The Bretland Trilogy

Chapter 4-2

“Good boy!” Iolyn chuckled. “You learn well, and you are a loyal friend. You failed to mention that you struck him five times, too. As usual, you two are inseparable!” He chuckled, causing him to gasp and endure a worryingly prolonged bout of coughing. Alarmed, Alun pummelled the elderly man on the back, not too hard because the feeble frame under his hand impressed him with his frailty. When the venerable fellow recovered and had wiped his eyes, he resumed his argument. “A warrior needs to be fit and strong. I can help you with the sword skills, but you two need to bulk up. You must do that on your own. Run races, lift weights, and build up your arm and chest muscles, but don’t neglect the thighs! You can rely on the enemy to be physically strong. Now, we must plan for the morrow and the days to come.”

“Tomorrow, grandfather, I’ll take your sword to Trefor as Myrddin told me.”

“While Alun does that, Cadfael, go to Berwyn, the woodworker,” said the old man. “Tell him to make two practice swords of hardwood. He can do that in no time. Also, see if you can find a heavy rock for weightlifting. Bring it back to my yard. That task alone will test all the muscles in your body, my lad.

Cadfael chortled but humping a heavy rock from the shore to Iolyn’s house was no laughing matter, as his burning muscles proved the following morning. With relief, Cadfael dropped the stone with a thud outside Iolyn’s door. The old man was nowhere to be seen, so Cadfael presumed he was sleeping and, not wishing to disturb him, ran off to Berwyn’s workshop in the town.

“You are to become a warrior, is it, boyo?” Berwyn chirped.

“Those are Iolyn and Myrddin’s orders, my friend,” Cadfael said with confidence belying his years and empty purse.

“You’ll be needing ash, boyo,” the woodworker said in his singsong cadence. At any moment, Cadfael expected him to burst into song with that deep, resonant voice. He wandered over to the wood store at the back of his workshop and selected a length of pale, fine-grained timber. “When it’s dried, ash is one of the toughest native hardwoods we have available in these lands. It can absorb shocks without splintering, and yet it’s light. Ash is what you need.

“It’s harder than oak or beech, lad, but you must keep it dry. You don’t want it attacked by fungus or beetle, do you? I can knock you up two swords before I close tonight. Come back at dusk, and they’ll be ready. Just a simple handguard, right? Nothing fancy, eh, boyo?”

“Simple is better. As to p*****t, Myrddin said he’d settle with you when he comes to town.”

“Whatever Myrddin ap Bren wants, he will have. You’re lucky to have him as a friend. You don’t look as if you need his money, though.” Cadfael followed the craftsman’s gaze to his armlet.

“Appearances can deceive, friend. What I wear on my arm is priceless and yet worthless to me. I cannot part with it, and maybe that is why I need to become a swordsman. For no one will take it off me while blood flows through my veins.”

“Spoken like a true warrior, boyo. When you are a real warrior, remember Berwyn ap Glyn, the man who fashioned your practice sword.” The artisan grinned at the callow youth and wondered whether his big-talking customer would ever fulfil his ambitions—little did he know what the future held!

Meanwhile, Alun watched as Trefor the smith expertly stripped the pommel off his grandsire’s sword. “You should change the hilt. This one is worn and dirty. I can make your new one of horn bound with copper wire.”

“Perfect! But as I said, the important thing is the pommel. It will house a sacred relic, so Myrddin decided on filigree work, but it must be strong.”

“Let me see the relic.”

Fighting back his reluctance, Alun laid the crystal on the smith’s workbench amid an assortment of iron tools: pincers, awls, spikes, and tongs.

“It’s larger than I thought it would be. The smith looked worried. The pommel will unbalance the sword as it stands, especially if you want the filigree work to be durable.”

“Is there no way to balance it?” Alun asked. His ignorance of sword-making was absolute.

“There might be a way, but it’d risk damaging the blade.” The craftsman frowned and would not explain even when pressed.

“I’ll have to trust you to do what you can, Trefor. Myrddin chose you for a reason.”

“Ay, because I’m the best smith in the land!”

But not the most modest, Alun kept the thought to himself. “When will it be ready?”

But not the most modest,Trefor didn’t answer but eyed the crystal and said, “Unless we break yon into a smaller piece.”

“Nay! It’s a holy relic and must remain unscathed, enclosed in the new pommel.”

“Alright. I won’t shave anything off. Leave it with me. I don’t know if it’ll be ready tomorrow at dusk, but I’ll try. Come by the forge before sunset on the morrow and see for yourself.”

Alun was worried about the crystal and reluctant to leave, but there was little point in sweating in the stifling smithy. “Remember not to invoke the wrath of the seer by damaging the relic.”

It was impossible for the soot-smeared countenance to pale, but Alun imagined it did. Nobody in his right mind surely would risk the ire of Myrddin ap Bren.

Mindful of his grandsire’s words, Alun ran back to Iolyn’s house without stopping once. He came to a halt in the yard to see the old fellow leaning on his doorpost and counting as Cadfael lifted a boulder from the ground and raised it with arms straight above his head. “Eighteen! Come on, two more!” Alun gazed in amazement as his friend lowered the rock, then steadily hoisted it to his chest before snapping his legs open like a pair of sheep shears to raise the boulder, with a mighty effort, above his head. “Keep the elbows straight, lad!” came Iolyn’s piping call. Cadfael’s brow dripped sweat that coursed down his face as he let the massive stone crash to the ground.

“The last one!” Iolyn called, and Alun could have sworn that his friend glared at the white-haired tyrant.

Cadfael later confessed that he didn’t think he could manage that last lift, but when he noticed Alun’s presence, his pride wouldn’t let him back down. So, he achieved Iolyn’s inhuman target of twenty lifts. Anything Cadfael could do, Alun felt obliged to surpass, but when it came to lowering the boulder after twenty lifts, he abandoned any ambitious thoughts of doing twenty-one. This t*****e would continue for six weeks, at the end of which time, their arm muscles were rocklike and their thighs, a secondary benefit, much stronger, too.

The following day, though, they had their ash practice swords, and although Alun protested about his aching muscles, Iolyn would have none of it. Instead, he made one of his long speeches about how hard he had trained when he was their age and, when he’d finished, had them skipping, dancing, feinting, and parrying to his heart’s content. Despite his aches, Alun realised that he enjoyed sword fighting, a sensation heightened by his having the first hit of the day. His wooden blade drove under Cadfael’s guard and pierced him (or would have done if it had been a steel blade) under the breastbone.

“Carrion for the kites!” Iolyn crowed in delight, pleased at his grandson’s prowess. The blow had winded Cadfael, who begged for a rest.

“If you need respite, stroll over to Berwyn’s workshop,” ordered the elderly trainer. “See if he has a couple of linden shields in his store. If not, have him make them. Defence is as important as attack, and shield work is the next stage.”

Iolyn watched Cadfael saunter away and called Alun over to him, “Did I ever tell you…?” It was the start of a long tale about how the Welsh warriors had overcome the Mercian shield wall many years before.

“Don’t the Welsh use shield walls, grandfather?”

The old fellow looked sourly at him and shook his white head. “No need. Our spearmen have to run at the enemy. We’re no good at waiting for the enemy to come at us. Now, there’s another thing, young Alun. Sooner or later, I’ll have to teach you how to use a spear.”

“I need to be an expert with a sword, grandfather. I don’t care for spears.”

The snowy-haired ancient shook his locks and sighed. “You youngsters have no patience. If you want to be a warrior, you need to be complete, and that means awareness! If you’ve wielded a spear and an axe, for that matter, you’ll know what it takes to combat them.”

Talking about impatience, Alun couldn’t wait to return at the agreed hour to the forge. As he hesitated in the doorway, the booming voice of the smith called, “Hey, young fellow! Come in and see what you think of your sword!”

Alun couldn’t be sure, but he thought the deep voice held a note of pride. He was certain when he saw the weapon lying on Trefor’s workbench. The pommel sparkled gold and garnet, and its beauty took his breath away.

“You said the crystal was a holy relic. It didn’t look much, but when I picked it up to measure it, I saw the pommel in my mind. It’s as if it inspired me. Look, I haven’t spared expense. I used finely beaten gold to underlay the garnet. The gold catches the light through the gemstone and makes it come to life. I know the seer asked for filigree work, but that’s not practical. See here, I made a tiny catch and here is a small hinge, and you can access the relic by clicking the catch and lifting the side.” The smith’s giant finger and thumb opened the pommel with surprising delicacy for such huge digits. “So, if you ever need to remove the crystal or touch it, that’s how.”

saw“Very clever, well done, Trefor,” Alun spoke as if to someone his age, not a much older man.

“Pick up the sword, young fellow. You won’t fault the balance. I solved it.”

Alun seized the hilt, noticing the new horn grip with its crisscrossed copper wire. The sword had perfect balance, seemingly made for his arm to wield.

“It feels natural in my hand—”

“And so it should! Look closely at the blade. Do you see my solution?”

Alun stared at the blade with its central fuller. Next to the groove, at a hand’s length from the crossguard, a hissing snake’s head, fangs exposed stared up at him with two black eyes made from tiny pieces of jet. The head was attached to a writhing body that slithered up the length of the blade.

“The snake starts from nought, slowly getting thicker up to the head. So, if you have to run someone through, the snake will not prevent you until you reach the head, but see, if you plunge the steel that far into the flesh, your victim would be a giant!” The smith tossed back his head and a deep, rumbling bellow, which passed for a laugh, filled the smithy.

“You are an artist, Trefor. That snake looks terrifyingly real!”

“I didn’t know I could do anything so fine. I swear it was the relic that guided my clumsy hand! I made the eyes black to resemble yours. I remembered those two ink spots that pass for eyes!”

“Ha-ha! But I am no serpent, Trefor! Watch your tongue or else—” he feigned a lunge but raised the sword at the last second.

“Here, good job you didn’t slay me, young fellow. I haven’t had time to tell you about the scabbard.”

“What about it?”

“Ash now, I burnt the thing. It was shabby and worn, anyway. With the snake’s head, it was useless. The blade wouldn’t enter anymore. So, my brother Hywel made this to measure.” His giant fist reached for a shiny new sheath of leather. “See how it slides in a treat! Keep the blade lightly oiled, and you’ll be surprised how smoothly it will draw. By the way, don’t worry about the snake ever detaching in battle. It’s impossible. I’ve fused it into the metal. Yon snake is indestructible.”

The proud craftsman watched Alun strap the belt bearing the scabbard around his waist, and silently congratulated himself on his best work, a miniature masterpiece. Trefor the smith would not mention it, not even to his brother, but he was convinced that the pommel contained something potently supernatural. Indeed, although the smith lived to a ripe old age, and many of those years passed working his forge, he never again touched the heights of craftsmanship he had produced for Alun ap Drystan.