This one starts out rated G, because the narrator was too young to hear "The Good Parts" until she got a little older. Eventually, the subject matter will become more Mature, and I'll label those chapters with PG, PG-13, R, and X as appropriate...
;
Grand-daughter. (Fg Grandma/Daughter)
I heard it so many times that at some point, "Grandma, tell me a story" became, "How did we get the name Fuller?"
"Well," she sat down, "Wouldn't you like to hear another story?"
I shook my head, snuggled up in the quilt, and said, "It's my favorite."
"Mine too. A long time ago, you know these stories always start this way, don't you." I nodded, "Well, there was a kingdom in England, called Hamlin." Years later, I learned that the story of the Pied Piper of HamElin originated in Germany, but by then she had passed away. I'm sure it might have passed onto England by the Saxons, but I haven't been able to find it anywhere else, outside of our family. I like to think that was her way of excusing the English accents, but then again.
It was my favorite story, because every time she told it, it got better. "I suppose you could say that they were rich, but not in Gold."
"With Corn?" I also found out later that Maize was discovered in the new world, long after the Dark Ages. "What happened to them?" I would ask, knowing the answer, but impatient to get on with that side of the story.
"Well, to answer that, first we must go back to the beginning, to a little town across the river, and a Smith who lived there?"
"What was his name?"
"John."
"John Fuller?"
"Not yet, child. You want me to tell this again?"
I'd pull the covers up, to cover my smile, but I knew that if I just let her tell it, I'd fall asleep, and dream about John Fuller.
"I know it's a common name today, but at the time, there was a king John. He was never called John the First, because there was never a second."
"Because of the Magna Carter." I nodded.
"Exactly. So, it fell out of favor, but by then it was too late, he was already named John after the king." Sometimes I yawned at that point, but usually I started settling down to let her soft voice lull me to sleep. I could just imagine how he looked, especially after it got to the good part. He met his wife Mary, and was rewarded for his deeds, but again I get ahead of myself.
"First he showed up at the gates to the keep for a duel. With a noble, an emissary from a kingdom across the river," That would be Hamlin, without the E. "He commissioned a repair to his sword hilt. It was loose, but in trying to fix it with wedges, it cracked along a flaw in the iron.
So, the smith had to replace it, which he did, but the noble returned, and refused to pay.
"The steel wasn't flawed," the lord said, "It was made by the finest smith, finer than you." He insisted, despite the fact that the hilt was iron.
Long story short, they argued, but the nameless lord took it, and pushed the smith down, then tried to leave. After he got up, the smith chased after him, and caught the petty lord at his coach. With a staff he picked up, "How dare you threaten me!" His guards blocked him, with swords drawn, and the smith demanded only the money he owed for the iron.
"I'm insulted, that you would replace fine steel with common iron, and demand payment for this?"
"I'm sorry lord, but I can't afford it, and I have the old hilt here." I don't know, to this day whether the hilt was real, or just an old rusted bar of Iron, split down the middle with a crack in the side. She never told me where she really got it. Only that it had been passed down for generations, but it wound up with my brother, because he was the oldest.
"See? It is iron. If the smiths of your Kingdom are so superior, perhaps."
"Don't insult me further," the lord sneered, "Coward. If you have the guts to stand by your word, than come to the gates on the morrow. I must meet with your king to inform him of your treachery, we will settle it there by ruling of the King, or combat, so bring a sword if you can afford it." Without another word, he backed into his carriage, and closed the door. The guards left with him, marching in escort, and the smith was left with his loss.
The work for the day put off, he returned to his forge, and his labor, wondering where he would get a sword even as he set about bending horse-shoes, and mending hinges for the door to the tavern. He was payed in drink, as agreed, and managed to get some rest with the potent wine, but woke early to a full bladder.
A splitting headache, but he still found an ember in the forge to light a link. Dress, and find a crust of bread, but not a sword. Knowing how to make one, well enough that he hadn't the steel to spare, nor the time to temper a good one, he took up his father's hammer, and walked it as a staff.
A footman, who had taught him as a boy, but he did not follow in his footsteps. Instead, he followed the ring of the hammer on the anvil, the warmth of the forge, and found his calling as an apprentice until his master died. Not before learning the trade, including swordsmithy, which he loved. He even vowed to forge the greatest sword the world had ever seen, for his king, but that promise was forgotten years ago.
He had been in many a fight before, but never one such this. A noble rider, a knight trained since the first hairs had sprouted, such was the way atop the hill. His father had told him, of their bravery, their fighting prowess, while he was a lowly footman in the shadow of the keep. Honored to sleep in the barracks, only to rise each day to spar in the bailey amongst his betters.
"He's not My lord," the smith muttered through clenched teeth. "If I die today, it will be as a man, with my father's haft in my hand. Guide me father, and lend me your strength. If not, then I will see you soon."
Presently, it was light enough to snuff out the link, and put it in his pocket. See the wall atop the hill, and presently he reached the base of it out of breath.
;