Regardless, his predicament remained. He was without any of the accoutrements he needed to go into battle. He had returned the sword he had borrowed for the king’s confrontation with his cousins and he had no armour. There was a smith in the village, but there was no time to have anything new made. The best he’d be able to hope for was some hammering of heated plates to make any armour he scrounged up fit better.
The army had a quartermaster of sorts. Gill knew the type, having encountered many of them with levy forces over the years. When the call to raise levies came, they were the men sent into their lord’s armoury to dig out all the weapons and armour that had been dumped there the last time the levy came home. The more diligent lords—who were few, in Gill’s experience—would have everything repaired, sharpened, and oiled, in anticipation of their next use, whenever that might be. Most would leave the gear to rot, knowing they wouldn’t be the poor sods relying on it in the next fight.
What was serviceable in this quartermaster’s care had probably been handed out long ago. The only saving grace was that no farmer-turned-soldier was going to be given a rapier—he’d be as likely to hurt himself with it as an enemy—so Gill was hopeful there’d be one he could have the blacksmith tweak to his tastes.
The quartermaster and his assistant were busy working on what was left in their meagre inventory when Gill got there. A quick look confirmed that he might be in luck with a sword, but as for armour, he could forget about it. Metal plate in a battle was always a comfort against the threat of the arrow or blade that you didn’t see coming. He’d feel naked in only borrowed tunic and britches.
As the quartermaster approached, Gill gave him a hopeful smile.
“What have you got left?”
“What do you need?”
Gill shrugged. “Everything.” He realised the borrowed clothes he was wearing made him look much like any of the other levy men. “I’m a banneret.”
“You’re in luck, then. We have some side swords you can look over. Only leather cuirasses left, though.”
“I’ll take what I can get,” Gill said. “The swords?”
The quartermaster rummaged in a hay-filled wooden crate, withdrawing three scabbardless side swords. He laid them down on the trestle-and-plank table for Gill’s scrutiny. None of them were rusty, but that was about all he could say in their favour on first glance. The plain, three-ringed hilt design was of a fashion that displayed their age. They were old—probably out of style even in his father’s time.
Failing the demands of fashion was one thing; far more important was the question of whether they’d survive their first meeting with another blade. He picked each one up, hefted it, and studied each blade, making mental notes as he went, adding up the pros and cons. In the end, one emerged as a clear leader. There were fewer flaws in the steelwork, and the weight was closer to what Gill was comfortable with. He wouldn’t win any style awards in the officers’ mess with it, given its guard of roughly welded bars, but he reckoned it would hold up when it counted.
“What about the cuirass?” Gill said.
The quartermaster’s assistant appeared from the red-clothed stores tent with two mouldering cuirasses of leather that looked like they had been stored in a damp pool. His skin crawled at the thought of wearing either of them, and he couldn’t see them being much protection. He gave a curt shake of his head.
“I’ll take the sword,” he said. “Thanks for your help.”
Sword in hand, Gill headed for the blacksmith. The blade needed some work, and the balance wasn’t quite right. The closer he could get it to what he liked, the better, but he didn’t expect a man who spent most of his time making iron fittings and horseshoes to be able to work wonders on it.
The smithy was built of stone and slate, and open to the elements at the front. Heat radiated out from the forge, the glowing coals concealed underneath a black and grey crust of ash and charcoal. The blacksmith sat next to a sharpening wheel with a spearhead in his hands. There was a pile of similar points on either side of him—one sharp, one blunt, Gill guessed.
“I need some help with a blade,” he said.
The smith looked up from the metal head he was holding against the rotating whetstone. He stopped pressing the pedals, and the wheel slowly came to a halt.
“It’ll have to wait,” the smith said.
“This isn’t on the army’s bill,” Gill said. “I’ll pay for it myself.”
The smith looked at him with tired eyes. He’d probably been sharpening blades and shoeing horses nonstop since the army had arrived. Likely he hadn’t seen a penny for his troubles, and was being motivated by the fear of saying no and the hope of being paid before the army left.
“What needs doing?”
“I’d like to take some length off the blade, rework the balance.”
“I’m not a bladesmith,” the smith said.
“It’s not difficult work. I can guide you.” Gill picked up a wax pencil from the smith’s workbench and took his guard with the sword. He tried a cut and a thrust, pulling into a parry and back to guard after each one. That done, he made a mark on the blade, half a handspan from the tip.
“Cut it clean there, and rework the tip into a spearpoint, just like you’re doing with those.”
The smith nodded, staring at the sword. Gill stuck out his index finger and rested the blade on it, moving the sword backward and forward until he found its balance point. It was a little too far toward the tip for his liking, but the trimming and reshaping might solve that. He made another mark.
“This is where I want the balance to be,” Gill said. “If the tip work doesn’t bring it back far enough, add a little lead to the pommel. It’s no great beauty anyway. Will a crown cover the work?”
The smith nodded. Gill knew it would cover the work three times over, but he wanted this prioritised, and a grateful smith did better work than a resentful one.
Gill smiled. “I’ll be right back.”
Gill wandered through the village in search of the Count of Savin. It was conspicuously devoid of villagers. Other than a few of the braver businesspeople who had ventured out in the hope of making some money out of the situation they found themselves in, it seemed everyone was shut up in their homes, unwilling to come out. Gill really couldn’t blame them, and hoped that would be enough to keep them safe if the worst happened.
It didn’t take him long to find Savin, leaning against a fence and chatting with three of his lords. They stopped as soon as they spotted Gill, making him doubly curious about what they’d been saying. Savin had the look of a man stuck with a horse he hadn’t wanted to buy. Now he was caught in that uncertain place, trying to decide whether to keep it and make the best of a bad situation, or sell it at a loss for whatever he could get.
“My Lord Savin,” Gill said, with as much geniality as he could muster. “I find myself in need of some financial assistance.”
Savin frowned at him.
“Our flight from the city being such, I was dispossessed of all things and don’t fancy going into a battle without a few comforts.”
The count’s frown turned to irritation. “Give him some money,” he said.
None of his lords made to reach for their purses. After a moment, Savin pulled a purse from the belt of the closest man and tossed it to Gill, ignoring the look of indignation on the lord’s face. Gill caught the bag one-handed and smiled.