Chapter 7 – The Hilt
Richard removed the wrapped blade from the rack and set it down on the bench. The early morning light filtered through the gathering clouds and lent the day a steely tone …. he wondered if it was an omen.
Unfurling the cloth, he picked up the blade and extended his arm, rocking his wrist back and forth, side to side and up and down. Already the difference from the day before was noticeable. Though still a little tip-heavy, the blade felt lighter, more manageable. Yesterday morning the blade must have weighed well over two and a half pounds probably closer to three; today, with the fuller having compacted and reduced much of the blade's centre mass and the 'polishing' having eliminated the surplus, he guessed it was now just under two and a half pounds.
The weight of the pommel at the back of the grip would counterbalance the very slight tip-heaviness of the blade. He lit and stoked the furnace, building up the heat in the coals and checked the level of the oil in the cask. Pausing a moment and taking a deep breath, he laid the blade on the coals and every few minutes, turned and wiggled the blade within the coals making sure the heat was evenly spread. When the glow of the blade reached a bright red, he removed it and gently waved it around to cool it. He had found that doing this a couple of times tended to decrease possible mishaps when tempering. As soon as the blade had completely cooled, he replaced it in the forge and repeated the procedure. Finally he replaced the blade on the coals for a third time, watched carefully as the iron turned from black to dull red, then to bright red and removing the blade for the last time, stepped quickly over towards the oil cask and lowered the blade all the way in. The hissing, smoke and bubbling died down and he carefully lifted the blade from the oil. Holding his breath he wiped it down and held it out, turning it as he looked carefully at the blade. There was no warping and after a close inspection from tang to tip he let out a breath of relief.
There was a distant rumble of thunder and the first splatters of rain hit the roof, making him pause and look up before moving to the entrance and gazing across the river. The clouds over the distant fields were thick and heavy, piling up one above the other, their underbellies dark with rain and escorted by ragged strips of cloud which looked to merge with the landscape below. Tipping his head to look upwards, he noted a few pale blue patches amongst the moving clouds above, but they were quickly disappearing as the oncoming storm clouds pushed their way towards him.
He ducked back inside and lit some more lanterns; no doubt it would soon become dark outside. He hung a couple of the lamps on the overhead beams close to the polishing stones and set to with the finest grained one, running the blade back and forth across the stone to remove all traces of the forge work and add a little more finesse to the bevelled edges.
The storm broke around him, the rain beating hollowly on the shingle roofing while thunder rumbled and roared around him. Every now and again, lightning lit the darkened day and threw the interior of the smithy into stark contrast, lighting up hidden corners and glinting sharply off the blade in his hand. Perhaps, he smiled to himself, the gods of war were pleased with his creation … were they arguing over who should get it?
Rain poured off the roof in sheets and he could almost taste the water in the air. Despite the heat from the furnace, a chill settled in over the place and he paused in the polishing, holding up the blade to the lanterns overhead and checking the surface; it reflected the light back at him smoothly.
He moved from the stones to the bench and settled down as he had when filing down the blade before hammering out the fuller. With the now sharp tip set against a block of soft wood at the back of the bench, he leant against the tang, picked up one of the whetstones and began to work the blade, back and forth, occasionally adding a little oil as he removed any scratches or blemishes the grindstone might have left.
By late evening, with the storm now somewhere to the west and puddles plopping to the occasional drops of rain from overhangs or trees, Richard set aside the now finished blade and stretched. Tomorrow he would work on the guard and pommel, and perhaps, by the end of the week, his sword would be finished. He had nine days left before leaving to escort his cousin to Thodis and it needed to be finished by then.
The following morning showed a clear sky, the world smelling clean and fresh after yesterday's downpour. He lit the furnace and carefully selected a length of iron bar about half an inch thick which he heated till it was white hot. He used a chisel to cut through the bar about six inches from the end and when the bar parted in two, set aside the longer piece for future use. He reheated the small piece of fighting iron, squared off the ends and then began to hammer out the guard.
Over the next couple of days he shaped the guard, punched a slot through the centre, and added the recess for the top of the blade to fit snugly into it. He used files and the stones to give the guard its final shape and then repeated the process with the pommel, using a circular piece of brass. He punched and filed the slot so that the tang would slide almost all the way into the brass circle. He carefully marked the centre of the brass pommel and made a hole through from side to side, then slipped the pommel onto the tang and marked the position of the hole. He removed the pommel and punched a hole through the tang and then made a rivet to hold pommel and tang together. He fit the pieces together, knocked the rivet through and then flattened one of the ends …. The other he left as he would still need to remove the pommel both to fit the grip and make minor adjustments.
Next he took a piece of well-seasoned ash and cut it roughly into a block of approximately the size needed for the grip. He marked the centres at either end and then used small wood chisels and files to gouge a narrow slot most of the way through. The slot was smaller than the tang but once he was satisfied, he carefully heated the tang and when it was hot enough, set the blade on the anvil and began to push the wood block onto the tang. It was a slow process, the hot tang burning through he wood to form a tight fit. However, he had to be extremely careful not to overheat the blade or all the tempering would be ruined. He kept a wet cloth wrapped around the upper part of the blade and continuously cooled the tang down with water as soon as he'd burnt through the wooden block a little further. Finally, the tang burnt through the opposite end of the ash block and he had a snugly fitting grip.
The following day he began to work on the grip itself, filing it down to size and tapering each end slightly until it was a fraction thinner than was suitable for his large hand. With the core finished, he heated some hide glue and used a twig to apply it to the wood. Taking up a reel of hemp cord, he began to carefully wrap it around the wood from hilt to pommel, keeping the thread tight. When the whole grip was wrapped, he tied it off and set it down to dry. It would take many hours … most of the night in fact … to dry, but would add strength to the wooden hilt and supply a better surface for the leather to adhere to.
On the next morning, he found the hilt nicely dried and set it on top of a piece of goat hide. The goat hide was thinner than calf hide and would allow his hands to feel the hemp cord underneath and thus offer a better grip. He carefully measured the hide and cut out the required piece then put it into warm water to soak; this would make it both more supple and easier to work with. Also, when finished and dried out, the hide would shrink tightly around the wooden core. He wrapped the hide around the hilt and keeping the seam along one of the narrow sides, stitched them together. When he'd finished, he slotted the guard, hilt and pommel together and checked the sword over. The balance was good, the weight of the brass pommel being just sufficient to counterbalance the weight of the blade. It now felt a perfect balance, sitting comfortably in his hand. He made a slash at an imaginary target, rapidly swept the blade back as if defending from a counter-strike, swung it over his shoulder and then swept it downwards, stopping the blade short … he was satisfied, the hilt offering his hand a good grip. He set the sword back on the anvil, hammered the other end of the rivet in the pommel tight and stepped, picking up the sword and sitting down as he held it up in satisfaction. Jaspar seemed to sense it and climbing to his feet, padded up to him and set his head on his lap. Richard looked down at him and gently pulled his ears before quietly suggesting they head back to the house for the evening. The dog let out a half-smothered bark which might or might not have been agreement and Richard pushed himself tiredly to his feet.
By comparison the scabbard was quickly made. The following morning he went down to the river bed and looked for a poplar with a suitably straight and thick branch. Finding one, he chopped the branch off, trimmed it and carried it back to the smithy. He cut the branch down to the right length and then began to split it into thin strips. The wood was green, pliable and split into irregular thickness, but once he had a couple of suitable slats, he used a plane to thin them down.
Placing the sword on the first completed slat, he carefully drew round the edge of the sword with a stick of charcoal which left an outline a little thicker than the sword itself and then repeated the process with the second slat. He used a third strip of wood to mark out the tip of the sword for the scabbard's chape and the top of the blade just below the guard for the locket. He set the third slat aside and using the plane, shaved the first two slats all the way down to the outline, checking them against the sword. Happy with the results, he oiled the sword well, sandwiched it between the two slats of wood, glued their edges and clamped them together. The wood, still green and flexible curved round the blade and the glued edges came together. Taking up rawhide strips which had been soaking in water, he wrapped them tightly round the wood in a spiral and then set the whole close enough to the furnace for the rawhide to dry out in a reasonable amount of time. During the afternoon, he shaped the locket and chape for the scabbard from thin brass sheeting which he punched and curved into shape until all that was needed was the final welding.
By evening, the rawhide strips had shrunk tight against the wooden core of the scabbard and he was able to carefully remove the sword, leaving clamps and rawhide to hold the shape and allow the glue to dry overnight.
With only three days left till his departure, Richard was pleased the next morning to have only a little more to do to the sword. His intention of course had been to sell it to the king or some other court member, but given his forthcoming trip, he was taking it along with him. Although he was hoping to avoid any confrontations, he had to admit that he could not ask for a better opportunity to test his design. If, as he firmly believed, the sword turned out to be an excellent weapon, then he would have all the more grounds at his disposal for making and selling similar blades.
He carefully removed the clamps from the scabbard's core, checked that both seams remained tight and then gently cut through the rawhide, though he had expected it to, he was relieved when the wood retained its curved shape. Unwrapping the sword, he slid it into the scabbard and found it a nice fit; tight enough to not move around, loose enough for the blade to be easily withdrawn.
This time he selected a piece of black cowhide as a cover and set to cutting and shaping it around the scabbard's core. Again he heated some of the glue and then applied it to the wooden slats. The glue would not only help to bind the leather to the wood, it would also act in some measure as waterproofing for the latter. Carefully, he folded the leather round the scabbard and then began to stitch it from tip to top. With that done, he slipped the half-formed chape over the tip of the scabbard, checked the fit, removed it and filed the two edged to be welded a little more. When he slipped it back on the next time, it was a perfect fit.
Next he worked on the locket which would fit round the top of the scabbard. Again he had to do a little filing to get the correct, tight fit around the leather, but once happy, he carried them over to the forge. It was a quick if painstaking job to weld the two edges together, the low heating point of the brass requiring just enough heat to weld the seams but not too much or it would distort the piece. With both pieces welded, he turned the scabbard upside down on his stool and gently tapped the chape down over the tip. The brass chape would protect the end of the scabbard if it dragged on the ground or was set against the floor and would help to hold wood and leather together over time. Next he reversed the scabbard and did the same with the locket which would not only hold the top of the scabbard together, but also had a hoop on the back which would allow it to be attached to a belt.
Taking a cloth, he wiped the scabbard clean, removing small particles of sawdust, wood shavings and finger smudges from the brass fittings. Taking up the sword, he slipped it into the scabbard and then pulled it free. He did it several times, first holding the scabbard by his side, then out before him, loose in his hand and finally holding it down on the workbench. Each time the blade slipped free easily and cleanly. Setting the sword on the bench, he looked around the smithy. In the couple of days left, he would have little time to do anything here, so he set to to clean out the forge, shovelling the coals out onto the ground to die and tidying up tools and equipment. Jaspar objected to being made to move as he swept the floor and wondered off outside. Richard finished in the smithy, took another look around and picking up the sword, ducked out under the overhang into the evening tranquillity.
It was a quiet meal that evening, both their minds on the forthcoming trip, neither particularly looking forward to it, though for different reasons. They retired early to bed and Richard spent several hours tossing and turning as he considered what he would need to take and what arrangements needed to be made before he left.
The day of departure dawned with a pale blue sky as the sun rose to the east and scattered clouds moving gently southwards. There was a certain leisureliness to the morning's activities, a reluctance on both their parts to hurry along. With the animals fed and watered, Richard led Santhall out to the front of the smithy and looped the reins over a post. The bay stomped his hooves and shook his head, a shiver of anticipation running over back and rump.
Richard picked up the freshly washed saddle blanket and slung it over the horse, his hands brushing any wrinkles out and calming the horse down. Next he picked up the saddle and slung it over the blanket, jiggling it slightly into position and then reaching down to grab the girth, push it through the buckle it and pull it tight. The journeying saddle was a little different to this normal one, and he grinned as the horse objected to the second girth being pulled tight, sucking in air until its sides inflated. He let the horse get used to it and then tightened it a little more.
He picked up a length of oiled canvas and shook it out on the log bench. He laid a sleeping blanket over it, a travelling cloak over that and then added a pair of britches and doublet. He rolled the whole up tightly, tied it up with a couple of strips of rawhide and then attached it to the back of the saddle. He checked the girths, tightening one a little more before turning back to add the saddlebags which he attached to the back of the saddle. One held his personal items such as a clean shirt, comb and toiletries, a whetstone to keep his blades sharp, a couple of flints for starting fires, snares and so forth. The other held food for himself; smoked ham, bread, nuts and dried fruit as well as oats for the horse. Finally he slung the water skin over the horn …. wine was more advisable than some unsafe water, especially in the cities, but he would have fresh water all the way up to the top of the valley and he would have time to purchase some wine later on.
Stepping back he checked he had everything and then went around the horse pulling on items to make sure everything was properly attached. With a sense of déjà vu, he turned to Martha who stood stroking Jaspar's head by the front door. He had debated with himself about taking the wolfhound with him or not. The dog would make a good guardian, warning him of approaching danger and being a fearsome defender should he be attacked. On the other hand, he would be company for his mother and more importantly, would defend her and the house from intruders. There had really been no choice in the matter, despite Martha's protestations.
He approached them and knelt before the dog, grabbing him by the ruff of the neck and telling him to be a good dog, not to chase wild rabbits in the evening and to make sure he kept a good guard. He was about to add 'and obey my mother', but stopped himself in time, it would have been too reminiscent. The dog seemed to know something was up, trying to lick his face and emitting a sort of pitiful whine.
Getting to his feet he wrapped his mother in his arms, both giving fierce hugs and saying nothing. Eventually Martha pushed him away and asked him to hold out his hand. She dropped a pendant into his palm; it was a simple disk with some rather intricate etchings on a thin chain. He raised his eyes and looked at her inquiringly.
"Should you need help once you are beyond the Syl, show this … be careful to whom you show it … make sure they are local people of long standing; it should offer you protection and assistance …. but take extreme care, It could also be your death."
He nodded and slipped it over his head, settling the chain on his neck and slipping the pendant beneath his shirt. He hugged her once more, aware of tears brimming and indecision just around the corner. He pulled back, kissed his mother's cheeks and then turned and stepped over to the bay.
Martha watched her son climb into the saddle, the tall, young man striking in his brown leather, short sleeved jerkin and lace-up woollen gambeson, his dark britches tucked into the tops of long boots, the sword strapped to his waist on the left and purse and knife on the right. She fought to keep the tears at bay.
Richard leant down, pulled the reins free and turned the horse, pausing a moment as he smiled down at them and then nudged the horse into a walk. He rode past the smithy, glancing into the strange stillness within, past the fruit trees beyond, and then took the fork which led up to the treeline above.
Halfway up, he pulled on the reins and turned to look down at the scene below. The river flowed calmly southwards, the reeds on ether bank waving gently in the breeze. Beyond the river, fields and meadows ran eastwards, a few scattered farmsteads no more than darker blobs amongst the trees surrounding them. The apple orchard below partially hid the strangely silent smithy and beyond that, the sloped roof of the house gave little away about the emotions which must be running strongly within. A faint trail of smoke rose gently from the smokehouse and in the paddock, the two remaining horses stood below the old chestnut, ears pricked in curiosity or something else as they stared up the mountainside in their direction. His mother and Jaspar had disappeared from view, no doubt the memories of his father's departure at the forefront of her mind. With a last look to fix the picture in his mind, Richard turned and kicked the bay into movement, their shadows melding into those of the trees which closed in around them.
