HEARTS AFLAME

by Nancy Morse

  They both rose awkwardly to their feet.

  “Show me Metz’s spata,” he said.

  Her brow furrowed. “Why?”

  “Perhaps I can fix it before I leave.” There was no mistaking the doubt in her expression. “Are you so uncertain of the skill of your father’s student?”

  “He told me he wasn’t even sure he’d be able to do it.”

  “So you said. Show me.”

  The blade was, indeed, a splintered mess, though the three pieces fit together like a child’s puzzle. “Why is he so intent on fixing it, rather than having a new blade?” Rowan asked.

  “Some men are very sentimental about their weapons.”

  “True enough. I’ll ask Abril’s permission first, but I don’t think there is any harm in letting me have a try.”

  Fia rolled her eyes. “You know very well what she’ll say.”

  “If I can do the work, the Lord of Metz will be happy, and your family can get the commission for the job. Why not try?”

  “And what do you get?”

  “I want to help you…your family.” The brow furrowed again. “And, if I can claim this as proof of my skill at the forge, more work will come my direction.”

  “That makes some sense,” she grudgingly admitted. She fingered the smallest of the shards. “Do you really think you can do it?”

  “If I put my mind to it, yes.”

  He didn’t think hard about his deeper motivations. The project challenged him, true enough, and he did want to help Fia’s family, but there was also this renewed, fragile bond between them. While at his depths he longed for another day, hour, minute, with her, at her depths the hatred was thawing. If he left tomorrow, he might never see her again, and whatever was still frozen would be held in ice forever.

  After eating enough dinner to placate her mother, Fia curled up on her pallet and concentrated on the pattern of thatch and mud in the wall to blank her mind, which refused to be blanked. Papa gone. Rowan here. Victor gone. Rowan here.

  She’d nearly dozed off when a familiar voice teased, “Lying around like Lady Calandra, I see.”

  “Celine!” She leaped up to catch the malleable roundish figure of her friend in a tight hug, such a comfort after the weeks of grief and raw survival, with no one but Rowan to talk to.

  Every aspect of her friend was agreeable, from her thin brown brows to her habit of folding her hands together like a nun. Only the jutting chin she’d inherited from her father offset the placidity and gave her an air of stubbornness. Stubborn she was not, though she could be confident in her opinions. And calm, much like the weaponsmith who rattled around in the forge behind the house even now.

  “Shall we take a walk?” Celine asked, noticing the sheen of tears in Fia’s eyes.

  It was not an unusual activity for them on a balmy summer evening, and Stella tagged along, making them a threesome, with Fia in the middle, an arm linked to her sister on one side and her friend on the other. A rather attractive threesome if judged by the reactions of the few men they passed.

  “I’m so sorry about your father,” Celine said. She leaned forward to make sure Stella heard the quiet words. “When I heard the news, I could hardly bear it.”

  Stella sniffled and Fia squeezed her arm tightly.

  “You were so excited about your journey to Paris. Were there any good parts, before the Northmen came?”

  Celine and Stella listened, rapt, as Fia described the journey and seeing the city on the island, and the exterior of the great house of the count. “Of course, by the time we left, the city wasn’t nearly so grand since the Vikings had burned most of it.”

  “Does ‘we’ refer to your old friend Rowan?” Celine asked coyly as they meandered through the comparatively unimpressive streets of Metz.

  Stella looked up, as eager as Celine to discuss Rowan.

  Celine added, “I saw him behind your house. He appears even…hmmm, healthier than he was a few years ago.”

  “Though I’m grateful to him for bringing me home, he cannot be my friend as you both well know.”

  “Of course not. Who would want a handsome, strong, wealthy man to call a friend?” Celine said. “Does he still fancy you?”

  Stella snorted with laughter.

  “That doesn’t matter. My feelings about him have never gone beyond friendship. And they won’t!”

  “Your sister is almost of age.” Celine studied Fia’s face, then Stella’s. “Perhaps she should try for him,” she said teasingly.

  Fia elbowed Celine.

  “I wouldn’t mind,” Stella ventured.

  Fia’s mouth dropped open. “You are barely fifteen years old. Rowan is a man full grown.”

  Celine’s knowing smile and Stella’s giggle made Fia’s face burn.

  “Full grown and then some,” Stella noted.

  Fia stopped in the street that on a market day might be busy but at the moment was nearly deserted. “Stella, you’re being improper, and Celine, you’re betrothed. You shouldn’t even be looking at another man.”

  “Marriage is a practical matter, as we’ve discussed before,” Celine said primly as she tugged Fia into motion again. “I know what is due my husband.”

  “Yes, and I can’t help but wonder how different my life would be if Rowan hadn’t interfered in my chance to have a husband.”

  “Are you still distracted by that?”

  “Of course I am. Do you think I can just forget Victor?”

  “Time has passed. Your situation has changed.” When Fia would have protested, Celine spoke over her. “You no longer have the luxury of holding on to lost love. You or your sister — or even your mother — needs to marry.”

  Fia stopped, utterly shocked for a second time, now only a few steps from home. “My mother? Papa isn’t dead two months.”

  “Two months will seem like a long time when you don’t have bread to eat or a roof over your head.”

  “I’ll get married,” Stella said gamely.

  Celine took a step back to assess the girl then shook her head. “The trouble is, you need to find a man with enough wealth to take on the lot of you. You’re still a bit green to reach so high. I think it must be Fia. Her beautiful skin alone would make most unmarried tradesmen ask for her hand.”

  “Why not set up an auction in the street?” Fia said, exasperated.

  “Or you could discreetly catch the man living at your house,” Celine said, equally exasperated.

  “I can’t marry him. He ruined my life!”

  “And now he’ll make up for his mistake by saving your life.”

  Fia rubbed her eyes. “He already did that once, by getting me out of Paris.”

  “There! You see? Victor never did anything half so chivalrous,” Celine pointed out. “All he did was run off to get killed for no good reason at all. How did such selfishness earn eternal loyalty?”

  At Fia’s murderous glare, Celine turned questioningly to Stella, who shrugged and shook her head as she gave her unsolicited opinion. “I’ve never understood it. He always made my skin feel like it was crawling, like lice were jumping off him and onto me.”

  Tears sprung into Fia’s eyes. “I loved Victor, and he didn’t die on purpose, and if he’d lived we’d all at least have a safe place to go. Rowan ruined that. I’ll certainly never marry him, and he knows it. Not that he’s asked,” she added quickly.

  Celine was long deadened to Fia’s outbursts about Victor. “You don’t have the luxury of such foolishness any longer,” she repeated.

  “Wanting a man I respect isn’t foolishness.”

  Celine shrugged. “I want a man who doesn’t allow me to starve and takes the burden off my parents to care for me.”

  “You found that,” Fia said, picturing Celine’s betrothed, an inelegant, portly widower. There were no children from his first wife, and his parents were dead, leaving a fine two-room house for their marital bower.

  “Yes, I did,”
Celine said without rancor. “You should, both of you, set yourselves to a similar task.”

  Chapter Ten

  The market street bustled with activity a week later, grit underfoot becoming a fine sifting of dust that tinged the air yellow. Fia had bought salt and a single bone needle to replace one Stella had carelessly broken. Now she wandered, stealing a few precious minutes by herself. She should hurry home but hadn’t had a moment alone since Rowan found her in Paris. Her mind insisted on skittering, jumping, and diving like the summer bugs flying around her, occasionally even crashing into something hard and immovable such as the wall of a shop, or in the case of her internal musings, Rowan of Alda.

  How had he become so intertwined in everything, an integral part of her memories of Papa’s death, and Victor, and now her family’s future with this commission he might complete on their behalf? Celine’s insistence he was a worthy suitor nagged at her — her friend knew better than anyone how his lies to Papa had ruined her hopes — and now she’d gone so far as to invite him to her wedding in six days and given Fia an expectant waggle of her brows when he’d accepted.

  Such thoughts intruded on her day and night, even though she barely saw him. He kept to the forge to practice methods for joining metal to metal. The clanging sound of the hammer comforted all of them in some mindless way. It was not Papa’s sound, exactly, but it was the sound of home and security. Julius especially was drawn to it, and Rowan helped him with some of the simpler smithing tasks he’d been learning.

  Fia found herself looking forward to meals, when he often sat next to her but never forced conversation. She reminded herself to keep her distance, that he would soon be gone. And then she might just be empty of everything but the pain again.

  Her hand drifted over folded rectangles of cloth displayed outside the weaver’s shop. The motion stopped as if of its own will on a tempting length of gold linen.

  “I’d heard you were back,” a cheery feminine voice announced. “The news of your father was unfortunate.”

  Fia turned but kept her head down. If the voice hadn’t been warning enough, the costly leather slippers told her exactly who’d spoken to her. “Thank you, Lady Calandra.”

  “Now my father will have to find a new smith for the town.”

  Fia’s mouth opened and closed as her mind chewed on the idea that Papa’s replacement was already a foregone conclusion.

  “You really shouldn’t touch the wares when you know you won’t buy them. I never see you tradesman girls in anything but the rawest colors.”

  Fia’s hand involuntarily removed itself from the cloth to brush at her gray tunic, the one the monks had given her that she’d thought was at least a little pretty. She slanted a look at the noblewoman, younger than her, but in every way her superior, with her rosy cheeks and confident posture swathed in sky blue.

  Calandra wrinkled her nose at the linen on display. “Such a mustardy color. I’d think it would make anyone sallow.”

  “You are too fair for it, certainly,” Fia agreed, eager for an escape that wouldn’t give offense. Though essentially harmless, Calandra must be shown deference. At least that’s what Mam and Papa always said.

  As she searched the street for an excuse to leave, the sight of Rowan standing nearby pretending not to listen made her head drop in embarrassment. Curse him and his talent for observing her worst moments.

  He approached. “Lady Calandra. Fia. Both enjoying the market on a lovely afternoon?”

  Calandra looked like a puppy who’d caught a grasshopper, proud and pleased and not quite sure whether to toy with her treasure or eat it whole. “Rowan of Alda! I’d heard you were in town but could hardly credit the news when you haven’t even dined with us. Where are you hiding yourself?”

  “Duties to a friend’s family have kept me pleasantly occupied,” he said, orienting his body in alignment with Fia as if they faced the overeager woman together.

  Calandra’s hazel eyes widened before she smiled in understanding. “You mean Heric. For a moment I thought you referred to your old friendship with Fia, but no, that would never do, would it? After all, she cannot possibly think to look higher than she did in that unfortunate business with Father’s distant cousin.”

  Fia’s face turned to stone while Rowan’s maddeningly twitched in a barely suppressed smile. “How many generations back does your recollection of ancient history extend?”

  “Some families may weave cloth or bang on hot metal for their business. Mine tends to this town. I take my knowledge of it seriously.” She wiped her hands as if ridding them of filth. “Now, do tell me you will at least sleep at our home, even if your duties for a friend keep you busy at other times of the day. I haven’t seen you in years and would dearly love to become reacquainted.”

  Reacquainted? Fia seethed. Yet why should she care? This was just the type of woman he should marry. Calandra was his social equal, with wealth and a well-connected father who would help him navigate in the aristocratic sphere when he was forced from the forge to do so. Did Lady Calandra know of his work in trade? Had she noticed he always smelled faintly of smoke with the added tang of metal on his hands?

  “I am comfortably situated but…perhaps dinner,” Rowan said.

  Calandra clapped her soft white hands together. “Tomorrow, then? Mother will be so pleased.”

  He bowed, all elegance and aristocracy. Fia backed up a step. This was his world, yet it still rankled when displayed to her. It had been Victor’s world too, though his branch of the aristocratic tree had not been so lofty.

  Calandra sashayed away, trailed by a young servant boy carrying more parcels than Fia cared to count.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked Rowan sharply.

  “I was asking the goldsmith his advice on joining the broken metal pieces.”

  “Was he able to help you?”

  “He had an idea I can try, though he warned me of the exact problem I’m encountering. With the original structure of the metal broken, the blade may never be as strong. In fact, it could be unacceptably weak at those seams.”

  “So you’ve given up?”

  “I told Abril I would fix it, and I will.” He turned to peruse the table and a finger unerringly touched the gold cloth. “Was it this one you were looking at?”

  “No.”

  His smile goaded her. “Yes, it was.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  He shrugged. “You and your family should have new clothes. For the wedding. That would cheer your mother, wouldn’t it?”

  She stared at her bare toes, mortified by the offer. “Charity will not cheer any of us.”

  “’Tisn’t charity, ’tis room and board.”

  She lifted her chin to challenge him. “Food has been mysteriously appearing in our baskets.”

  He shrugged.

  “And you’re sleeping in the workshop. I think this cloth is too dear for such mean accommodations. Besides, how much longer do you intend to stay?”

  He seemed hesitant to answer but finally did. “In truth, I should be gone already. Father sent another message.”

  “Is he asking for you?”

  “There is a royal assembly Marian will have to attend in my stead, with the Lord of Ribeauville as her chaperone, because I am here and Father’s ankle has been bothering him. Father even tried to imply an aid to King Lothair inquired about me.”

  “Then you must go! We would never want to cause trouble for you, especially not with your family.”

  “I thought, as an adult, that I had the right to choose for myself,” he said with an arched brow.

  “You do, I suppose,” she said, confused. “But perhaps you don’t. You know better than I would. Please. Think. You’ve already done so much, and I’d hate for you to be rewarded with anger from those who do have a bit of authority over you.”

  “I have agreed to eat dinner with Lady Calandra and her mother, and I have accepted an invitation to yo
ur friend’s wedding. What sort of nobleman would I be if I reneged on two promises in one week?”

  “What sort will you be if you gain the king’s attention for desertion?”

  He frowned at her, then reached out like a snake strike to grab the cloth. His brown eyes flicked over the other choices before he selected a larger bolt for Fia’s inspection. “This one for Abril and Stella, I think. And what do you think for Julius?”

  “Rowan, please. You are already doing so much for us.”

  “It pleases me to do it.”

  “But people will talk.”

  “You mean people like Lady Calandra?”

  She looked away, miserable that he’d heard enough to piece it all together.

  “I never knew you were made an object of ridicule because of me, and I’m sorry for it.” He sighed. “Not everyone thinks as she does. The Lord of Ribeauville, whom I just mentioned, married his tailor’s daughter. And she still makes his clothing while he helps rule the kingdom. I don’t see her as any less a lady than my mother.”

  “Your beliefs are easy because of your station.”

  “Fair enough. Does Calandra bother you often? Do others belittle you?”

  “Not the way they once did. With you and Victor both gone, I went back to my place and everything returned to normal.”

  “So her attention to you today was unusual?”

  Fia coughed out a humorless laugh. “You heard her. She knew you were in Metz. She merely reminded me nothing has changed.”

  “Indeed. Nothing has changed.” He looked at the table again. “The green for Julius?”

  “He would look very handsome in it,” she admitted, then she flushed, ashamed of her greed. “Please, don’t buy it.”

  He gave her that silent, disapproving look before he carried the three bundles to the merchant. Fia waited in the shadows as he bought them, even remembering to ask for thread.

  “I’ll take these to your mother while you finish your shopping,” he said matter-of-factly. He turned away.

  “Rowan,” she called impulsively. “Thank you. You…you are a good man.”