Page 8 of The Blacksmith

If Lance and his friends were to rebel against the most powerful man in the country, one whose ruthless extortion of his barons had prompted them to form the order, they would need the Earl of Stanton’s support. Without it, they had little chance of bringing King John to heel.

That Stanton had needed a new blacksmith just when they needed powerful allies had been either a lucky happenstance or a sign. While he was glad for it, Lance did not necessarily agree with Conrad, who’d suggested it was divine fate. “The fates clear a path to the one man who will convince all others,” he’d said after sharing the entirety of his plan to him in that tent. That plan had led him here.

“Go back to London,” the man sitting next to him muttered, presumably to the king’s men.

None responded, but it was the opening Lance needed.

“Nord.”

It was a risk. A Nord battle cry. More than a word.

When he was answered with grunts and nods, Lance breathed more easily. These were Northerners like him, but that did not mean their lord was on his side.

Unlike some of the others who had declared publicly against John after his most recent defeat in France, Stanton had remained silent on the matter. According to Conrad, whose father and Stanton had disliked each other so intensely Conrad could not risk approaching the man himself, the earl’s father had served the king well. The son had done the same, back when Henry was still king. He’d even served as his judicar.

But that had been before John. Before the taxes that increased so often, for a failed war with France, his men could no longer pay them. Before the kidnappings, John’s answer to his barons’ inability to pay constantly increasing taxes. Just before the tournament yet another baron’s daughter had been taken by the king’s men after her father refused to pay twenty thousand marks for permission to secure her marriage. Before the aggression on his own people— the barons and earls in the north who had begun to take a stand.

Lance remained silent for the remainder of the meal. It had been an eventful first day, and he knew when to retreat.

He also knew better than to look up at the dais again. But although he was a disciplined man, and a smart one, the instinct was too strong to be denied.

The summer sun shone bright, a welcome relief from the rain of the past three days. It was nearing time for dinner, but their royal guests had just departed, leaving Idalia a few moments of respite. She’d already attended mass and visited with her mother, who now lay on two heads of garlic under her pillow courtesy of Tilly. After speaking to cook about provisions for the day and seeking out the tutor to discuss her sister, who’d missed another lesson that morn, she’d decided a visit to the forge was necessary.

It is my duty to see to the smith as I would any worker in the castle. It has naught to do with how he looked at me last eve.

She knew that was not altogether true, but it wasn’t a fabrication either. The marshal had asked for the help of one or both of the boys at the smithy. Two of the stable boys had fallen ill, both on the same day.

As she approached the forge, smoke billowed out of the stone building. She thought of Roland, who had served Stanton Castle since before she was born. The people were not alone in their grief over losing him.

“The impurities will crack off as you twist it.”

The low voice reached her ears as she came to a stop in the open doorway. Miles and Daryon stood watching, transfixed, as the new smith leaned over the anvil, his back to her. She could see the awe on the boys’ faces and wondered what Lance was about.

Idalia took a step inside, somewhat accustomed to the heat in the tool-lined space. Roland’s work had always fascinated her, and she’d spent more time down here than her father would have liked.

“Master Roland never twisted a nail before,” Miles said to the smith.

She took another step toward them, and froze.

Lance’s arms were bare. Covered in soot but very, very bare. As he held up his handiwork, muscled biceps and thick forearms moving in unison, she could not help but admire his form. And though she quickly looked away, toward the bright orange metal clasped between the tongs he held, she could tell by his expression she’d been caught.

He didn’t smile, exactly, but the corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly.

“He could twist a metal rod,” Daryon clarified, “but that nail is so small.”

“It’s called a rope twist,” Lance said, still looking at her.

Idalia swallowed. She’d never minded the heat in the forge before, but suddenly it engulfed her. As did his stare. She couldn’t look away.

He finally broke the stare, turning to his young apprentices.

Her shoulders fell. Idalia could breathe again.

Of sorts.

“This is a very special nail,” Lance said. “I’ll be showing you a new technique each day.”

He dropped the nail to the side and handed Miles his pliers.