The Purple Thread by John Broughton

Author:John Broughton [Broughton, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Endeavour Media
Published: 2017-08-16T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 11

Begiloc strode to the village with a spring in his step: the prospect of returning home, albeit a year hence, a hope that had died to a glimmer surged anew. This, with the expectation of wielding his new sword, raised his spirits from the depths where they dwelt since the shock of Meryn’s blinding. He would have plenty to tell Somerhild and Ealric when he got back to Wessex. Rome! The Alps! Had anyone told him he’d see either when he tilled the Near Field in Wimborne, he’d have named him a madman.

The blacksmith, at Begiloc’s shout, halted his hammering. Dagobert, arms slick with sweat, laid down his tool, greeted him and beckoned. The heat from the furnace blasted as Begiloc advanced into the smoke-filled smithy, where one of the slaves worked the bellows while the other flung a shovelful of charcoal on the blaze.

“Don’t like to think what yon abbess’d say, I just started on ’er order. Been at yon sword all day,” he said with a conspiratorial tone. The smith punched Begiloc, but his idea of a light blow sent the Briton staggering. “Ha-ha! Let’s see what yer think of ’er. Mind, I made a change, a ’orn ’ilt’s all well an’ good, but if it breaks you’re wielding a useless weap’n. Can’t ’ave that! I’ve inlaid a bronze coil. Pretty job an’ there’s no way yon’ll break.”

Steering Begiloc deeper into the forge, he picked up the sword. The nimble Briton leapt back as the craftsman thrust it at him.

“Ha-ha! See ’ow I’ve polished ’er; ’ad to grind ’er down a bit – balance wrong, see? Welded copper eyes fer the bear – nice contrast an’ look at that ’ilt!”

“I will, if you shift that ham of a hand!”

“Ha-ha!” The smith threw his head back and roared. “Be as quick wi’ your arm as wi’ your tongue, an’ ye’ll slay a few with ’er!”

Dagobert lay the sword on the bench and Begiloc admired the beauty of the finished weapon. The smith basked in his approval but grabbed his wrist.

“Not yet. Need to know all about ’er first. Swords are like women – take some understandin’. See ’im o’er there?” A thick finger indicated the sturdier of the two slaves and Begiloc noted his skin was dusky; little wonder he hadn’t noticed in the smoky, dark smithy with both men work-blackened.

“Captured four years ago after the defeat o’ the Moors – he be one of‘em. Long story … found out ’e was a smith … got ’old of ’im … money well spent …best day’s work I done. Know a thing or two these Arabs!” The hairy finger rose again, “Ibn al-Naghira – ‘son of the ’ot-tempered woman’ – ha-ha! That’s what he says his name means. Got an ’ot-tempered woman myself! Fact is, this sword’s made wi’ my an’ ’is knowledge together. Young Ibn waited for a balmy night to temper the blade, see – passes cherry red from the fire ter the quenching wi’out suffering the chill from the air.

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