Swords of El Cid: “Rodrigo! May God curse him!”

damages.

Swords of El Cid

Rodrigo! May God curse him!

"In Islam, my men tell me, one can pray for God to curse someone. This is done with the Arabic word ‘La’nat’ meaning deprivation and can be used in expressions such as ‘La’anatullah’;

May he be deprived of God’s blessings.

So, the curse is not to be understood as gaining evil, rather of losing the blessings of God. The Shi’a Muslims generally believe in cursing as a part of Tabarra, one of the branches of their Religion.

They argue that rather than a curse it is a prayer.

God is entitled accept or reject the prayer and abstain from invoking the deprivation. Cursing is a ‘Sunnah’ established by God himself in the Quran in various verses and they quote the Quranic verses where Jesus and other prophets curse those who reject them."

The fight at the Bodega

The ebony rod parted his balls nicely and he dropped to his knees with a grunt of foul, cheap wine sodden breath, He appeared to bow respectfully from the blow, so I followed with a swift benediction to the back of his head, with the heavy silver pommel of the walking stick. No doubt it left my seal of the Dragon embossed in a fine bruise, it certainly knocked him senseless.

However, his downfall only gave courage to his fellow sailors. Most of the others got to their feet, only one remaining seated. The next man made a mad rush, snarling in some Basque accent but a quick wrist flick ensured the steel tipped stick, took him in the eye socket. Not hard enough to blind, but certainly hard enough to drop him to his knees with both hands cupping his socket as if he knelt in prayer beseeching forgiveness.

I still remained seated on the Bodega bench because my old leg wound was painful and my head ached from too much sherry. I would be a little unsteady on my feet and it is not fitting for a man close to sixty years old to be dancing around in combat, as perhaps I would have done forty years ago.

The other two men now standing stopped abruptly at the sight of their fallen comrades. I inclined my head contemptuously, a big man perhaps in his fortieth year advanced a little more cautiously.

He cursed me to hell and back, but I was already there and simply smiled at his rant and took a swig of the fine Jerez sherry. My curse is a cool, hard temper and the Viking blood cursing through my veins. I kissed Algol and the ruby glowed a little brighter in that dark blood red dome; then whispered to myself our old battle cry ‘Santiago y cierra España’; ‘St James and strike for Spain’.

Before I had finished he picked up a slender oak candlestick holder that stood in his way, almost shoulder high, slapping the candle to the floor with the back of his large hand and splattering hot wax over his huge forearm without regard. Our surroundings were now a little darker; he thought to counter me with this makeshift weapon.

I was leaning slightly forward with two hands on my walking stick pommel. My left hand ached a little from the ‘contraction’ a present from the seed of my pagan forefathers. I glanced again at the ruby ring ‘Algol’ on the little finger of my slightly curled left hand. Perhaps it was the extinguished candle, but it seemed to glow a deeper red, as if about to enjoy a familiar pleasure. Watching his progress with a curious and amused expression just seemed to further enrage the man. Snarling another Christian curse he drew the long turned wooden shaft over his shoulder for an arcing diagonal strike with the heavy wooden base. No doubt hoping to smash me into the oak bench I was still sat upon.

I was very familiar with my weapon, yet his was new to him. The candlestick reached close to its apex, the man grunted in effort, it was about ready to descend, but to the man’s dismay he had not taken into account his surroundings, the base of the candle holder snagged on the low ceiling beam above his head. It gave me more than enough time to deliver another easy wrist flick that smashed his nose on the black ebony shaft. The strike closed his eyes and blood gushed from his nose. Before the sticky torrent had reached his chin, my stick slammed into the side of his knee and his whole body buckled under the blow. As often happens in battle, a little fortune and humour came my way. As the man’s body hit the floor the snagged candle stick holder parted from the ceiling beam and dropped with a resounding thump onto his head.

The fourth man looked back to the seated man who shook his head vigorously and looked decidedly uncomfortable. I took it that he was advising against further action. This silent advice appeared to be ignored as the wiry smaller man lifted his hauberk, producing a nasty looking poniard, about two feet long. I also decided to shake my head at the man, but he was set on a course, all sheets to the wind, two lots of head shaking had only put more breeze in his sails. I will give them their due - they were persistent.

It is strange that when danger arises time seems to flow slowly. Thus I had plenty of time to think back to the past and consider many things before this jackanapes advanced.

I have been familiar with steel from my earliest days and a poniard can be a deadly weapon in close quarter combat. The long dagger type blade is neither knife nor sword, a sort of ‘in-between’ stabbing weapon.

Valencia is full of thieves, vagabonds and louts, such as these men. The siege had created unspeakable depravations. It is foolish to go unarmed, especially for a rich man such as myself.

One of my very good friends is a sword smith from Toledo and he made this stick of mine as a very lucrative commission. The finest black ebony wood from Africa, embellished with a sculpted heavy solid silver pommel, embossed with the Dragon symbol, a nod to my ancestors. A band of gold, a palms depth down from the pommel with one of the Masters sayings (God rest his soul), stolen from the Romans, engraved around the band; ‘carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero’.

I loved the translation he offered when he first used the phrase in an orchard feeding apples to Babieca;

Pluck the day, trusting as little as possible in the future.

The tip on the other end of the stick was forged from solid steel for balance and durability. On the hard cobbled streets it had its own hard, solid click as it struck the stone. Its secret was a long and flexible Toledo pattern steel welded blade, of square section, drawn out to fill the rest of the stick with a long and fine point, more than a match for a poor seaman’s poniard. Perhaps my investment in good steel will pay off this night?

But time, even running slowly, demands my attention.

I twisted the handle, the blade sound was of tempered steel as it sprang from its scabbard, bending and vibrating in the air as I presented it with flair. Toledo smiths made the finest steel in the world. Six bands of metal, two of them the famed Damascus, hammer welded and drawn out into a slither of sprung steel no thicker than a man’s little finger and narrowing to a needle sharp point. There are few such blades in existence and none; I like to think, with this quality of steel.

Presenting such a weapon would have made many men think twice, but jackanapes was undaunted. He rounded his fallen comrades and advanced from the side, as his path was blocked with bodies, one still moaning piteously.

I simply swivelled my arse on the bench top, to face him and lowered the point of ‘carpe’, I liked the name ‘pluck’, it suited the weapon well and every good sword stick deserves a good name. I considered for a moment what fruit it would ‘pluck’ from jackanapes.

The man took a stance, scribing meaningless patterns with the point of his poniard in the air an arm’s length from my nose. His gestures simply showed his inexperience with a blade.

I held a bored expression on my face and just waited for his lunge, knowing with some regret that I would have to lift my arse from this comfortable spot and demand some action from my stiff right leg.

He lunged, I countered, and I lunged, springing well for a man of my many years. The fruit I picked was hit with the precision I enjoy. For another fleeting moment I was back as a young man practicing at ‘the ring’ with Rodrigo the Master.

Jackanapes being a seaman, I decided it would be appropriate to give him a new piercing for his left ear, so skewered the man’s ear lobe to the Bodega’s oak support beam. If I had sent the point a hands breath lower, I could have easily severed the main artery from his skull, but I have killed too many men and have vowed to kill no more, that is of course unless I have no choice.

He screamed but there was no blood as the blade had made a firm impact with the wood and sealed the wound in one smooth action. I found it hard to withdraw the blade so left it hanging there quivering, the handle scribing a slow ellipse in the air. I smacked the man on the head with the heavy scabbard for good measure, to signal an end to the combat.

It did not render him unconscious, so he leant against the oak post in some pain, holding his head and trying unsuccessfully to extricate his ear.

I looked to the seated man with a questioning stare but he simply exclaimed;

Bravo! May I have the honour to buy you a drink?

"And with whom do I have the pleasure?

May I first apologize for my, er... associates. I had hoped to do some business with these four ruffians, Basque seamen, with good cider to trade. Our bargaining was not going well and I tried to change the subject to give them a little space to reconsider their outrageous prices. I am afraid it was I who brought up the Cid, God rest his soul - as a distraction. The Basques have been too long at sea and are known for their fierce drinking and hot temper. Perhaps my refusal to meet their price was part of their anger. Their boasting of the Cid seemed to irk you somewhat?

Before I could answer him, the bartender who had rushed out at the first sign of trouble, returned with the huge African, ‘Akebo’ who was brandishing a Knobkerrie. Akebo took a quick look around at the four seamen littering the floor and placed his Knobkerrie, a knobbly piece of glistening black African hardwood, on the bar. Took a look at me and smiled, flashing a set of white teeth that shone in the dark Bodega. He grabbed one of the seamen by the huge leather belt that surrounded his gut, hefted him off the floor in his left hand, looked around to find another victim of a similar weight and grabbed him in his other hand, to gain some balance on his human load. He took them both out onto the street as if he was carrying no more than a sack of grain in each hand. He took no care with his load, shoulders and skulls banged off tables, beams and door casings as he left. When he returned he took hold of my sword stick handle and pulled it from the beam as if it was no more than a tooth pick, allowing the skewered man to escape. He presented the sword stick; handle first to me with a flourish, another huge smile and a deep bow.

Signor Norse, I believe this is yours?

I returned his bow with a nod of my head I flipped a small silver coin in the air and he caught it with a skill few men possess.

He then turned and grabbed the other two by the scruff of the neck and dispatched them through the door with a kick up the arse for good measure.

I turned back to the seated man and took a moment to seat Carpe in its ebony sheath while assessing the seated man. He had the look of a Valencia merchant by his clothing, an educated and elite man by the manner of his speech. He spoke again before I could answer his last question.

Bartender! Another two horns of your finest Jerez Sherry, all the way from Cadiz. Use the amphora I sold you today, we will try the ‘Fino’ next. The amontillado was entertaining. Oh! I am sorry; I presume too much, would you prefer Oloroso or Dulce? I have sold this bodega all the famous sherries of the Palomino grape.

I had purged my anger on the unfortunate seamen, saw no threat from the seated man; my headache had abated and I felt a little more social, so I joined him. I grunted as I sat down as I have often done these past few years and no doubt I will grunt again when I rise.

I will try your suggestion, the Fino sounds good. My name is Signor Norse and to answer your previous question, I do not take kindly to outrageous rumours about my Master.

"Ah! The incredible story of the Cid, I take it you objected to the seamen’s version? Quite a story!

Forgive me; my name is Don Amadis Álvarez. I am a merchant and I buy and sell liquor of various sorts and I frequent places such as this to ply my trade. The seamen were trying to sell me three score amphora of cider from the monastery of St. Sebastián in the Basque country from its fine apple orchards. I think they had been sampling too much of their own cargo."

This sparked an old memory in me,

I know the area. I am from Castile myself. I had heard their Navarre accent. The port of San Sebastián is east down the coast from where I lived as a boy, a day or two’s ride.

Nevertheless, my new friend, I will stick with the fine Jerez Sherries and wines in my future trades, I can do without cider. Basque sea men are too rich for my blood. Tell me, why did you interrupt the sea man’s tale of the Cid?

I only tried to correct the truth of the matter, that crazy story he was telling about the Cid.

"But my new friend, I have heard that legend many times in the city. The sea man never even got to finish his version of the story, before you told him it was untrue. I grant you it was a mistake for the man to call you a liar at that point, but you seemed to have chastised him and his companions most justly for the insult. If it will not offend you, may I relate the story I have been told, I have a fondness for a good story. Then please tell me the truth of it. This is what I have heard from many people:

Shortly before he died from his unlucky arrow wound, El Cid allegedly had a dream and saw a vision of St. Peter. The Saint told him that he should gain a huge victory after his death over the Saracens, the North African Moors they call the Almoravids. So El Cid gave orders that his body should be embalmed after his death. It was so well preserved that it seemed alive.

Then his attendants armed him in a coat of mail and mounted him upon his war horse Babieca, he was securely fastened into the saddle, to bolster the morale of his troops.

At midnight he was borne out of the gate of Valencia accompanied by his close retainers and a thousand brave and valiant Knights. They all silently approached a spot where the Moorish Emir, with thirty-six chieftains, lay encamped, and at first light made a bold and sudden attack. The Moors awoke to confusion. It must have seemed to them that there were as many as seventy thousand Knights, all dressed in robes of pure white. As white as snow and at their head was El Cid, a Knight, taller than all the rest, with a fair and magnificently long beard. He held in his left hand a snow-white banner, a pennant representing conquest and in the other a fiercesome sword, a burning stick, the legendary La Tizona. So afraid were the Moorish chieftain and his men that they fled to the sea, and twenty thousand of them were drowned, as they tried to reach their ships.

El Cid even in death has scared them away forever!

For the sake of Santiago, is this story true or not?

"Bah! Why are we about to be surrounded by Moors again, why are good Christian men skulking in this secret Bodega? Why risk our future for the pleasure, because they will surely come again? And why would I be taking out my righteous anger on four unlucky sea men trying to smuggle in some cider and no doubt charging you a goodly sum for the effort?

Don Amadis Álvarez, that short story is only a very small part of the truth. I was only trying to correct the point about the Moors, and scaring them away forever. No one likes to be called a liar. The fine sherry had made me bold. It is perhaps unseemly for a man of my age to be fighting in alehouses."

Please Signor Norse, call me Álvar.

My God! That name brings back some memories, not all of them pleasant. But I shall do as you ask, Don Álvar.

May I ask; how do you know the whole truth of the matter? What is the real and full story of the Cid?

Now that would take me forty years or more and the story would be perhaps more surprising than the shortened falsehoods and rumours that have been circulating.

Signor Norse, the evening is young, the Jerez is particularly good. Valencia is full of many different races and cultures but I can see from your size and fair coiffure that you do not belong to the indigenous peoples or at least your ancestors did not? I know you can fight. I believe you have a story to tell. Please indulge me in the best parts of that story. I have all evening, but I fear I cannot manage forty years.

I smiled at that, the man had a sense of humour. Don Álvar had lightened my mood, the sherry had loosened my tongue and perhaps it was time I told the story. I have held this burden much too long, someone should know of my beautiful Babieca, the swords of the Cid and the many battles we fought. I do not believe in miracles but it is a miracle that I am here to tell any story.

So be it Don Álvar, stop me when you tire of it.

1047 My early life

"I was born in the year of our Lord 1047. Castile was my birthplace, the land of castles on the northern coast of Spain. My mother was a sad, lonely woman and vilified in my homeland. Our relationship was never good. Nor was I ever accepted in the community of Royal Sword smiths, the Royal armourers, who ran the seaside village and compound that contained the industry of weapon making for the Christian Kings of Leon.

I was called Cabrón by the villagers and the children.

I did not find out what that meant until I was seven years old. No one likes to be called a bastard and it cannot be easy for a mother to have a son, with that insult following him and her around. It was the local gossip that my mother had been raped by a Pagan. A wild Norseman from a tribe they called Vikings who came by Dragon Ships to raid our coastline, to steal, plunder and take slaves."

Don Álvar broke Norse’s story for a moment;

Signor Norse, I have heard of these men ‘the Vikings’ I have even traded with them on the Frankish coast. I bought many skins of mead, a wonderful sweet honeyed drink and some fierce fire water they brew and distil. They are a ferocious tribe much tougher even than the Basques. I have heard of their reputation, but please continue...

"Yes their reputation.... it is a wonder what to believe! The other boys had made wild stories up about the raid. The Vikings had many ships, hundreds of warriors; they had moored out of sight behind the Isla Santa Maria and spies had come ashore and poisoned the village food.

The boys claimed the Vikings were huge savage beasts and had come to rape the women, steal our swords and weapons, kill our leader and eat young children.

It was hard to stomach that my mother had been raped by a filthy Pagan Wildman. At first I could not believe it, but I had no father and no relatives. My mother’s side had disowned her; my father’s side was obviously missing. I had blond hair and blue eyes which was unheard of locally. I was also much bigger than the other boys of the village. It made me stand out for ridicule.

I had many fights throughout my early years. My sixth year stopped much of the bullying as I was now much bigger than the other boys and had a fierce temper. This was not my natural demeanour but a learned response. I could turn on and off the wild anger at any time. But I confess, I used this facility many times to my advantage.

Soon after my seventh birthday my nickname changed from ‘Cabrón’ to ‘Norse’ and I hated this new insult. My displeasure was shown to all who used the term. This only helped to make the name stick. No amount of me handing out punishment beatings stopped the other boys. They delighted in my pain and frustration.

In the end the only way to stop my frustration was to accept the name and laugh at the insult. I found out later from the local priest, (after he had crossed himself and recited three hail Marys) that it meant ‘a man of the north’ albeit a pagan man of the North. This was better than ‘bastard’ and this realization stopped my unhappiness. The name stuck. I liked it better, eventually, than my given name of Abran Acosta, the name in Spanish means; Father of a mighty nation who lives by the sea. This gave me some amusement and a little aspiration. I now only use this name on legal documents or when I wish to remain anonymous.

Signor Norse, if your father was a pagan plunderer what was your mother like?

My mother was a staunch Christian, so God rest her soul. She ended her life in that year a few months after my seventh birthday. The poor woman was unable to endure the ridicule and the pain of being ostracized. Unknown to anyone, not that anyone cared, she had found some of the white power the pagans had used to poison the food. She was a pastry cook and while working in the kitchens she found a leather pouch of pagan manufacture behind the flour tub. It was branded with strange runic lettering she could not decipher and contained the mysterious poison from all those years ago. In small measure it made you sick, but a larger dose was fatal.

May God absolve me of all sin, but I cannot say I loved her, nor that I missed her, poor woman.

Are you a God fearing man, Signor Norse? It interests me with a pagan father and a Christian mother, what are your beliefs?

"Forgive me. Ironically, I often invoke His name, without any belief in Him, His son or His works. Nor do I believe in the Prophet or His book. It would seem both faiths believe in the same God but have no problem killing and torturing each other. I call on God often, in my mind, in a sort of satirical way. My countrymen seem to like it, as many are complete and utter believers. My godly expressions make them think I am a believer and therefore made my difficult earlier life a little easier, in this God obsessed world. I have no problem being a hypocrite and find it mildly amusing. I even admire others belief.

It is strange; Don Álvar, but I have never told that to anyone.

Perhaps this is further confirmation of the stories; my forefathers have left their mark. Even my belief system is tainted by their Pagan seed; or should I say lack of belief, at least in religion. I believe in the beauty of Mother Nature and the wonders of the night sky. I believe in the strength of good steel and a fast horse. Perhaps I can even believe in a higher power, but if God does exist he is a cruel bastard, who takes great pleasure in pain and suffering. This is not to say I have no moral compass or that I lack spirituality. I believe in good and evil, right and wrong. I like most people. I will fight for a good cause and follow a righteous campaign. Even though many battles in this land are based on some muddle headed religious belief, it does seems to give others great strength. None more than a boy I was about to meet."

I take it you mean the Cid?

"Yes but I will come to that. There is a little more to tell of my early life that will perhaps help explain my feelings and the flow of later events.

At that young age I have scant good memories but many more painful ones. I could not know it at the time, but in the years that followed I would have every opportunity to vent that lack of love and pent up anger.

The weapons manufacture of the village always fascinated me, especially the beautiful swords the Royal smiths made. The village was famous for its blades and they supplied the various Kings and Emirs of the land. We called the Moorish leaders ‘Emir’ to distinguish them from the Christian Kings, but they were Kings none the less.

Even at five or six years old I was helping fetch and carry or doing odd little jobs for the Smiths. They at least were too busy to taunt me and it is strange how much, from that tender age, can stick in a man’s memory. My love of weapons, swords in particular, never left me.

I still remember the smell of the forge fire and the heat of the furnaces, the great clanging of hammers and the showers of sparks.

Although as a young child I was always told to keep well back from the work, the images, smells and sounds will always be branded on my soul. Even today when I smell charcoal, hear the clang of a hammer on steel, or see a fierce fire I am immediately back in that working forge.

One of the villages best Sword Smiths ‘Araya’ took me under his wing for a few months and often shared his bread, olives and cheese with me. It was at the time, the closest I came to a feeling of love and I think the man was very fond of me. I never wanted to go home and would stay helping the Smiths until they left for home.

Araya would always walk me home and it helped keep the bullying at bay. No one confronted Araya; his forearms were as thick as a tortured tree trunk, branded with iron burns. His fingers would have made four of mine; his hands were like malt shovels and smelt of iron and charcoal. He wore a worn leather apron and always smelt of leather, fire and good honest labour. He was short, stocky and dark haired. We must have seemed a mismatched pair as we walked home after work. Araya had a tough looking face and a hard expression, but he was the kindest most loving man I ever met. I loved him from the first week we met. He was the only person, man or woman who had treated me kindly or shown me any attention or affection. It is a great regret of my life I never told him so. It says much of the man that when he heard of my mother’s death and the lack of the next of kin, he took me to the priest and made a large donation to the Church. This helped him acquire the necessary legal papers to make me his foster son and take me under his apprenticeship. He also took me into his household and for the first time in my short life I understood what a family was.

I decided the future man ‘Signor Norse’ would be as wild and fearsome as his Pagan ancestors and as hard and unrelenting as the Royal smith’s steel that Araya pounded, but thanks to him I kept a little mercy, love and humanity."

I can see from your sword stick weapon that you are a man who likes good steel. Do continue you have me at your mercy.

"I worked with Araya until I was about ten years old and by that time I understood iron and steel and the workings of a forge. Araya had noticed my love of animals and sent me to work with the local farrier to gain some other experience and to work with horses I loved the horses and was good with them. The farrier, like the rest of the village treated me badly. I found out later that the Norsemen had taken his only daughter Bella as a thrall or slave. To me it seemed he was taking his anger and loss out on my hide as he often kicked and slapped me around at the slightest error. I kept quiet about this; I knew Araya would punish the farrier if he found out.

I wanted to keep this job and stay working with horses.

1056 The King of Leon

Then one day a couple of years later, my life changed. Knights in armour, vassals of the King of Leon, El Magno we all called ‘the Great’ Ferdinand the First, arrived at the village asking for Araya the Smith, my adopted sword smith father. I was with him at the time they arrived. I will always remember the splendour of the Knights’ attire; the beautifully crafted armour, helmets, chain mail and colourful pennants with their sigils showing griffins, saints and all manner of fierce birds and animals. I was almost rooted to the spot at the sight of their war horses. Huge and magnificent beasts far bigger than the horses I had been used to. They seemed like Gods of the horse world, bigger and stronger than anything I had experienced before. Huge decorated saddles with strong leather straps. They were draped in the Knight’s livery and had various pieces of shining armour fastened to their bodies. Men seemed puny next to them so you can perhaps imagine the effect on a young boy. I was smitten.

Is that when you first met the Cid?

"No, but the event will explain how I did come to meet him.

Let me first explain about the King. In the year of our Lord 1037 six or seven years before Rodrigo was born, Ferdinand slew Bermudo, the reigning King of Leon in battle conquering his kingdom. This Bermudo was the brother of Ferdinand’s wife. By this act he was the first person to unite the states of Castile and Leon and the first to be called King of Castile. Until this time the lords of that country had been called Counts.

Ferdinand was a good king, one who judged justly and feared God, he was bold in all his doings. Before he reigned, he sired by Doña Sancha his wife the Princess Doña Urraca, his eldest daughter, then Prince Don Sancho, his eldest son and heir. His next daughter was Princes Doña Elvira, who later married the Count Don Garcia de Cabra.

After he became King he sired the Prince Don Alfonso and the Prince Don Garcia, who was the youngest of all. He saw to his children’s education and he made his sons take up arms and be shown how to behave themselves in battle and how to be huntsmen.

We served Prince Don Sancho, his eldest son and heir for almost ten years, during the best part of our twenties. Then later in our thirties Prince Don Alfonso affected all our lives and later became our King, it was not a smooth transition to power.

The legendary sword ‘Colada’

So this was the King who had sent the Knights to find the famous smith who had forged the legendary sword ‘Colada’. The sword was owned by one of the Royal families of Barcelona, a young man who knew how to boast and brag about his possessions; a Count Don Ramón Berenguer II, the Frankish Count of Barcelona. A man who would affect all our destinies, he had shown the mighty war falchion to the King. The King was mightily impressed and decided he would like a war falchion of this quality and had asked where it came from. The blade had quite a legend, the claim was it had been made by a Moorish sorcerer. But this was just part of the Counts’ boastful stories, yet it had some truth as you will see.

Araya had once told me of this blade, he made it as his masterpiece and had often wondered what had become of the mighty two handed sword. The Knights had told him the sword had gained a great reputation in the hands of their young master, the Count, at the Royal court. Such a reputation, that the King had ordered the maker, if still alive, be found and brought to work in the Kings’ armoury.

The Knights had told Araya that it had taken them many months and much searching to find him, as they had thought that the two-handed blade had been made by a Moorish smith. Colada means a sword made from ‘acero colado’, a process of alloyed steel without impurities. Few men had the knowledge and even fewer could make such a blade.

Araya pointed out that his master was indeed a Moor and that the blade was crafted using the famous Damascus steel, crafted by the secret methods of the Moors, as directed by his own master. He smiled when it was claimed the smith was a sorcerer and simply replied;

My master was indeed a sorcerer, a sorcerer of steel, but it was I who made that blade. I am a devote Christian, the blade was forged with a purity of steel, a purity of purpose and by the grace of God.

A sword master has a signature; it is the way the sword is crafted. Many sword smiths of quality know the style of others work. The Knights enquiries among the finest craftsmen of Castile had brought them to my adopted father’s forge. As it was the King’s wish, Araya had no choice but to take his family, which now included me, to