The Forest Laird(142)

“One of the cathedral canons, a man called Lamberton. He’s been in France these past two years. Came back a short time ago and was raised to chancellor of the cathedral. He’s a clever lad.”

“Lad? How old is he?”

“Your age, I would guess. Not much more, perhaps a little less. But he has talents beyond his years.”

“He must have, to be chancellor already.” He frowned. “We never had a chancellor at the Abbey, did we? What does he do?”

“He regulates the daily life of the cathedral. It’s an administrative post.”

“So why is he here?”

“He’s here to meet you.” I stopped short, looking in wonder at the thing that had just caught my eye. “What is that?”

Will twisted in his seat to see what I was staring at. “What’s it look like? It’s a sword. Why does this … Lamberton, you said? Why does he want to meet me? Or will I have to ask that, too, myself?”

“You will. He would not tell me. Not that I asked.” I was still gazing at the sword in the corner behind him, propped upright beside the long leather cylinder of his bow case. “That’s the biggest sword I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s enormous. Where did it come from?”

“It’s a gift, from Shoomy. He brought it from his brother’s smithy last week.”

“Shoomy’s brother is a smith? I didn’t even know he had a brother.”

Will sniffed. “I didn’t know, either, until Shoomy brought me this. When I asked him where he had got it, he told me it had been gathering dust in his brother Malachy’s forge. Apparently the brother is well known, the finest sword crafter in all the northwest.

But Shoomy is so close-mouthed, I had to drag that out of him. Never says more than he has to, our Shoomy. Most of the time that can be a blessing. At other times, though, it can be damned annoying.”

I had walked over to the weapon and now stood admiring the craftsmanship and skill of the man who had fashioned it. It was resting, point down, in the corner, and its long, bare blade gleamed dully in the light from the window. “May I handle it?”

“If you wish, but you won’t be able to swing it in here.”

“I can see that, but I have no intention of swinging the thing, Cuz. It’s huge … I would gladly settle for being able to lift it.” I reached out to touch the pommel, and had to raise my hand to the level of my head to do so. From its large, acorn-shaped pommel to its pointed tip, the weapon was as tall as I was, which made it just under six feet long. I estimated the hilt, which was covered in leather and bound with spirals of what appeared to be bronze wire, to be about a foot and a half in length. The slender, twisted, downwardcurving cross-guard, of the same gleaming metal as the blade, was as wide as my shoulders but no more than a thumb’s width in section, and it had been turned throughout its entire length to give it the appearance of a length of corded metal rope, with decorative quatrefoils at each end. But there was much more to the defences for the wielder’s hands than I had seen on any other sword. I had to step in close to see how it had been done, but the swordmaker had taken great pains with the metal cross-block over the top of the blade, which was a palm wide at that end. He had hammer-welded one-half of an oval steel ring onto each side of the thick block, then bent the twin pieces down until they lay almost flush with the flat of the blade on either side, leaving just enough space between ring and blade to trap the blade of an unwary opponent.

I ran my finger down the addition and hooked the first joint into the space between guard and blade. “This is fine workmanship. Is it sharp?”

Will had come to stand beside me. “Not there, that part’s for gripping, but the cutting edge is lethal. Be careful if you touch the blade lower down.”

I had suspected as much, simply from the way the light caught the lower edges of the blade; it had that unmistakable twinkling look of razor-sharpness. The edges of the first ten inches of the blade below the guard were hammered flat to provide a guiding grip for fighting at close quarters, permitting the swordsman to wield the weapon as a stabbing spear rather than a slashing blade. Below that, at the top of the blade proper, which was tapered and double-edged for its remaining three-and-a-half feet, twin spurs projected from the edges of the blade, and though they were not long, they were thick and strong, hooking towards the point, their purpose to catch and break the impetus of an opponent’s hard-swung blow. I had almost no experience of swords or of the knightly art of swordsmanship, but I knew that the weapon I was looking at was magnificent by any standard and was too long and cumbersome to be used easily from horseback.