This simple and elegant arming sword was designed to fit with a client's 1260s reenactment kit. It features a broad, gently tapering Type XII blade, a straight, simple crossguard, a custom-sized ochre grip and a smooth disc pommel. Inspired by Chris's handling of extant arming swords of similar provenance at the Royal Armouries, it features a blade-centric balance with a forward pivot. This makes it ideal for actions of the blade, while the pommel's twist and offset offer superior comfort and control in casting actions. Sharing its name with the medieval Norwegian city now known as Trondheim, this sword is an imagining of the sort of weapon that might have been used by the personal guard of Norway's medieval archbishops. Please see our pricing structure for an idea of what a similar sword would cost.
∴ Specs ∴
Total length: 101cm
Blade length: 85cm
Blade width at shoulder: 5.6cm
Blade stock: 6mm
Quillon span: 29cm
Grip length: 9.5cm
Grip and pommel: 15cm
Point of balance: 15.5cm
Weight: 1156g
Right-handed
2mm blunt edges
Swollen tip
Fencing flex
∴ Notes ∴
The hand-forged and heat-treated guard and pommel are polished to a satin finish. The simple crossguard features straight, square-section quillons with a slight flare to the terminals. The disc pommel is canted, twisted and offset in a historical fashion for comfortable right-handed use. The oak grip is wrapped first in linen thread, and then in antiqued ochre kidskin. The blade features a wide central fuller and an engraved rosette at the point of balance. The construction is finished with a faceted copper peening block.
∴ Gallery ∴
∴ A Holy Call∴
Grey stone vaults gape over you like the belly of an upturned ship as you pace the polished flagstones of the transept. You fight to turn your eyes from the spectacle and your thoughts from the sea, bowing your head instead in contrition.
Pausing at the altar’s great carved cross and mirroring its shape with your hands, you pass at last into the silent sanctuary of the eight-sided shrine. It is here that you come to be alone, with only the remains of the Saint present to pass judgment.
Kneeling before the altar, you wince as your sword clatters against the cold stone steps, the sound ricocheting back and forth across the octagonal space. You fumble with the scabbard, drawing the sword and laying it between you and the sepulchre.
Your eyes play over its broad, tapering blade and long, straight quillons. Truly, it has been the cross of your order all these years. You had always imagined that its place - your place - would be here, at the side of the archbishop. A symbol of strength and safety, rather than a machine of war.
You sigh as you look beyond the sword and take in the coffin itself, its wooden lid carved in the likeness of a longhall’s roof, beaten silver plates like shields lining its walls. The Saint was certainly never a man of peace. His sword flashed on fields from Wessex to the Kyivan Rus.
Here you stand, on the cusp of your journey, in the place where your martyr ended his. If God wills it, so too might you. Rising to your feet, you lift the sword from the stone, the shrine’s soft candlelight reflected against its harsh and glittering edge.