“’Tis unusual for a lady, is it not?”
She looked up quickly.
“Aye. But I was quite close with Roland.”
Lance leaned against a table where tools lay scattered. They were everywhere. Hanging on the walls, covering each surface. But it was precisely that disorder that had always appealed to her, a refreshing change from her so very structured life.
“You said he was beloved here.”
“His father served as blacksmith before him.”
Had she imagined the dark look that passed over his features? The new smith seemed to smile little, but her remark had displeased him somehow. Was it because he’d been met with a cool reception?
“I can help you,” she blurted out.
He stared at her, his expression indiscernible.
“Ingrain yourself here in Stanton,” she clarified. “We celebrate with the Gule of August feast in three days’ time. The keep will be filled as the farmers come with their offerings, and all are welcome to join the feast. ’Tis a custom for the craftsmen to offer my father a token of their finest work. Show him, everyone, what you can do.”
“In three days?”
“Admittedly it is not much time, and there are those who do not participate.” She shrugged her shoulders. “’Tis not required of you to do so.”
“But you believe I should?”
“Aye.”
“Why would you help me?”
She hadn’t expected the question. Why indeed?
“’Tis what I do,” she said simply. A true enough statement.
He shifted his position, his arms reaching down to grab the edge of the table. Which was when she noticed the design on his left arm. She’d never seen anything quite like it.
“What is it?” she asked, moving closer. The black mark was etched into the skin across his upper arm. But it was only when he twisted it a bit that she could see the design clearly.
“The fleur-de-lis.”
An odd marking for an English blacksmith. Before she realized what she was doing, Idalia reached out as if to touch it, pulling back at the last moment.
“Go on,” he said.
His eyes were brown. A deep, dark brown that seemed appropriate to his visage. To his intensity too.
“I would not be so bold,” she said, her cheeks warming at the realization she’d nearly touched him.
“I believe you would.”
Her head snapped up at that.
“Go on,” he prompted again, still holding his arm out to her.
Although she knew she should do otherwise—she should leave and never come back—she reached a tentative finger up to trace the delicate design. She’d expected it to be raised but instead it felt like . . . skin. Hard, warm. And for some reason, she traced the design in its entirety, as if memorizing the details.
“’Tis beautiful.”
She pulled her hand away.
“Aye.”
Lance was looking directly at her as he said it. That look gripped her, sending the oddest sensation through her entire body, right down to her core.
Desire.
Idalia put some distance between them, stepping back.
“What does it mean?”
He opened his mouth, as if to tell her, when a familiar voice called to her from outside.
“Idalia? There you are. Dawson is asking for you. And Cook needs a word.”
Her chest rose and fell as she looked between Lance and her sister.
“This is our new smith, Master Lance. I’m pleased to introduce my sister, Lady Tilly,” she said.
“Well met,” her sister said, nodding toward the door. Her gaze only briefly lingered on Lance, as if she did not realize he was the most compelling man who’d ever set foot in Stanton. “You’re needed at the keep.”
Always.
Smiling at the smith, Idalia wondered at his grim expression as she followed her sister out into the sun. Away from the darkness of the blacksmith’s shop. Away from the blacksmith himself.
A dangerous man, to be sure, in more ways than one.
4
He’d not seen her since their interaction in the forge three days earlier.
Lance stood in the back of the great hall, waiting for his turn to present the item in his hands to the earl. This would be his first contact with the man their order so desperately needed. Without his support, their mission was sure to falter.
As the other skilled workers presented their handiwork to the earl, Lance kept his eyes on the dais. They sat in a row. The earl, Lady Idalia, her younger sister, and then an empty seat, presumably the one typically occupied by Lady Emmeline.
He’d not learned much about the countess, other than that she was ill, and had been for some time. Some even said she was dying.
As Idalia had predicted, the people of Stanton were not eager to welcome the replacement for their beloved former smith. The situation was complicated by the fact that Conrad had urged him to make haste.
His friend’s directive had been clear.
Go to Stanton Castle. Speak to its people, discern the earl’s leanings. If it was as they suspected, his name having been whispered among John’s dissenters, garner his support for their cause.
“The new smith is presenting to Lord Stanton.”
Although he couldn’t see who’d spoken, Lance heard the approval behind the remark. The boys had told him how important this feast was to the people of Stanton. According to Miles, the harvest was so poor one year, many had died of starvation. Though he had been just a babe at the time, his mother had told the boys of the horrors that had brought Stanton, and its people, to its knees. The next year, after a harvest that had helped the land and people recover, they’d celebrated the Gule of August for the first time. It had felt like the miracle Stanton needed—and so, a sacred new tradition had started.
Had he not participated in the festivities, Lance would likely have found his position here even more tenuous than it was already.
I can help you. It’s what I do.
He could not take his eyes off her, despite knowing he should. It had become clear to him, both in their brief interactions and what he’d heard over the last few days, that she was every bit the lady of the castle. She’d assumed her mother’s responsibilities with an elegance and ease everyone admired.
When she’d touched his arm that day, Lance had realized his attraction to her was no simple problem. If her father suspected the new smith woke in the night to visions of his daughter, a very proper noble lady, lying beneath him, more than his position at Stanton would be at stake.
With that thought in mind, he tore his gaze from her to focus on the father.
Lance had first seen the earl at the Tournament of the North many years earlier. The earl no longer participated, but, like many of the older nobles, he saw the tournament as an opportunity to strengthen old alliances and forge new ones.
Lance smiled at the thought. It had certainly done that for him. For the order.
“A right old bastard,” Conrad had called him, though none at Stanton seemed to hold his friend’s same opinion. Indeed, he was as beloved as the old smith. But since Conrad was predisposed to dislike the earl, owing to his own father’s feud with Lord Stanton, Lance would have to assess the man solely on his own merit.
He was next.
A bright blue banner with a single gold lion in its center covered the wall behind the earl’s family. Lance shook off the similarity to John’s coat of arms, knowing both symbols had been created long before either man was born.
Even so, the similarity, especially coupled with the fact that the king’s men had recently paid a visit to Stanton, was disconcerting.
“Master Lance Wayland, the new smith,” the tall, older seneschal announced.
Avoiding Idalia’s gaze, Lance instead looked directly into the eyes of the Earl of Stanton. Neither of them smiled. He bowed and awaited instruction.
“Wayland?” Stanton’s tone was deep and strong. An earl�
��s voice. “You’ve much to live up to, then,” he said, referring to his name.
“And will do so, my lord.”
A bold claim, to match the skill of a mythological smith said to have forged more than seven hundred rings for his king.
But also a fine introduction for the unusual piece he’d brought with him.
“I arrived less than a fortnight ago but am pleased to present this piece to my lord.”
He handed the bracelet to the seneschal, still watching the earl—which meant he knew the exact moment the earl realized it was not, in fact, for him.
“A gift for a woman worthy of it.”
He could see people on either side of him straining to get a look at the piece. The chatter began almost immediately, as he’d expected it would.
If Lance had learned anything in his years of service to fine lords, it was that a nobleman such as Stanton needed no gifts. Nor was he as worthy to receive them as the woman who’d borne his children.
Or, in this case, the child who had grown into a woman herself.
He let the earl incorrectly assume he’d made the iron bracelet, a delicate piece of twisted metal that very few could achieve, as an offering for the countess.
You play with fire.
Lance would have smiled were he ever inclined to do so. Aye, it had been a bold move—a risky one too. But so was their plan.
“You forged this here?”
The earl turned the bracelet around in his hands.
“I did, my lord.”
When he looked up, it was with the new respect Lance needed to earn.
“Very good, smith. Lady Emmeline will thank you for it.”
He nodded. “Then I am well pleased.”
Without looking her way, Lance turned and left the hall, silently thanking Lady Idalia for her assistance.
If only he could thank her properly, he would gladly do so.
5
Though Idalia had been holding her mother’s hand for some time, sitting beside her bed in the wooden visitor’s chair, her mother had not awoken or even stirred. Idalia had begun to fall asleep herself, exhausted from the feast the day before, when a slight squeeze of her hand forced her eyes open.
“You appear tired,” her mother said, her voice cracking. She tilted her head toward the sole window in the chamber. “’Tis evening.”
Idalia wasn’t sure how her mother knew since the sole window in the room was nearly always shuttered at her request. The light hurt her eyes, making the pain in her head worse.
“Aye, Mother.”
Still holding her mother’s hand, Idalia reached over to pick up the remarkable iron bracelet that sat on the table next to her mother’s bed.
“A gift for the lady of Stanton,” she said.
Her mother took it with her free hand.
“From?”
“The new smith. An offering for the Gule of August.”
She watched as her mother turned it over in her hand.
“What is the engraving?”
Twisted in the center with two flat pieces on each end, it was as beautiful a piece as Idalia had ever seen. “It looks like a circle to me.”
She’d been tempted to ask the one man who knew for certain, but it did not seem a good enough reason to visit the forge. While it was true she’d spent quite a bit of time there when Roland was alive, Master Lance was not Roland. And if her father had disapproved of her visits before, he would certainly do so now.
She hadn’t realized her mother was watching her.
They’d looked quite a bit alike once, but her mother’s illness had taken a harsh toll. When the whites of the countess’s eyes had begun to take on a yellow tint, the physician had suggested they consult a priest.
“I’m sorry to have missed the feast.” She handed the bracelet back to her. “Your father must have been surprised by his offering.”
Idalia nodded. “Indeed.” She placed the bracelet back on the table.
“What is he like, the new smith?”
She grasped her mother’s frail hand once again. There was a time, not long ago, these pains came and went, naught but an inconvenience. A time when her grip had still been firm and strong.
That time had passed.
“He is . . .”
Handsome. Intense. He makes my heart feel like it’s dropping down to my stomach every time I see him.
“Kind.”
Idalia squirmed in the wooden chair as her mother watched her.
“Kind?”
“Aye.”
“Hmmm.”
Her mother’s watchful eyes finally closed. If at all possible, she looked worse today than she had the day before. Fear thrummed inside her. “Marina will be along soon with food . . .”
When her mother shook her head, she took on the commanding tone she’d learned from the very woman who now lay before her.
“Mother, you will eat something.”
Another murmur as her breathing slowed and she drifted off to sleep. Though Idalia hated how often her mother slept, she knew it brought her much-needed relief. Squeezing her mother’s hand once more, she went in search of the lady’s maid and found her returning from the kitchens.
Nearly the same age as the countess, Marina had served Stanton since before Idalia was born. Her dark hair was now sprinkled with gray, though it was difficult to see under the head covering she always wore.
“She’s asleep again,” she told the plump maid. “Please force her to eat something.”
“I will try.”
Together, they walked through the buttery, which connected the kitchens to the great hall. Barrels of drink surrounded them, the stone walls keeping the chamber cool. “The stores of wine are low,” she commented as they walked through.
It was true. Idalia had planned to speak with a new wine merchant on market day. The last shipment they’d received had included too many bottles that had gone sour. They could not afford the waste.
“I will speak with Dawson in the morning.”
“Very good. Now off for some rest yourself, my lady.”
With that, Marina shuffled off into the hall, disappearing along the back wall, which led to the lord and lady’s chamber.
It had been a long few days, but Idalia wasn’t quite ready to retire for the evening. She wandered out into the courtyard without stopping to find a torch. The full moon provided enough light to illuminate her path to the Small Tower.
Though the courtyard was mostly empty by now, guardsmen passed through, preparing for their night watch. Just as she was about to unlock the door securing the tower, a chicken ran by, chased by a child she didn’t recognize. Idalia knew most everyone who lived within the castle walls, so she briefly considered following the boy to question him.
The promise of a few moments of quiet beckoned, however, and she made her way up to the wall-walk. Once at the top, she took a deep breath, watching as lights diminished in the village below, one by one.
“A most unusual tower.”
She spun around at the voice—deep, rich, and familiar—not having heard anyone behind her.
Immediately Idalia’s heart began to thud, so quickly she wondered if he could hear it.
“Good eve, Master—”
“Just Lance, if it pleases you.”
Lance. She’d begun to use the given name in her head, but to do so aloud . . .
“You followed me.”
“I did. You left the door unlocked.”
She nearly blurted out another question, one she had no right to ask. But from his clean trewes and linen shirt and still-damp hair, Idalia wondered if he’d been to the public bathhouse in the village or somehow managed to secure a private bath.
Why had such a thought even passed through her mind? Her older sister had always been the boldest of the three sisters, though sometimes Idalia thought Tilly might not be far behind.
“Why?” she asked.
“I imagined the view would be better up here than down in the courtyard.
”
By now her heartbeat should have returned to normal.
It had not even slowed.
“And is it?” she pressed.
He walked past her, close enough for her to catch his scent. She could smell dried woodruff and decided he must have somehow arranged for a private bath. It was not a common fragrance here in Stanton, but the scent was most pleasing.
As was the man himself. He stood shoulder to shoulder with her now, or would have if he weren’t so much taller. In reality, it was more like shoulder to upper arm.
“What is that, in the distance?” he asked, pointing.
Idalia, accustomed to the torchlight where there should be none, smiled in anticipation of the tale she was about to tell.
“The spirits of Eller’s Green dwell there.”
She wasn’t surprised he looked skeptical.
Pretending, as best she could, that her heart wasn’t still racing as fast as her sister Tilly fled from her duties around the keep, Idalia explained, “We Northerners, as you know, are a superstitious lot.”
“I know it well,” he said, his lips tilting up slightly, although it could not quite be called a smile. “A good friend of mine, a Scot, takes a coin with him into every battle, believing he would otherwise be killed. He found it after his first battle, lying on the ground with no bodies close by or indication of where it had come from. Having been spared in the bloody altercation, Terric sees his coin as a sign. I fear for him to lose it, not because I think it protects him but because Terric truly believes it has special powers.”
She smiled, understanding completely. Nodding to the light, she said, “None know why the wooded area there is called Eller’s Green, but it’s been so named for generations. Stanton Castle was granted to my great-grandfather, and according to those who know the tale best, the spirits were out there long before that.”
She nearly laughed at his dubious expression.
“The lord of Stanton was returning home from battle when he dismounted his horse right there.” She pointed just beyond the tower, to a thickly wooded area close to the source of the light. “Just beyond those trees.”
The noises of the day had abated, and the quiet struck Idalia, reminding her she was very much alone with this handsome man.
The Blacksmith: Order of the Broken Blade Page 3