Kendra knocked on my door mid-morning. A boiled egg and a piece of bread torn off a loaf constituted our breakfast as she hurried us out the rear door. We checked on the horses, which were being cared for better than me, then walked in the weak sunshine in the direction of the bazaar where all manners of items were for sale. From several blocks away we heard the music, the sellers calling to buyers, the workers shouting orders in an altogether pleasant chorus. However, Kendra stopped a few people and spoke briefly to them, and then took us down a side street as confidently as if she’d visited Andover a hundred times and knew her way around.
She located a small, rusted iron plate shaped like a knife mounted on the wall beside a door. Inside the wide, narrow room were displays of weapons. Knives were spread upon a tall work-table, while swords, pikes, spears, bows, maces, and war axes hung on pegs.
A man intently worked at the tall table while sitting on a high three-legged stool. Without looking up, he called, “Make yourselves at home. Look around, I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Behind a partially closed door to the rear glowed the orange fire of a kiln and the harsh smell of heated iron permeated. My first reaction was that all the weapons in sight could not have all been made by one person. I moved to the wall of swords and took one off the pegs. It was without scabbard, the blade dull and offered no reflection—usually a sign of poor craftsmanship. Not in this case.
The edge reflected light readily enough, the metal had some give, so it hadn’t been hardened so much that it would shatter or break with the first strike, and the handle was simple but functional. Again, upon a second look, the handle was made of sand-hide, a material from a sea-fish that maintained a solid grip in the slipperiest of battles. A tool more than a decoration, a weapon to be admired.
“There, I’m done. Thank you for waiting, but I was setting a gold inlay for a wealthy customer,” the man said as he looked up.
He was tall, perhaps thirty, and his features thin to the point of being sharp. I smiled at my silent pun and replaced the sword on the peg.
“You chose one of my best,” he said as if impressed. “Not the prettiest, but the one you want if you plan to fight. Do you wish to purchase a sword?”
“I have one,” my hand went to my hilt.
He glanced at the scrolls and loops on my handle. “A weapon is often chosen for appearance, which is not always wise. I could offer to compare mine with yours and point out the differences if you wish.”
The response seemed genuine, and while I wore a simple scabbard, the sword within was the gift from Princess Elizabeth and her father—and perhaps the best sword in the kingdom. Handing it to the weapons maker would be a test of his knowledge and honesty. I said solemnly, “That would be good of you, sir.”
Kendra’s lips made a little smirk she tried to hide.
The weapons maker fetched his sword and proudly displayed it on the top of the workbench. He pointed out the things I’d already discerned, and more. He then asked to examine mine and offered to give a fair appraisal.
I drew it and placed it beside his, which I admit was a very well made and functional sword. Still, beside each other, they were like a beautiful bride standing beside a filthy street urchin. His eyes narrowed, he drew a sharp breath and backed away. “Malawian steel. Where did you get this?”
Kendra allowed her smirk to grow into a full smile before speaking, “Oh, that. The king gave it to him a few years ago, and he thinks it makes him the best swordsman in the kingdom.”
He suspected a joke. When none came, he reached for his sword, as if ready to defend himself. His face showed his disbelief—and he undoubtedly thought I’d stolen it.
Kendra said easily, “Please calm down. My brother is capable of taking that sword from you and spanking you with it. That is one of the many reasons he protects Princess Elizabeth as her personal bodyguard. He usually does it alone. She needs no other.”
The weapon’s maker said in a whisper, “True?”
“And I am her personal servant. She will arrive here, tomorrow we believe, but we have some needs, first. And you were correct, that is Malawian steel.”
His finger ran along the edge and found the chip from my fight. He looked scornfully at me as if I’d kicked a kitten.
“Can that be repaired?” I asked.
“Perhaps in Malawi. Don’t trust anyone else to attempt work on it, or they will ruin the temper of the blade. How did this happen?”
“In battle,” I told him shortly. “Now, I have other needs, and you may laugh at my requests.”
He held up a hand and moved his thumb over both sides of the blade and found where the nick had a slight curl. He pulled a sharpening stone from a drawer. “May I, at least, remove the burr? Carefully?”
As he slowly worked his stone along the sharp edge, as if it was the final polish of a royal crown, I told him of my problem of not having a bow in hand when needed, twice. I suggested a short bow, straight when unstrung, and a modification to my scabbard to accommodate it so I could carry it alongside.
He raised his eyes long enough to say, “No.” His attention returned to the blade. “That will not do.”
“That’s it? No?” I blurted.
“The flat, short bow you suggest would hold no power. It would also ride heavy on your hip, and you would have no place to carry arrows. What good is a bow without arrows?”
Ignoring Kendra’s evil sisterly smile, my pride forced me to continue, “I still want access to a bow at all times.”
He lifted my sword and held it out to me with the palms of both hands. I took it, and he handed me a slightly oiled cloth. After the blade was wiped clean of fingerprints, and I’d tested the burr and found it all but corrected, he said, “Let me show you something.”
Before any objection could be mouthed, he leaped to the wall and returned with a stout bow that stood almost as tall as my shoulder. There was a little curve to it, but the center was thick and made sturdy with laminated woods cross-grained for strength. A layer of metal had been bonded in the center of the grip where bows most often snapped, and leather had been tightly bound around it. Only the tip of the metal at the two ends showed.
He handed me a string. The grooves for it were carved deep to accept the string quickly, even in battle. My weight awkwardly bent the staves enough to slip it on. He said, “It’ll be easier after a few tries. You’ll learn the technique.”
After drawing the string, there was no doubt it was a quality weapon, but not what I wanted. I started to protest.
Holding up his palms to still my tongue, he said, before I could object, “A small quiver could be made to mount on the side of your scabbard to hold a few arrows, say three or four? Another quiver could be on your horse or at hand.”
“But the bow? How would I carry it with me?”
He pulled a large book from under his desk and ruffled through the pages until finding what he wanted. He turned it and placed it on the worktable for me to see. It was a drawing of a knight, such as those who strutted the halls in Crestfallen Castle, wearing a broadsword they favored. It was a two-handed beast of a weapon intended to slay with a single swing, but they were too large to wear at the hip. They rode in scabbards worn like backpacks, with the handle extending above the right shoulder, and the blade hanging at an angle, to the lower left.
He said, “Instead of a broadsword, a man might carry this bow in the same manner.”
“Very nice,” Kendra muttered. “Four arrows for an emergency carried with your sword, and more in a second quiver if needed. The bow would be with you at all times.”