Page 3 of The Blacksmith

More likely than not, she was sitting at Idalia’s mother’s bedside, something the maid often chided her for doing.

I have been her maid for as many years as you are alive, she would say. Which was not fully correct—Idalia had only been alive for two and twenty years, and Marina had been her mother’s most trusted servant for four years longer. Sometimes it felt as if Idalia had two mothers.

“Follow me,” she instructed the men, catching her father’s small smile. Seeing one of his rare smiles almost made missing market day worthwhile.

Taking them past the great stairs on either side of the entranceway to the keep, Idalia nearly missed the flash of royal blue.

Her younger sister. She wished to call out to Tilly, but it was unlikely she’d get a response. Tilly disliked helping with the duties about Stanton. Sure enough, the flash of blue was there and then gone.

By the time she showed the men to their chambers and sent up a squire to assist them with their armor, Dawson, the seneschal, had already spoken to Cook about dinner and arranged baths for the three men.

His help had eased the burden of the unexpected guests, but Idalia had one more thing to do before she could check on her mother. The captain had made a special request of her—or rather, of the smith. She left the great keep and walked through the courtyard down to the castle forge. Stepping around puddles that had formed on the gravel path after that morning’s rain, she arrived, the door, as always, already open.

“Daryon,” she said, stepping into the darkened room. “Is there enough light to repair a shoe?”

The apprentice looked up, hammer in hand. His brother had already begun tidying up. It was a habit Roland had instilled in his apprentices. Idalia pushed the thought away. When she thought of how the blacksmith had suffered before he’d succumbed to an illness all had known would claim him someday, a familiar pang in her chest reminded her of the master smith’s absence.

“Aye, my lady.” He looked at her hand.

“I don’t have it with me but will send it straightaway. ’Tis for the king’s captain,” she added.

“Shall I fetch it from the stables?” the lad’s twin brother, Miles, asked. At only ten and two, the boys were carrying a responsibility that should never have been asked of them. Two apprentices smithing for a castle the size of Stanton . . . she shook her head. The situation could have been avoided had her father taken Roland’s illness more seriously. They should have started looking for a new master smith long ago.

“Aye, thank you. The new master should be arriving any day now.” A replacement smith had finally been found at this year’s Tournament of the North, a yearly event where English knights and Scottish warriors prepared for the very real battles they would later fight.

She wanted the boys to know their hard work had not gone unnoticed. “My father is grateful for your service in the interim.”

As expected, both boys beamed at the praise. And it was true. Although her father rarely seemed to notice her own service to Stanton, he did recognize the boys were much too young for their current position. They were only in their third year of seven in training.

Daryon watched his brother leave. Unlike most others in the keep, Idalia could easily tell the two boys apart, and it was that look that made it so easy. Daryon was by far the more serious of the two.

The boy’s thoughtful eyes darted from the doorway to her. “’Tis market day.”

And Idalia never missed one if she had the choice.

“Aye, but we must see to our royal visitors,” she said.

Three years earlier, her father had received a charter for Stanton to be designated a market town, courtesy of the well-maintained old Roman roads that led both north and south as well as east and west. Many castles did not enjoy such a right, especially in the “wilds” of Northern England, and Idalia was grateful for their good fortune. She visited the market as one of her duties for Stanton—her mother was much too ill to do so. Secretly, she also hoped she would one day find the herb or tonic that might help her mother. The market attracted all sorts, after all. To make such inquiries directly was impossible, however, as her father had forbidden her from speaking of her mother’s worsening condition to anyone.

“Had I known, I would have gone yesterday,” she said. The market day was actually poorly named—it had grown in popularity enough to stretch to two days. “And if the new master does not have the drift you need, I promise to secure your tool on the next market day.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

She could tell Daryon was anxious to get back to work, so she left him to it, intent on visiting with her mother before supper.

And that was when she saw him, the most handsome man she’d ever seen, striding downhill toward the forge.

Toward her.

Chapter 2

Lance didn’t need to be told where the forge was located. He could sense it. Smell it.

He was a blacksmith’s son. An apprentice. A journeyman. And a master smith. He’d spent his life sweltering next to a furnace, never imagining that very profession could be the key to saving his country.

According to the other members of the order, anyway. Others would disagree, including the very man they aimed to bring to heel. The one who claimed a divine right to rule—King John Lackland.

Leaving the wagon he’d carted near the stables with his horse, Lance had gone off in search of the seneschal but spied the forge’s smoke first. By its position, close to the nearby stream, he assumed it had been built away from the other buildings to allow better access to the fresh water needed to quence the metal.