I wasn't accomplishing anything at Okoitz. No feast days fell during the planting season, church and state being practical about such matters. By the terms of my punishment, I didn't have to stand guard duty. I was told that right after planting and Easter there would be plenty of manpower available to start work on the mill.
There were some parts of the mill that we could not produce locally. I wanted the main rotor bearings to have brass or bronze collars riding on lead bushings. The lead we could cast in place, but the heavy collars troubled me until the count mentioned some bell casters at his brother's city of Cieszyn some thirty "miles" away to the south.
I was soon riding along the road to Cieszyn on a fine spring day. My equipment was much the same as that I had purchased in Cracow last fall, only now I wore conventional padded leather under my chain mail. I had a new scabbard for my sword, and its garish brass hilt had been replaced, a wrought-iron basket guard added. The shield and spear were as before. Anna had a new saddle and bridle of modern design, and she was happy to be traveling.
Riding a palfrey beside me, Krystyana was even happier. Three hours of her begging and pleading had persuaded Lambert to let her go along to "take care of me." He didn't mind her going, but he hated losing another horse during spring plowing.
She was wearing her best dress, covered with a large traveling cape, and had four others—borrowed—in her saddlebags. She was taking her first trip away from Okoitz since she had moved there with her family when she was ten years old.
Krystyana was a competent person and actually handled most of the day-to-day management of the castle. But she was trying to remain on top of an unfamiliar sidesaddle—I don't think I could have stayed on one of the silly things—while trying to play the part of a knight's lady.
She was ludicrous at it; I decided that much of her problem was that the only "ladies" she had ever seen were seen from a distance, when she was a peasant girl. What she needed was a good role model.
I carried letters from Lambert to his brother. These he had dictated to Father John because, for all his good qualities, the count was illiterate.
I also had instructions to see if Sir Miesko's wife and lands were well since his manor was on our route. It was six hours to Sir Miesko's manor, all of it at a walk, because Krystyana could never have stayed on at a gallop. As it was, the poor kid had leg cramps all night.
I was not looking forward to meeting Lady Richeza, Sir Miesko's wife. From the events at the Christmas party, where Sir Miesko had declined the favors of Count Lambert's ladies because he feared repercussions from his wife—permitting the king of fools to brand him as henpecked—I had formed an impression of a violent, shrewish woman. I was absolutely mistaken. After meeting Lady Richeza, I decided that Sir Miesko had declined all others simply because he loved his wife. Implying that he was henpecked was simply a ruse to avoid exposing his true feelings.
In her thirties, she was not a pretty woman. She was tall as the Poles of the thirteenth century went, and overly broad in the hip. Her hair was dark, curly, and shoulder length, and her face long and rectangular, with remarkably bushy eyebrows. She had dark blue eyes, and her features were otherwise unremarkable. Even in her first bloom, I doubt any man, on seeing her from a distance for the first time, could have honestly called her pretty.
Yet after meeting her and talking with her for a few hours, it dawned on me that I was being honored by the presence of one of the world's truly beautiful women.
But I get ahead of myself.
Sir Miesko's manor was not a fort. It was a comfortable-looking six-bedroom log house located a few hundred yards from a town of perhaps forty small cottages. A few barns and outbuildings were scattered about nearby, but they were located for convenience, not defense. What fences and walls there were had been built with animals, not enemies, in mind.
At first the place seemed too peaceful for such a brutal age, but then I noticed that all the peasants in the fields were armed. Some carried spears, others had axes, and a few possessed swords in addition to the ubiquitous belt knives. Half the women had bows. Sir Miesko apparently had his own theories on defense.
As we approached the manor, two boys who had been working at a kitchen garden laid down their hoes and came to greet us. "Welcome gentles," the older of the two said. I guessed his age at twelve. Despite the hard work they'd been doing, the boys had a fresh-scrubbed look. "Stash, go tell Mother we have company. I'll take care of the horses."
"We thank you for your courtesy." I dismounted and helped Krystyana down from her sidesaddle. The poor thing could barely stand. I kept an arm around her waist for more reasons than affection.
The boy looked up at me. "Sir, can it be that I am addressing the hero, Sir Conrad Stargard?"
I couldn't help smiling. "I don't think that I qualify as a hero, but I'm Conrad Stargard. This is my friend Krystyana."
"You are a hero here, Sir Conrad. Sir Rheinburg killed my best friend's father and four other men from the village. He stole half my father's cattle. You are the knight who defeated him."
I don't think the boy was intentionally snubbing Krystyana. He was just at an age where heroes are far more important than girls. He'd learn.
A woman came out to the porch. "We'll talk later, son. I must greet your mother."
"Welcome." The smiling woman looked at me calmly while drying her hands on a towel.
"I take it that you are Lady Richeza. I am Sir Conrad Stargard, and this is Krystyana."
"Welcome, Sir Conrad." She took both my hands and squeezed them. I knew she wanted a hug, so I gave her one. Understand that I did not and never have felt any sexual attraction for the woman. She was simply the warm sort of person who automatically steps into the role of a favorite aunt or cousin.
"And a very warm welcome to you, Krystyana." As she gave my girl a hug and a kiss, I saw Krystyana tighten up. She wasn't used to this sort of thing. Lady Richeza pretended not to notice but took her by the hand and led her inside. I followed.
The furnishings were sparse by modern standards but very comfortable by those of the Middle Ages. Large chests along the walls served as chairs, and each had a comfortable cushion, a thing lacking at Okoitz. The floor had a carpet of braided rags, the first rug I had seen in the thirteenth century. Most places made do with rushes scattered on the floor. But mostly, everything—including the two small children playing on the rug—was incredibly clean. My own mother's house was no cleaner, and she vacuumed daily.
One of Lady Richeza's daughters brought in some beer and bread. "Is beer acceptable? It seemed too warm a day for wine."
"A beer would be wonderful, Lady." I downed the mug. It was flat, of course; no pressure containers in the Middle Ages. One got used to it.
I had a very pleasant evening. The food was good, the surroundings pleasant, the conversation wonderful. I felt at home. The children—eight of them, five boys and three girls—were exactly what children are supposed to be but never are: inquisitive, bubbling with energy, yet clean and well mannered.
All of them over six could read and write. Sir Miesko had a library of twenty-two hand-lettered books, most of them copied by himself. That was another side of his personality that I hadn't seen at Okoitz. He had taught his wife, and she in turn had educated not only her own children but all those in the village as well.
After the kids were in bed, Lady Richeza and I spent a few hours talking over a school system, one that would spread to every village in Lambert's county. She had the potential teachers, and I could imagine nothing better to do with my money.
Throughout the evening Krystyana was unusually stiff and quiet despite our tries at getting her into the conversation. I put it down to feminine moods, augmented by the pain of the sidesaddle.
When we were in bed in the guest room, I said to Krystyana, "Our hostess is a truly fine lady. If you grew up to be like her, you'd make some very lucky man very happy."
"You ogled her all evening long."
"Ogled? Nonsense! I was just being polite to a very gracious lady."
"She isn't even a real lady."
"Krystyana, you are talking stupid."
"She isn't a lady, and Sir Miesko isn't really a knight. They were both born peasants. Miesko was twenty-five when the duke knighted him on the battlefield. He was a clerk before that."
"Remind me tomorrow to give you a spanking. You are saying horrible things. If Sir Miesko raised himself by his own efforts, he's a better man than if he was just born to the nobility. And Lady Richeza would be a great lady whether the duke said so or not!"
"It's not the same."
"No. It's better."
"But—"
"Shut up and go to sleep." We stayed celibate for the night, and Krystyana had leg cramps until dawn.
We got to Cieszyn that afternoon. It was a nice little town if you could ignore the lack of a sewage system. It had perhaps four thousand people, a great city by Krystyana's standards. At the city gate, a guard saluted us and waved us through. Apparently, a knight and his lady didn't have to bother with tolls. The outer walls were of brick, as were several charming little round brick chapels, two hundred years old.
The castle was brick as well and was exactly like what the movies told you to expect. Count Lambert had walked away from quite a bit.
Count Herman was in Cracow, along with most of his household knights, attending his liege lord, Henryk. Somehow, word of my "military" exploits had reached Cieszyn, and the ladies of the court gave me a warm welcome.
They were noticeably less cordial to Krystyana. Count Lambert's . . . uh . . . chosen life-style was not appreciated by those fine women, and Krystyana was available to take it out on. Conversation was somewhat strained that afternoon. I kept trying to get Krystyana into the discussion, and they kept cutting her off.
The situation became worse when we were called to supper. I was to be seated between two spreading middle-aged women, and no chair had been provided for Krystyana.
"But surely you understand," my hostess said.
"Oh, yes. I understand." I was doing a very good job of containing my temper, but I understood entirely too well. "Mistakes happen all the time, even in the best regulated of households. Page! Someone forgot a chair for Krystyana. Bring one and set it next to mine."
"But my lord . . ." The rumors that the page had heard spoke of my killing twelve men in a single fight, each with a single blow. Angry with a blacksmith, I supposedly had chopped an anvil entirely in half. He had also heard an exaggerated version of the way Lambert and I had slaughtered pigs.
"Another chair. Right here." I pointed. I'm sure that my mouth was smiling, but I don't think my eyes were. A chair rapidly appeared, and after some shuffling, Krystyana sat down.
My actions caused more problems than I had intended. At Okoitz, the "share the spoon, share the cup" thing was reserved for holidays. In the castle at Cieszyn, apparently, it was for every meal. Adding one more person meant that everyone downstream of us suddenly had to change partners and that the woman at the end was all alone.
Oh, well. To hell with them! If they could be rude, so could I. It was all very well to give people fancy titles, but that's no excuse for snubbing a perfectly decent fourteen-year-old girl, especially one who happened to be my date.
"Sir Conrad," my hostess eventually said, trying to smooth things over, "please tell us of your adventures."
"Adventures? Well, I'd be happy to tell you about what I've been working on lately." I launched into a discourse on the finer points of animal breeding. I must have rattled on for ten minutes and was stressing the importance of counting eggs when I felt my hostess's hand on my arm.
"That's most educational, Sir Conrad. Was it really you who defeated the renegade Black Eagle, Sir Rheinburg?"
"I killed the lunatic if that's what you mean."
"Was he really insane?"
"I suppose so. People who go around attacking armed men in public generally aren't too sensible."
"And you felled him with a single blow, cutting his head in two, though he wore a helmet?"
"Look, there wasn't much time. I gather you like gory stories. I'll tell you how Mikhail Malinski lost his foot." And I told them, every bloody bit of it. Slewing and slaying on a battlefield were great fun to them, but tying off an artery was entirely too graphic. More than one person excused herself before I was done.
My hostess was a little green below the ears. "And he died in a bed in Count Lambert's castle?"
"It was easier to take care of him there. Krystyana and her friends are great nurses. Oh, did I tell you about our looms and spinning wheels? Krystyana and seven of her friends can take wool and turn it into twenty of your yards of cloth in a single day."
"Seven of her friends. Oh, dear."
The only upshot of this was that one of the guest rooms at Okoitz became "the bed where the peasant died," with something stupid and supernatural attached to it. In a way, it was beneficial because when higher-ranking guests arrived, none of them were eager to take that room. I wasn't bumped to the blockhouses as otherwise would have happened. Anyway, if Mikhail Malinski ever had a ghost, it would have been a good ghost.
Much later, our hostess suggested that Krystyana would be much more comfortable in the servants' quarters. The bitch still hadn't learned, and I was out of teaching techniques.
"Madame, that is hardly necessary. I have delivered my liege lord's letters, and we have enjoyed an excellent Lenten supper. Regretfully, duty calls and we must be off."
"But I had hoped—"
"As I said, it's regrettable, but I have my duty." I led Krystyana off to the stables.
"Page, I want our horses saddled and our personal effects gathered. Now."
The page made quick finger motions, and four men scurried off. In minutes we were riding to the postern gate, led by the page with a torch.
"But Sir Conrad, it's so dark out now," he said.
"Then I shall need the loan of your torch." I took it.
"There are thieves out there! It's dangerous."
"You're right, kid. Go tell the thieves to be careful."
Krystyana had been holding her feelings in all afternoon and evening. Once outside the gate, she bawled like the schoolgirl she should have been. There wasn't much I could do but squeeze her hand and mumble about things getting better.
I asked at a few taverns and was eventually directed to a decent inn, the Battle Axe. The room was big and clean, and ten pence a day for food, lodging, and care of the horses didn't seem all that bad. The innkeeper was overjoyed. I had forgotten to haggle.
"You understand that I will expect excellent service, food, and drink. See that our horses are well taken care of and send a large pot of good wine to our room."
"Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord." I later discovered that we were his only guests. Business was not booming in Cieszyn, and many who were willing could not find work. That people in Okoitz should be working sixteen hours a day and people in Cieszyn should be idle—and ill fed—offended my socialist morality. This place needed organization.
As soon as we were alone in our room, Krystyana threw her arms around my neck and started crying again. "Sir Conrad, I love you!"
"I hope not, pretty girl. I'm not the marrying kind."
"No, I mean, you don't have to but, I mean, leaving all those countesses and baronesses and ladies because of me."
"Hold it. I didn't leave because of you. I left because I was offended by their rudeness. Also, I had no intention of bedding any one of those overaged, overweight, and profoundly married women. And certainly not when there is somebody as sexy as you around. Now have some wine and settle down."
Sometime later, she said, "I love you anyway, Sir Conrad."
The next morning I sent Krystyana out shopping with one of the innkeeper's servants to keep her safe and see that she didn't get gypped. I tipped the woman a penny a day, and she was overjoyed. I gave Krystyana a hundred pence and told her to buy presents for her family and friends. Also a wedding gift from me to Mrs. Malinski and something for the carpenter and the count.
"But what could Count Lambert possibly want?"
"Dye. Dye for cloth. And if you can find a good dyer out of work, the count would like that, too."
I was pleased to discover that the bell casters I had come to Cieszyn to see lived directly across from the inn.
The bell foundry was owned and operated by the three Krakowski brothers—Thom, Mikhail, and Wladyslaw. It had been their father's business and had been a thriving concern until a year before, when the bishop's nephew, a German, had opened up a bell foundry in Cracow. New orders to the Krakowski brothers had stopped, and their melting furnace had been cold for six months. But the information came out slowly, and I got some of it from the innkeeper. The brothers were trying to keep up appearances.
The Krakowski brothers and I spent the morning talking. I talked about the huge bushings I would need—the bore was to be a full yard, and the outside flange diameter of the blade-end bushing was to be two yards. They were each to be a yard long. Modern roller bearings would have been a tenth that size, but I had no illusions about the quality the Krakowskis could give me. In working with inferior materials, you must make things big.
They talked to me about bell casting. They used the lost wax method. This is not an ancient "lost" technology, even though I once met a twentieth-century museum tour guide who seemed to think so; it's still being used when intricate, one-of-a-kind castings are needed. To make a bell, the brothers Krakowski first dug a pit. In the pit, they fashioned by hand, from clay, a male form shaped like the inside of the bell. They then took beeswax and made a wax bell over the form, carving in wax all the exterior decorations and, being somewhat literate, the lettering. Clay was carefully molded over the wax, and the whole was left to dry for a week. Then they built a fire in the pit, small at first but growing.
In a few days the wax melted, ran out of prepared holes, and burned. A few days later, the mold was hot enough for the pour. Having carefully measured the amount of wax used, the casters knew exactly how much brass to melt. After the pour, they broke off the clay and spent a few months "tuning" the bell by chipping brass out of the inside to get it to sound right.
"That's the trick, Sir Conrad," the youngest brother said. "The mold has got to be as hot as the brass or she'll crack, or the bell will crack."
The other brothers looked at him as if he were divulging guild secrets, and maybe he was.
"I'm familiar with the process," I lied. It was now past noon, and they had not offered me dinner. I thought about that—they looked more underfed than Lent alone would account for. "This is interesting," I said. "But I grow hungry. I would like to invite you and your families to dinner. I'm staying at the Battle Axe. Could you send someone to tell the innkeeper how many are coming? Have him let us know when it's ready."
They eagerly accepted my offer, and soon we were at a sit-down dinner for fourteen. There were no babies; all three had died in the winter.
As it was Lent, the meal was meatless: bread and oatmeal, pease porridge, and small beer. Even the children drank beer. Water was unhealthy, and cows would not start producing milk for another month. My guests ate a great deal under the watchful gaze of the innkeeper, who was hovering at the back of the room to make sure everything went right. We were his biggest sale in months.
These men had skills that I needed, and they certainly needed me. They needed socialism, and I was going to socialize them—within the framework of their own society, of course. I'm not the banner-waving, gun-wielding revolutionary sort.
"Excuse me, sir knight," the oldest Krakowski brother finally said. "But are you the Sir Conrad Stargard? The man who killed Sir Rheinburg?"
That business again? "Yes."
"Then we owe you gratitude. That German murdered our cousin Yashu. Killed him on the road when he was weaponless and penniless."
"I'm sorry about your cousin. The German was a madman, but he's dead now."
"Still, we owe you."
"You don't owe me anything. All I did was to stop myself from joining your cousin."
The innkeeper intruded. "Excuse me, Sir Conrad, you realize that serving fourteen is more than we agreed on."
"Of course. Put the difference on my bill."
"Yes, sir. That would be twelve pence."
Small talk at the table stopped. A penny for each meatless meal!
"Innkeeper, that seems excessive. I do not like to haggle, but if I decide that you are cheating me, you will lose my business." I said this quietly and calmly but without smiling.
"Yes, Sir Conrad." Beads of sweat suddenly dotted the man's forehead. When I eventually settled the bill, four pence accounted for that meal.
Later that day, I got their price for my bushings. It came to thirty-one hundred pence. Each.
"That seems excessive," I said. "Let's go over your expenses, and mind you, I intend to check these prices myself in the market."
The copper would cost eight hundred pence, and calamine, a compound of zinc, was three hundred and fifty pence. We had agreed, from samples that they had on hand, on a hard brass of about thirty percent zinc. The clay they dug up themselves, and they chopped their own wood by arrangement with a landowner. With transportation costs, those two items came to a hundred and fifty pence. The eye opener was the wax. It was a rare commodity, like the honey that came with it. The wax would cost eleven hundred pence, almost as much as the metal. The remaining five hundred pence for their labor and equipment did not seem excessive. Still . . .
Still, there was no reason why the molds themselves could not be cast off wooden forms. Both bushings could be made the same so that only one set of forms would be needed. Also, I would need four bushings for the upcoming "dry mill" that would grind grain.
In addition, I had hoped that more mills would be wanted by other landowners. We might need a lot of bushings. A lot of parts that I had planned to make of wood could be made better—much better—in brass: some of the gearing and the pump cylinders and pulleys. I wanted some fire-heated tubs for a laundry and parts for a threshing machine, and, well, all sorts of things.
"Gentlemen." They looked up in surprise at my use of the term. "Your prices seem fair for what you propose to do, but it happens that I know some less-expensive techniques. Not for bells, you understand, but for the kind of things I have in mind." As it turned out, in two years they were selling bells again. You had to choose from three standard sizes and had no choice of inscriptions, but they were half the cost of the Cracow bells.
"Now, then," I continued. "It is obvious that you are suffering under a burden of debt. It is also obvious that you have no security at all and that your families are hungry. I propose to purchase your establishment and pay you all a decent salary. I also intend to pay for a number of improvements around here. What do you think?"
"Well, that sounds fine, but there are guild rules . . ." said Thom, the eldest.
"What? I thought you were the only bell casters in Cieszyn."
"Well, we are."
"Then who is the guild master?"
"I am, actually."
"And these are your guild members?"
"Uh . . . yes."
"Then to hell with your damned guild! You are three brothers, and I am talking about hiring you."
"Can't the guild vote to disband?" the youngest, Wladyslaw, asked.
"But there's nothing in the rules—"
"And to hell with your rules! I, Sir Conrad Stargard, by the power granted to me by my sword, do hereby proclaim your guild null and void. Questions?"
Thom checked with his brothers. "No, I guess not."
"So. I'm not sure of local property values, but for your house and furnace and lands, does two thousand pence sound fair?"
I got enthusiastic nods from the younger two. The eldest said, "We also have certain rights and privileges to clay and wood, and two thousand pence would not quite cover our debts."
"Let's make it twenty-five hundred, then," I said. "I would not want my vassals to be suffering from debt."
"Vassals? You would take an oath?"
"Of course, and I would expect you to, also. All of you and your wives, besides."
"Our wives?"
"An oath of honesty and fair work. Your wives help you, don't they?"
"Yes, but—"
"I do not touch other men's wives. Now, what would you say to six hundred pence per year each, with two hundred pence to each of your wives? When your children are old enough to help, we'll discuss it. Agreed?"
The eldest looked about. "I suppose so."
"Good. I will pay half of your first year's salary in advance, since it appears that you need some things around here. You need some clothes, but don't buy a lot. The price of common cloth is about to drop."
"How can you know?"
"Let's say that I can smell it. In addition, since I want you to apply yourselves diligently to this enterprise, once all expenses, improvements, materials, taxes, salaries, and so forth are paid, you will divide among yourselves one-twelfth of the surplus." "Profit" is not a nice word for a socialist.
Their mute agreement had turned to enthusiasm.
"Good. Now go discuss the matter with your wives. Come to me while the sun is still high, for I want your oaths. I shall be at the inn."
I was only halfway through my first beer when the six of them showed up, smiling.
"Innkeeper, I want your whole staff in the courtyard. There are oaths to be taken!"
So we had a deal, and it was in this manner that I—I can't say nationalized, since I'm not a nation, but, socialized the Krakowski Bros. Brass Works. In doing so, I was acting again, playing the role of the shrewd merchant and dirtying my good socialist soul in the process. The thing needed doing, and much of being a man is doing the things that must be done no matter how unnatural or painful they are. Surely this was a small evil compared with the naked corpses I had left in a snowy wood.
I bought the beer, called for an honest scale, and weighed out the money I owed. When I had left Okoitz, Count Lambert had been distracted with the planting and hadn't mentioned money, so I had brought along twenty thousand pence of my own. I wasn't worried; the count was honest. You see, you must either trust a person or not trust him. It is stupid to rely on oaths or marks on a piece of parchment because a thief will rob you no matter what is written down, and an honest man stays honest—within reason.
I weighed out thirty-seven hundred pence in gold—the exchange rate of silver to gold being 54 to 1—which I gave to Thom. Then I weighed out another four thousand and told him that I wanted him to buy copper and calamine at the best possible prices. We needed a wood-carver, and I told him to find one. The other two brothers were ordered to go out and bring in vast amounts of firewood and clay and start making charcoal.
There was some consternation, and then it was agreed that the innkeeper would safeguard the gold until morning, since he kept an armed guard at night.