The Blacksmith: Order of the Broken Blade

by Mecca, Cecelia

  “Dawson woke me to send for you. He arrived a short time ago. As for traveling through the night, I know nothing of that except . . . he is here already and with your mother.”

  Idalia didn’t even pause long enough to visit the garderobe. She slipped out of her chemise and into the shift and gown Leana had prepared. She chewed on a piece of mint her maid handed her as she tied the laces at her back.

  He was here.

  Finally.

  “Is Father with them?”

  “Aye,” Leana confirmed. “Shall I wake Tilly as well?”

  Idalia started to say nay, then thought better of it. Her sister often accused her of treating her like a child when, in truth, she was closer to womanhood than Idalia would care to admit.

  “Aye. Send her to Mother’s chamber.”

  When Leana finished brushing her hair, she gave the maid a quick squeeze of her hand in thanks and bolted from the bedchamber.

  Making her way to her mother’s chamber, Idalia’s heart hammered in her chest, the dream completely forgotten. Or mostly forgotten. She and Lance had talked for hours last eve, the awkwardness between them fading as they shared stories from their youth, and yet he’d held fast to his resolution not to touch her. It was little wonder her waking fantasies had bled into her dreams.

  But none of that mattered right now. Nothing mattered except her mother.

  If anyone could help her, it was this doctor.

  When she entered the chamber, Idalia hastened to her father’s side. The physician was standing next to the bed speaking to her mother.

  “What’s happening?” she whispered.

  The man who looked down at her was her father, not the earl. It had taken some time for her to understand that dichotomy. A couple of years earlier, a neighboring baron—and a confidant of the man who was now King John—had visited the hall to ask for Roysa’s hand in marriage. Her father had sent Idalia away, saying the matter was a discussion ill-suited for her ears, and she’d run upstairs weeping, seeking her mother’s comfort.

  Her mother had taught her a lesson Idalia had never forgotten.

  The Earl of Stanton was one of the most powerful men in the north. Like his father and grandfather before him, he was continually called upon to balance the king’s demands with potential alliances that could alter the course of Stanton’s future.

  She’d learned two valuable lessons that day.

  First, her father was more than just the man who’d sired her. As the Earl of Stanton, he had an obligation to care for his people—and oversee their relationship to their king.

  Second, she must never speak ill of either her father or their king to anyone.

  Not even the man I love.

  Idalia, like her father, despised King John for the way he treated his people. But neither of them would ever utter such a thing aloud.

  To do so would be to court trouble.

  “He only just arrived,” her father explained, “and has been asking her questions.”

  Her mother, thank the heavens, was awake. And seemed to be answering the physician’s questions with ease. He asked about her headaches and what had been causing them, then inquired about the discoloration of the whites of her eyes.

  After a few more questions, the physician turned to them.

  “If you will.” He looked toward the door.

  “I am not leaving,” Idalia’s father said emphatically.

  That, the voice of the earl.

  She and Marina exchanged a glance, and at Idalia’s nod, both of them stepped outside and closed the door. Just as they did, Tilly came bounding around the corner. She’d evidently dressed in a hurry—her slippers were mismatched—and was panting with exertion. If Idalia had to guess, she’d probably raced out the door of her chamber before Leana could correct the mistake.

  “What did the doctor say? Is he in there now? Why are you out here?”

  “He’s said nothing yet,” Idalia told her, taking her hand. “I believe he is examining her now. Father refused to leave the chamber.”

  Marina forced a smile. “I’ll be back shortly,” she said. “Your mother needs fresh water.”

  Idalia knew she was likely just as nervous as they were and likely the reason she carried a bowl with her now, as if the task could not wait.

  With nothing to do, Tilly began to pace back and forth, and Idalia silently joined her. Every so often they exchanged a glance, but otherwise they did nothing more than pace the corridor. Finally, the door opened.

  Idalia ran to the bed where her father sat weeping.

  Her father, the Earl of Stanton. He was actually crying, something she’d never seen him do before. Her mother was awake, one hand clasped around her father’s while the other rested on his shoulder.

  Idalia’s chest felt as if it would collapse in on itself. She could not breathe. She could not think. She sunk down onto the other side of the bed, tears welling in her eyes. The sight of her mother, so frail, and her father . . .

  This could only mean their worst fears had come to fruition.

  She didn’t even realize Tilly had sat next to her until she felt the small fingers weave through her own.

  “No, no”—her mother placed her hand on Idalia’s arm—“I can see you fear the worst, but it is not bad, my sweet. Please, tell them.”

  Idalia followed her mother’s gaze to the physician. The tall, thin man whose eyes had the wizened look of someone who’d witnessed a thousand deaths. And yet, he smiled at them.

  It was not at all what Idalia had been expecting.

  “’Tis a simple matter, really.”

  Idalia’s heart raced.

  “She has been consuming large quantities of skullcap for some time, to relieve her headaches. Her body is rejecting the herb.”

  “What . . . what are you saying?”

  The creases around his eyes deepened, as did his smile.

  “The skullcap was killing her.”

  Silence.

  “Killing her,” Tilly repeated, unable to process the revelation.

  “She risks her head pains returning, of course, but I have alternative ways to treat that.”

  Could it be? She looked at her father more closely. He was composed now, his expression once again inscrutable, but his eyes weren’t sad.

  Not at all.

  Her father had been shedding tears of joy, a fact that caused her own eyes to brim with emotion. She laid her head on her mother’s chest, needing to hear the steady beating of her heart. Needing to reassure herself that she was, indeed, okay.

  “She should recover fully as the effects of the skullcap abate,” she heard the physician say behind her.

  Her mother stroked the back of her head. Although Tilly and her father spoke of something, Idalia could focus on nothing beyond the sound of her mother’s heart and the feeling of the hand smoothing her hair.

  “Will you give us a moment?”

  At first, Idalia thought her mother had been speaking to the physician, asking for a moment alone with her family, but when she finally lifted her head, everyone was gone.

  “I am so sorry,” she said to her mother, for it needed saying. They should have ensured the doctor came much, much sooner.

  Her mother wiped away a tear with her thumb. “There is nothing to apologize for, my dear. We are all quite relieved.”

  “Skullcap,” she muttered. “How did we not know?”

  Her mother shrugged. “We will not waste time attempting to answer that question. Better to focus on a different one.”

  “A different question?” As soon as the words left her mouth, she knew of what her mother spoke. “Lance?”

  “Ah, so you no longer refer to him as Master Lance?”

  “Mother, we really should be speaking of you. Your health is all I care about.”

  “Nay, we should not. I’m quite finished with speaking of my health.”

  Her father wasn’t the only member of this family who could quell a discussion with just a few direct words.
The countess’s ability to be both nurturing and firm in one breath was a feat Idalia only hoped to master in time.

  “So?”

  There was no denying her mother, especially not now. She told her of Lance’s meeting with the earl, the odd question he’d asked, and her visit to his quarters later that eve. She assured her mother they’d done naught but talk and laugh, although she knew perfectly well it had been inappropriate to visit him alone.

  “My feelings on the matter have not changed,” her mother said. “If you think he is worthy, if you love this man, then I give my blessing.”

  She heaved a long sigh, for this was something she’d thought of again and again in the past days. “If love is not wanting to be apart from someone for even a moment, wishing you could heal their every pain, and dreaming of being with them every day for the rest of your life, then aye, I love him.”

  “And he claims to feel the same?”

  “He does. But there is something . . . holding him back from me. I know not what.”

  A knock at the door was followed by her sister’s voice. “You cannot have Mama all to yourself, Idalia!”

  “She needs to see you.” Idalia stood.

  “Go to him,” her mother said, meeting and holding her gaze. “Tell him how you feel.”

  “And father?”

  Her mother smiled, and though she still looked as ill as she had these past weeks, there was a glint in her eyes that had not been there before.

  Her mother would be well, and truly, nothing else mattered.

  She swallowed.

  Perhaps one thing did.

  “I will speak to your father when the time comes. Now go before Tilly breaks down my door.”

  Wrapping her arms around her mother’s frail shoulders, Idalia pushed back the tears that threatened again. No more sadness.

  She’d taken care of Stanton in her mother’s stead, and now it was her time to take care of herself.

  22

  Lance swung his hammer, again and again.

  As he’d always done when frustrated or angry, he took out his aggression on the metal. But instead of fighting back, it flattened and pulled exactly like it was supposed to.

  Daryon pumped the bellows as he reheated the steel and pounded away at it again. It would be some time before the sword took shape, but Lance was grateful for the commission. He’d made enough hinges and nails to last a lifetime.

  Forging a sword was a challenge.

  Sensing a presence behind him, Lance turned and immediately knew something had happened. Idalia stood at the doorway dressed simply, and somehow lovelier for it. It was impossible not to smile in response to her radiant expression.

  “Take over.” He held out the steel to Daryon, waiting for him to don his glove. “Finish pounding it, and we’ll bevel it when I return.”

  Daryon took it, looked at his brother, blinked, and then shifted his gaze back to Lance.

  “Do you think you can do it?” Lance asked.

  “I do.”

  Miles moved toward the bellows in anticipation. “Aye, he can do it, and I’ll help!” he said, his excitement heartening his brother.

  He nodded his approval, leaving his young apprentices to their work as his father’s words came back to him.

  You may not be ready, but try anyway.

  How could such a skilled blacksmith and patient teacher also be such a horrible man?

  Shoving the thought aside, he hung his apron near the door and led Idalia outside. She nodded toward his chambers at the back of the forge.

  “This cannot be overheard just yet,” she explained in a hushed tone.

  Once inside, he resisted the urge to take her in his arms. The promise he’d made last eve, not to touch her, had done nothing to alleviate his desire to do so.

  In fact, he wondered if it had had the opposite effect.

  “My mother,” she said the moment he closed the door. “My mother will be well!”

  With her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes bright with enthusiasm, Idalia resembled her younger sister more than she did the woman with all the weight of Stanton on her shoulders.

  “The physician came early this morn, although I still don’t know why he’d arrive at such an odd time. But with all that happened, I never thought to press him on it.”

  “Tell me,” he prodded gently, eager to know the full story.

  “He examined Mother, and she will be well! It was the skullcap she took for the pain in her head. The physician said”—she swallowed—“it was killing her.”

  “The skullcap . . .”

  “Aye. The pains in her stomach started soon after she began taking it, although she thought they were related to her headaches. She started to get so sleepy all the time, and then her eyes . . .” She let her words drift off. “Oh, Lance, I am so very happy.”

  When she threw her arms around his waist, Lance embraced her, pulled her toward him and threaded his hands through her hair. He could feel her heart beating wildly against his chest as a sense of peace washed over him.

  He’d feared she would lose her mother, a pain he well understood, but that horror had been averted. Closing his eyes, Lance allowed his relief to settle for a time before he pulled back just slightly.

  “No tears,” he said, wiping them away with his thumb. “This is a joyous day.”

  He kissed her without thinking, but the quick touch immediately made him hungry for more. It was as if a fire had been lit as their mouths came together again. It was so natural to deepen the kiss that before long they were both breathless, wanting, needing more.

  He was surprised, and grateful, when she pulled away. Despite himself, Lance simply could not resist this woman.

  “I came here to talk.” Idalia tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear.

  “About your mother?”

  “And . . . us.”

  That very topic had kept him awake most of the night.

  “I need to know.” She straightened, and Lance knew it was time to tell her all. He accepted it, and yet he wanted to delay the inevitable just a little. If only because he knew his news would dampen the excitement she felt. “Idalia, you are right. We do need to talk, but I have to get back to the boys. Tonight—”

  A rapping at the door interrupted her. Idalia and Lance exchanged a look, and she tucked herself out of view of the door. He waited a moment and then opened it.

  Miles stood in the doorway. “Pardon, Master Lance,” he said, “but the seneschal came looking for you. Says the earl has agreed to meet you this morn. He returned to the keep . . .” He paused, as if considering his next words, then said, “I saw you walk behind the forge, but I didn’t tell him where you were.”

  Because he’d seen Idalia enter the chambers too.

  Lance remained calm despite knowing Idalia had heard everything. He’d asked for another meeting that morn. He felt confident from all he’d learned that the earl would be sympathetic to the order’s cause. The time had come to approach him.

  “’Tis fine, Miles. Thank you for coming to me.”

  The boy turned to leave.

  “How are the bevels?” he asked.

  “Better than yours,” the apprentice jested with a grin, walking back to the shop.

  Lance would have smiled at the boy’s glibness if not for the message he’d brought.

  “A meeting with my father?” Idalia asked as soon as he closed the door. She stared at him, waiting for an explanation.

  There was no help for it now. She deserved to know everything. Telling her before speaking to the earl was dangerous. Foolish. But Lance owed her this. He could not deny her the truth any longer.

  “You planned to speak to him about us?”

  “Nay.”

  Her smile fell—and Lance felt a jolt in his stomach. He hated that he’d stolen her joy, hated, too, that he’d changed things between them.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I plan to ask him to support our order.”

  Idalia�
�s eyes narrowed.

  “A knightly order,” he clarified.

  “A knightly . . . but, one must be a knight to . . .” Her eyes widened. “Lance?”

  “I am a knight. But I’m a blacksmith too,” he rushed to add. “One who has seen the people of our country suffer at the hands of a man who cares little for those he rules. A man who brings, even now, French mercenaries to our shores to enforce his will on his people.”

  “You speak of our king?”

  “Aye.”

  Her back straightened, her expression closed down. “You speak treason.”

  “I do. But you must understand—”

  Her tone was flat, measured. “You came to Stanton to garner my father’s support for a rebellion against our king.”

  “Aye.”

  She said nothing.

  When she moved past him toward the door, he didn’t stop her. With one hand on the iron handle, Idalia turned to him, as angry as she’d been joyful when she’d run down to the forge.

  Lance hated himself in this moment nearly as much as he had upon learning of his mother’s death.

  “Did you never think to tell me? To ask me of my father’s position, of Stanton’s position?”

  “I tried not to involve you, Idalia. I didn’t want to use my relationship with you to further my mission. I never planned to fall in love with you.”

  Her head dropped, shoulders sagged.

  “You are just like him.”

  With that, she opened the door.

  “Like who? Idalia, stay. Please. I would talk about this with you.”

  When she looked up, Lance was sorry he’d stopped her. He would never forget the look on her face at that moment. Her eyes flat. Lips pinched. So unlike Idalia.

  “The man whose approval you seek. Go.” She swept her free hand toward the door. “Meet with him. You’ll likely find the support you seek, for he despises our king as much as, maybe more than, you do. If you had but asked, I would have told you that long ago.”

  “Idalia . . .”

  She didn’t even look at him again. She merely opened the door and walked out.

  He thought to stop her, but what could he say? I’m sorry? The words seemed hollow even to his own ears.

  I love you? If he was right—and judging by Idalia’s parting words, he’d been correct in his assessment of the earl’s position—could he really risk Lord Stanton’s ire by asking for Idalia’s hand in marriage?