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Day Two
Dai
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Early morning found Cadoc, Jon, and Dai standing a few paces from the swordsmith’s works within the walls of Brodar’s palace. The swordsmith, named Gren, was as big a man as Dai had ever seen—and that was saying something in Dublin where, as far as he could tell, a disproportionate number of men were larger than average. Gren’s arms bulged from wielding hammer and tongs all day. His apprentice, by comparison, was half his size, and he ran from bellows to woodpile to water bucket, fetching and carrying at Gren’s command—and often without needing any command at all.
Godfrid’s captain, Jon, leaned against one of the thick wooden posts that supported the roof and spoke in Danish. “We have with us the sword of the monk who died yesterday. We were hoping you could take a look at it and tell us if you were the one who made it.”
Gren shot Jon something of a caustic glance. “What do you know of swords, Jon?”
“Not much,” Jon admitted cheerfully. He was typically Danish in that he was all about the axe. Even when deep in his cups, Godfrid’s captain could throw his weapon with accuracy fifty feet and hit his target square on—as he’d shown Dai after the feast last night.
“And you?” Gren lifted his chin to point to the great bow Cadoc never went anywhere without if he could help it.
Instead of answering, Cadoc looked at Dai for translation. This was an easy one, so Dai quickly obliged.
Cadoc grinned. “Nothing.”
Gren then looked Dai up and down. “You’re Welsh, eh? But you speak Danish?”
“A bit.”
Cadoc made a motion to get Dai’s attention. “What did he ask you?”
“If I spoke Danish.”
Cadoc looked as if he didn’t want Dai to answer that, but since he already had, it was too late.
Gren continued, “Then what’s your story? You’re young to be a knight, but the blade you wear is worthy of the name.” He’d been looking at the sword at Dai’s waist, though how he knew its quality, when it remained in the sheath, Dai didn’t know.
Dai found he did better with Danish when his brain didn’t get in the way of his mouth, so he just let the words spill out: “My father is a knight, and I am squire to the Dragons. My name is Dai ap Gareth.” Holding Harald’s sword horizontal to the ground, with his palms up, Dai approached. “This is the sword of the man who died—” he glanced back at Jon. “How do I say yesterday?”
“I går.”
Dai nodded and looked back at Gren, who gave him something of a side-eye glance. “I går.”
“A squire, eh?” Gren took the sword by the handle and walked with it out from under his roof into the yard. The sun was shining brightly for the second day in a row, which likely meant it was going to rain for the wedding. Rain on a wedding day was good luck in Wales. To Dai’s mind, the superstition was trying to make the best of a bad job. From what his parents told him, it rained even more in Ireland than in Wales, though he had yet to see it, so likely a wet wedding day was lucky here too.
Dai followed. “Yes, sir.”
Gren laughed. “You don’t have to call me sir. In my time, I was a lowly man-at-arms. Not someone you have to bow to.”
“Pardon me, sir—” Dai went right ahead and continued the designation of respect, seeing no harm in being exceptionally polite, especially as he knew his Danish wasn’t quite right, “—but I bet you could still wield a sword.”
Gren’s eyes really lit now and put his free hand on the top of Dai’s head and ruffled his hair. These days, at fourteen, with his voice moving in and out of its change, Dai was taller than some of the men in Prince Hywel’s teulu, but he was still dwarfed by Gren. Dai hoped to eventually surpass Llelo, who seemed to have stopped growing at a finger’s width shorter than their father.
“I don’t know if I’d want to wield this one.” He held the sword on a finger placed under the blade above the hilt, but it took a few tries to get the sword to balance. “Not one of mine.”
“Is it not a good sword?” Jon asked.
“Not good enough for me. Not terrible, but not what a knight would want.” Gren snapped his fingers at Dai. “Let me see yours, boy.”
Dai drew out his sword, which his father had given him on his fourteenth birthday, the day he’d become a man. The sword had belonged to Gareth’s uncle, a man Gareth had loved and honored. When Llelo had become a man, Gareth had made him a gift of Gareth’s own first sword, the one he’d worn before Prince Hywel raised him to captain of his teulu. While that weapon had been special, in that it had been his father’s, Llelo respectfully replaced it last November with one bestowed upon him by Prince Henry himself upon their departure from Bristol, because of Llelo’s service and sacrifice. It wasn’t quite a knighting, which would come soon enough, but it was a huge honor nonetheless.
Gareth could have repurposed his old sword again, now that Llelo didn’t need it. The fact that he hadn’t, that he’d given Dai his uncle’s sword instead of saving it for Taran, his natural child, still left Dai with a twisting in his stomach and heart. Thus, he held it out proudly to Gren, who, gratifyingly, raised his eyebrows at the sight of its quality.
“Where did you get this?”
“It was my great-uncle’s.”
“He must have been a fine swordsman.”
“I never knew him, but so my father says.”
Gren’s eyes were the most expressive part of him. They’d been bright before, and now they almost twinkled. “You are Gareth the Welshman’s son, yes?” And then at Dai’s nod, he added, “When did you learn to speak Danish?”
“This week,” Jon said, with a scoffing laugh, before Dai could answer.
“We have a live one here, don’t we, men?” Gren now held a sword in each hand. At first, he appeared to weigh them, one after another, and then he started doing two-handed moves that Dai could only aspire to. Dai’s sword was in Gren’s left hand, and he could see by the way it flashed and moved that it was indeed the better balanced of the two.
In order to work with the swords, Gren had moved twenty feet away from his workshop into a more central position in the palace yard. Others who were about stopped to watch him work through the moves, some of which Dai recognized from his own training.
After working up a sweat, Gren came back to where Dai stood. Flipping Dai’s sword around, he returned it to him, hilt out. “Take care of that.”
“I will.” Dai took back his sword and slid it into its sheath.
“This one,” Gren held up Harald’s weapon, “was made by a swordsmith, but not an expert one. Regardless, the balance is off, and the hilt is coming loose from the blade. It has not been cared for, either. With oil and sharpening, it could be a useful tool. As it is—” he made a pfft sound with his lips, “—I would not take it into battle.”
“Do you have any idea as to who might have made it? Or barring that, where he could have acquired it?” Jon asked. “You are the only swordsmith I know in Dublin.”
“I am the most skilled, certainly.” Gren didn’t give the impression of being immodest. He was merely stating a fact. “I would ask Vigo, down by the dock gate.”
Jon’s expression darkened. “He is not a good man.”
Gren barked a laugh. “He is not, but he is an accomplished trader, and he deals in weapons. They are not usually of the first quality, which is why we don’t work with him here, even when I am overbusy. If he didn’t supply this sword, he is your best bet for finding out who did.”
