“Torkel, get down from there,” shouted Benedict. He turned back and put his arm around Autumn. “I’ve got Autumn. She’s a healer, so I don’t need to know about these things.” Benedict pushed the bag back to Nairnie, but she didn’t take it. Instead, the old woman gave him the evil eye. Benedict made a face and faked a shiver. “All right, I suppose it’s time to get going. Let me give Sir Gawain a few last-minute instructions since he’ll be in command until I return.” He handed the bag to his wife and then turned back and called over his shoulder as he headed away, “Lady Winter, you will obey Sir Gawain’s every command. If not, you’ll have to deal with me when I return.”
“Of course, Lord Ravenscar,” she said, just to pacify him. Once he walked away, Autumn spoke up.
“You’re not going to listen to Sir Gawain, are you?”
“That all depends on what he says,” said Winter with a smile.
“Dinna worry, lassie,” Nairnie told Autumn. “I promise to keep an eye on Lady Winter like a hawk. I willna let her out of my sight. I’ve already had a vision that she’s goin’ to need me and that is why I stayed.”
“What kind of vision, Nairnie?” asked Winter. The old woman was known for having visions of death and all of them coming true – except for her own.
“I dinna ken for sure, but I see ye gettin’ on a ship soon, and it is no’ this one.”
“I’ll be going on a journey?” asked Winter excitedly.
“No’ if I can help it,” the old woman told her. “Because what I saw was no’ a pleasure trip but, instead, one of lies and deceit and possibly danger.”
Winter didn’t answer because, deep inside, the idea somehow brought her to life. If there was somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be or something she wasn’t supposed to do – then she wanted it to happen more than ever.
Little did she know that it would happen sooner than anyone could have ever imagined.
Chapter 3
Sir Martin de Grey paced the battlements of Castle Heaton, feeling the weight of the world upon his shoulders. From his castle on the border, he peered north. Over the rolling hills and the vast expanse of land was Scotland - his biggest challenge. Also, his greatest enemy.
“My lord, are you up here?” His squire, Rock, made his way up the stairs to the walkway two at a time. “Ah, I thought I’d find you here staring off into the distance at bonnie Scotland.”
“How many times have I told you never to bother me when I’m thinking?” Martin continued pacing. “And Scotland is bloody, not bonnie. I never want to hear you repeat anything like that about it again.”
“You’re thinking about Dunbar Castle and Clan Dunbar again, aren’t you? Are you still planning on attacking?”
Martin stopped his pacing and turned to look at his squire. “You know as well as anyone that Clan Dunbar has been our enemy for as long as I’ve been alive.”
“I know. The feud,” said Rock, picking at a hangnail as if Martin’s words were of little importance.
“How can you sound so aloof?” asked Martin. “What is the matter with you?”
“Nothing, my lord.” Rock dropped his hand to his side and looked over the battlements toward Scotland. The boy’s name was Philip, but everyone called him Rock since his emotions as well as his nerves were so steady that nothing seemed to ever rattle him. “I just don’t understand what the feud is really about,” he said. Rock was nearing the age of knighthood at twenty years old. He’d proven to be a good comrade in battle by his loyalty, guarding Martin’s back in the last dozen battles.
“You seem to forget that Clan Dunbar is holding my brother in their dungeon. Isn’t that reason enough?”
“Ah, yes.” Rock closed his eyes and took a deep breath as the wind whipped through his shoulder-length honey-colored hair. “I remember they have Jamesson. I also remember that we are holding their laird’s son, Aidar in our dungeons as well. Or did you forget?” He peered out at Martin from the corners of his half-closed eyes.
“Squire, you are trying my last nerve. If there is something you wish to say, then do it already.”
“Permission to speak freely, my lord?” Rock turned to face him.
“What in the blazes did I just say? Sometimes, I think Rock is a good name for you since that head of yours is as thick as stone.”
“Why don’t you try again calling a truce?” asked Rock. “Return Aidar and, in exchange, demand they return Jamesson to you.”
“I tried that already and it didn’t work. I won’t approach Dunbar on it a second time since he isn’t interested in peace.” Although he’d, indeed, tried a truce, Martin was not one to negotiate either. All his life, Martin had fought for what he wanted. He’d usually get it, too. His father was a weak man and punished by God because of it. Martin’s mother had taken his sisters and left to live in France, far away from her husband. This was all because his father, Lambert de Grey, had negotiated when he should have insisted his wife stay. Martin and Jamesson stayed in Northumberland with their father, while Martin’s mother took the girls and left, never to return.
“There will be no truce,” spat Martin. “The Dunbars will pay for what they did to my family. Before I’m through, their castle will be mine.”
Martin stormed down the stairs, making his way to the great hall where he knew he’d find his father. Even though it was midday and the meal wouldn’t be served for hours yet, Lambert de Grey sat on a bench, warming his hands by the fire. He stared at the flames as if all his answers to his problems would be found there.
“Father,” he said, giving his eyes a moment to get accustomed to the dark hall before making his way across the room. Martin’s Peregrine falcon, Andromeda, flew to him. He held out his leather-clad arm, and the bird landed atop it in silent stealth. “Hello, Andromeda,” he said, running a finger over the bird’s feathered head. Black eyes rimmed in yellow stared into his as if to tell him his father fared no better. The bird’s eyes moved back and forth as it turned its head as if it were listening. Then it made a few high-pitched screeching noises and took off in flight across the room, most likely chasing down a mouse.
Martin sat down next to his father – the broken, confused excuse of a man. At one time, Lambert de Grey was a mighty warrior, always eager to fight and never to back down from anyone no matter how dangerous the situation. That was his downfall, Martin supposed. Ever since that awful accident two years ago, the man had become addled and was now nothing short of the castle’s fool.
“I’ll be gone for a while, but I’ll send Brother Theodore to look after you until I return.” He spoke, but wasn’t sure his father ever heard a word he said.
“She’s coming back to me,” Lambert mumbled, staring into the fire and smiling. “Any day now, she’ll be back, and things will be what they used to be.”
Martin had little patience where his father was concerned. For two long years, he’d watched the man turn into a pathetic excuse for a human being. He’d had enough of it and couldn’t take it anymore.
“Dammit, you old fool, she’s never coming back,” he shouted, getting to his feet. His father stood up and looked at him as if he didn’t understand. “You made your choices and so did Mother. She’s married to someone else now, so stop holding on to something that will never be.”
“Nay, you’re wrong,” said his father, anger showing in his eyes. It was the first time in a long time that Martin had seen any kind of emotion from his father other than pity for himself. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. She still loves me, as I do her.”
“Love makes a man weak,” spat Martin. “In your case, it’s destroyed you! Go back to staring at your fire and living in a dream that can never be. You’re no help to me.”
“What do you need my help with?” asked Lambert, his eyes narrowing as he said it.
“You are so obsessed with the past that you can’t see what’s going on in the present. The Dunbars have Jamesson. They’re holding him prisoner and might kill him.”
“Ja
messon?”
“Your other son, Father. If you were half the man you used to be, you’d be at my side to attack Clan Dunbar and take back from them what is ours.”
“I’ve lost another son,” said the man, sinking atop the bench, staring into the fire again. “She’ll be back, and then I’ll ask her what to do. Lady Amelia will know what to do. We’ll wait and ask her.”
Martin turned and stormed through the great hall, wanting to kill anyone who got in his way. Mayhap he should shake his father or beat some sense into the addlepated man.
“My lord,” said Rock, stopping short of crashing into Martin as he left the great hall. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”
“Pack what we’ll need for a short trip, Squire,” he commanded, looking over his shoulder and calling for his bird. “Come, Andromeda.” The falcon flew through the great hall and over his head, out into the courtyard.
“Where are we going?” asked Rock, running to keep up with him.
“I’ll wait no longer for the sword Ravenscar promised me. If he won’t send it to me, then I’ll collect it myself.”
“The sword?” asked Rock. “The one the blacksmith is crafting you from the Damascus steel?
“That’s the one. It’ll be the best sword in all of England and exactly what I need to lead my army to East Lothian, so I can rescue Jamesson, kill Laird Gregor Dunbar, and lay siege to his castle.”
Rock stopped in his tracks and let out a sigh. That caused Martin to turn on his heel. “What is it now?” he asked. “Something else you don’t agree with, Squire? Perhaps you think I should wait another two months for a weapon that should have been completed a month ago?”
“Nay, I didn’t say that at all,” said Rock. “I was just wondering. Will you kill Ravenscar if the sword isn’t finished yet?”
“I just might,” he said, his fingers curling over the hilt of his sword. “I never should have trusted that conniving, no-good thief in the first place. My only saving grace is that I’ve got the blacksmith’s son. Then again, Ravenscar might have killed his blacksmith and sold my steel by now for all I know.”
“And if that happened, my lord? Then what will you do?” asked Rock calmly.
“Don’t ask questions to which you don’t want to know the answers,” said Martin, turning and heading for the stable. “We’ll take the ship to Ravenscar instead of riding since it’ll be faster. I don’t have any more time to waste. For all I know, Jamesson could already be dead.”
Chapter 4
It had only been three days since Autumn and Benedict left on their trip but, already, the little town of Ravenscar was bustling with tradesmen. Word had spread quickly about the death of the infamous past lord of the castle, and now ships were docking at the port. Traveling merchants were arriving by cart or on foot.
The town was still a long way from being presentable, but the tradesmen didn’t seem to mind. Ravenscar had, at one time, been a well-known port, and the excitement that it was no longer off-limits not only brought people from near and far but also helped lift the spirits of the townsfolk. All except for Wallace.
“Wallace, come help me,” said Winter, hammering out a peel that was for the baker. The peel, or shovel-like tool, was constructed with a flat sheet of metal attached to a long wooden pole. The wooden pole didn’t get as hot in the ovens and was easier to hold than one made of metal. However, the thin metal end was easier to use in scooping up the loaves of bread. “We have orders to fill from some of the visitors and tradesmen and need to work faster. We have a shield to fix for Sir Eldon from Canterbury, and a chatelaine from a neighboring castle wants us to duplicate a key. Not to mention, Father George said one of the hinges broke on the door to the church. I told them all we’d have the work done today.”
“I’m doing all I can to keep up with you,” said Wallace, fumbling with a punch and saw. “Lady Winter, this is too much. We need to hire more help. I wish my son were here.”
Winter noticed the wave of emotion wash over Wallace’s face. He didn’t look well. Wallace was not much help and probably wouldn’t be until his heart was in his work. And that wasn’t going to happen until Josef returned.
She looked over her shoulder at the trunk that held the Damascus steel. It was going to be near impossible to forge a sword of that quality when she didn’t have the time. But it was the only thing that would bring Josef back to Wallace. If only she had the answers.
“Oh, no!” she heard Wallace exclaim, right before the tools went clattering to the ground. Winter looked up to see him staring out the door.
“What’s the matter?” She stepped away from her work, wiping her hands on a rag.
“It’s him.”
“Who?” she asked, stretching her neck to peer out the door. Her guard from the castle leaned lazily against a barrel, his eyes fastened on the whores standing outside the tavern a few doors down.
“De Grey. T-that’s the man who has my son.”
“De Grey?” Her eyes fastened to a nobleman dismounting his horse. His squire slogged through the mud next to him, taking the reins from his lord. Lord de Grey said a few words to her guard who straightened up and bowed to him before pointing to the door of the smithy. De Grey looked up and nodded. Then he marched toward the shop like a man with a purpose.
“Lord de Grey,” said Wallace, hurrying over to greet the man as he entered the room. The knight was very tall and had to duck to come through the door. He stepped inside and blinked, letting his eyes get accustomed to the dimly-lit room. Winter slinked back into the shadows.
“Blacksmith, I’ve come for my sword,” said de Grey.
“M-my lord,” stammered Wallace. My son – is he well? Is he with you?” Wallace looked out the window and then at the knight.
“Nay, he’s not here,” said de Grey.
“When will he return?”
“You know the deal. Once the sword is completed and meets my standards, I’ll send a ship back with your son on it. Now, where is my sword?”
Lord de Grey scanned the room and stopped when he noticed Winter. Their eyes met – his dark blue orbs perusing her from head to foot.
“Who is this, Blacksmith?” he asked, making his way across the room. Winter stood still, not sure what to do. She was donned in Wallace’s wife’s clothes and wore a leather apron. Her arms were bare – something that was uncommon to see, especially for a noblewoman.
“My lord, this is –”
“Win . . . Winnie. My name is Winnie,” she interrupted, not wanting this man to know she was a noblewoman. Not yet. First, she wanted to see what he was going to do when he found out the sword hadn’t even been started yet.
“Winnie,” he repeated, reaching out and brushing soot from her cheek. “I’ve never seen a woman working the forge before. Blacksmith, you have a very comely daughter.”
Wallace was about to tell him her identity, so Winter interrupted yet again.
“Your sword isn’t finished yet,” she boldly told him.
“Address me properly, wench,” he commanded, making her want to cry out that he should do the same to her. Instead, she forced a slight smile and nodded.
“Forgive me. My lord,” she added, pushing the words from her mouth.
“So, how close are you to being done?” He spoke to Wallace and acted as if she weren’t even there. A typical action from men, especially a nobleman who thought he was so much better than everyone else.
“I – I haven’t started yet,” Wallace said, and then cringed as he waited for Lord de Grey’s reaction.
“Don’t jest with me, Blacksmith, or I’ll have your head. We had a deal! You were supposed to have my sword completed a month ago. Now, do you have it or not?”
“He’s been very distraught lately since the death of his wife,” Winter said, stepping out from behind the anvil. “If you’ll just give us a little more time, I’m sure we can have it completed soon.”
“We?” Lord de Grey lifted one brow.
“He,” she corre
cted herself. “I am just here to assist him. With the little things – to help him out. Since you took his son,” she added as an afterthought.
The glare he gave her could be seen even without bright light.
“Let me see it,” he told the blacksmith, holding out his hand.
“I – I . . .” said Wallace, looking to Winter with fear in his eyes. She had to help him.
“I’ll get it,” she offered, walking over to the trunk and lifting the lid. When she picked up the metal and turned around, Lord de Grey was standing so close that she almost hit him. Her eyes traveled upward, drinking in his manly beauty. His black hair was shoulder-length and clean and very shiny. She held up the hunk of metal and waited for his reaction. His eyes grew angry and a vein bulged at the side of his neck. This was going to be a horrible situation for Wallace. She had to do something fast.
“I’ll have your head for this, Blacksmith,” he ground out, snatching the metal from her hands. When he did, their fingers touched. It seemed to jolt him. A surge of heat coursed through her.
“Please, my lord. Give him another chance,” she said.
“There is no time for second chances. I’ll take up this issue with Lord Ravenscar right away.”
“He’s not here, my lord,” said Wallace. “Please, do not hurt my son.”
“Not here? Where is he?”
“He is on a trip with his new wife and won’t return for some time,” Wallace told him.
“That’s a lie! He isn’t married,” said de Grey.
Winter stepped in to help Wallace. “The Lord Ravenscar you made a deal with is dead,” she said. “The new lord of the castle is the one of which Wallace speaks.”
“Wallace?” he looked at her oddly. “Do you always call your father by his name?”
She didn’t answer.
Martin de Grey had a hard time concentrating on the fact he wanted to kill the blacksmith. The beautiful daughter of the tradesman had taken his interest and now all he could think about was that he had to have her. Never had he seen a girl in the forge. And never in his life had he wanted to bed a common wench the way he did this girl named Winnie.
Winter's Flame (Seasons of Fortitude Series Book 4) Page 3