The Blacksmith's Daughter Read online

  The Blacksmith's Daughter

  By Allan Cole

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  Published By Allan Cole At Smashwords.com

  Copyright © 2011 by Allan Cole

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  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  The Blacksmith's Daughter

  Hilde’s day began hours before first cock crow. The stars were still bejeweled mothers of the night when the girl rose from her pallet, wincing in pain.

  In the corner of the wattle hut her father muttered in his sleep, making her heart jump.

  "Peace," he mumbled through thick lips. "Just a little peace."

  Her body still ached from the beating he’d given her and so she waited a long time before she moved, making sure he was still caught in the net of his drunken stupor. She shivered in her thin, much-patched shift, belly roiling from her father's sour odor, which seemed to permeate the room.

  When his restless thrashing ceased, she pulled on a dress and padded from the hut on bare, slender feet. She made her ablutions at the well, then carried a pail of water to the open-air stall that was her father’s blacksmith shop.

  The old dog who made his home there whimpered at her approach, but when he realized it was only Hilde, he wagged his tail in greeting. Hilde stroked him, whispering soothing words. The poor thing had suffered several brutal kicks before Swann turned his wrath on his daughter.

  Normally Hilde would have fed the animals first: grain for the hens, scraps for the pigs, hay for the cow - who hadn’t given milk for a month and so spared Hilde that task. But today she had to attack the mess in her father’s shop before she could tend to them.

  In the bright spring starlight she could see the violent scatter of his tools. She righted the tempering trough he’d kicked over, filling it with well water. Then she collected the tools, cleaned them and put them in their proper places.

  Finally, she gathered the shattered pieces of the sword he’d ruined and put them in the scrap box. The broken blade had been the cause of her father’s rage. Commissioned by Owain, the count whose castle squatted on the hill overlooking the hamlet, the sword was long overdue. As was all of Swann’s work.

  Consider the barren cow: milkless because her father hadn’t finished the new wagon wheels for a farmer who’d agreed to let Swann borrow his bull in trade.

  Naturally, the blacksmith blamed the cow for the failing, not his addiction to strong ale. Now he was threatening to slaughter the animal for the little meat they could get from its scrawny carcass. What they’d do for milk and cheese after that, Hilde didn’t know. Buy it on credit, she supposed, with the promise of more work that would never get done.

  Of one thing she was certain: each curse he received for an unpaid debt would earn Hilde another blow.

  The broken sword was a perfect example. Swann had spent most of the day squandering what little money they had swilling ale at the tavern and making drunken boasts about the sword Lord Owain had commissioned.

  Hilde had no difficulty imagining the all-too familiar scene:

  "My fame as a blacksmith is spreadin’ far and wide, boys, far and wide," was the prelude to his usual round of bragging.

  Followed by: "Why, even Count Owain himself has seen fit to trust his life to these hands." And he would’ve displayed his thick fingers, gnarled and blackened like devils. "Asked me to fashion a sword for his personal armory, he did. Next time our master goes to battle for King Pippin it’ll be good Swann steel that’ll put the fear of God into our enemies."

  Soon the men would grow weary of his boasting. Swann was big - the strongest man in the village. Despite this he’d been revealed as a coward long ago and the men would be fearless in their attacks.

  Someone would point out that delivery of the sword was much overdue. Another would say that Lord Owain had threatened to withdraw his commission and demand repayment of the money he’d put out for materials. This would be followed by a chorus of derisive jests at Swann’s expense, saying he was better known as a drunken layabout than a blacksmith.

  When he could stand no more, Swann would stumble to his feet, shouting, "Can’t a man get a little peace with his drink?"

  And he’d lurch about, like an old bear set on by dogs in the village bear-baiting pit. "That’s all I’ve ever asked of this life," he’d cry. "Just a little peace of mind. But all I’ve gotten is a cold-hearted wife - dead, damn her soul, these six years gone.

  "And my daughter’s no better. Shrewish as her mother and lazy as well. No wonder old Swann can’t work proper. Then I come to the alehouse to have a little drink at the end of a long day’s labor. But my friends reveal themselves as devils from Hell."

  Speech delivered, he’d lumber out, hounded by his drinking mates’ shouts of, "Peace! Peace! Give old Swann his peace!"

  That’s what her father had been muttering when he’d returned home last night. "Is that too much to ask - a little peace?"

  Hilde had known she was in for it. Even so, she’d done her fearful best to please her father, hoping against hope she could stave off the inevitable. Serving up the last of their meat for dinner and a nice piece of bread she’d saved by not eating breakfast.

  He’d only cursed her, ordering her to follow him to the blacksmith shop in the middle of the night, where he put her to work pumping the bellows. Then he’d taken it into his mind to finish Lord Owain’s blade. But he was so drunk he’d shattered a month’s toil with the first blow of his hammer.

  Metal shards flying everywhere - one piece cutting his forehead so that blood trickled down his face. The poor dog’s howls piercing Hilde to the heart while she ran to fetch cloths and water to clean her father’s wound.

  The moment she’d offered Swann a wet cloth he’d grabbed her by the throat, shouting, "It’s your fault, you lazy bitch! You didn’t keep the fire hot enough."

  He’d thrown her to the ground, grabbed up a heavy stick and a rain of blows had followed - Hilde curling into a tight ball, trying to protect her head and face.

  The stick had broken across her back and then he’d cursed Hilde as if she were to blame, while searching for another instrument to continue the punishment. The beating had gone on until the neighbors had rushed from their huts to shout warnings that Swann was going to kill his daughter. And then he’d have to answer to the law.

  Hilde didn’t know if it was the neighbors’ protests that had stopped him, or if her father had simply become too tired to continue.

  One thing she was sure of: moments before the ordeal had ended, she’d felt her spirit float away from her body. A second self was suddenly observing her torment from a distance. And she’d heard a woman’s familiar voice call, "Hil-de. Hil-de. Come to me, Hil-de."

  And, oh, how her heart ached to flee to that promised harbor of comfort and love. So soft and sweet: "Hil-de. Come to me, Hil-de!"

  Then her father was gone and she returned to the terrible reality that was her life. So numb she couldn’t cry. Hilde had risen to her feet, suffering the humiliation of the neighbors’ stares. Although she feared her father, she hated those looks of pity so much she’d escaped into the hut.

  Mercifully, her father had fallen asleep. Tossing and turning and muttering the whole night long: "Peace. Just a little peace."

  Hilde put the memory of last night’s
horrors away into the mental strongbox she kept for such things. She turned to see if anything had been left undone. Her eyes immediately fell on the forge. To her horror she saw her father hadn’t banked the coals the night before and the fire had gone out. She knew full well he’d blame her for the hours of lost work while the fire matured.

  There was barely enough time to rescue herself from another beating. She rushed to the forge and tried to get a new fire going. But the wood - wet from the heavy shower that had fallen during the night - stubbornly refused to light.

  Hilde felt cold panic creep over her. As a last resort she knelt, lifting her pretty thirteen-year-old face to the starry heavens to beg the assistance of Mary, Holy Mother of our dear Lord Jesus Christ.

  But the words wouldn’t come. Like the damp wood, her mind remained maddeningly resistant to the spark of prayer. She tried to concentrate on the memory of the image of the Blessed Virgin displayed in the castle’s chapel, where she and the other villagers worshipped every Sabbath Day.

  The image kept slipping away, to be replaced by the features of another woman of fable. But this one, the church said, was forbidden. For in her mind’s eye, Hilde saw the face of Lady Nerthus. At least, Hilde believed it was the image of Nerthus.

  There were no statues in the church, or anywhere else, of the Mother Goddess. The religion of the Old Ones was outlawed. Death was the sentence for any who were suspected of practicing pagan ceremonies.

  But fear of death was nothing compared to the life that had been forced on Hilde. It was her secret joy - and shame - that in recent days she had imagined herself as the beloved foster daughter of Nerthus.

  Nerthus! The spirit of the mists that had appeared to her each morning for over a month.

  It had begun on the terrifying day of her first menses. Pain knifing her gut while she was washing clothes at the creek bank. Bright blood staining her dress, like the blood that had spilled out of her mother that night when her father’s rage had put a sharp awl into his fist. Plunging it into her mother’s pregnant belly.

  Hilde a terrified witness to murder.

  Hilde a silent, unwilling accomplice as her father successfully explained the death away to the other villagers as a tragic, but quite common consequence of child bearing.

  Hilde, groaning on that misty bank, thinking any moment now her father would appear with an awl in his hand.

  The mists swirling, coming together into an image of silvery blue. Kind eyes observing her. Gentle mouth opening to speak:

  "Do not fear me, child. I am Nerthus. I speak for the mother of us all, who loves you more than all the love the world has known."

  As Hilde looked into those wonderful eyes and heard that soothing voice, all pain was banished.

  Then Nerthus had said, "Come to me, child. You do not belong here. Come and we will put your talents to just causes, gentle causes. Work you will be proud to perform."

  And she’d stretched out her hand, slender tendrils of wispy fog fingers reaching for Hilde. But at that moment the girl’s nerve had collapsed. Terrified, she’d run away.

  Later, she was sorry for her reaction. She’d gone to the washing place every day to seek out the vision. And Nerthus hadn’t disappointed the girl. She’d appeared, made the same request, but Hilde had never managed the courage to allow those fingers to touch her own.

  If truth be known, Hilde felt herself unworthy of the affection of the Mother Goddess. Despised by her father, treated like the animals he kicked and scorned, she had come to hold a small opinion of herself. Which is why she’d crept away from the pitying gaze of the villagers, instead of running to them and asking for their help. Telling them that her mother’s death was no accident - but murder.

  But this day, as she knelt in the pearly starlight praying not to the Virgin Mary but to the Lady Nerthus, all her fears and lack of self-worth were swept away. Suddenly, in the forge, the fire flared into life. And that fire became a ball of blue light that hovered for an instant, then moved out of the forge to cover her.

  The energy she experienced was glorious. She rose, expertly pumping the bellows and feeding wood until the flames were golden hot. Ah, this was a fire. A fire meant for great things.

  Then she was seized by a strange and thrilling inspiration. The blacksmith’s daughter turned to the scrap box. A will not her own guided her fingers to the broken sword. She dropped the metal bits into the hot box, pumping the bellows - pumping, pumping - each blast of air giving her strength as if she were the fire. Forge sparks dancing before her eyes, like fairies in a ring of Spiritfire.

  Fast, so fast, the scraps instantly became molten metal. Experienced as she was, it should have been surprising, but Hilde calmly poured the molten steel into its form. A notion took her to breathe on it, so she did. Breath coming out smoky cold, like an ice god’s in the depths of winter.

  Hilde cracked the mold and from it she withdrew the perfect blade. She held it up, examining the length of steel with the expert eye of a blacksmith’s daughter.

  By the Mother Goddess, it was wonderful! Slim and strong and razor-edged with promise for all things that are good. It didn’t occur to Hilde to question how such perfection could be delivered so easily.

  Holding the hot blade in her tongs, she plunged it into the tempering trough. Steam roared up like a summer storm, blasting her face. Drops forming on her skin. And she felt so clean. Pure and strong - nothing could be the master of her now.

  She looked in the wood box, but could only find a plain bit of oak for a haft. No matter, she got out her father’s carving tools and quickly made a handle and fixed it to the sword. Then she rubbed the wood with a bit of rough wool imbedded with flint and the oak glowed under her touch - every grain and line standing out as if it had been blessed by the Mother Goddess.

  The perfection of metal wedded to wood amazed her. Still a child at heart, she giggled. For she was only Hilde, the blacksmith’s daughter. Glorying as a child would at the fabulous sword she held before her eyes.

  The dawn was breaking and the sun’s rays gave off a wonderful light as they reflected off the new blade. She laughed in happiness. If someone in the village had heard her, they’d most likely have remarked that it was a sign of joy they hadn’t witnessed from Hilde in a very long time.

  Then she saw a slight imperfection - a rough spot on the edge. Frowning, she plunged the sword back into the fire, working the bellows until the blue flames danced. Then she placed the glowing blade on the anvil.

  Once, twice, three times, the hammer struck. Her slender right arm rippling with muscle surprisingly strong for a child of thirteen. Hilde slid the blade into the tempering trough, once again enjoying the burst of steam. This time when she examined the blade it was absolutely perfect. She felt so full of pride at her accomplishment that she thought her heart would burst.

  Then a heavy hand fell on her shoulder and a rough voice said, "What in the hell are you doing, girl?"

  The hand swung her around and, heart in her throat, she looked up with eyes showing more fearful white than blue. Her father stood over her. Bloodshot holes for eyes. Breath like a foul wind blowing over an open grave.

  "I… I… was only t-trying to help, father," Hilde stuttered, showing him the sword.

  Swann plucked the weapon from her hand. He studied it, gaping at the perfection.

  Growing bolder, Hilde said, "You can give it to Count Owain, father. Then the men won’t laugh at you. And you’ll have peace, father. Peace at last."

  Swann’s face swelled with sudden jealous fury. "How dare you mock me, daughter!" he roared. "Tryin’ to show me up, you are!"

  And he swung at her with the sharp blade, slashing as if she were an armed man intent on his destruction. But at the last instant, Hilde dodged away on nimble feet and the blade slammed into the anvil.

  The force was such that the blade should have shattered, but instead it cut right through the metal. Slicing the thick iron in two as if it were a wheel of soft summer cheese.

 
As the two anvil halves toppled to the ground, Swann grunted in amazement. He lifted the sword up to marvel at it. But Hilde saw the fires of anger bursting back into life and somehow she found the nerve to leap toward him, instead of away.

  "It’s mine," she shouted. "You can’t have it!" And she snatched the sword from his thick fingers.

  He roared in fury and she dodged a blow of his heavy fist and raced away.

  She ran through the village, her father charging after her, shouting, "I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!"

  The sleepy-eyed people of Rhinegarten emerged from their huts to see the strange scene. The small girl dashing into the fields, her furious father lumbering after her, screaming his threats. And what was that in Hilde’s hand? A sword? And a wondrous sword at that. Curious, they followed.

  Hilde ran across the furrowed fields, her father’s threats echoing in her ears. Then she came to the little creek where the women did the wash.

  On the other side of the creek the morning mists were rising off the boggy ground. She stopped, holding the sword up. Sunlight dancing off the bright blade.

  "It’s for you, Lady Nerthus," she cried. "A gift from little Hilde. Now you can take me with you. Now I am worthy of your love."

  But there was only silence. Frustrated, Hilde called again. "Please, Lady! Accept my gift! I beg of you!"

  Still nothing.

  She heard her father’s heavy footsteps coming close. He was out of breath and no longer shouting. despairing, Hilde turned to face him.

  "Now, I’ve got you," he gasped, striding forward. "Try to make a fool of me, you little bitch!"

  But for the first time in her life, Hilde did not fear her father. She stood her ground, feeling tall and strong.

  "You killed my mother," she said.

  Surprised at her sudden display of courage, Swann hesitated. "What are you saying, girl?"

  "I saw you," Hilde said evenly. "You killed her and you killed her unborn child!"

  Taken aback, Swann said in a shaking voice, "It wasn’t my fault. She made me angry. On purpose, like." He shook his head. "And so I showed her what’s what."