She was weary. The sun was not even high in the sky, and she was weary. Sweeping a strand of thick flaming auburn hair from her eyes, the smith worked on the bellows, building the fire in her forge a little hotter. Why was it that she had such trouble from that foolish and vain guard. He didn’t want a woman working on his armour? Fine! Let him find someone else to do the repairs. She was the Garrison Smith at present. If he wanted work done without cost to his purse, it was she he must deal with. Or with the commander, Sergeant Thilwend. She was not paid to add selected embellishments that would cry out ‘Look at me, I am better than the rest’. That was not what being in the guards was about!
She did not know why she was in such a bad mood that morning, though she had a few ideas. Yes, it was the reminder that her work was thought to be of insufficient skill by some, even now, even after ten years of smithing in Aldburg, and two in Bancroft. Even after she had served an apprenticeship with the best smith in the Eastfold. That cursed man had the nerve to complain to Thilwend about her. She grinned at that thought though. Thilwend was her cousin, on their mothers’ side. One cousin, a Shieldmaiden, commander of the garrison, the other a Forgemaiden, overseeing all farrier work, all armour making and repairs, and most weapon-smithing. Neither were women to be messed with.
But it was more than the old jibe. Two weeks earlier, one of her workers had left to return to his family business in Stoke. Now he, coming from Frithild’s Riding, had been used to strong women in command. He had been almost a friend to her, and certainly a more than able armour-smith. That left her with just Heard, three years out of his apprenticeship and already overworked. She needed another pair of hands before the winterfall. That season was always one of preparation, her few years in Forlaw had taught her that even biting cold and snow did not prevent all troubles. Patrols still needed to ride. Shipments still needed to be made to nearby villages, and to Edoras.
Standing back from the fire, she sighed. Even someone to sweep the floor of the armoury would be welcome. But there was none available. So she took up the broom herself for a moment, sweeping her bad mood away as she went.
A moment’s air would also help, a point made to that guard, so he knew she knew of his complaint. She picked up the greaves she was about to start working on. Pushing open one of the heavy wooden doors with one hand, she strode towards the first barricade on the track to the barracks.
“You! Yes, you!” Her voice was clear and strong, “I am about to work on your greaves now. If that is not to your liking then you can come and take them back. Wear them with the dents in them, for all I care. Or ride into Edoras, when you have leave, and pay with your own coin.”
Her steely blue eyes bored into the man’s own. She waited a brief moment, then made to drop what she held at the guard’s feet.
“No, no Master Hertha. Your work is fine. Please.” He held to his duty and his place, but his bluff was called, and he knew it.
“My work is...fine?”
“Your work is of excellent quality, Master Smith!”
That was more like it, she thought. She would have none speaking ill of her behind her back.
Then she noticed she was being watched. She swung round to face the young girl, eager of face, bright of eye, and twisting a strand of her fair hair around a finger.
“Yes?” she said, a little more abruptly than intended.
The girl smiled. ‘She can’t be more than thirteen winters,’ the smith thought to herself. ‘Why is she here? What does she need?’
“Hmm….I have come to see if I can have a short word with the...smith. I heard that it is a woman…..you, lady?” the girl said.
Her expression softened a little.
“Aye! I am Hertha, the master-smith here in Bancross. I can spare a few moments, if you speak fast. Come, I need to watch the forge.” She beckoned to the girl, swinging the greaves almost carelessly, and walking back through the part open door of the armoury, leaving it ajar.
The girl followed, a little apprehensive she thought, but with an inner determination worthy of note.
Putting the greaves back down on the freshly swept stone floor, she took a quick look at the fire, and checked her tools and leather gloves were at hand.
“Quickly then, “She spoke in a not unfriendly manner. “Your name? How can I help?”
The girl stopped her hair twisting, and stood herself more to attention. “I am Ethel, daughter of Waelden. I want to learn to be a smith.”
‘Pfft...is that all?” the smith’s eyes turned to assess the girl more keenly. “Then tell me, Ethel, do you know aught about the craft? Have you ever held a hammer?”
And at that the girl, Ethel, beamed brightly. “Oh yes, Master Hertha…”
“Just Hertha will do, unless you are a whinging guard.”
“Aye. I have done some smithing the past few years, well what I can. My papa had a word with the smith in Floodwend, where we lived until recently. He let me come and watch, and let me try my hand with nail making and some iron work, though he did not have time to start on farriery before we left, and..”
The smith held up a now gloved hand as she took up her tongs to grasp one of the greaves.
“I know I said quickly, but not quite that quick, Ethel. So you have some experience. Have you made anything you could show me?”
Ethel seemed to be thinking a moment, as she didn’t speak. Then she brightened “I have a few pieces at home I can bring you very soon..”
“Tomorrow morning will do.”
“Aye, I make lots of nails, and some small knives..and hinges.I want to make lots of things though. I want to be good at smithing.”
“Can you strike hard?” asked the smith.
Ethel flexed an arm. “Aye,” she said. “Look! I am practicing every day with my bow, and with work around the house. My mama and papa are going to make me my own forge in our barn. But anyway, I think I also need to practice my accuracy? LIke it’s no good drawing back a bow if you aim all over the place.”
And the tongs were put down while the gloves came off. “Good!” said the smith. “Very good!. There are some a few years into training who still don’t understand that!”
Ethel blushed a little, her hand moving to twirl her hair again, but then she halted. “I know it will be hard, being a girl and all. I know not all men will accept work from a woman, like that guard you spoke with. But I know what I want, and I want to be a smith. Will you help me a little, Hertha?”
By that point the smith was smiling. She didn’t feel weary any longer. She almost felt inspired. “Well, Ethel, I will say this. I like you. I like your determination. Bring me a couple of examples of your work tomorrow morning, and if...if, mind you…. I find it good enough, then I will speak with your family about taking you on as my apprentice. How does that sound?”
There was the sound of a brisk knock on the wooden door, even as Ethel’s face broke into a beaming smile. “That sounds wonderful. And I will bring….oh…”
The smith turned at the sound of booted footsteps on the floor of her armoury. A man stood there, dark brown of hair and beard, a little taller and broader of shoulder than average.
“I am looking for Sergeant Thilwend,” he said, in an authoritative, but not aggressive voice.
“She is out riding patrol until late today,” the smith replied, signaling to Ethel she would only be a moment.
“Then you will notify me as soon as she returns. I am Captain Denholm, the new commander of this garrison.”
“And I am Hertha, master-smith, but no soldier, and not under your authority. Yet I will pass the word, so Sergeant Thilwend knows to report to you as soon as possible.”
Ethel had stood silent a moment, her eyes growing large as she looked at the man. Then she ran forward to hug him.
“Uncle!” she cried. “Uncle Denholm, I almost didn’t recognise you. “
