Gonnes of navarre, p.7
Gonnes Of Navarre, page 7
“Tch. I may have never met the man, but I have known my share of knights. No one is ever that good.” No sooner were the words out of her mouth than a dull ache began to gnaw at her belly as the memory of Ain rose unbidden to mind, and she tightened her hands on the arms of her chair. One, perhaps, was nearly so, but even he fell short.
Kilianus shrugged, showing no sign of noticing her sudden distress, and Elsabeth forced the unwelcome thoughts back down into the dark recesses whence they came.
“Believe the tale or not as you like,” he said, “but I have seen enough of the man to have no reason to doubt it.”
Elsabeth grunted, and folded her arms and crossed her legs in a huff. “Well, then this affair just became a great deal more difficult.”
“Then I suggest retiring for the night and starting afresh tomorrow. Perhaps once you have had a look at things for yourself we can come up with something better.”
7
Mille d’Alle peered through the magnifying glass suspended over his workbench. He bent low and hunched his shoulders. His back ached and his fingers cramped from his long hours at work. He strained his eyes under the lamps filling his workshop with a dim golden light, and at times his vision faded until he blinked the haze away. He delicately turned the lockplate in his hands. A wheel was fixed to the plate by means of a metal shaft, with a squared nut on the outside of the plate and an eccentric forged onto the inside. V-shaped grooves with transverse cuts at regular intervals were struck into the rim of the wheel.
He slowly rotated the wheel on its shaft and satisfied himself it turned freely and without catching despite the tight tolerances within the mechanism. He then fit a short length of fine chain to the eccentric, and connected the other end to the tip of the main V-spring secured to the plate by a bracket at one end. He attached another metal bracket to the inside of the lockplate to secure the wheel in place and obscure the chain from view. Next came the main sear, fitted onto a post riveted to the inside of the plate, with a secondary sear fixed to the trigger itself.
D’Alle took a spanner, placed it against the nut on the outside of the lockplate, and as he turned it the wheel rotated until the end of the main sear fell into a blind hole in the inner face of the wheel, locking it in place with a sharp click. The chain fixed to the eccentric wrapped partly round the shaft and put the main spring under tension. He pulled the trigger, and with another satisfying click the secondary sear released, the main sear then pivoted in turn releasing the wheel, and the mainspring snapped back into its rest position, rotating the wheel quite forcefully on the shaft. The entire process unfolded within less than the blink of an eye.
A knock at the door interrupted him before d’Alle could begin assembling the dog and its mechanism. He heaved a sigh, carefully placed the incomplete lock on his workbench, and sat back in his chair. It creaked under the shifting of his weight — or perhaps it was the creaking of his own tired bones and joints — and he mopped his face with both hands, heedless of the oil and grime coating his fingers.
“Yes, yes, come in!” he grumbled, injecting just enough irritation at the interruption into his voice that he hoped the intruder would have second thoughts.
There was, of course, to be no such luck. The door swung open, and in stomped the visitor he was most disinterested in seeing.
Le Chevalier Robin de Sens, Marechal de Carcassonne, was not the most handsome of men — though not, if the gossip of the rare maid sent down to service his quarters in the bowels of the castle was anything to judge by, altogether displeasing to the eye. He was certainly tall and strongly built, as one would expect of a man of his profession. He kept his dark hair cropped short, and his features were clean-shaven. These, however, were of decidedly odd proportion; a mouth slightly too big, a nose too small, and eyes set too far apart for their size. Still, they were symmetrical, and had done him no ill favor in the pursuit of his wife, by all accounts a rare beauty even if she was seldom seen in Carcassonne.
De Sens dressed, as was his wont, in a light brigandine beneath a tabard emblazoned with his arms — Quarterly 1st and 4th chequy Argent and Vert; Quarterly 2nd and 3rd Argent, overall a hawk recursant Sable — but no other armor. He did, however, wear his sword at his side, in a scabbard covered in green leather and decorated with silver inlay in a floral motif interspersed with hawks with their wings outstretched. A green cloak wrapped around his shoulders and warded off the chill of the castle’s lower levels that D’Alle had largely forgotten while engrossed in his work. Now that his attention was forcibly diverted back to the practical world, he shivered in his thin shirt and doublet at the reminder. He made no move to stand as would ordinarily be expected upon the entry of a man of de Sens’s station.
With him came two armed guards bearing halberds, who took up flanking positions inside the door while de Sens was within. D’Alle idly wondered just who, precisely, they were protecting; de Sens, or himself and his work.
“Good evening, Master d’Alle,” de Sens said pleasantly upon entering, and swept his widely spaced eyes across the dim interior of the workshop. D’Alle had neglected to light more lamps than he needed at his desk, and the fire on the hearth had long since burned out. “How might I ask goes your work today?”
D'Alle folded his arms across his chest. “’Twas going much better before the interruption, Monsieur. Do you know how much time it takes to make every adjustment and have each piece in order?”
“I never do, but I suspect you shall soon be reminding me again. And certainly longer than if you were to use the apprentices Monsieur de Carcassonne has provided.”
“Feh!” d’Alle let the grunt of dismissal hang in the air between them, and snatched a soiled and greasy scrap of cloth from the table. He uselessly mopped his hands with it; the cloth was already so saturated with grease and grime it was of little help any longer for cleaning. “I would hardly call them apprentices! They are barely fit for stoking a smith’s furnace, much less the delicate work that needs doing here.”
He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. De Sens slipped his thumbs through his belt, and patiently awaited the rant to come. And it came like clockwork.
“Do you know just how much work must go into each lock? Each piece carefully fitted — by hand, no less! — with little tolerance for being even the slightest fraction of an inch out of adjustment! Too much oil and it will collect the dust of this cave—” he waved a hand around his workshop “—and gum up the entire works! Too little and it mayn’t function at all. If the links of the chain are not fitted properly ’twill be too long, or too short, and the wheel mayn’t turn when the trigger is released. A spring not fitted exactly so and it mayn’t come under tension when the wheel is turned!
“This is master’s work, and as I am the only master, ’tis me and me alone to assemble everything!”
De Sens heaved a patient sigh and weathered the assault as he always did. Just once d’Alle would have liked to see the man lose his temper, but he remained frustratingly stoic.
“I understand the difficulties you are facing, Master,” the Marshall said. “But what you are crafting here is quite far beyond the experience of any other craftsman Monsieur le Comte can muster. Especially as you decline to explain the particulars of your design.”
D'Alle grunted. The chair let out a squeak of protest as he eased himself to his feet, and he stretched out his lower back. Just how long, precisely, had he been sitting?
“They would not understand it, anyway. ’Tis hard enough explaining to the smith how to craft the parts I need. And as you said: ’tis my design. Mine. I devised it, and I shan’t let some half-witted court artificer profit from my work! Certainly not for the pittance Monsieur le Comte has seen fit to pay me.”
De Sens looked to the guards standing beside the door and gave a subtle wag of his head. The door creaked on its hinges, and the two men filed out of the room before shutting it behind them, leaving them alone. D’Alle feared nothing untoward by the dismissal of the guard; he had no written plans for his masterwork, after all.
“I thought the terms Monsieur le Comte offered were more than generous.” Secure or not in his position, d’Alle did not miss the warning edge in the other’s voice.
“If it were just for an example or two, made in my own time, perhaps. But this demonstration Monsieur le Comte insists upon ...” he sighed and raked his hands back through his thinning white hair, now stained grayish-black from the grime and oil covering his hands. “Two weeks is not nearly long enough. I still don’t have the barrels back milled from the smith, or the stocks from the woodworkers. ’Twill certainly not be time enough to make sure everything is fitted well. If any part is too loose the gonne may not set right. Too tight and it shan’t fit together at all. These are precision instruments, not crude munitions.”
“You promised Monsieur le Comte your gonnes would be ready.”
D’Alle glowered at the other and planted his hands on his hips. His heavy leather apron was perhaps no match for de Sens’s brigandine, but the Marshall now stood in his battlefield, and D’Alle bore it as proudly as any man-at-arms. “I promised no such thing! The first gonne worked, but there is always room for improvement. I merely told him given the proper resources I could make the next one better, I never told him when. ’Twas Monsieur le Comte who set the time, not I.”
“And you agreed to it,” de Sens said pointedly. His armor rattled as he folded his arms across his broad chest and glared him down. D’Alle waved a hand dismissively.
“I could never resist a challenge, foolish though it was to accept. And that was when it was just one improved gonne. Now he wants four. And he wants a public demonstration on top of it all! Two weeks is not even time to properly train a handgonner in its use. And I suppose now I shall have to do the demonstration myself, even though I could never shoot straight.”
“Master,” the other said, and his voice softened in a most conciliatory manner, “Monsieur le Comte places high expectations only because he trusts that they can be met. You should consider it a compliment he holds you in such regard.”
D’Alle grunted again. “Monsieur le Comte is better with the flattery, Monsieur, I suggest you leave it to him.”
“All right, but let me tell you this; I have already spoken to Monsieur le Comte, and he has agreed that should the gonnes be ready in time, and performed as you have promised, there shall be a bonus in your pay. An extra five livres for each.”
He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ll do my best to have them finished in time.”
“Thank you, Master, and if there is anything Monsieur le Comte can offer to help speed your work...?”
D’Alle rounded on him. “Yes! Fewer interruptions to start with! And light a fire under the smith’s arse to have the barrels ready. And if fire alone is not enough for him to jump to it, sit him on his forge if you must. I need the barrels forged and the rifling cut so I can start putting them all together. I would like at least a couple days to test fire each gonne before the demonstration.”
De Sens inclined his head. “I shall see what I can do, but bear in mind the smith has other responsibilities beyond this project; horses must be shod, and swords must be forged. Monsieur le Comte sees a certain potential in your work, but I still don’t see these contraptions as any more than a passing fancy.”
He offered de Sens a wicked little grin. “’Tis just what they said about the mechanical clock. I suspect ere long the chevalier shall go the way of candle clocks, and with my gonne ’twill be sooner than later.”
8
Elsabeth’s back ached. Her shoulders burned. Her fingers cramped. And no matter how hard she scrubbed, a particularly stubborn stain in the linen bunched in her hands would simply not come clean.
Today was the fourth day of what had become a daily routine: In the morning, she and Kilianus made their way to the castle for work. While Kilianus busied himself repairing railings, or floorboards, or installing a new wooden mantle on one of the many fireplaces warming and lighting the keep, Elsabeth found herself assigned as a laundry maid.
The laundry was a large building on the northern end of the castle bailey, opposite the gates leading back into the City. An open hearth dominated the middle of the floor, where water could be heated for washing (along with providing a respite from the winter chill). The whole place smelled of ash and lye, and Elsabeth’s nose wrinkled at the overpowering odor of ammonia from the pots of urine collected from around the castle for cleaning. Finished garments hung on lines out of the way to dry, and there were flat wooden wash boards where dirt could be beaten out with washing beetles.
And of course, there were the mountains of linens, bedding, underthings, and overclothes gathered from the apparently bottomless closets and wardrobes for washing.
There were three other laundry maids on the staff, though only one was in the laundry with her that morning. She was a short and squat woman a few years Elsabeth’s elder named Rapine, and the most senior (having boasted of coming on to the staff some ten years prior and working her way up to the laundry). With it came a smug superiority in her eye as she handed out the most arduous tasks. Unfortunately, spending all her time shut away in the laundry up to her elbows in piss and lye gave Elsabeth little opportunity to learn anything beyond the consistency of the castle diet, and how it interacted with the residents’ braies.
The things I am doing for a thousand pfunde.
Elsabeth mopped her eyes with the shoulder of her dress in a vain effort to brush away the stray hairs that worked out from beneath her cap under the furious effort of scrubbing. Her sleeves were rolled up past her elbows to keep them out of the brew while she rubbed and twisted the garment in her cramping hands. She lifted it out of the tub and held it out for inspection. It was a curious contraption consisting of two soft linen pouches attached to a band that laced up the back, with narrow shoulder straps supporting the entire garment. The whole was then decorated with sprang and lace trim. Its purpose was, of course, quite obvious once she sussed out how it was worn, though Elsabeth could not recall having seen such a thing in her mother’s or sisters’ linens, or even in Boehm.
I suppose it must be a Navarese invention, then. Seems quite the useful way to avoid too much bounce and jostle. ’Tis much more supporting than a chemise, without mashing things together like binding. I really ought to have one for beneath my doublet.
Unfortunately, the faint pink stain — wine that soaked through after a spill, she suspected — running down one cup stubbornly remained.
Elsabeth heaved a sigh and thrust the garment back into the tub in frustration.
The sudden splash drew the attention of her companion, who set aside her own scrubbing with an exaggerated roll of her eyes, wiped her hands on the apron tied about her waist, and stumped towards her.
“What is it now?” Rapine said, making no effort to disguise her impatience.
Elsabeth lifted the garment from the tub again and turned it to present the wine stain for inspection.
“I have been at it for a good half hour now, and it simply won’t come out!” Elsabeth replied, injecting a measure of helpless frustration into her voice that was only partly feigned.
“Let me have a look.” The woman snatched the offending thing from her hand with no great delicacy, and flattened it out for a better look. She clicked her tongue in annoyance. “Oh! You daft girl! Four days on and have you not learned a thing yet? For this you need to soak fuller’s earth in lye, apply it to the stain, and let the whole thing dry before trying to rub out! And use the feathers, ’twill be easier on the linen than those clumsy hands of yours!”
Rapine roughly shoved the garment back into her hands, hard enough that Elsabeth stumbled back a pace. The woman planted her hands on her hips, and slate eyes peered down her nose at her (which was quite a feat, considering Elsabeth all but towered over her).
“I swear to the Lord of All I don’t know why they saw fit to send you here, as I can’t imagine you being of any better use in the scullery! Earned it on your back, I wager. Or maybe while Mademoiselle Oudine was on hers from what I hear. Why your husband puts up with you I can’t imagine.”
Elsabeth clenched her teeth in a valiant effort to restrain herself from dunking the woman’s head into the nearest urine pot. “I assure you I manage quite well enough at home, but ’tis the first time I have seen something as delicate as this—” she hefted the garment “—much less tried to clean one.”
“Hmph. Well, you must be some rabble from the countryside, then, because all the fine ladies and even some of the well-off women of town have them to hold up their bosom. So you best learn and learn quick, because if ’tis not cleaned good and proper or if ’tis damaged, well ’tis worth more than your useless hide.”
And with that, she turned and stomped off again.
Elsabeth watched her go for a moment, and if her eyes were a rondel she would have stabbed the woman four times over. She forced her musings over how much lye it would take to dispose of the corpse from her mind with an irritated huff, then went off in search of fuller’s earth while mentally gauging the fit of the garment.
Kilianus hid his laughter behind his hand as best he could, but the effort quickly proved fruitless, and he buried his face in the crook of his arm while he supported himself against the mantle.
Elsabeth’s face heated, and she crossly watched his whole body shake from her perch on the couch fronting the fireplace. She folded her arms and crossed her legs in a huff, but neither posture nor glare made much impression on him, and for several long moments she endured the guffaws.
