make my own for the blades I am commissioned, but when the king needs to arm poor peasants who would be just as well using pitchforks and scythes and mercenaries who care not a jot for King or country …" he'd shaken his head on a sigh.
Young Richard had nodded in understanding and watched and listened closely as his father lifted the lid from a simple clay pot and began to explain the procedure. From the satchel at his feet he'd removed a small set of scales and set them on the upended trunk between them. Holding out a small leather pouch to Richard, he'd indicated the smallest weight and told him to add it to the scales. Next he'd explained that the bag contained finely ground charcoal. He'd indicated he should start pouring onto the other scale until they became levelled. He'd overdone it a little and his father had patiently told him to scoop some of it back into the pouch.
When the scales were level he'd lifted the measured powder and poured it into the pot, then, following his father's instructions, he'd begun to weigh pieces of wrought iron, adding them to the pot until a specific weight had been reached. Next, and again following his father's instructions, he'd replaced the lid on the pot and sealed it with some fresh clay.
"There are two ways to create fighting iron Richard, but of the two, this is the best. Why it should be so, I don't know … no one does, but this method gives you fighting iron that is equally strong throughout the whole, the other method gives you a blade which has both weak and strong parts to it. A soldier will not trust you a second time if you sell him a sword which breaks on impact or remains bent at the first or second blow!"
Next, Richard had set about preparing the smelt. He built a tinder nest in the centre of the pit and then carefully added coal to it. Making sure the bellows had a good clear mouth, he'd set light to the tinder and began to slowly pump the bellows, watching as the fire turned to a glowing bed of coals. His father had indicated it was time to add the pot to the coals and that he should now procure to keep them at an even temperature, a red-hot flame as he had shown him on many occasions.
The cool of the morning had soon faded as Richard kept a careful eye on the coals, adding small amounts as needed and a steady rhythm on the bellows. His father had sat, saying little but nodding occasionally in approval. As the sun had risen higher in the sky, weakly attempting to penetrate the steely overcast, Richard had wiped the sweat from his face with his forearm and then changed hands on the bellows, shaking his arm in an attempt to loosen the cramped muscles.
His father had leant forward, nodding at the clay pot which in turn was glowing brightly amid the coals. "A swordsmith's goal is to produce a sturdy fighting blade that is hard enough to hold a fine edge or point, yet also resilient … one that will flex under strain but immediately after return true. The right amount of powder, the right amount of metal, and you will have a decent piece of fighting iron. Too little of the one, too much of the other, and your blade will crack the first time you temper it … or worse still, the first time it strikes a blow."
"How do you know how much of each you need?"
His father had shrugged, "I'm afraid it's something of a mystery, son. It took me many years to find just the right mix that seems to magically transform normal iron into fighting iron. As you saw, that was barely half a spoon of powder …. a fraction more, a fraction less and you might as well use it to make table platters. A swordsmith has to base it all on his experience of what, as best he can tell, has worked well before."
It was some time before his father, staring intently at the pot, had nodded his head and indicated it was time to remove it from the coals. A relieved Richard had stepped away from the bellows, stretching and trying to shake some life into tired limbs before picking up the tongs and carefully lifting the pot from the coals.
"Do you remember what the next stage was?"
He'd thought back to the somewhat mysterious text his father had begun the whole process with and hesitatingly said, "Strike it with a hammer?"
James Hunter had grinned and nodded in approval. "Use the bar and be careful not to stand too close!"
Richard had picked up the wrought iron rod he'd bent earlier in the morning and gave the clay pot a hefty tap. The pot shattered into shards of burnt clay and a fist-sized piece of shapeless fighting iron had been revealed in its centre. "What now?" had asked his father.
A bit of a hesitation, then "Quench it in water?"
At his nod, Richard had used the tongs again to prise the lump of metal from the shards and drop it into the cask of water that sat next to the smelting pit. There had been a fierce hissing and a rising cloud of steam as he had plunged the tongs deep into the water. He'd waited for the fierce bubbling to subside before withdrawing the tongs and their prize.
"What you now have is hard iron, hard but brittle. You now need to add strength to it. First though, dip it in the brine cask to clean it off."
Richard had done as indicated, moving the tongs around within the brine-filled cask for several minutes before pulling it out. The lump of metal had taken on a certain sheen, pitted surfaces notwithstanding.
"New return it to the fire Richard, but this time, keep the heat lower, you don't want to overheat it or you'll need to start all over again!
Richard had nodded, turned back to the bellows and used slow, measured pumps to keep the coals at the right temperature. As the metal began to change colour, his father had told him to watch carefully. As it began to take on a pale grey tone, James Hunter pointed to it and a few moments later had said. "Take it out now, and straight into the water again!"
Now, days later, hefting the elongated piece of metal in his hand, he felt tremendous pride at what he had accomplished so far. Turning to the forge, he raked the coals and set his foot to the pedal which controlled the bellows. Satisfied he pushed his 'blade' into the coals and grabbed the tongs, occasionally turning the shaft as it took on the colour of white-hot metal. He wiped his mouth on his shoulder, gave the shaft one more turn and then pulled it free and over to the anvil.
Picking up the hammer, its wooden haft worn smooth by years of wear and sweat and heat, Richard began to pound the glowing metal, loving how it stretched and writhed and took on new shapes as he pummelled it with the hammer. Every now and then, he'd hold it up to catch the light, checking the straightness of the blade, the smoothness of the edges. As it cooled, he'd return it to the furnace; turning and twisting it until it was once again white hot and ready to be shaped into his blade.
Martha stood just outside the front door to the house, her hands on Richard's shoulders as she held him close before her. They both watched as James Hunter strapped the final bundle of swords onto the pack-horse's back before giving him a hefty pat on the neck and turning back to face them.
His beard pointed proudly forwards, his eyes crinkled in amusement at the concern on his wife's face and he strode across the dirt towards them. Crouching down he looked shrewdly at his son's downcast features. The lad had wanted desperately to accompany him, but it couldn't be. It would take him a week to reach the capital, another few days of hanging around before he could gain audience with the King. Several more days of negotiating with the King's Marshal … no, he could not keep his eye on the twelve-year-old and do business at the same time. In a couple of years …. when the lad was a little more aware of the world … then maybe. With a sigh, he tucked his fingers under the boy's chin and lifted his face so they could look each other in the eye. "I'll be gone the best part of a month son, so I need you to be brave and to look after your mother, understood?"
He got a half-reluctant, half-sulky nod in return. James Hunter hid a grin, glancing quickly up at his wife's face and then back at his son's. "You'll have to make sure the hens are fed, the stables cleaned, and the horses looked after. I also need you to help your mother and to do whatever she says."
The scowl was still there, but also a reluctant acceptance. His son knew just how far he could push … "I also want you to keep working on your blade. It's almost finished, leave the tempering till I get back, but you can still improve it a little and work on the hilt."
There was a little more enthusiasm there and James tousled his son's hair before standing straight and pulling him in for a hug. The lad's arms tightened round his waist and it surprised the father, it seemed only months ago that he'd barely been able to wrap then round his legs! Soon the lad would be standing shoulder to shoulder with him.
Easing the lad away from him, he nodded over to where the black gelding stomped impatiently, nostrils flaring in anticipation of the forthcoming trip. "Go keep Thursar quiet will you, while I have a word with your Mother?"
Richard nodded, glancing quickly to see if his mother was going to …. once again … warn him to be careful around Thursar, but she seemed preoccupied with something else, her hand on his father's shoulder and tears in her eyes. He beat a hasty retreat while he could.
It was several moments later when his father slipped his foot into the stirrup and swung his leg over the saddle. Thursar shuffled a little and snorted in disgust, then settled down as he felt his master's hands on the reins.
Richard and Martha watched from the front of the house as James Hunter slipped the pack-horse's reins over the saddle horn and turned to wave them goodbye. With a nudge of his foot, he walked the gelding away from them, the pack-horse fallowing faithfully behind. The two watched as rider and horses moved up the rising path towards the trees in the distance. All three travellers paused on reaching the treeline, the rider turning to wave before moving into the trees and out of sight.
Martha let out a gusty sigh, put her arms round her son's shoulders and let the way into the house. She pushed the boy ahead of her and paused in the doorway, turning once more to look up the mountain where her husband had disappeared from view.
Unbeknown to her, it would be the last time either of them were to see him.