The Blacksmith

Order of the Broken Blade

Cecelia Mecca

Altiora Press

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1

Northumbria, England, 1214

“This is treason.”

Lance said it first and wasn’t surprised when no one responded. They all knew it, and speaking the word aloud again would serve no purpose.

“Think carefully before you respond.” Conrad moved to the flap of the tent, peered outside, and apparently satisfied, sat back down.

So this was why his friend had set up so far away from the rest of the tents. Conrad had known that his proposal would turn the four of them into traitors.

“I’ll do it,” he said.

The earl would only have proposed such a drastic action after careful consideration, and he trusted his friend implicitly.

All three of the men watched him, none more carefully than Conrad. But he had said his piece. He wouldn’t change his mind.

“We will need support.” Terric had more reason to march against the king than any of them, but he was also the most cautious. He would have the most questions, but Lance was confident he would do it. They all would.

“If the Northern lords don’t join together now,” Conrad said, “then they are lost.”

“We’ll be lost too, lest you forget.” Guy crossed his arms and sat back in the chair that had been carted here on a wagon filled with the luxuries afforded them by Conrad’s station.

Their friend cared little for such comforts, which was why it had surprised Lance when he’d insisted on attending the Tournament of the North in such a stately fashion, something his father would have done were he still alive. Conrad was reminding those who might join their cause that the Earl of Licheford was one of the most powerful Northern border lords.

“I am no great lord,” Guy continued, “but I’m as affected by John’s policies as any.”

“And taxes,” Conrad added. “His policies and taxes. Both will be our demise if we allow it.”

Guy shrugged as if their friend had asked if he wished for a meal rather than suggested they join forces against their king. “I’d not turn away an adventure such as this.”

“An adventure?” Terric shook his head. “You’re mad to call it one.” Then, turning back to Conrad, “You have a plan?”

“The beginnings of one, aye. The most crucial part being your support.”

By “your” he meant the three of them. With just one more assent, the course of each of their lives would change forever.

Terric stood and extended his arm, fist clenched. His friend had extended his arm for such a vow only once before.

Conrad clasped his wrist.

Guy was next.

Lance, last.

“Today we pledge more than a vow of silence. We form an order this day.” Conrad looked directly at Terric. “The Order of the Broken Blade.”

A perfect name. A symbol of the abuse of power that can accompany a man who believes his rule divine. Nothing but silence followed his proclamation.

It was more than a name. It was a promise. Like the first one they made to one another many, many years ago. No one else would understand the significance, yet each of them did—and each took it to heart.

“For England,” Terric said. Ironic for him to be the one to say so, as he was the only one among them not English.

Lance hated to dissent but thought it important to mention a fact Conrad seemed to have overlooked.

“An order? Of knights?”

Unclasping hands, they waited for him to finish.

“Surely you see the problem? Aye, you’re an earl, and Terric’s a baron’s son.” He nodded to Guy. “Even the mercenary is a knight.”

“And my title is well earned,” Guy winked, “unlike these two.”

Lance couldn’t help but smile at that. Guy had made the remark many times over the years. That it failed to rile Conrad now was a mark of the seriousness of their discussion.

“Take out your sword,” Conrad ordered, his gaze on Lance.

There were few men Lance took orders from these days, but this man was one of them. So he complied.

He’d intended to remind Conrad he was but a blacksmith, but there was no use telling his friends what they already knew. And though Lance had no use for a fancy title or any of its trappings, the solemnity of the moment was not lost on him. No, it was clear to them all. One look at Terric’s and Guy’s expressions told him as much.

Ignoring the others, he dropped to one knee, laying his sword across it as Conrad pulled out his own sword. Tapping him on each shoulder, he uttered the words Lance had never thought to hear in his lifetime. When he was finished, Conrad bade him rise.

“Stand up as a knight, in the name of God.”

He did, unsure what to say.

“Do you have any further opposition to our order?” Conrad asked.

“No.”

“Good. We’ve much to discuss.”

Of that, Lance had no doubt. Rebelling against a king required planning, after all.

“Including your new title.” Guy bowed to him. “Sir Lance.”

“I quite like it.” Terric bowed as well.

“A Scots clan chief bowing to an English blacksmith.” Guy looked at Conrad, raising his eyebrows dramatically. “I’ll admit ’tis a sight I’ll not soon forget.”

“When you finish jesting . . .”

“Does he ever?” Lance asked Conrad sincerely.

“We’ve the small matter of King John to discuss.”

Small matter indeed. If even a hint of what they’d just done were whispered to the wrong person, their heads would be forfeit for it.

Knight or blacksmith, earl or mercenary . . . none of their titles, or lack thereof, would matter if they were exposed as traitors to the crown.

The king’s men marched through the courtyard as if it were their own. Idalia’s father stood next to her on the doorstep of the great keep’s entrance. She peeked up at him, wondering when the hair of his beard had become more gray than black.

“Welcome,” he boomed as the first of the newcomers reached them. A captain, perhaps? Idalia tried not to smile at the looks they were receiving. Not outright hostility, but certainly the people of Stanton could give the representatives of the king a warmer welcome.

She was secretly glad they did not.

“My lord.” The tall, thin captain bowed to her father, the Earl of Stanton. “We travel to Norham Castle and request shelter for the evening.”

Interesting. Why were the king’s men on their way to Norham and so far north?

Idalia could hear her father’s silent answer to her silent question. Do not concern yourself with the affairs of men. She also knew what he would say next.

“My daughter will see to your comfort.” He looked at her as if expecting a retort. It was market day, her favorite, and Father knew it well.

But he knew his daughter too.

“Of course.” She smiled as the captain and his two companions joined her. They were dressed identically, in armor topped with bright red tunics bearing the crest of their king. They’d require assistance in removing that armor. Marina, her mother’s maid, would normally assist her in making the arrangements, but Marina was nowhere to be seen.

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.

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.

Though he had a secret purpose for accepting this position as Stanton Castle’s next master blacksmith, the fact that Stanton’s smithy was kept away from the keep came as a relief nonetheless. When the building occupied a prominent a position in a castle courtyard, there tended to be more interruptions to his work.

“Yer the new smith?”

Lance turned to see an older man regarding him with the same open suspicion as everyone else he’d encountered so far, from the villagers to the guards to the stable master.

Either the people of Stanton had an innate mistrust of strangers or the former smith had been much loved. Or both.

“Aye,” he said. “Lance Wayland. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

The castle servant mumbled, “Well met,” as he walked away.

Lance stared after him for a moment, the man’s red cheeks reminding him of his father. He shook off the association, forcing himself to unclench his fists, and turned back toward his destination. He would find the seneschal later. Since the forge was on the way to the keep, he could not resist a quick visit.

For a castle this size, he’d have thought more people would be milling around the courtyard. He started down the incline, and stopped short at the unexpected sight of a lady standing just outside the forge, her long, golden brown hair sweeping down her back and over her shoulders. A noblewoman to be sure. As surprising as her presence was her smile. Unlike the others he’d met here so far, her expression was purely welcoming. She looked as the first flower of spring might—unexpected, but more beautiful for it, especially after a long winter without color.

He continued downward, aware of her eyes watching his every move.

“Good day,” she said, her voice soft and lilting as if she sang rather than spoke the words.

Everything about her face was delicate . . . her nose, her lips, her brows. But as the distance between them closed, he noticed one thing that stood out from the rest.

Her eyes.

Kind. Compassionate.

A man such as he could lose himself in their depths.

“You are the new smith?” she asked.

Though he lacked the smithy’s apron, he’d been told many times that he had a blacksmith’s build.

Like my father.

He liked to think the only similarity they shared was skin-deep.

“Aye, my lady . . .”

She smiled again as she filled in the gap he’d left. “Idalia. I am the earl’s daughter.”

“Lady Idalia, then.” Her name suited her. A lovely name for a lovely woman. “I am called Lancelin Wayland of Marwood.”

Of course, it had been some time since he’d been back to Marwood. There was nothing left for him there now.

“Master Lancelin, then.”

“Lance, to my friends.”

“A worthy name. Shall I show you to the forge?”

Her manners befitted her station, and as Lance followed the lady down toward the large stone building, certainly larger than any he’d worked in before, he couldn’t help watching her walk. Surefooted despite the wet ground beneath them, she held her head high.

As a noblewoman does.

Which should remind you not to stare at her backside.

“’Tis a wonder you were available to come to Stanton Castle. We feared, after Roland passed, it would be some time before a master smith could be found.”

Stanton’s need for a smith had been the order’s good fortune.

“My father said you approached him at the Tournament of the North?”

He caught up with her then, and they slowed as they reached the forge.

“Indeed, my lady.”

“Was Lord Bohun very disappointed you left?”

His former master and now ally was actually quite pleased as Lance had told him of his purpose at Stanton, but that fact was one of many Lady Idalia could not know about.

“Aye, my lady, but the opportunity to serve as a castle smith was one I could not ignore.” At least part of his statement was true. “I hope to forge more swords and armor than keys and nails here.”

She peered inside the shop. “You’ve two fine young apprentices who are quite adept, so you should definitely find yourself supplementing the armorer here.”

That surprised him. “Stanton has its own armorer, then?”

“Nay.” She shook her head. “We are supplied by Kenshire’s. The old smith, Roland, had little experience forging weapons. I am surprised you are experienced with both.”

“My . . .” He nearly said father. “My original master apprenticed in an armory but moved to Marwood as a journeyman.”

“And so we are lucky to have you here at Stanton.”

When she moved toward him, he could smell a hint of citrus. “I would forewarn you, though. Roland was much loved by the people here. Some may find it . . . difficult to see him replaced. Even by such a fine man as yourself.”

Fine? Lance had been described many ways before. Reticent. Unforgiving. But never “fine.” He liked the word, especially from her lips.

“I will strive to please my lady and the people of Stanton.”

He’d meant nothing by it, but as soon as the words left his mouth, Lance held his breath. He could not afford any missteps here, even a subtle flirtation such as that.

Fortunately, Lady Idalia did not seem to question his choice of words. Pleasing her would be equally enjoyable and disastrous.

For them both.

Idalia made her way back to the keep but stopped just before entering. Preparations for the meal would be nearly complete, and she needed a moment to herself.

Waiting until Father Sica moved out of her path, the priest’s expression grim as usual, she hurried to the abandoned Small Tower and used one of only two keys that opened the door. Pulling it closed behind her, Idalia hurried up the tightly wound, circular stairs to the top.

This tower was originally meant to be one of four lookouts located at each of the four corners of the inner curtain wall. But before the construction could be completed, her great-grandfather was given a new commission from the king, one that came with a large enough sum to allow him to build a second, and much taller, wall around the first. The towers had instead been placed around the new outer wall, leaving Small Tower an unused anomaly.

Idalia had been coming here since she was a child. All knew of her very poor hiding spot, but only Dawson had another key. And it had been some time since he’d climbed these steep steps. The pain in his knees prevented him from doing so. Once, her mother had wondered aloud if a new, younger seneschal might replace him. Her father had not taken kindly to the suggestion and none had mentioned it since.

But she’d not come here to dwell on her mother’s illness. Reaching the top of the tower, Idalia leaned against the cold stone wall and closed her eyes, imagining him.

She’d spoken to Lance but once. Still, she could envision his face clearly.

Although he didn’t have a beard, he’d not shaven for some days, the whiskers on his face as black as the tousled waves that came down to the tips of his ears and covered his entire forehead.

Built like a knight, nay, a blacksmith, he was difficult to miss and she’d certainly not done so. She’d stopped walking the moment she’d caught sight of him.

He’d done the same.

He’d looked at her as if she were beautiful, but she knew the truth, just like everyone around Stanton did. She was naught but a plainer version of her very beautiful older sister. As her younger sister, too young to know any better, had once said, she was “pretty enough.”

Well, he was much more than ordinary.

I really should get back to the keep.

Just one more moment, she negotiated with herself.

Idalia opened her eyes, staring at the wall in front of her. Others might have a moment to spare for daydreams, but she did not. Standing up straight, she sighed and began the careful walk back down the stairs.

Would Tilly be back from market day? No doubt that was where she’d run off to earlier, pretending not to have seen her. At ten and four, her sister could be trusted with some tasks, but she could never be completely relied upon. Indeed, she was still a child in many ways, and if Idalia could help it, she’d remain so for as long as possible.

Though she would have liked a sachet of citrus blossom and a few other supplies.

As she locked the tower door, two hands covered her eyes from behind. Had her thoughts summoned her sister?

“Do not look,” Tilly said, taking her hands away. “Close your eyes.”

“I assumed that was what you meant me to do when you told me not to look.”

“Smell.”

The directive wasn’t needed. She’d already caught the scent. Smiling, she took the sachet from under her nose and turned around.

“Thank you, Till.”

She looked down at the almoner pouch wondering what else her sister had picked up from the market.

“What did you . . .” She stopped as Tilly pulled two bulbs of garlic from her pouch. How many items did she have in there? “’Tis said if you peel it and place it under the pillow, it may help to relieve a headache.”

Idalia crossed her arms and waited.

“I knew you would be angry. But Idalia, she is in so much pain.”

“And if the merchant asks questions?”

“He will not.” She tucked the garlic back inside. “I’ve not seen him before. Likely never will again.” Tilly rolled her eyes. “I didn’t say, ‘Can you please help with a remedy for my mother.’”

“Shhh,” she scolded. Though the courtyard was not as busy as normal with supper approaching, there were still plenty of servants and men-at-arms moving around them. “Father will not be pleased.”

Even if Idalia did not fully agree with her father’s insistence on keeping the extent of their mother’s illness secret, she understood his concern. And though she herself sought potential cures, Tilly had not quite mastered the art of subtlety. All would know her purpose for the garlic bulbs before long.

Father Sica had hinted, as her mother’s pain increased, that her condition was a spiritual matter that could be treated by no physician—a test from Satan. Idalia knew her father feared the priest would bring his talk of Satan’s influence to the village. He worried such aspersions would ruin not just his wife’s reputation, but the prospects of his two marriageable daughters. He was an earl, a powerful Northumbrian lord who once served as judicar to the king, and yet priests had a power all their own.

If she or her sisters criticized the priest, however, her father would say only, “He is a man of God.”

Idalia sighed. Though her father relied on her, he refused to listen to her counsel on most subjects, their mother chief among them.

“He will not know,” her conspiratorial sister replied.

They’d just entered the great keep, and as expected, her absence had been missed.

“Lady Idalia . . . if you’ll pardon us, Lady Tilly,” said the laundress. “The new girl,” she said, wringing her hands.

“Aye? What of her?”

Tilly used the interruption to wander away, as was her custom.

“She broke a paddle. After comin’ back from market without the lye soap I asked her for.”

“Have you spoken to Dawson?”

Though she asked, Idalia already knew the answer. Although the seneschal was officially in charge of the household staff, everyone came to her first. It had been that way for some time, even when Roysa, her older sister, was still in residence. Roysa had since wed a powerful border baron.

“Nay, my lady. Shall I do so?” the older woman asked, blinking. It was an open secret that the laundress was slightly terrified of him.

“I will speak to the girl. But,” Idalia warned, “you will need to practice patience as well. She is still young.”

The laundress was already nodding, grateful. “Aye, my lady.”

And so it went until Idalia resigned herself to visiting her mother after the meal rather than before it.

It was only when the second course was served she thought again of the new smith.

Idalia knew in some households he would not be invited to eat here in the hall. But at Stanton Castle, all were welcome, courtesy of her mother. She’d insisted, for as long as Idalia could remember, that anyone who contributed to the well-being of their home had a place at every meal.

She was about to send an invitation to him when the very man she was thinking about strode into the hall.

And looked directly at her.

Keep reading THE BLACKSMITH by downloading your copy on Amazon. Also available in Kindle Unlimited.

Also by Cecelia Mecca

The Border Series

The Ward’s Bride: Prequel Novella

The Thief’s Countess: Book 1

The Lord’s Captive: Book 2

The Chief’s Maiden: Book 3

The Scot’s Secret: Book 4

The Earl’s Entanglement: Book 5

The Warrior’s Queen: Book 6

The Protector’s Promise: Book 7

The Rogue’s Redemption: Book 8

The Guardian’s Favor: Book 9

The Knight’s Reward: Book 10

Border Series Box Set 1 (Books 1-3)

Border Series Book Set 2 (Books 4-6)

Enchanted Falls

Falling for the Knight: A Time Travel Romance

Bloodwite

The Healer’s Curse: Bloodwite Origin Story

The Vampire’s Temptation: Bloodwite Book 1

The Immortal’s Salvation: Bloodwite Book 2

The Hunter’s Affection: Bloodwite Book 3

About the Author

Cecelia Mecca is the author of medieval romance, including the Border Series, and sometimes wishes she could be transported back in time to the days of knights and castles. Although the former English teacher’s actual home is in Northeast Pennsylvania where she lives with her husband and two children, her online home can be found at CeceliaMecca.com. She would love to hear from you.

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THE BLACKSMITH Copyright © 2019 by Cecelia Mecca

Cover Design by Kim Killion @ The Killion Group, Inc.

Edited by Angela Polidoro

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