The Copper Sign (35 page)

“Hm, perhaps there’s something to that, at least as long as you are around. So do me a favor and never come to see the jousting or I’ll lose the shirt on my back.” He laughed loudly and kissed the tip of her nose.

They separated only as the sun began to set.

“I must get up early tomorrow, so I had best go now.” Ellen ran her fingers through her hair and tied it up in a braid.

“Tomorrow I have no time, and in two days we must leave, so all we have left is the day after tomorrow,” William explained dryly, and pulled her to him again. “I can hardly wait. Will you be faithful to me until then?”

Ellen looked at him, stunned. “Is that the way you think I am?” she snapped at him. “That I’ll just take off with a man and disappear into the forest or go and lie with him in a meadow?” She tore herself away from him indignantly.

Instead of answering, he grabbed her again and kissed her.

Thibault had followed William. The blanket the Marshal was carrying with him could only mean that he was planning an amorous rendezvous, and Thibault wanted to know all about it. The worst thing was that the Marshal looked like a man in love. He sauntered along, swinging the blanket back and forth, and kept stopping to pick up lilies of the valley along the way.
Either he’s a crafty seductor, or he’s in love,
Thibault thought bitterly. Though he knew down deep who it was William was going to see, he hoped it might be someone else. Maybe she wouldn’t come. Thibault managed to follow William without attracting attention. And then he saw her sitting on the log, her red hair shining as if it were on fire in the sunlight. When he saw William and Ellen kissing, it hit him like a thunderbolt. He felt worse than back then in Beauvais! Maybe it was due to his hatred for William, or perhaps the glow emanating from Ellen.

When the two lay down in the grass and made love, Thibault watched, crying with despair. Seeing Ellen in William’s arms was too much to bear. He pounded his fists on the ground and buried his face and his tears in his sleeve. It hadn’t been hard disposing of Jocelyn, but William wasn’t such an easy matter.

But there was no other choice—he had to win Ellen back. And if she didn’t want to be his of her own free will, then he’d find a good reason for her to change her mind. Someday, sometime, Ellen would belong to him alone!

“I won’t be able to take part in the next two or three tournaments. Young Henry has obligations,” William said, picking up a blade of grass and stroking Ellen’s neck with it. For the last three months they had been meeting at tournaments and making love as often as possible. “I think we can be back by the end of October at the latest, and until then you’ll just have to dream of me. Now don’t forget me!” he admonished her strictly.

“Aha,” Ellen teased him. “And who will you be dreaming about?”

“Who do you think?” he replied, with a look of disapproval.

“I think I have to go now,” she said as she stood up, “or Pierre will shout at me.” She didn’t want to start crying, so she just kissed him on the forehead. Then she smoothed out her hair and clothing and ran off. She turned around once to wave to him, but William was busy putting on his boots and didn’t see her.

To her surprise, Pierre wasn’t angry at all, though once again she was arriving much too late. On the contrary, he grinned as she walked in.

“So, it’s really true that you are involved with the Young King’s tutor.” He nodded his appreciation. “Congratulations, I never thought you had it in you. But who knows, perhaps that will bring us an order from the king someday.”

Ellen could feel her face turning a flaming red and didn’t dare look Pierre in the face.
The Young King is penniless
, she was about to say, but then she reconsidered and seized the opportunity. “I am to make a sword. Sir William wants to see what I can do. Will you allow me to work on it here in the evenings, when work is over?”

Pierre looked at her in surprise and rubbed his chin as he thought it over. “Well, all right, then, if you want to,” he finally grumbled.

Perhaps he was a little out of sorts because William was interested in a weapon made by her, and not by him.

Ellen rejoiced silently and set to work on her new project, full of anticipation.

“Can I get the iron from you, too? Of course I’ll pay for it,” she asked in the evening when her work was done.

Instead of replying, Pierre just grumbled something inaudible. Ellen took that as a yes and started rummaging around in his pile of iron. Far back in a corner she found a huge, rough piece that was unusually hard.

“What do you want to do with that?” Pierre laughed.

“Probably not bake bread,” Ellen retorted sharply and kept looking for other material.

“That huge piece is so brittle it will fall apart when you try to shape it. Do you really intend to make a sword out of that?” Pierre shook his head, amused, and whistled between his teeth.

“If it’s really such bad material as you say, I hope you’ll let me have it for not too much money.”

“I didn’t say it was bad,” Pierre answered hastily. “It’s just that it will be too much work shaping it.”

“Yes, that’s what I said, you’ll give me a good price for it.”

Pierre snorted.

Ellen didn’t let him throw her off. Of course he was right, the iron she had picked out was unusually hard, but it was just for that reason that she wanted it. She knew only material that was very pure, with no remaining slag or impurities, was suitable for making a sword. To get such a level of purity, the iron had to be folded many times, but since a little bit of the hardness was lost each time it was folded, the iron had to be hard enough to start with. Most smiths avoided folding and welding iron that was so brittle, because it was so difficult to shape it. Normally, three or four folding operations were enough to make a good sword, but Ellen wanted to fold the iron seven times and make an especially good sword that was purer, more resistant, and sharper than any other. She knew William would appreciate it, and that Athanor would be something special. She also chose a bar of iron she intended to use for the blade core, as well as good-sized pieces of clean, well-wrought iron that would be especially suited for the cross guard and the pommel. Pierre watched her as she selected her materials and teased her when she came to him to inquire about the price.

“Ah, women! I could die laughing when I see how you pick out your material. Like Armelle when she goes to the market and buys what she needs for a new dress,” he joked, prancing through the smithy holding an imaginary shopping basket and mimicking his wife.

“Just go right ahead and make fun of me, but don’t forget to give me a decent price for the iron,” Ellen repeated confidently.

“You’re making too much unnecessary work for yourself with this piece instead of selecting a decent piece for the blade. And I can’t understand why you want the bar iron.” Pierre shook his head when he saw what Ellen had picked out. He scratched his head, weighed the pieces in his hand, thought about it for a moment, and added up the figures. The price he finally offered her was astonishingly fair.

Ellen paid him at once. She declined a charge against her wages. A master could too easily get used to paying less or not at all, and once they had started down that road…Ellen took her purse and paid him on the spot.

“I’ll pay for every evening I use your anvil and your tools, and of course I’ll only work when you don’t need the smithy yourself. What price do you ask?”

Pierre replied without hesitation, demanding half of her earnings. In return she could also use his coal for the fire. She hesitated only a moment, because she really had no other choice, and they agreed with a handshake.

“You will pay my wages as before, and I’ll pay at the end of each week.” Ellen knew she would be obligated to Pierre for a time, and that what remained of her earnings would be just enough to live on, but there was no other way. Once she had bought all the material she needed for the sword, there would not be much left over from her savings. But her sword was worth it. She absolutely had to show William what she was able to do. He would at once appreciate a good sword and perhaps, she hoped, would see more in her than just a girl who let herself be seduced by him after only a short acquaintance. William had never spoken of love, but only desire. On the way to the smithy, Ellen had been thinking about that. What was happening to her? Was she really in love with William? Or did she just lust after him? With Jocelyn she had been certain: she had wished more than anything else to be at his side every day, to work with him and to grow old with him. But with William? He awakened other feelings in her. He was seductive and dangerous, like the ocean, refreshing and fascinating, until its tide pulled you away without warning, holding you in its clutches and pulling you down into the cold, dark abyss. Nevertheless, she missed William. She dreamed of his kisses and caresses, woke up in a turmoil in the middle of the night, and asked herself what was worse: her fear she would never see him again or her fear of falling even further under his spell.

When the tournament ended, the tradesmen, merchants, and magicians moved on. It would take them only eight or nine days to get to the next tournament site. Those who left at once would have at least a week before the new tournament began, and thus the opportunity to repair their tools, carts, tents, or other household goods.

Even though Ellen had plenty to do in the smithy and by evening could hardly move, she decided to begin the sword in a couple of days. In the past few months she had spent every free moment in William’s arms, and now, during his absence, she would have time for Athanor. On Sunday she heated the anvil and forged the iron bar to a square point. She looked at the result with satisfaction. The next few steps required a helper, and she was wondering whom she could ask for assistance when Pierre walked into the shop, fuming with rage.

“Have you completely lost your senses?” he shouted at her.

Ellen couldn’t understand why he was so worked up and looked at him in astonishment.

“Don’t stare at me like a cow in a thunderstorm! Nobody can work on the Lord’s Day. Do you think I want trouble because of you?” He glared at her furiously. “Your hammering here on a Sunday can be heard for miles around!”

Ellen thought Pierre’s agitation was a bit exaggerated but decided not to say anything.

“If you want to do some stitching on Sundays, or anything else that doesn’t make a lot of noise, that’s all right with me, but you will never enter the smithy again on the Lord’s Day, is that clear?”

Ellen nodded emphatically. “Yes, Master Pierre, I’m sorry,” she replied meekly.

Pierre liked it when she called him “Master,” and he calmed down a bit. “Remove the coal that can still be used and put it aside, then leave!” he ordered her, but not quite so angrily as before.

“From now on I’ll only work evenings, and then not too late, is that all right?”

“Yes, and see to it that you do!” he grumbled, and left the smithy.

As Ellen was returning to her tent shortly afterward, she suddenly had an idea who could help her, and during supper that evening she asked Jean.

The boy had just taken a huge piece of bread and put it in his mouth, and he choked on it as it went down. He coughed, his head turned crimson, and tears came to his eyes.

Ellen smacked him on the back.

“I…” he said, turning red again and continuing to cough.

“Swallowed the wrong way,” Ellen said, completing his sentence while rolling her eyes. “You have to hold your mouth until it goes away.” It was so dumb that someone who obviously was choking would have nothing better to do than to explain what was happening, at the risk of choking to death. Ellen slapped him on the back again. “Hold your arms up, that should help.”

When Jean had quieted down, she repeated her question.

“Did you see that? Thin as a reed.” Jean pointed to the muscle in his upper arm.

“Tell me, am I mistaken or weren’t you there yourself when I competed against the strongman? I already explained to you: in our work it isn’t just how strong you are”—Ellen pointed at her upper arm muscle that was unusually large for a woman—“but what’s up here,” she said, tapping herself on the forehead. “Naturally you can’t do that sort of work, because you’re not strong enough and you don’t have the right technique. But you can hold the iron for me. I started that way as a little girl, and you’ll be able to do that, too.”

“If that’s the case, I’ll do it!” Jean was beaming.

“Fine! Tomorrow after work? I’ll promise you, too, that we won’t work too long because you have to get up practically in the middle of the night.”

“Don’t worry about that. I don’t work for the baker any longer. He whipped my back until I was black and blue, and I’d rather go hungry than ever lift a finger for him again.”

“But Jeannot! Why didn’t you ever say anything?” Ellen was disappointed—though he was always open to the grief of others, he had rarely in turn confided in them.

“That’s not so important. I’m doing all right now, you know. In any case, I found something better. At the well I met a young squire. He had been sick for a long time and still hasn’t gotten his strength back. I helped him a little, and his master asked me if I could do that all during the tournament. He can pay twice what the baker paid, and the work is nowhere near as difficult. That’s pretty good, don’t you think?”

“You’re a lucky fellow, my little Jeannot,” Ellen teased her young friend and patted him on the shoulder.

“Ow!” he cried. “Don’t start already beating up on your helper,” he said, grinning proudly. “Smith’s assistant sounds good to me.”

He came to the workshop the next day right after work. “So what shall I do?” he asked as he looked around, eager to get started. “Do I get an apron like that, too?”