King's Gold

In gratitude, Baldwin had joined the Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, the Knights Templar, and served them until the dreadful day of Friday, 13 October 1307, when all were arrested by King Philippe IV of France.

The King, who coveted the Templars’ wealth, had set in motion a plot to deprive them of their riches, their properties, and ultimately their lives. He laid at their feet accusations so appalling that all over France, men and women viewed them with horror. The Order was disbanded, the Knights harried and tortured. Baldwin himself escaped, and he made his way gradually to Devon, to his family’s lands, where he had hoped to live peacefully as a rural knight.

Baldwin had been happy here. He had won a reputation as a fair judge of character, and been given the job of Keeper of the King’s Peace, and his life had continued in its orderly manner until the recent civil strife.

Good God, he was tired. The kingdom was in a state of chaos, and men like him – those who were supposed to enforce the King’s Peace – had been overwhelmed with work. In times of trouble, lawlessness increased – which was why he was here, in this place. Sir Baldwin needed a more reliable sword.

In Exeter there were many smiths and armourers of varying quality, but Baldwin knew one man who was capable of producing the very finest work.

Years of swinging heavy hammers had given David Smith’s fingers a grip which rivalled that of the metal he bent and twisted to his will. He had a brown beard shot through with silver, and dark brows hooding suspicious grey eyes. His skin was like old leather, worn and blackened by his work. By nature, he was rude, morose, and prone to flashes of anger. He was also the most expensive of all the smiths in Exeter – and the best.

Until the last summer Baldwin had owned a beautiful sword. Its blade was as blue as a peacock’s feathers, and although moderately short, it had a perfect balance. But during a skirmish at sea, he had lost it and ever since had been forced to rely on a cheap weapon that had all the balance of a sack of turnips. It was high time to replace it.

‘Sir,’ the smith grunted as Baldwin entered his little chamber. He was bent over a curving bar of glowing metal, beating it with his hammer.

‘Master Smith, I hope I find you well?’

‘Well as any man can be when he’s been fleeced by the taxman again,’ David Smith said angrily. ‘They take all our money and then expect us to thank them! Thieving scrotes.’

‘Is my weapon ready?’

‘I said it would be, didn’t I? Have you known me lie before?’

‘Master Smith, I am keen to see it,’ Baldwin said testily. This politeness in response to the gruff smith was wearing, no matter how good the man was.

David Smith gazed at him. ‘You want to take over this?’ he demanded, thrusting his curved metal into the forge. He watched as the metal began to glow, then gradually spit little sparks, before pulling it out and placing it carefully on his anvil once more, this time beating the curve down until it was almost flat again.

Baldwin had seen this process often enough before. Drawing out the metal took an age. Only when the shape was roughly formed would the smith begin to put some definition into his work.

He waited patiently. It was always the same when he came here. David was ever crotchety and difficult – but he could afford to be, knowing he was the best.

‘Look over there, in the wrapping,’ David said at last, thrusting the blank into a quench. The hissing and bubbling was deafening.

Baldwin walked to the table at which the smith had pointed, and found the package. Slowly, with care, he unwrapped the waxed material to reveal a new sword.

He held it joyfully. It was a perfect blue, polished to a mirror-like perfection, with a fuller that ran for some two thirds of the blade. ‘You have created a marvel, David. This is beautiful.’

The smith had joined him, rubbing his hands on the old leather apron that covered the front of his body. It was blackened and scarred in many places, where sparks had caught and flared. The mere sight was enough to make Baldwin feel queasy. In the last days of Acre, when he was young, fires had been started by the Moorish siege engines, hurling boulders and flaming bales designed to cause infernos all over the city. He could recall the screams of people burning. Some ran to rescue those trapped in buildings, and their clothes were pocked and marked like this.

Baldwin swallowed and turned away. Death by fire was hideous.

‘I’ve not had time to finish the surface as I’d have liked,’ David said grimly. ‘I need another few weeks for that.’