“Did the flower work its magic last night, mistress?” Mariah asked in a teasing voice, almost as Sofia had dozed off. “Did you dream of the man who will be your husband?”
Sofia smiled. She had dreamt of Kayne, but that was not to be surprised at. She dreamt of him almost every night.
“It matters not,” she murmured. “’Tis unlikely that I shall ever wed, Mariah.”
Aye, even though her wish had floated all the way across the river last night, Sofia knew that she spoke the truth. She had told Kayne the same thing only a few days past, and neither wishes nor magic could change what would be. But she might yet cherish such dreams, just as she would ever cherish her memories of the Midsummer Day she’d spent with Kayne.
It was wonderful to be clean and fresh, to smell of sweet roses and leave her hair unbound and flowing. Sofia dressed in her most comfortable chemise and spent the remainder of the day curled up in a pillowed chair, writing missives that had long needed writing and tending to small, pleasant chores that had been put off for too many months, such as rearranging the cupboards and chests that held her collection of herbs and medicines, making small repairs to her favorite surcoats, and mixing a new batch of her favorite scented oil to wear—all selfish tasks that benefited her alone. But Sofia could not feel guilty. Tomorrow she would be busy with her various duties again. For one special day she would do as she pleased.
The next morning, when she rose, feeling much the better and fully refreshed, Sofia dressed and ate and set about her work. She first inspected the servants and the manor itself, gave orders for cleaning and mending and meal preparation, and then sat down in the study behind her father’s table to work on the estate’s ledgers.
At noon, she went to visit with her father, who never woke before then, and who, though much improved, had decided that he should spend another day resting. He was sitting in his large paneled bed with the wooden doors pulled back, breaking his fast with a large quantity of food set upon a tray and two tankards of ale at the ready.
“If, by any chance, we should receive visitors today, Sofia,” he said, clearly meaning Sir Griel, “tell them that I cannot speak to anyone for another week—at the very least.”
“You cannot avoid him forever, Father,” Sofia chided. “If you would simply tell Sir Griel that you refuse his suit, he might begin to leave us in peace.”
Sir Malcolm looked truly ill. “He would more likely take his sword to my head, and that you know as well as I, my dear. And now this business with the blacksmith—I cannot like it, Sofia. Sir Griel will kill us all if he doesn’t get his way. Oh, I wish the blacksmith hadn’t overset him so, besting all his men. ’Tis sure to have done far more harm than good.”
Sofia looked at her father with a measure of surprise. “But you were openly proud of Master Kayne when he won both encounters. You congratulated him long and loudly.”
Sir Malcolm groaned and put his face in his hands. “Don’t speak of it, Sofia. I was too drunk to know what I did, God save me. Sir Griel will hear of it and slice the ears from my head, I vow. Oh, Heaven’s mercy, what shall we do?” He dropped his hands. “You must keep away from Master Kayne from this day on, Sofia. Never go to his smithy again—never even approach his gate. And certainly don’t speak to him if you should meet in the village.”
“Father, that’s but foolishness,” Sofia told him.
“Nay, nay, that is the way it must be, lest we call Sir Griel’s wrath even more greatly upon our heads. Have one of the servants speak to the blacksmith if we have any custom for him, but you must keep far away from him.”
“I cannot,” Sofia protested. “I speak to each of the villagers, one and all, in the same manner and with the same courtesy. ’Twould be wrong to treat Master Kayne differently.”
Her father gave her a hard look. “But you already treat him differently. Do you think me blind, Sofia, or believe that I’ve not noticed the preference you have toward the man? Spending Midsummer Day with him. Kayne the Unknown? Bah!” He threw down the linen napkin he’d used for wiping his lips. “I’ll not have it, a daughter of mine dallying with a commoner—and a lowly blacksmith at that!”
“That lowly blacksmith,” she said with care, striving to contain her anger, “saved you from humiliation at the hands of Sir Griel yesterday, for God alone knows you’d never have been able to protect me from that man’s unwanted advances.”
“Sofia!”
She set her hands on her hips and glared at him. “And Kayne the Unknown saved me, as well—twice—from the attentions of a man whom I utterly loathe. If you would repay such as that with insults, so be it. I will certainly not do so.” She turned to leave the chamber.
“Sofia!” Sir Malcolm shouted after her. “Sofia, you’ll do as I say!”
She whirled about to face him. “Only when I am no longer required to be the master of this estate. Do you wish to take over the duties, Father? Shall I bring you the ledgers and lists, and allow you to direct the servants and speak to your vassals and answer every missive? Will you collect the rents and tithes and pay the same that you owe to the Crown? Only tell me and I will gladly turn it—all of it—over to you now.”
Sir Malcolm had turned red in the face with anger, but after a few moments of blustering he uttered, “You’re a wicked, disrespectful girl, Sofia Ahlgren! I should take a whip to you for speaking to your own father in such an untoward manner.”
“Aye, do,” Sofia dared. “Then I would be the one taken to my bed, and you’d have to turn Sir Griel away when he comes to our door. I vow I’d much rather be bloodied for disrespect than ever see his face again. Give me your leave, Father, and I shall also fetch your whip, along with everything else.”
Sir Malcolm blustered a while more, then at last began to calm. “Foolish girl,” he muttered. “Of course I should never raise a hand to you. Have I ever done so? But, by the Rood, you do press me so with such stubbornness. Befriend the blacksmith, then, if you must.” He gave a wave of his hand. “Ruin yourself and all the rest of us with you. But know this, girl. I’d agree to let Sir Griel have you before I’d ever see you wed to a commoner, and that I swear by God above. My mind is fixed upon it, and shall not be changed.”
Sofia gave him no reply, for this, at last, was something she could not dispute, though heaven alone knew how she wished she could. She quit the room and went directly to the kitchen, where she ignored the complaints of the cook and packed a basket with a loaf of bread and a variety of cheeses and cold meats. To this she added a skin of good red wine and two goblets. Then, taking up her cloak, she left the manor with basket in hand, heading for the blacksmith’s shop.
It was a beautiful day, warm and bright, with a soft breeze blowing, and Sofia felt her spirits rising as she walked toward the village. The fields near the river where the Midsummer festival had been held were cleared of every last sign of the many activities that had taken place two days past. It was almost hard to believe that so much merrymaking had occurred at all in such placid pastures.
Beyond the fields was the forest, and Sofia thought of the kisses Kayne had given her there. Such wonderful kisses—sweeter than anything she had ever known. If she hadn’t already realized that she was in love with Kayne, she surely would have had no doubts after sharing such tender intimacy with him. What she was going to do about loving a common—though not so common—blacksmith was a matter she’d not yet discerned. Indeed, she seemed constantly to be pushing all good sense aside when it came to Kayne—even at the very moment, going to see him simply because her father had upset her so, when she knew very well that naught could ever come of it.
But that was how it was for her. She was in love with a man wholly unsuitable, who she could never wed but longed to be with every moment of both night and day, and who filled her dreams with such strength that she could not find a like strength to fight them—if she’d even desired to fight. Nay, it was beyond her own power to stop what she felt for Kayne the Unknown. If she would be kept from him then it mu
st be done by the hand of another—her father, if he dared, or Sir Griel, if he found a way to stop her physically. Otherwise, she was captive to a force beyond her control, and glad to be so.
When Sofia at last arrived at the smithy, she found the gate closed but not bolted. Casting her gaze up and down the village lane to see whether anyone watched what she did, Sofia carefully pulled the latch and crept into the coolness of the great building.
The soft whinnying of horses greeted her, but little else. It was very much as it had been when she’d first visited Kayne, dark and quiet, with no coals ablaze in the furnace and none of the ringing, clanking sounds of smithy work. A moment of dread possessed her—could Kayne be hurt, as he’d been then, or perhaps even ill? Had Sir Griel somehow managed to visit some terrible harm upon him? The thought sent her striding in the direction of the door that led from the large barn to Kayne’s dwelling, and she entered his home without so much as a knock upon the door.
“Kayne?” she called out, setting her basket down just inside the door. “Kayne, are you here?” She moved slowly into the center of the clean, spare room that comprised the bottom half of the house. Looking upward, toward the stairs, she added, rather foolishly, “’Tis Sofia…come to see if you’re well.”
Nothing. No reply, no sound. She looked about her and saw that he must have earlier been in the lower room, for the remnants of a small fire yet glowed in the hearth, and a black kettle that contained the scrapings of boiled oats yet hung near the flames. On the finely crafted table Kayne used for eating his meals were the clear signs of a meal partaken of only hours before, which had not yet been cleared away. The sight of two pewter bowls and plates—apart from being an unusual find in the house of a blacksmith, for only the very rich could afford to eat from actual plates—reminded Sofia that Kayne had brought a guest to his home two nights before.
“Sir Gwillym?” she called, turning about. “Is anyone here?”
Still no reply, save answering neighs and whinnies from the horses in the barn.
“Where could they have gone?” she murmured aloud, pondering the question. Out riding, perhaps? She’d not looked to see if Tristan was in his stall. But surely not. Kayne’s habits had ever been to rise early and open his gate for custom. The villagers depended upon his skills so greatly, and neither weather nor illness—nor the painful burns he’d suffered in saving Harold Avendale and his family—could keep him from attending to his work. Sofia well remembered how she had argued with him regarding the care of the wounds she’d tended after the fire, telling him openly that he was a fool to go back to his smithy too soon, but he’d not listened to her. The farmers of Wirth could not till their fields unless they had a blacksmith to repair their plows and scythes or to shoe their cattle, and the women of Wirth could not keep their families whole if there was no blacksmith to mend their pots and kettles.
If such painful burns as he’d had then could not keep him from his labors, very little else could. Sofia cast another glance upstairs, and without thinking too much upon what she did, began to climb them. She was well familiar with Kayne’s bedchamber, having spent a great deal of time in it during the weeks following the fire. But during those tense days, when he might so easily have become ill from his wounds and died, she’d paid little attention to the room’s actual character. Now, as she walked into it, she took note of all that made it so unusual.
Like the rest of Kayne’s dwelling, it was large and airy and filled with as much natural light as any room she’d ever before known. Four glass-paned windows—the cost of which Sofia couldn’t begin to measure—were covered only by the finest and thinnest of white linen cloth, and these Kayne kept drawn back by hooks upon each of the room’s four walls, so that both sunlight and moonlight streamed freely in and the music of rain and wind could be readily heard.
She had thought that winter’s biting chill would seep into the dwelling through such windows, and yet it had ever seemed most pleasant and comfortable during the cold weeks in which she’d tended Kayne. She had learned that one reason why was that the hearths and chimneys had been built using the latest knowledge, so that they drew cleanly and put out a greater amount of heat.
Kayne’s bed was a thing of beauty, simply but finely built, as all of his furniture was, but very large so that a man as big as he was might move about comfortably, and fitted with a feather mattress that was both firm enough to hold him and yet soft enough to seem most inviting. He had spurned the idea of wooden panels as foolish—so he had told her once during the long hours of her care of him—and had instead decided upon curtains. These, just like those that hung over the windows, had ever been tied back upon the bedposts whenever Sofia had occasion to see them.
But what a strange thing that was, she thought as she moved farther into the quiet, comfortable room, that she should be so intimately acquainted with not only a man’s private chamber, but also with his bed, knowing whether its curtains were seldom tied back or not.
Lifting a hand, she touched one of the curtains, feeling the fine cloth beneath her fingertips. The bed was made and the chamber itself was neat and clean and uncluttered—just as Kayne himself was, a purely simple man.
Sofia gave a sigh and, using both hands, pushed herself up to sit upon the high mattress. She hooked the low heels of her soft boots against the bed rail in a comfortable pose and sat in thoughtful silence.
There was something about Kayne’s house, even more about his bedchamber, that invited peace of mind. He had clearly intended that it be thus, for every inch of the house proclaimed the monkish life he’d sought—at no small cost—in Wirth. A part of it was the cleanness and simpleness, even to the lines of the furniture, but another was that the chambers were paneled almost entirely in wood, rather than brick or mortar. And not the dark, rough wood that might be seen in a tavern, but a light, smooth, polished wood that gleamed from the light given by both sun and hearth. Sofia had never seen the like before, or known anything more beautiful and pleasing to the senses.
Oh, where could Kayne be?
Sofia didn’t know whether she should be more distressed by Kayne’s absence, or by the grave disappointment she felt at that absence. She was in a sad way, indeed, if such as that could bring her low.
With another sigh, she pushed from the bed to stand upon her feet, knowing that she must not allow herself the luxury of thinking that she might intrude upon his privacy in so ready a manner. She was not his wife, nor even his betrothed, and had no right to sit upon his bed and wish for him—nor even to enter his home as she had done, unannounced and uninvited, as if she were naught but a thief.
Nay, she would not intrude upon him so, loving him as she did and wishing to protect all that was of value to him. She would return to Ahlgren Manor and take up her many duties, and then, later, she would make her round of the village to see if there were any who required her aid in some…
“What is this?” she murmured softly, seeing for the first time the door which fell open from the midst of one wall—a door that, unless it were open, would have gone entirely unseen. She had spent many an hour in the chamber, yet had never known it was there, so closely did it blend in with the golden panels that lined the wall. There was not even a latch that Sofia could see as she moved to inspect the door, touching it with careful fingers and letting curiosity get the better of her as she at last swung it wide to reveal the closet beyond.
“God’s mercy,” Sofia whispered at what she saw before her, and the next moment went down on her knees to inspect more closely the gleaming suit of armor that hung in the secret compartment. With reverent care, she brushed her fingertips over the leg guard, shaking her head with disbelief. This was a knight’s armor—but, nay, even more than that. It was armor such as only a very great and noble knight would wear, bright silver trimmed with gold, polished to such a blinding brilliance that Sofia was almost dazed by it, and yet so heavily dented that there could be no question of the many battles it had seen. Staring up at the face plate, she coul
d almost see Kayne’s blue eyes peering from beneath the visor.
But there was more. Beneath the armor, swathed in heavy velvet, lay a great, many-jeweled sword.
“So it’s true,” she said. “The rumor. How could anyone have known?” She touched one of the jewels in the hilt, a large square ruby. Even she hadn’t known—she, who’d been in Kayne’s dwelling far more often than anyone else in Wirth. This secret closet had been too well concealed to be so easily discovered. “Next I’ll find a treasure chest filled with gold and jewels,” she muttered, sitting back on her heels and letting her gaze wander all about the closet. There were other articles of war hidden within. A large shield that matched the armor, though even more dented, emblazoned with the King’s own colors, two fine bows and a quiver filled with arrows, a crossbow, several shorter swords and half a dozen daggers in a variety of lengths. Finally, hanging upon wooden pegs in the farthest corner of the closet, there were several sets of courtly clothes, all made of fine cloth and beautifully ornamented with gold, silver, and more precious jewels. There were garments made of pure white silk to drape over the suit of armor, whenever it was worn before the King, and soft-footed boots such as noblemen wore.
“Kayne,” Sofia said softly, feeling a measure of distress and wonderment, “what can this mean? Who can you be, to possess such things?”
“He is a very great man, Mistress Sofia,” someone said from the chamber door, “but you did not need to see such hidden treasures to know that.”
Sofia turned with a gasp to see Sir Gwillym leaning against the doorway, his arms folded indolently across his chest and a smile on his handsome face. He was far improved from what she had seen of him two nights before, clean and dressed in some of Kayne’s clothes, which she recognized.
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