The Brigantia Sidesword
- Alicia Adams
- 3 days ago
- 3 min read
Made as a gift for a fellow smith in return for a beautiful sword of his own design, this elegant sidesword is made for joyful sparring practice. With a solid pommel and presence in the blade, it can confidently dominate the line and bind against the opposing blade.
Its scallop shell detailing and green-and-brass hues give it a classic Renaissance feel, while the spiralling green grip with its double brass crowns represents the "king in the woods". The Celtic pagan symbolism of the piece is heightened with a Brigid's cross carved onto the reverse of the pommel.
The sword is named for this symbol, Briganti being the Proto-Celtic name for the Irish goddess and saint Brigid, associated with the woven reed cross. The name means "exalted one", which befits the double crown motif of the grip.
Please see our pricing structure for an idea of what a similar sword would cost.
∴ Specs ∴
Total length: 109cm
Blade length: 95cm
Blade width at base: 3.6cm
Grip length: 8.5cm
Grip and pommel: 13.5cm
Quillon span: 23.5cm
Weight: 1190g
Point of Balance: 15.5cm from cross
Right-handed
Blunt edges & rounded tip
Fencing safe flex
∴ Notes ∴
The hand-forged and heat-treated guard and pommel are blackened to a matte finish. The guard is formed of flat-section bars, and features a scallop-carved dish and long, straight quillons, flaring to the tips with hand-carved scallop shell accents.
The oak grip is first wrapped in linen thread and cord risers, creating a spiral pattern. It is then wrapped in dark green kidskin and adorned with scalloped brass ferrules to top and bottom.
The pommel is a flattened sphere, carved to the front with a scallop shell to match the guard, and to the rear with a rendering of Brigid's Cross.
∴ Gallery ∴
∴ A Woodland Rite ∴
Steel and laughter ring through the glade. Muted sunlight filters through high green leaves, dappling your bare forearms, the steel of your blade, your opponent's grinning face.
Your heart is pounding, full of thrill rather than fear. This is no duel of retribution, but of fleet-footed friendship. A ritual dance, deep in the rhythm of this woodland place.
You circle. He flicks his wrist and you dodge, just barely, the whisper of his blade tracing the air beside your ribs.
His eyes spark. “Too slow, my friend.”
You quip back through ragged breaths, “Just quick enough.”
You sense the opening with something like regret. The dance has been delightful, and it's a shame to call it over. Nonetheless, you shift your footwork, stealing a beat and slipping inside his guard. Steel kisses his throat before he can blink.
For a moment, the world is utterly still. Then he steps back with exaggerated grace and sweeps into a bow so theatrical it nearly topples him.
“Alright then, you win this time," he laughs.
You sheath your blade as he straightens, and clap your gloved hand on his shoulder. You exchange a look then turn in unison, silent now, to the oak with the hollowed heart. The little shrine looks primordial in the dappled sunlight: old stones, rich green moss, a carved face worn smooth by weather and prayer.
He stoops first with an acorn, cupped in both hands like a jewel. A simple gift for a season's zenith, the strength of summers to come.
You follow with a woven reed cross, hanging it over the spur of a root.
You step back and bow together. Wind rustles the leaves like distant applause.
"See you in six months?" he asks,
"Of course you will," you reply.
