Chapter 6: New Plan

I first learned about Joan of Arc when I was in high school. She emerged at a time when France was getting sacked by the British. Her presence raised morale, her battle insights turned the tide of the war. France hailed her as sent by God, England thought more along the lines of sulfur and brimstone.

It seemed I had a few years to go before this body became seventeen, when Joan of Arc was made commander, but I had quite a few advantages over an uneducated peasant girl and her hallucinations.

I needed the tools to change from little girl to warrior. If I was going to be in this world, in this body, I was not going to play princess, meek and mild. Nope. And that required gearing up. I needed weapons to start training with and armor to start training in. Time to build some useful skills.

“Alright, Tread, take me to the smithy where you got these fine weapons from.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” He bowed, then led the way. The other guard squinted, head tilted, bemused smile. They’d probably all heard the dumb questions I asked, the amused answers I received and the bellows of laughter.

I ignored him. Our odd-looking party of ballroom gown dressed girls followed the child guard in splendid armor. No one else seemed to find the procession strange, at least no one laughed, but plenty of soldiers stopped what they were doing to watch us walk past.

The smithy was an open air, makeshift structure. Rag-like carpets in front of the entrance, a young boy, maybe seven or eight, carefully pouring water across them. Inside, the ringing sounds of hammers, low sounds of metal being scraped and rubbed.

“Whatever is he doing?” I asked.

To my surprise, it was the large guard who grunted out, “Keeping the dust down, my lady.”

“Oh! That makes sense. Thank you.” He didn’t answer and I wondered if I was speaking inappropriately. These were just guards after all. Should I be thanking them? Do princesses thank people in general?

The young boy looked up from his work, through his blond bangs, stepped back suddenly and bolted into the armory. I followed before someone could stop me. I’d never seen armor making before. This was a treat. Like visiting an active museum.

Despite the lack of walls, heat rolled over me as I stepped into the area. Shirtless men, wearing heavy overalls were taking turns slamming heavy steel hammers against a blade off to the left. Further back, three large sharpening wheels stood side by side, reaching as high as the men sitting in front, pressing metal into them. The stones rolled through a bucket of water, droplets falling off the blades like tiny waterfalls. By the time my eyes reached the right, where a small chimney with a bellows in front of it, pumped by a young man, another pulling out and pushing in a length of metal, a heavyset man planted his feet in front of me, bowing deeply, deep baritone, “Your Highness! May I ask what I can do for you?” Suddenly as they noticed, a wave of awareness breaking across the room, each worker stopped at their station, stood and bowed, then remained stiff, watching me. Perhaps because of the noise, the sword sharpeners were last.

Oops was all I could think. “Ah, sorry. Please, please don’t let me disturb you.”

Bulging muscles, apron, heavy gloves, he gave a pained smile, shaking his head. “It is a pleasure to receive Your Royal Highness.”

I raised my voice, looking around the room, meeting each man’s eyes. “You are great men, doing good work for our army. Please, continue.” And I gave them a curtsey. They looked astonished, some frightened, but they forced their attention back to their work.

I turned my own to the man in front of me, whom I assumed was the head craftsman. Blacksmith? “I am in need of . . . properly sized weapons. A sword and a dagger . . .” I felt stupid myself, not knowing the slightest thing about weapons but suddenly remembered the wizard’s correction for the knife I’d picked up, “or a dirk, I guess?”

He blinked several times. “Your Highness? Which would you like, all three?”

“Give me one moment, please.” I smiled as best I could, turned around and walked out and up to Morrentz. I didn’t mean to sigh, but I sighed as I looked up at his imposing figure. “If you were me, what weapons would you want in battle?”

He looked down with either contempt or his natural features, “Me. If I were you, I’d want me beside you in battle as your weapon.”

“Ok. Sure, but seriously. What weapons would someone like me be suited for?”

He paused. “A spear.”

“Ok, and? What about a sword?” I struggled here, kind of wanted to hit him. “A dagger or dirk?”

“A long and light sword, a shorter version on your hip and a dirk in your boot. Are you good at knife throwing?”

“No. Not, uh, yet.” Knife throwing? I had to ask this guy more questions!

“Listen, Princess. Battles are fought with spears and pikes and when those fail, it’s the short sword or the dagger that keeps you alive. No one ever won a battle with a sword and there are no sword regiments. You are tiny and weak, and should you ever get into a fight, you want a weapon that puts distance between your enemy and you. A spear or a sword spear.”

I couldn’t help but notice the enormous sword he was carrying on his back, and said, “You carry a sword.”

He drew it. “This? This is taller than you, heavier than you can carry and still, it is only because we are in camp that I carry it. In battle, I will use a spear until it breaks. Then this greatsword till I am unhorsed. Then my short swords until I die or lose them.”

I nodded. “You are going to teach me to fight.”

His chuckle turned into a long and hearty laugh and when he finished, I remained staring at him, holding his gaze, unsmiling.

“You will teach me. If you die in battle, I will find another teacher.”

His smile remained, eyes narrowed, “It will hurt. You will bruise.”

“Pain is a good teacher.”

“Then get each of the weapons we discussed. Unadorned.” I turned to leave, but he grabbed my arm so hard it was bordering on painful, “Wait. Order two of each weapon. One set blunted.”

I said, “I shall,” trying to get into the medieval spirt of the language. He let go and I resisted the urge to rub my arm. Returning to the smith, I told him what weapons I’d require.

“Your Highness,” he rubbed his hands together, shoulders crouched in toward me, “we cannot make these items by tomorrow.”

“Why not? You managed to supply my guard with arms very quickly.”

“Well, my lady, these would be of a higher quality and of the best craftsmanship. It will take weeks to-”

“No, none of that. Simple fighting weapons, no glitter, no gold, no inlays, nothing special. Just regular, sturdy weapons.”

He was nearly shaking when he repeated himself, “I must humbly apologize, Your Royal Highness, but it cannot be done-”

“Sir,” I put on my manager’s voice, “if it pleases you, may I see your current weapon inventory? Starting with the dirks.”

“Ah . . .”

While he searched for another reason to deny me, I walked past him, saying, “Just lead on if you would good Master Weaponsmith.” The sounds of the smithy slowed to a halt as the workmen’s eyes once again were on me, yet as I turned my head and smiled at them, they quickly returned to their work.

He hurried and caught up, then passed me. “This way, this way my lady,” and brought me past the stones, past troughs of water, to weapon racks.

I was a bit surprised, but shouldn’t have been in retrospect, that the swords were uniform. I’d imagined each soldier’s weapon would be tailored to their specifications. Short armed? Shorter length of sword, that sort of thing, but nope, not at all. These looked identical. Except for the rustic individual craftsmanship and small errors in measurement.

I found one slightly smaller than the rest. Hefted it, tried some swings. Good god, it was awkward. Not too heavy in my arms, which was strange, but top-heavy. Pulling from the tip, which put pressure on my wrists. I didn’t think I could wield such a sword very long. “This one. Grind it down widthwise and, uh, make the blade less top heavy. Less thick? Less thick.” That’s right, I was stupid here. You see, I wanted to say, where I come from no one uses swords. We just shoot each other.

He was eyeing my arms holding the blade, then looked me up and down, “Yes, Your Highness.” He took the blade from me.

“On to the short swords, dear sir.” We repeated that for short swords, and then the sword-spears, which took some negotiation as he didn’t want to make the wooden part less heavy, but I used my princessly powers and overruled him.

He wouldn’t budge on spears, though. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he repeated, “these simply have to be heavy. Or your spear will break the first time you use it.”

“It’s not like I’ll be in the front lines. I’m using this for personal defense.”

“Then you need the weight to drive through the enemy’s armor. Can’t be lighter, I’m afraid.”

I gave up. He had to win some points. “Then I’ll just take two of these now. Have them sent to my tent, please.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Last was the dirks, my first friend here. I took one off the rack, “Do you have a, uh, a dirk holder for this?”

“A sheath, my lady?”

“Exactly that. A sheath please.” He did me one better, giving me a belt, too, to hold it all in one place. I closed the belt and carried it on my shoulder, as the puffiness of the dress would make wearing a belt uncomfortable. Then, I had the most brilliant idea. I could belt them to each leg! Two dirks, under the skirt. Ninja princess! That’s totally me. Badass. The problem was that these were long. Too long to strap them to my legs, too long to fit in a boot, no matter what that large guard said. He had longer legs, after all. “Do you, ah, do you have shorter versions of these?”

“No, Your Highness.”

“Why are these so long?”

“They are used for thrusting through armor. In the eye slits of helmets. In the ears. That sort of thing.”

“The ears?” I’m sure I stared at him too long while I worked those images out of my head. “Gross. I mean, yes, yes, I see.” I wondered if anyone fenced here. Would a long version of this work against a big, two-handed sword like that large guard carried? I wondered if I could beat people with speed instead of strength. “I’m, uh, going to take one now. But I want you to do something strange for me . . .” He agreed to make two shorter ones. I’d try to figure out how to hide them later.

The dirks concluded the tour. I instructed him to send everything else, when ready, to my tents, and thanked him. He looked both miserable and oddly elated. Probably because I was leaving. Anyways, something new for him to work on, he should be elated.

“On to the armorers, Sir Tread!”

“Sir Tread?” asked the larger guy.

“Well, hopefully. If Tread plays his cards right, shows himself to be a capable bodyguard, I’m sure we’ll be knighting him shortly.”

The big man continued, “And what does nighting mean?”

“Uh, raising his rank. That sort of thing.”

With an odd head tilt, Tread straightened up, gestured ahead of us and said, “This way, Your Highness.” Several of the girls giggled.

“You don’t,” one of the blonds said to him, “have to call the princess ‘Your Highness’ every time. Just the first time you see her in an encounter. After that, ‘my lady’ or ‘ma’am’ will do.” She passed him, linking arms with the other blond and led the way. They spoke too softly for me to hear, except for the word ‘commoner,’ but their laughter was clear and carried.

I scowled a little, but it was to be expected, I guess. Perhaps, though, just a little I might challenge some of their boundaries later. Anyways, I didn’t know how titles worked, either.