by Nancy Morse
“Didn’t do anything wrong?” Mother said in a sharp cadence. “He took advantage of an innocent girl in strange surroundings.”
“I’m not a girl. I’m twenty-seven, and I was perfectly aware of what I was doing.”
“Not as aware as he was, I’ll wager,” their father said severely. “You will tell me the scoundrel’s name this instant so we can send word to him. He has both a responsibility and a right to know.”
Something about that statement sent a flash of pain across Marian’s face. “I did send word as soon as I suspected.”
Yet here she sat with no man to claim her child.
“Tell me who he is and I will make him heed your message,” Father said ferociously.
Marian glared back, impressing Rowan with her resolve.
“You may ask me to leave Alda if you are ashamed of me but do not ask anything about him, ever again.”
Grandmother began to wail while both Father and Mother protested the idea.
Patrice silenced them all when she said in a tone laced with disgust, “Maybe he’s married.”
Marian unfolded from her chair to her impressive height, hands curled into fists. “He is not married. What sort of a trollop do you take me for?” She pounded up the stairs past a stuttering Patrice.
“I didn’t mean you did that on purpose. I meant he tricked you,” Patrice called right before the door slammed on the room they shared. “I didn’t mean it that way,” she explained again to those who remained. She rarely meant true harm with her judgmental statements, though benign intent didn’t take the sting from the barbs.
Mother walked a few steps to put a trembling hand on Father’s shoulder. He rose and drew her into his embrace, his lips near her temple. Her hands gripped his tunic, then she nodded as if refortified by their moment together.
She laid a hand on his cheek. “We might as well eat,” she said unconvincingly, relying as always on the routines of Alda.
Ingrid miraculously appeared, bringing food that could have been hay for the horses for all they tasted. Rowan stared across the table at the empty chair where Marian usually sat and tried to reconcile the sister he knew with a woman who had…who had willingly participated in the reproductive act.
Men had urges. This he knew well enough. But, did sisters have them? Had Marian met a man she couldn’t resist? Other women did, he thought bitterly, but the image of his sister in the throes of passion with some faceless blackguard made his fingers itch for the hilt again. He rejected the vision even as he continued to wonder.
And where was the rutting blackguard now? What sort of man knew a decent woman in such an intimate way, then simply walked away from her?
He frowned, assaulted by the image of Fia in the light from Heric’s forge. He castigated himself, not for the first time, at the audacity of using her so, and in her dead father’s workplace. For years, he’d thought Fia brought out the best in him, and she had. She’d awakened his protective instincts, brought him the ability to love beyond anything that made sense. Yet that night, she’d pushed him to be someone dangerous, a base man he hardly recognized.
“Rowan, I’ve had word from Metz,” his father said conversationally, unaware that every muscle in Rowan’s body tensed at the topic practically plucked from his own thoughts. “Heric’s widow has given up hope of hiring a weaponsmith. Can’t say I’m surprised.”
“What will they do?” his mother asked, following Father’s lead to lighten the mood so Grandmother might stop sniffling.
“She has a relative south of here. She may have to take the family there.” Father chewed a bite of pork thoughtfully. “Perhaps we could let them break their journey here.”
“Of course,” Mother agreed.
Rowan’s guts tightened. “I’d rather they didn’t,” he said.
His father frowned. “Why?”
Rowan leveled a look at his father he hoped would end the questioning but did not.
“The family has been very kind to you,” Father reminded him.
“Perhaps I should move there and work for Abril so they can all be happy in Metz,” Rowan said hotly.
David’s brows lifted speculatively at the uncharacteristic outburst.
Mother, who’d obviously been thinking about Marian, not houseguests, heard just enough to fly into a fury. “Work in Metz? With Marian’s situation, there will be no more running off. You have responsibilities here that your sister will not be able to meet for you any longer.”
Rowan gripped the edge of the table for a moment before pushing away. “It was meant as a jest, Mother, though I can understand why you might not be in a joking mood at the moment.” He grabbed his cloak from a chair near the hearth and aimed for the door.
“Do not leave,” she called. “You are right. Marian’s announcement has got me —”
“Let him be,” his father advised when Rowan continued his path to the door.
He cringed at the contemplative tone. As little as he’d said, he’d revealed — or perhaps confirmed — something to David that he’d hoped no other person would ever guess. His greatest goal in life was to avoid Fia, and all reminders of her, forever.
Chapter Fourteen
Time was an enemy to a person who carried emotions like a squirrel carried acorns, stuffed away until the skin stretched around them should burst. Could a squirrel even remember the specific shape or perfection of any one acorn, or was it the whole horde that made it feel safe for the winter?
Fia’s vigilantly protected emotions no longer protected her. Their contradictions were tearing her apart. No matter how she fought to keep them all, even her stubborn mind couldn’t hold the lot, not when the most perfect kernel at the core continued to grow of its own accord, forcing the other seeds to make way.
It was the little acorn called Rowan she’d accidentally gathered, he himself now months gone from her sight, yet his burgeoning presence in her heart had forced the release of her iron grip on Victor’s memory, once perfect and smooth but now old, scarred, even rotting a bit at the edges, ready to be buried and let go. And there was Leon, the merchant’s son, who’d never been much of a seed at all yet had sought her company, and recently asked for a decision.
To keep or discard.
She knew what her mother and Celine would have said about Leon now that she’d driven Rowan away.
She was proud to be a tradesman’s daughter. She knew exactly what Leon’s acorn would look like, the weight and size of it, familiar and adequate for a girl like her.
Yet anything could be discarded, it seemed — her years-ago lover, a suitable potential husband, even the foundation of her very identity. Only one thing stuck hard and fast. She analyzed it, having little else to set her mind to as winter set in.
She’d told Rowan she’d been afraid, and she was, because he challenged her. In her secret store, his acorn swelled with the gilded plenty of the aristocracy, borne on a distant tree, unfamiliar and terrifying even to a defiant girl like her. When she peeled back his outer shine, he met her volatility with steady strength and questioned her choices. He forced her to corners of her soul she’d rather not explore. He ignited her in passion and fury and denial, bringing forth every emotion in triple its normal strength.
Yet wanting him, in what once seemed a betrayal, now appeared inevitable. Undeniable. Except she had driven him away, more than thoroughly.
To add to her heartache, her mistake only made her family’s plight more difficult to accept. If she’d only thought for a moment before reacting on that tempestuous night, they would be married and all would be well.
Mam guided her out to the forge after the December holiday, which meant she didn’t want Julius to hear their conversation. Her skin looked sallow in the thin gray light, the creases around her mouth deep and permanent, it seemed. Any sparkle once in her eyes had been scoured away by the increasing challenge of providing for her family.
“I’m losing hope of finding a weaponsmith to help us,” sh
e said, trying and failing to sound brave. “The commission from Metz’s spata will see us to summer but no further. Something must be done in the spring.” She peered hopefully at Fia. “Will Leon betroth himself to you by then? Will his father allow it?”
Fia swallowed guilt. “He has already offered.”
Her mother’s face brightened.
“I said no.”
“But….” Mam’s hands were red and stained from digging roots in the woodland this morning. She rubbed at the cracked skin fretfully.
“It was selfish, I know. He seems…I don’t know…young and foolish, doesn’t he? I’m not sure I could obey him as I should my husband.”
Mam looked at the hearth of the forge, unlit and dark as it had been since the day Rowan finished Metz’s spata. “Then I know what I must do. We will have to go south to live with my brother.” Her expression became distant.
“I’m sorry. I’ve disappointed you again.”
The apology brought her back into Mam’s focus and not in a comforting way. “You cannot spend your life pining for a dead man. Especially not now.”
Fia stiffened. “It is not him.”
Graying brows rose under Mam’s roughly woven veil. “You’ve finally warmed to Rowan,” she said softly.
“Perhaps, but he’s not a prospect for a husband. He told me after Celine’s wedding he hoped to never see me again.” The spoken words tore at her.
Mam cocked her head. “Before he left, after he’d remade the spata, he warned me about your nightmares and the violence you’d seen. The fire. In case you had a strong reaction, so I’d know. He spoke not in the manner of a disinterested former friend, though he did seem a bit…resigned.”
“And now it’s been five months.”
“So it has.”
Fia gripped her mother’s hands tightly. “Celine tried to tell me how stupid I was. Now I’ve ruined my second chance for happiness, and any hope for security for you.”
“Perhaps.” Mam repeated her own word mysteriously.
Chapter Fifteen
April 862
Fia knew what true terror was. She’d experienced it in Paris and relived it occasionally in her nightmares. Giving in to panic, as if she faced a life-threatening situation while she and her family walked placidly alongside a cart arranged for them by the Lord of Metz carrying all their worldly possessions through the late March chill, seemed almost a sin. After all, they were perfectly safe, if a bit tired, as Julius led the mule and Mam recounted to Stella — for not the first time — the tangled family vine leading to the brother who offered them protection and aid.
Mam hadn’t laid eyes on her sibling since her marriage over twenty years before, yet her expression had gone from haunted to accepting as the leagues unwound, leaving the responsibility of the forge and house behind, the proceeds from its sale all the money she might ever have to live on.
Fia could accept the change also. She must, since she’d been the only one with the power to prevent it, and hadn’t. So, last week, she’d bravely hugged Celine goodbye and left behind the only life she’d known. But must she also accept the potential heartbreak of seeing Rowan again?
Ever since Mam had excitedly told them of the invitation offering a night or two of respite at Alda, Fia had struggled to master nerves more frazzled with each day. She longed for and dreaded their arrival almost equally. How would it be to see Rowan again? Would he be at all happy to see her, or had anger and resentment completely won?
He’d been kind enough, after all, to speak with Mam about her and to finish the Lord of Metz’s spata. It had been laid on their doorstep, perfect in the old hilt, made so much better than its predecessor that the nobleman had accepted it at once.
That, and Heric’s forge left in perfect tidiness, had been the last sign of Rowan of Alda, eight months ago. Now, after ten days on foot, Mam thought they would arrive at his home this afternoon, and Fia’s face burned every time she tried to picture it.
Julius paused at a road intersecting the main north to south thoroughfare that, with a few more days steady walking, would take them to the tenant farm in the Sundgau countryside. The first wildflowers of spring clung to the ground between the rows of gnarled grapevines on the rounded hill to their right.
“This could be it, Mam,” he said as he studied the Lord of Alda’s hand-drawn map, made with pictures so they would understand.
“Yes,” she agreed breathlessly. “There, where the grapes are drawn, is the vineyard. And look at the hammer, meaning the forge is over there, and so it is.”
Fia steeled herself. Rowan could very well be there this minute, though no telltale puff of smoke warned of its occupancy. She reached into the small bag at her waist and dug down through bits of thread and some such until her fingers closed on the red disc.
What did he think of their visiting? What would she do when she first saw him? It had been nearly eight months. He could be married, or betrothed, though at least not to Lady Calandra who certainly would have made such news known throughout Metz. What if, the moment she saw him, Rowan introduced his wife?
She sighed. Not a day had passed when she hadn’t thought of him. Now, to see him again — she might throw herself at his feet, or she might be mute and stupid as a post.
She bit her lip as they trundled past the large forge. She stole only quick glances until she was sure it was empty, then she studied the substantial stone structure more openly. Though now dark and silent, signs of recent use hung around it, from the smoky smell to the well-worn path curving from the open front down to the road they now trod.
Initially leading them at an eager pace, Julius wound down to a stop. While she’d studied the forge, he and the rest of the family had been looking ahead at a daunting stone wall presumably surrounding the house that, on the map, looked like a nice sized cottage, not the fortress before them.
Fia gave Papa’s red glass one more rub in a silent bid for strength, then joined her mother and sister in brushing the dust from their bedraggled tunics. They took turns straightening one another’s homespun veils. Julius wriggled away when Fia tried to wipe a smudge from his cheek. Not even the hint of a beard yet, she thought, yet he must somehow find his way in the world without a father.
The protective wall felt like it was casting judgment and finding them unworthy as they circled around to the courtyard entrance on the eastern side. A boy dashed into the house. Almost immediately, David’s towering form appeared on the portico.
“Welcome friends!” he called as he strode to them, bunched together like nervous sheep. His murmured words of sympathy had Mam dashing tears from her cheeks.
“Show us what you need to be brought into the house from the cart, then we’ll park the rest under roof at the stable.”
“My lord,” Mam breathed. “You can’t mean for us to sleep in there.”
He smiled at her. “Of course I do. Where did you think I’d invited you to?”
“Here, but we’ll be comfortable anywhere. The stables or a little hut. Even outside. It has been quite warm at night.”
David continued smiling in a way Fia recognized, the way Rowan did when he planned to get his way without saying a word.
“I had no idea you meant for us to be in there,” Mam said weakly.
He took her by the elbow to lead her inside, then, after only two steps, stopped and turned his head, listening. His smile became a grin as he inexplicably looked at Fia.
“Perfect,” he said. “I think my wife and son are home just in time to greet you.”
Fia feared she might collapse onto the cobblestones. The sight of a striking woman sitting straight as a pike in her saddle fortified her. She locked her knees. She would not embarrass herself in front of the lady who was obviously Rowan’s mother. The woman’s green gaze flicked over Stella and her with equal measure, but Fia couldn’t pay much attention as Faxon trotted through the gateway, his rider as relaxed and commanding as she remembered.
She had to recollect herself as she was introduced to Rochelle of Alda, who said kind words about Fia’s trials in Paris and since, all while assessing her the way a farmer might a nanny goat.
“Come,” she said as she linked Fia’s arm on one side and Mam’s on the other. “Let us go inside to refresh ourselves while the men see to the animals. You too, Stella.”
After they passed, three across, through the door, Fia balked. The hall was enormous, down two steps, with ample carved furnishings and murals painted on the walls. It was everything she’d imagined, only larger and finer even than she’d pictured Lady Calandra’s hall. Her assumption from years ago that she did not belong here returned in full force.
Yet what did the luxury of this room represent? Rowan’s acorn might be gilded, but at his center he was a simple man who longed for a simple life. He had loved her once. She could not give up on that now.
“I won’t be at dinner,” Rowan said to his father after the animals were tied and Julius had followed the stable boy to the kitchen for a treat.
“Yes, you will,” David answered as he rubbed clean straw on the sweaty back of Rochelle’s horse.
“I told you I didn’t want them here.”
Instead of pointing out that Rowan did not yet have the final say over such matters, David asked a probing question. “Why are you so bothered by their coming?”
Rowan set his saddle on a wooden peg in the wall and replied with his own question. “What is it you think you’re about?”
“What are you avoiding?” David laughed when his son folded his arms across his chest. “Don’t try to intimidate me with my own tactics, boy.”
Rowan shook his head. “I never took you for a meddler.”