Page 4 of The Blacksmith

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.