The sword of shame

"May I see it ?"
Sir Ralph de la Pomeroy eyed his guest for a moment, then wandered to the chest that stood at the wall, its lock gleaming in the flickering light from the fire. "It's a beautiful piece of work", he said.
It was still in its original slightly scratched, leather scabbard, a simple enough sheath with bronze at the point and mouth. From it protruded an unadorned hilt with a simple disc pommel and cross-hilt fashioned to look like to dogs'heads, mouths gaping. He took it up, hefting it in his hand again. Even with the scabbard covering the blade, it had a natural balance about it - almost a life. It felt as though it held a strange energy all of its own...