The Blacksmith: Order of the Broken Blade

by Mecca, Cecelia

  “You . . . left?”

  “Aye.”

  “But where did you go?”

  “The Tournament of the North. I’d gone with my father and our overlord many times before. That’s where I met Guy three years earlier.”

  “You had”—she tried to imagine it—“nothing?”

  “Nothing,” he repeated. “But the hope that I had saved my mother from my father. I begged her to come with me, but she refused. Before I left, I told my father I would be back, and that if he ever touched my mother again, I would kill him.”

  Her eyes widened. He was serious. “You would have killed your own father?”

  “Aye.”

  Idalia shivered.

  “What happened next?” she asked quickly, filling the awkward silence that followed his admission. One she could never hold against him given the circumstances.

  “That story, my lady, is for another time. I did manage to secure my position with Lord Bohun at the tournament.”

  Her heart in her throat, she asked, “Did you ever see your mother again?”

  “Only twice after that. Both times I went home, prepared to make good on my promise. But mother insisted he never touched her after that. The third time I found my way back to the home of my birth, she was already dead.”

  Idalia blinked.

  “A fever took her and never left. She died within a fortnight. The other villagers confirmed my father’s story.”

  Idalia cupped his face in her hands.

  “You are a good man,” she said, meaning every word. “The bravest man I know.”

  She could tell he did not believe her.

  But neither did he dismiss her words. Instead, Lance simply stood there looking at her, his eyes searching for something. Redemption, perhaps?

  “There’s more.” She could sense he’d not told her everything. But Idalia also knew it was all she’d get from him this night.

  He ground his jaw, contemplating, but in the end, he did not utter another word.

  She wouldn’t press him for more. Not yet. Idalia did not have to ask to know he’d told her a story he did not share with many people. Instead of speaking, or releasing the tears that filled her eyes, she stood on her tiptoes and placed her lips on his, attempting to soothe away the pain she saw in his eyes. She’d only wanted to help heal him, but the kiss quickly turned from innocent to something more.

  When he claimed her mouth, she answered by pulling him closer.

  Which was when she realized her mother was even more prescient than she’d thought.

  Idalia was falling in love with the blacksmith.

  16

  “You’ve improved.”

  Lance sheathed his sword, pleased to hear it. The two of them left the clearing for Lance’s private chambers.

  “You have not,” he said to Guy without smiling, though his friend knew he did not mean it. In fact, Guy Lavallais was an expert swordsman. He’d been raised by mercenaries, knighted by the French king, and was notorious for never losing a match. In every tournament he entered, he came away the victor of the sword, disarming his opponents at will.

  It was Guy who’d taught Lance to use a sword upon their first meeting at the Tournament of the North. It was also Guy who’d helped him secure a position with Lord Bohun, one that had ensured he need not return to his father.

  Unfortunately, that had also meant leaving behind the one person who’d loved him above all others, the kindest woman who’d ever lived. To this day, Lance was unsure if his mother had told him the truth when she’d claimed his father had stopped the abuse. At the time, he’d taken her at her word.

  He’d wanted to believe it.

  “For a man in love, your disposition is far from pleasant.”

  Lance stopped as they returned to his private chambers at the back of the forge.

  “I am not a man in love.”

  Yet his mind went back to the night before, to the countess’s confident declaration that her daughter loved him. His friend had been relentless in his interrogation about that meeting, but Lance had refused to tell him anything. Nor would he do so now, out in the open.

  As soon as they entered the private chambers behind the forge, Guy unbelted his sword and laid it on the sole table in the place Lance now called home. Though small, it was larger than his last home and not so much bigger than the one in which he was raised.

  “Your behavior says otherwise,” Guy quibbled.

  Lance sat on the bed, hands on his knees.

  “You’re certain there is no mission to which you should be attending?”

  Guy’s impertinent smile was his answer.

  “Since securing Stanton’s support is essential, no. After last eve, I’ve a sense I shouldn’t leave the job solely to you.”

  He shouldn’t ask questions to which he already knew the answer.

  Both men fell silent.

  For a man in love.

  He had never been in love before. He’d bedded women, but only those with little expectation of a future with him. Widows, mostly.

  Idalia was different.

  He mourned every moment they were not together even though he knew he should be concentrating on the task at hand. And while he’d heard some encouraging news today—the earl had apparently paid a visit the previous month to a border lord who was vocal with his disdain for the king’s current practices—Lance’s thoughts were filled with Idalia.

  And her mother. Would she truly welcome a blacksmith as her daughter’s husband? It seemed unlikely, despite her words.

  “You are distracted.”

  Lance did not deny it.

  “While we sit here at Stanton, the king continues to wreak havoc on all of our lives. Even Stanton’s own village shows signs of peasants’ suffering courtesy of John’s outrageous taxes.”

  Also true.

  “Lance? For Christ’s sake, are you listening to me?”

  Accustomed to his friend’s fiery temper, he ignored the tone and answered his question. “Aye. And am getting closer to the truth. When the time is right, I will ask for an audience.”

  “Ask her.” Guy began pacing his small room. “A few poignant questions and you’ll have the information you need. Don’t be a fool, Lance.”

  He was afraid it may be too late for that.

  “Listen to me.” Guy stopped directly in front of him. “How do you think this ends?”

  Lance clenched his hands into fists at his sides.

  “Stanton will support our order,” Guy continued, “or he will not. Either way, we’ll end up leaving. As comfortable as this may be”—he swept his hands around to indicate the chambers—“it is not your home.”

  Though Guy’s words rang true, Lance disliked hearing them aloud.

  “An earl’s daughter deserves more than a blacksmith for a husband,” he said, his voice flat.

  Guy’s lips tightened. “I said no such thing.”

  “You did not need to.”

  Of course, it was true. If her mother’s suggestion had made him imagine, only for a moment, waking up beside Idalia, blessedly naked and sated, it was his own stubborn fault.

  “If you were a king, it would not matter.”

  Lance looked up.

  “If there is any man less willing to accept a chance at happiness than you, I don’t know of him. Not that I am suggesting your happiness should be found with this particular woman.”

  He was becoming more and more impatient with this conversation. “My happiness does not matter. Nor does yours. What matters,” he said firmly, thinking of Lord Bohun’s inability to properly feed his people “is the Order of the Broken Blade.”

  “If you truly believe that”—Guy’s expression softened—“then talk to her.”

  Talk to Idalia about her father.

  Such a simple request. But if Lance questioned her about her father’s loyalties, he knew it would forever mar their time together.

  I could tell her everything.

  Lance dismissed t
he thought as soon as it came to him. His duty was to the order and his country. Not a woman he’d just met, no matter how lovely, or kind.

  * * *

  He wasn’t coming.

  Idalia waited at their usual spot, one which had been hers alone for so many years. And she’d been content with that. Until now.

  When a crack of thunder sounded in the distance, Idalia took it as a sign it was time to leave. Either that or get her mother’s favorite gown wet as the rain looked to soon be coming. Lifting the violet material, she concentrated on memories of her mother instead of . . . him.

  This gown had come as a surprise. A gift for May Day. She remembered the day her mother had given it to her—she’d burst into Idalia’s room. Roysa and Marina had both been with her, Roysa in a beautiful yellow gown. Marina had carried this violet confection in her arms.

  Idalia had sensed her mother was eager to please her, so she’d exclaimed over the vibrant color of the new gown while listening to her sister’s exclamations of delight.

  What a lovely day that had been. It seemed so long ago now.

  When the rain came more quickly than she’d expected, Idalia ran to the hall. She made it through the doors, which the servants opened for her just before the rain turned into a deluge. The heavy doors were closed behind her, and Idalia nodded her thanks—only to reel backward when she saw her father turn the corner directly in front of her.

  “Father,” she exclaimed.

  “Ah, there you are.”

  Dawson came running up from behind him. Apparently he’d been looking for her as well. Idalia’s heart sank. “Is it Mother?”

  The two exchanged an inscrutable look, frowning.

  “Of sorts,” her father said. And before he could utter another word, Idalia took off in the direction of her chamber.

  “Hold, daughter,” he called behind her. “Your mother is well.”

  She stopped.

  “Well? But . . .”

  “She bade me seek you out.”

  No words could have alarmed her more. Had she told him about Lance after all? Her father would not, she was certain, share her mother’s sentiments.

  Did it matter? If he didn’t come tonight, surely it was because he’d been repelled by her mother’s words.

  Her father nodded to Dawson, who left them. The hall was far from empty as servants moved the trestle tables to the sides of the room to prepare for the night. Ushering her to a private alcove, her father indicated that she should sit.

  “What did she”—Idalia swallowed—“tell you?”

  “That she told you of her first marriage,” he said, without preamble.

  Oh.

  Idalia resisted asking if her mother had said anything else, but since he did not seem to be flying into a rage, she guessed he didn’t know all.

  “I was surprised,” she hedged, unsure of what else to say.

  “That’s to be expected.”

  Idalia waited.

  “She also warned me.”

  Her heart pounded uncomfortably in her chest.

  “Warned you?”

  Her father’s eyes had always fascinated her. Their shade was somewhere between brown and green and blue. If she were to ask three people the color, they would each give a different answer.

  She watched them narrow.

  “You are not the lady of Stanton.”

  Idalia’s breath caught. Did he think she’d been acting above her station in the castle?

  “I mean to say, with Roysa gone and your mother—” he frowned—“ill, we have . . . I have relied on you, perhaps more so than I should.”

  Idalia let out a breath, grateful to have misunderstood. “I do not mind, Father,” she said truthfully. “Stanton Castle is my home, and it brings me great joy to care for it. To care for its people.”

  When he didn’t respond, Idalia wondered if she’d said something wrong.

  “It is my duty to protect you, your mother and sister, and all of Stanton.”

  “Of course. I did not mean—”

  “I fear I am not making myself clear.”

  She hated to agree with him on that point, but she didn’t quite understand what he meant to say.

  “There is nothing more important to me,” he said, as if that clarified his words.

  Unfortunately, it did not.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “There are things . . . things we cannot control, happening in our country right now.”

  Oh. He spoke of the king.

  Although he’d never outright said so, she knew her father disagreed with many of King John’s policies. She waited patiently, expecting him to say more, but he did not. Perhaps she should feel grateful for what little he had revealed. This was as much as her father ever spoke to her of anything other than matters of the household.

  “I understand, Father.”

  And she thought she did. Though he was reticent on the matter, others talked openly about what was happening in their country. About the taxes and war with France. One that none wanted except for their king.

  “Very good,” he said, visibly more relaxed than he’d been before. “Then I’ll leave you to”—he looked around the hall—“the evening,” he finished. “Or what is left of it.”

  She stood when he did.

  “Thank you, Father.”

  Though he did not smile, exactly, the corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. But his eyes were troubled. Because of Mother? The situation with the king?

  There was one person who would know what vexed her father, and though the hour was late, she thought a visit with Mother might just take her mind off Lance.

  Even though her mother was the one who had, however unintentionally, scared him off.

  Just as well. What Idalia planned to tell him this eve would have likely done so as effectively as her mother’s words.

  If not more so.

  17

  He was a coward.

  For two days, Lance avoided the hall. Avoided the Small Tower.

  Avoided her.

  Again.

  Though he’d made more progress in his secret campaign to ally Stanton to their cause, befriending a sergeant who was free with his opinions of the king, Lance continued to disappoint everyone around him.

  Guy could not understand why he’d not used his connection with Idalia to his advantage. Idalia likely hated him for thinking he’d abandoned her the moment her mother spoke of commitment.

  Being with Idalia did not scare him. What scared him was the fact that he was dreaming of a future with the earl’s daughter—a future that could never come to pass.

  Such thoughts would be ruinous for him personally, and also for their mission.

  And so, he’d taken the coward’s way out and avoided her. Unfortunately, he could not avoid Guy, who slammed the door to the forge so hard Lance would likely have to remake its hinges.

  “The boys are gone?”

  Lance looked around the empty shop, already beginning to fill with shadows now that the door was closed. “Nay, both Miles and Daryon are hiding beneath the bench.”

  When Guy didn’t smile, Lance knew something was wrong. Unlike him, the mercenary was usually as quick with his grins as he was with his gibes.

  “What is it?”

  “John has secured Bande de Valeur.”

  It could not be. Bande de Valeur was one of the oldest and most powerful French mercenary armies in existence. In securing their protection, the king exposed his mistrust of his own army. This was as close to an admission of dissent as he’d ever been willing to display.

  Lance sank onto the bench. “Who told you this?”

  “A merchant passing through brought the news. You’ll find all of Stanton talking about it.”

  “None would know of our order,” he thought aloud, “but neither have we heard of any other true resistance forming.”

  While many of the barons, especially the Northern lords, were unhappy with John’s increasingly erratic polic
ies, nothing more than whispers had been heard against him thus far.

  “If this is true . . .”

  The king was even more foolish than they’d thought. It was an open provocation against his own people. But it was a problem too—

  “If it is true, the Order of the Blade will meet with more resistance than we imagined,” Lance finished.

  The Bande de Valeur was large, its men notoriously ruthless.

  Guy was in a position to know.

  He’d fought with them once.

  “I will turn them around,” Guy said, his hands fisting at his sides. “Aceline de Chabannes is a bastard, but he is an intelligent one. With enough persuasion, he can be brought around to our way of thinking.”

  “And how do you intend to persuade him? With the truth?”

  “Perhaps. And coin, of course. I will speak with Conrad and Terric first.”

  “Wealthy men, both. But neither have the amount of coin it will take to match the king’s coffers.”

  A fact that did not seem to discourage his friend.

  He shook his head emphatically. “They cannot fight for John. We cannot allow it to happen.”

  Lance agreed—the routiers’ presence in England would be a major setback. But he did not see how Guy could possibly hope to persuade an entire company, promised riches from the English king, to turn back to France.

  Still, if anyone could do it, Guy could.

  “Then go.” He stood, extending his arm. Guy took it in his own, clasping his hand around Lance’s forearm in a parting gesture as old as their friendship.

  “I will gain Stanton’s support if he is so inclined to give it.”

  Guy nodded once, resolutely. “I know you will. Until we meet again, my friend.”

  Despite knowing of the complications Lance had created for himself, Guy had faith in him. That knowledge bolstered him to do what needed to be done.

  “Until we meet again,” he repeated.

  With a nod, Guy was gone. Which meant Lance had little time for self-indulgence. He could no longer entertain his feelings for Idalia. He had come here for a reason.

  And the time to execute his mission was now.