Hroudland walked slowly along the array of weaponry. Quickly he found me a lance and a couple of javelins. He rejected an axe as unnecessary and picked out a plain shield with an iron boss which he said needed a new leather strap. The clerk made a note on his tablet and said it would be provided. Finding the right armoured jacket took longer. The metal plates sewn to the fabric made the garment very stiff and restricted the wearer’s movement unless the fit was correct. The choice of helmets was very limited — the clerk made cautionary noises about how expensive they were — and Hroudland reluctantly agreed to take one under which I had to wear thick wool and leather skull cap. A pair of heavy gauntlets completed the outfit. By then the two attendants had their arms full of my war gear.
‘Now for the most important item — his sword,’ announced Hroudland.
We were escorted to the farthest corner of the armoury where a dozen swords were racked. Hroudland scanned the selection with a critical eye.
‘Is that all you’ve got?’ he demanded.
‘Fine craftsmanship, every single one of them,’ said the clerk primly.
Hroudland reached out and removed a sword from the rack.
‘Antique!’ he announced, hefting it in his hand.
He held it out to me.
‘Look, Patch, the edges of the blade run parallel almost to the tip. That makes a sword heavy and awkward to use.’
The clerk bridled.
‘A fine weapon nevertheless.’
‘But no use to my friend here,’ retorted the count, replacing the weapon. ‘I’ve heard that you’ve got one of those new Ingelrii swords here.’
There was a distinct intake of breath by the store keeper.
‘Not a genuine Ingelrii,’ he said.
‘Let me be the judge of that,’ said the count.
Reluctantly, the clerk went to a large wooden chest, unlocked it, and lifted out a long item wrapped in cloth. I could smell oil.
‘This is it,’ he said, handing the object to Hroudland.
The count unwrapped the oiled cloth and revealed a sword, its blade the length of my arm. I was disappointed. From the clerk’s behaviour I had expected something much more spectacular, perhaps a glittering blade and a handle encrusted with jewels. Instead I saw a workaday weapon with a plain iron handle. The only decoration was a small, insignificant crystal set into the triangular pommel.
Hrouldland swung the sword through the air, testing its balance. Then he examined the blade closely.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘This is not an Ingelrii blade. He would have signed it.’
The clerk gave a self-satisfied smile.
‘As I told you. We received the sword as a tithe payment from one of the Burgundian monasteries. We have no idea who was the swordsmith.’
The count whipped the sword through the air, and then said, ‘It’s not an Ingelrii. But it’s as good. We’ll take it.’
‘I do not have the authority to let it out of the armoury,’ snapped the storekeeper.
Hroudland fixed him with a glare.
‘Would you like me to raise the subject with my uncle?’
‘No, no. That won’t be necessary.’ The man was clearly unhappy with the arrangement.
Hroudland put the sword hilt in my hand.
‘Now, Patch, how does that feel?’
I swung the sword tentatively in a small arc. It was remarkably light and well balanced.
‘Note the difference in the blade, Patch,’ Hroudland said. ‘It tapers all the way to the point. That makes the weapon an extension to your arm. Also the quality of the steel is exceptional.’ He peered inside the sword chest. ‘I see there is a scabbard and baldrick to go with it,’ he said.
Knowing he was beaten, the clerk nodded to one of the attendants and the sword’s fittings were added to our collection.
Hroudland was looking pleased with himself as we walked back down the length of the armoury.
‘I should have driven a harder bargain with you, Patch. That sword is unique. You’ll have to find a name for it.’
‘A name?’
He laughed.
‘Every really good sword has its own name. Mine is Durendal, “the enduring one”. The king presented it to me personally, a great honour. He has its twin, Joyeuse.’
I rather doubted that I would ever be enough of a warrior to wield a famous sword, and was about to say that ‘Joyful’ was a strange name for a deadly weapon, when I was distracted by Osric calling out, ‘Master, this would be useful.’
My slave had veered off towards a rack of bows and was tugging something out from behind the display. It was another bow but not like all the others. Their staves were as tall as a man and either straight or slightly curved. He had spotted a bow at least a third shorter in length and its stave had a peculiar double curve. He held it up to show me.
Osric’s interruption annoyed Hroudland.
‘A bow is a foot soldier’s weapon. Your master rides into battle on horseback,’ he snapped.
Osric ignored him, and before Hroudland could say anything more, I said quickly to the storekeeper, ‘Would it be possible to take that bow as well?’
The storekeeper looked between us, obviously enjoying the apparent disagreement between his visitors.
‘Of course. Bows are cheap, and that one is worthless.’
‘And a quiver with a raincover and couple of dozen arrows,’ Osric insisted.
The clerk treated him to a sour glance and nodded. Osric began to search through bundles of arrows, picking out the ones he thought suitable.
The clerk added these final items to his list on the wax tablet, snapped the cover shut, and escorted us from the building, clearly eager to see us on our way.
As Hroudland and I left the armoury, Osric was arranging with the two attendants that my new equipment should be delivered to him for cleaning and safe keeping. Hroudland insisted that I keep the sword with me.
‘Your slave and the bow are too misshapen to be of much use,’ he observed unkindly as we headed back to our quarters.
I resented the malice in his remark.
‘Osric may be a cripple, but I trust him to know what he is doing. He’s saved my life once already.’
Hroudland gave an apologetic smile.
‘Sorry, Patch. I didn’t mean to offend you. If that bow keeps you safe from danger, then your slave is welcome to it.’
His remark left me wondering, once again, what danger he had in mind.
Chapter Seven
The summer passed, the great storm and flood forgotten as I settled into the daily routine of my companions. I discovered that the bay gelding knew more about cavalry manoeuvres than I did, and I scarcely had to touch the reins in the mock charges and retreats. Instead I could concentrate on handling lance, javelin and shield. But I still felt clumsy compared to my companions, though I did better in the single-handed contests with blunted weapons, improving until I could hold my own with the likes of Oton and Berenger, the weaker members of our company. However, I never matched experts like Gerin or Hroudland, even though the latter showed me how to favour my left-hand side where my eye patch always left me exposed.
During those sham fights it was never far from my mind that King Offa might decide one day that it was better if I was dead. It was not unknown for there to be a fatal accident on the practice field, and I found it strange to be swinging a blunt sword blade or feinting a jab with a lance at someone who might possibly become an agent for the Mercian king. Afterwards, relaxing in the royal guesthouse, I developed a habit of watching my companions and trying to gauge just how much I could rely on them, because I was very conscious that I was a latecomer to their fellowship.