Chapter 14 #2
The next two hours were, by Frederick’s own admission, among the most humbling of his life.
"You're thinking too hard."
"I'm barely thinking at all."
"That's not what your arms are telling me. Look at them—stiff as boards. You're fighting the hammer instead of letting it work for you."
Frederick stared at the piece of scrap iron he was theoretically shaping.
It was supposed to be a hook; Thomas had shown him the basic form, had demonstrated the strikes and the turns with the easy grace of someone who'd been doing this for forty years.
It had looked simple when Thomas did it. Effortless, even.
In Frederick’s hands, the iron had become something that looked more like a mangled snake than anything functional.
"Try again." Thomas pulled the iron from the fire with his tongs and set it on the anvil. "Strike where I showed you. Light grip, let the weight do the work."
Frederick brought the hammer down. The iron sparked. The shape remained stubbornly wrong.
"Better. Again."
He struck again. And again. And again. The forge was impossibly hot; he'd stripped down to his shirtsleeves within the first ten minutes, and even that felt like too much clothing.
Sweat dripped into his eyes. His arms ached.
His shoulders were already complaining about the treatment they'd never experienced before.
"You're still gripping too tight," Thomas observed, not unkindly. "Imagine you're holding a bird. Firm enough it can't escape, gentle enough you won't crush it."
"I've never held a bird."
"Then imagine you're holding something precious. Something that would break if you squeezed too hard."
Frederick tried to adjust his grip. The hammer wobbled dangerously.
"The other way. You've gone too loose now." Thomas reached over and repositioned his fingers. "There. Feel that? That's the balance point."
"It feels like my arm is going to fall off."
"That's normal. Your body isn't used to this kind of work. In a week, you won't even notice."
"In a week, I may not have arms."
Thomas snorted; a sound that might have been amusement or might have been contempt. "City folk. You'd think lifting a hammer was equivalent to climbing a mountain."
"I'm not city folk."
"You're manor folk, which is worse. At least city folk know they're soft.
Manor folk think they're strong because they can sit on a horse.
" Thomas returned to his own work, a set of hinges for some customer, his hammer falling in easy, rhythmic strokes.
"The first time I worked in a forge, I thought I was going to die.
My arms shook for three days afterwards.
My father told me that was the price of learning. "
"Your father was a blacksmith?"
"And his father before him, and his father before that. Fletchers have been working with metal in this village for four generations." Thomas glanced at him. "What do Hawthornes do for four generations?"
"Acquire things. Land, money, influence. More land." Frederick struck the iron again, trying to find the rhythm Thomas made look so easy. "Occasionally, we die in wars we started."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is. Although I imagine actually fighting in the wars is worse than starting them."
"Depends on the war." Thomas set down his hammer and moved to check Frederick’s progress. "You're hitting the wrong spot. See how the metal's thickening here instead of curving? You need to strike here." He pointed. "To push the shape outward."
"I thought I was striking there."
"You're striking an inch to the left. Precision matters in forge work. A fraction of an inch can be the difference between a functional tool and a piece of scrap."
Frederick squinted at the glowing metal, trying to see what Thomas saw. It all looked like an orange blur to him.
"How do you know where to hit? The metal all looks the same."
"Experience. And paying attention." Thomas picked up Frederick’s hammer and demonstrated; a single, precise strike that made the iron curve exactly where it needed to.
"You learn to read the metal. See how the colour's slightly different here?
That's where it's thickest. That's where you need to focus your force. "
"I can't see any difference."
"You will. Eventually." Thomas handed the hammer back. "Now. Try again. And this time, actually look at what you're hitting instead of just swinging and hoping."
Frederick looked, struck and looked again.
"Better?" he asked.
"A little bit," Thomas allowed. "Which, for your second hour, is practically miraculous."
They worked in something approaching rhythm after that; Thomas at the main forge, shaping his hinges with the efficiency of long practice, while Frederick struggled with his hook at the smaller anvil.
"Can I ask you something?" he said, during a brief rest while his iron reheated.
"You can ask. Whether I answer depends on the question."
"Why are you doing this? Teaching me. You don't owe me anything."
Thomas was quiet for a moment, his hammer pausing mid-swing.
"You're right. I don't owe you anything." He resumed his work, his strokes slower now, more thoughtful. "But Lydia cares about you. And I care about Lydia. So here we are."
"That's not really an answer."
"It's the only answer that matters." Thomas set down his hammer and turned to face Frederick fully.
"You want to know why I'm teaching you? Because I want to see what you're made of.
Anyone can court a woman with flowers and pretty words.
Not everyone can sweat and struggle and fail over and over and keep coming back anyway. "
"You're testing me."
"Of course I'm testing you. You're pursuing my niece.
You think I'm going to just hand her over because you've got a fancy title?
" Thomas' eyes were hard. "Lydia is the closest thing I have to a daughter.
I've raised her since she was seven years old.
I've watched her grow from a grief-stricken child into the finest woman I know.
And I'm not going to let some duke—or anyone else—hurt her without knowing exactly who he is first."
"Fair enough."
"You think so?"
"I do." Frederick met his eyes steadily. "If I had a daughter, I'd want to know too. I'd want to make sure the person pursuing her was worthy of her."
"And are you? Worthy?"
"I don't know. Probably not. But I'm trying to be." Frederick picked up his hammer again. "That's all I can do, isn't it? Try. And keep trying. And hope that eventually I become someone who deserves what he's asking for."
Thomas studied him for a long moment.
"That's the first sensible thing you've said all morning," he said finally. "Now. Back to work. The iron's getting cold."