“Some say he’d already been injured in battle. Others deny it. But all agree that when he fell to the ground, dead, it was the spirits who’d caused his death.”
Lance stepped away from the battlement and leaned against the wall of the tower behind them, crossing his arms.
“They were angry at him, I assume?”
Of course he did not believe her. In truth, although Idalia found the story entertaining, she did not believe it either. But many did, as evidenced by the light peeking through the trees.
“Aye, for going to battle with his neighbor, a man many considered honorable.”
She pointed to the light. “A small watchtower was built by his son. To this day, Eller’s Green is never left unguarded.”
That managed to surprise him, she could tell. “That light is a guard’s torch?”
“Aye.”
Lance shook his head. “Seems a waste of a man to me.”
“To pacify the people who very much believe the spirits may return? Mayhap. Mayhap not.”
She did look him fully in the eyes then, and wished she hadn’t. Lance’s face was nothing less than perfection. His brooding stare did nothing to slow down her heartbeat, which had again begun to beat most abnormally.
“Do you believe in evil spirits?”
“Nay,” she admitted. “I do not.”
“So what, Lady Idalia of Stanton, do you believe in?”
6
He should never have followed her.
Nor should he be asking Lady Idalia such questions, but he found himself drawn to her, unable to get her out of his mind.
The fact that she’d visited the forge, twice, told him she was different than most noblewomen, who would never dare to risk a gown that way. But that wasn’t the only thing that drove him to her.
Lance had spoken to several people these past days in his quest to gauge the lord’s interest in the order’s cause, and in so doing, he’d learned quite a bit about the man’s daughter. Not just that she’d assumed her mother’s responsibilities, but that she excelled at them.
Kind. Compassionate. Nurturing.
These were the words he’d heard used most often, and from what he could tell, they rang true.
Beautiful. Haunting.
Those were the words he would use, if asked, about the woman who had inadvertently distracted him from his mission.
“Love.”
It took him a moment to realize it was her response to the question he’d so boldly asked. She believed in love.
At times, he thought her timid. But she could be as bold as Guy, who tended to say and do as he pleased, consequences be damned.
“Love,” he repeated, looking back out at that speck of light beyond the outer curtain walls.
“You don’t agree?”
“They are your beliefs, and not for me to agree or disagree with.”
A better answer than “no.” There was no place in his life for love. Not anymore. It was a dangerous emotion anyway.
“They say women like me cannot marry for love,” she said, her voice sadder than he would like it to be. “But both my mother and sister defied such a sentiment.”
It was the first time she’d mentioned her mother.
“Your parents married for love?” He turned toward her again, trying hard not to dip his gaze down to the creamy pale skin of her neck, and below, which beckoned to him in the darkness.
“Of sorts.”
It appeared that was all she intended to say on the matter, and Lance would not push her.
“So,” she said, peering into his eyes, “if not love, or evil spirits, what do you believe in . . . Lance?”
He liked his name spilling from her lips.
More than he should.
He could not answer her honestly. To speak the truth would be to reveal himself in a way he could not. Instead, he found himself saying, “I believe if you were found here, alone with a blacksmith, there would be much for us both to answer to.”
She only shrugged. “My father does not concern himself in the affairs of women.”
“Surely he does so of his daughters?”
“He is a busy man. And while certainly he cares for my reputation, his focus is on ‘keeping the people of Stanton safe,’” she said, quoting her father.
“A noble cause.” And one that could either work for or against the order, depending on what he decided would most benefit his people.
Idalia sighed. “Aye.”
He sensed a sadness about her when she spoke of her father. Although Lance did not know the Earl of Stanton, he’d met many men like him. In some ways, Idalia’s father and Conrad weren’t dissimilar—both felt the keen responsibility of keeping their land free from those who would seize it, whether they be neighbors, distant relatives, or even the king.
By now, nearly all of the activity in the courtyard below them had ceased. Hidden behind the tower as they were, they were tucked out of sight of the sole guard in their area.
They were alone.
With that knowledge, a vision assaulted him of the gentle lady of Stanton, her hair unbound, as he reached behind her neck and pulled her toward him for a kiss. His body’s immediate reaction forced him to remind himself this was no common maid.
Neither was she just any noblewoman. Lady Idalia was the daughter of the man whose support they needed if this rebellion would come to pass.
“I’m sure he is a finer father than my own.”
Lance had not meant to blurt out such a sentiment. He’d meant only to alleviate his discomfort. But there it was.
“Oh?”
The details were ones he’d not share. With her, or with anyone. Even the order. Only Guy knew the full story, and Lance had always wondered if his friend thought less of him because of it.
“We should go . . .”
“Lance.” She stopped him with her hand, the featherlight touch scorching his arm. He wanted to seize it, use it to pin her against the stone wall.
“I do not know you well”—she pulled her hand away—“but I don’t wish for you to think ill of my father. He is a good man. A noble leader. I believe as you come to know him and the people of Stanton, you will be glad to have come here.”
For reasons that had nothing to do with his purpose, he admitted, “I already am.”
* * *
Idalia woke abruptly, her eyes fluttering to the sound of a door bursting open. She sat up, startled, wondering why her maid was staring at her so strangely.
“Apologies, my lady,” Leana said. “I did not realize you were still abed.”
Confused, Idalia looked at the light shining through the cracks in the window’s shutters. The sun was up already. And she was not.
“Have I missed mass?” she asked as her maid turned to leave.
“Aye, my lady.”
Leana, who was her exact same age of twenty and two, had resided at Stanton her whole life. Her father, Stanton’s cook, had fled Scotland with his bride, who had been forbidden to marry an Englishman.
Tall and as bright and cheerful as her blonde hair, her maid could make the most hardened warrior smile.
“I’m awake.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed, signaling Leana should return.
Washing with the rose-scented water Leana had brought with her, she watched as the maid shook out a pale yellow day gown.
“Was my absence noticed?”
Leana’s pointed look was the only answer she needed.
If she’d missed mass, she’d also neglected to oversee the morning meal following mass. Dawson could just as easily have fulfilled that duty, but her father liked to go over castle accounts each morning immediately after mass. He never broke his fast with them, preferring to eat, and work, in private. There were times she did not see her father all day, and though he did typically attend the evening meal, he had been missing more and more of those as of late.
Since the priest had arrived and declared the countess’s illness spiritual in nature, he seem
ed to be hiding himself away more often than usual.
“I don’t know what overcame me,” she said, removing her shift and stepping into the gown.
Another look. Though she’d asked Leana many, many times to voice her opinions without being asked, the maid still refused to do so.
“Leana?”
She slipped her hands into the arms of the gown, its sleeves fashionably low-hanging, but not so much so she would be unable to perform the many tasks required of her that day.
“’Tis your body speaking to you.” Leana tied the laces at her back. “Since Roysa left, you have been doing all of the tasks she and your mother once did. Give more of the work to Dawson.”
“Dawson more often angers our tenants than pacifies them.”
Leana did not answer, for she knew it to be true. Dealing with Stanton’s tenants, from keeping their homes in good repair to sorting out complaints, just was not the seneschal’s specialty. He was efficient and quite intelligent, but his brusque manner did not lend itself to certain tasks.
“My mother would say that to ignore the signs of the body—”
“Is to ignore the life it possesses,” she finished. “Aye, I’ve heard her say as much many times.”
“And yet . . .”
“And yet, there is no one else,” she said, meeting Leana’s eyes over her shoulder.
That wasn’t precisely true. She did enjoy the tasks she undertook on behalf of her mother, but there were so very many of them. Besides, as Leana finished lacing her gown, it struck her that there was another reason for her late morn.
Lance.
She’d forgotten the dream until now.
Instead of following him down the winding stairs of the Small Tower last eve, she’d grabbed his arm to stop him once again. He’d turned, looked at her as if asking permission, and kissed her.
Moving to the bed in a stupor, Idalia sat and lifted her feet as Leana slipped on her leather shoes. Her mind lingered on that imagined kiss. It struck her that she’d experienced more joy in the thought of kissing the blacksmith than she had in the actual event of kissing the man she’d been briefly betrothed to marry.
The son of a baron, Sir Christopher had visited Stanton more than once, their betrothal contract signed not long after Roysa’s. On his last visit to Stanton, he’d pulled her into a private alcove on the ground floor of the keep and kissed her.
She’d later described the kiss to Leana as “pleasant.” After all, her intended was handsome, the kind of man she should have been thrilled to wed.
When their betrothal was broken less than a sennight later, when their fathers had an argument that could not be resolved, Idalia’s lack of feeling on the matter worried both of her sisters. Perhaps this was the reason.
“My lady?”
She hadn’t noticed Leana watching her. Heat crept up her neck and settled in her cheeks. Though she looked at her questioningly, Idalia knew she could not tell the maid her thoughts.
Or could she?
Idalia considered Leana a dear friend and trusted her as much as she did her sisters. They shared both a thirst for knowledge that motivated them to learn about the world outside of Stanton—and a commitment to making Stanton Castle a comfortable home for all who lived there. Both women, as borderers, knew how quickly everything could be lost. Although Idalia’s own father never spoke to her of such things, thinking them inappropriate to discuss with a woman, let alone his daughter, she knew as much as he did about Stanton’s affairs. Luckily, neither her mother nor Dawson were so tight-lipped about their precarious situation.
Idalia shuddered.
And looked at her maid. Her friend. The only confidant she had left, really, with Roysa gone and her mother so ill. This was not a topic for Tilly’s ears.
Sitting back down, Idalia clasped her fingers together on her lap.
“You can never tell anyone of this.”
Leana’s eyes widened.
“Promise me.”
“You know I’d not speak out of turn.”
Should she really say it aloud?
“The new blacksmith.” Idalia waited, hoping her friend would discern her meaning and she would not have to continue.
But Leana simply looked at her.
“You saw him, in the hall on the Gule of August?”
Leana shook her head. “I was in the kitchens with father and missed the presentation of the gifts.”
Though Leana was not a kitchen maid, she often helped her father as needed.
“You’ve not seen him, then?”
Confused, Leana shook her head. “Nay. But what does he . . . ?” Her mouth formed an O.
Neither of the women had much experience with men. Leana had been promised to a boy from the village, but he’d been killed in a border raid more than three years earlier. Her father was eager to find her another match, much as Idalia’s father sought to find her a husband now that Roysa was married.
Neither woman cared to marry a man they did not love, although they both knew—Idalia, in particular—it was a battle they were destined to lose. Eventually, as the daughter of an earl, she would be wed to whomever her father chose.
“He is handsome, then?”
She thought of the figure he’d cut the night before as they stood side by side on the wall-walk.
“Very handsome.”
“Lord Steffinshire’s son was handsome too,” Leana said, “but I do not remember such a blush on your face.”
Another of her suitors. Leana was right, the baron’s son had indeed been handsome—but he was no Lance Wayland of Marwood.
“I want to see him!” Leana squealed. She fairly ran to the opposite side of Idalia’s chamber and grabbed the used water bowl and cloth. “I will meet you in the courtyard.”
“Wait!”
Her maid was nearly out of the room before she was able to stop her.
“We cannot just go to the forge now because you want to meet him.”
Leana’s look said just the opposite.
“I have much to do this morn . . .”
“All of which will be waiting for you when we return.”
Her heart sped up at the possibility of seeing him again, which was all the more reason to say no.
“We’ve no reason to go there,” she hedged.
“Do we need one?” Leana asked, arching her brow. “We’ll tell him the truth: I was sorry to have missed his offering and asked to be introduced to him. What did he give your father?”
“An iron bracelet. For mother.”
Although Leana didn’t comment, she didn’t need to—the friends knew each other well enough for the words to go unsaid. The gesture had been thoughtful. Kind. And also perceptive.
Still.
“I cannot—” she began.
“Then I will go to him myself.”
With that, the maid walked out, leaving Idalia scrambling to catch up with her. For she knew Leana well and had little desire to imagine what reason she might give the blacksmith for her visit. Though she doubted Leana would reveal her interest, Idalia would not chance such a thing.
Whether she liked it or not, it seemed the first order of the day would be to call on Lance. And if she were being honest with herself, she liked that idea very much.
7
“That’s enough,” Lance said to Daryon. The boy stopped blasting the bellows as Lance thrust the metal into the bright orange fire. He worked without thinking, hammering the metal over and over again until it cooled.
This was the last time it would be heated. The knives had been commissioned by Stanton’s marshal, and thus far he’d made more than twenty of them. Placing the finished knife off to the side to cool, Lance took off his gloves and told the boys to get a drink.
It was essential in this heat to remember to do so, a lesson his father had taught him early and repeated often. Pushing away the thought, he considered instead a conversation from earlier in the morning. Lance had taken mass, even though it was not usually his custom, ho
ping it would help foster more of a connection with the people of Stanton. He’d sat beside one of Stanton’s men-at-arms, and the man’s conversation with the knight beside him had been of interest.
“It will not be long before taxes are raised again,” the man had said to his friend—a common complaint.
However, the unpopularity of King John’s taxes was not necessarily an indication their lord would welcome a mutiny against the man. Still, Lance had listened to their conversation with interest.
“For a war we cannot win,” said the first man.
“Cannot win? It’s already been lost.”
A justified argument. The Battle of Bouvines had been a disaster. As had each of his previous attempts to wage war with France.
English kings had long neglected the concerns of the border lords, but this king may have overstepped.
Taxes had never been higher. The methods of collecting them, never more ruthless. And the money was all being drained not for the betterment of the kingdom but for seemingly endless wars with France. With the latest loss across the seas, Conrad felt the time for action was upon them.
But to revolt against a king, more than their four-men order would be needed.
“Master Lance.”
He’d been so deep in thought, Lance had somehow missed the flash of color at his door.
“Good morn, my lady.” Daryon bowed handsomely to Lady Idalia and the woman at her side, whom he’d not yet met.
“You can join your brother,” he told Daryon, who had stayed to work the bellows, the extra rush of air needed to keep the forge sufficiently hot. Miles had gone to the collier to fetch a supply of charcoal.
Wiping his hands on a cloth used for that purpose, Lance nodded to the women, indicating he would join them outside. As always, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the sun. He’d become accustomed to the darkness of the forge, but still . . .
It seemed just a bit brighter today, although he was admittedly not looking into the sky. Lance’s gaze was firmly on the vision standing just opposite him. The collar and sleeves of Idalia’s yellow kirtle were lined in gold fabric. With low-hanging sleeves and a high neckline, the gown showed little skin, leaving the rest to his imagination.
The Blacksmith: Order of the Broken Blade Page 4