The Blacksmith's Wife

Chapter One (#ulink_f443fe6f-1398-5ade-8043-6cc8fe8200f6)

Hooves thundered on the ground as the horses charged. Lances met armour, splintering on impact and sending shards of wood cascading across the lists. The riders wheeled their mounts round to face each other once more. The crowd roared, stamping feet, pounding fists against the wooden fences that separated them from the contestants. In the stands the women gasped in alarm, clutching each other’s hands in excitement and suspense. To watch was agonising, but not a watcher, high-or low-born, could bear to tear his or her eyes from the spectacle before them.

None more so than Joanna Sollers.

‘Sir Roger leads. Sir Godfrey must unseat him or deliver a strike to the head to win,’ muttered a man to Joanna’s left.

‘Sir Godfrey will win,’ his companion replied. ‘He has twice the experience of Sir Roger.’

Roger Danby would win the joust; Joanna’s certainty was iron hard. It was true that today’s encounters were between knights untried in battle but Sir Roger was the best and brightest. His skill on horseback was the talk of Yorkshire. He told Joanna so whenever she mentioned her fears for his safety, laughing at her protests as he silenced her with clandestine kisses, more forward and demanding each time they met.

Joanna forced her eyes back to the arena. At either end of the tilt the knights wiped sweat from their brows, as squires brought them fresh lances. Sir Roger’s chestnut stallion pounded the dirt fiercely, tossing its head, as eager to be off as its master.

Trumpets sounded and the knights lowered their visors once more, hefting their lances in readiness for the final encounter. A hush descended as the flag was raised. Joanna bit her lip anxiously. For three years she had known Sir Roger and could not remember him ever becoming unseated. Even so her hands twisted the linen scarf she held in her lap, tightening it around her fist until the blood pooled in her fingers.

The flag dropped and the knights charged, roaring. Sir Godfrey’s lance smashed into Sir Roger’s chest. The younger knight rolled his shoulder back and the lance remained unbroken. At the same time Sir Roger’s weapon caught his opponent square in the chest, shattering on impact. The crowd surged en masse to its feet in a deafening roar. Joanna let out a breath she had not even been aware she was holding.

Sir Roger was victorious, winning a purse of silver and his place in the following day’s competition.

The knights trotted back along the tilt, hands raised in salute to Sir Bartholomew Clifford, Sheriff of York. Sir Roger raised himself in his saddle, his eyes sweeping the crowd. Joanna leaned forward on the low wooden bench, desperate to catch his eye but knowing he was unlikely to spot her at the rear of the stands.

She craned her neck to see the central stand where noble ladies sat, dressed in a dazzling rainbow of silks and velvets and she felt a pang of longing. Perhaps this would be the year Sir Roger finally asked for her hand in marriage. If he continued to win tournaments he would soon have the riches he insisted were all that had prevented him asking so far.

The thought of becoming Lady Danby brought a smile to Joanna’s lips. She could scarcely believe that the niece of a merchant blacksmith had caught the eye of a nobleman. Roger had come to her uncle’s workshop seeking a new helmet and in Simon Vernon’s absence Joanna had taken the order. When her uncle had returned the young knight had been in no hurry to depart, his interest in the seventeen-year-old Joanna abundantly clear. Simon had strutted around St Andrewgate boasting to the other guild members for weeks of his niece’s skill at attracting such a prestigious suitor. For Joanna the matter was clearer. She loved Sir Roger. The months he was absent from York were grey and cheerless. She lived for the day he returned and her life once again was filled with warmth.

Lost in her reverie she almost missed the riders leaving the lists to loud cheers. Joanna sat back, her mind wandering as the next bout took place. Only one man claimed her interest and he would not be competing again until tomorrow. When the sun began to sink below the stands she left, threading her way through the rows of stalls, past trinket sellers, food vendors and entertainers.

Joanna crossed the river, then hesitated. Spread around the walls of the castle were the pavilions where the knights were camped. In her bag was a gift she had meant to leave for Sir Roger, but why not deliver it herself? He would have returned to the camp by now. She would see him at the banquet in the Common Hall that evening but she knew from sad experience they would scarcely get a moment alone. Other knights—and other women—would surround Roger.

Instead of taking the road that led back to the city, Joanna made her way among the throng of people heading towards the mass of brightly coloured tents.

‘What is your business in camp?’

Two guards stood with pikes crossed, admitting some visitors, refusing others. They gazed stony faced as they barred Joanna’s progress but she was prepared for that. She indicated the bulky leather bag tucked under her arm.

‘I have a delivery for Sir Roger Danby.’

‘I bet you do,’ the left guard said with a leer to his companion. ‘It’s a little early in the afternoon for that sort of delivery, isn’t it?’

A blush started prickling around the back of Joanna’s neck. She glared at him. ‘I come from the establishment of Simon Vernon, of the Smiths’ Guild. You dare to suggest...’

The guard held out a hand. ‘I’ll see it gets passed on.’

Joanna raised her chin. ‘I think not! I have promised to deliver it to Sir Roger myself.’

The guards rolled their eyes but let her pass. Their suggestive comments echoed in her ears and her cheeks coloured. She should not have come. Of course there would be women of dubious morals trying to gain access to the camp, but to be considered one of them was mortifying.

As soon as she was out of sight she smoothed her honey-blonde hair back behind her ears, sighing at the unruly single wave that refused to be suppressed by her plaits. She pulled at the sleeves of her thick woollen dress until her wrists were covered and checked the neckline was sufficiently demure so as not to cause comment. It was a surprisingly mild day for late February and she wished she had not worn such a heavy cloak. With a final adjustment of her cloak buckle she was satisfied. The guard’s insinuations had been unfair and unfounded. She looked exactly what she was: a respectable member of a merchant’s household, not some cheap doxy.

Joanna continued on her way, hefting the bag higher under her arm. Her mood lifted and she hid a smile. She hadn’t exactly lied to the guards. She was from Simon Vernon’s establishment; though it was unlikely her uncle would claim knowledge of her presence if he were questioned. And she had promised to deliver the package to Sir Roger’s own hands, even if the promise was only to herself.

Once inside no one paid Joanna any attention. The camp was as busy as the tournament ground had been and everyone was far too busy with their own affairs to notice one more person engaged on an errand. She found Sir Roger’s tent towards the back of the encampment, flying his blue pennant emblazoned with a green boar but it was empty save for Sir Roger’s page, a dull-witted boy of eight who sat in the corner playing jacks.

Joanna made her way to the courtyard where makeshift stables and workshops had been assembled. She had given up hope of finding Sir Roger when, through a sudden parting in the crowd, she saw familiar black curls and glimpsed the line of his jaw just as he turned away.

A thrill of anticipation rippled through Joanna as she eased her way towards him. It had been six months since Sir Roger had last been in York. Despite the urge to run to his arms Joanna stood back and watched in admiration.

Sir Roger was facing away from her, sharpening a sword with slow, sure strokes. He had removed his armour and padded woollen tunic, but instead of the customary fitted doublet of fine wool he favoured, he was dressed in britches and a shapeless tunic drawn in at the waist with a thick belt. As Joanna watched he laid the sword on a trestle table, rolled his head from side to side and stretched his arms high.

Intending to surprise him Joanna crept behind him. She reached on tiptoe to whisper in his ear, her lips close enough to brush against his hair.

‘Greetings, my lord, I’ve been searching for you.’

He stiffened and turned to face her. Joanna found herself gazing up into Sir Roger’s eyes.

In the face of a stranger.

Her mouth fell open and she stumbled backwards away from the man, dropping her bag. Explanations and apologies tumbled unintelligibly from her lips.

‘I didn’t know... I thought you were... I mean... I’m sorry!’

The man folded his arms across his broad chest. His lips curled into an amused smile. Joanna took another step back, her mind whirling with confusion and embarrassment. Her voice tailed off. Her heart was pounding so loudly she would swear it must be audible. She covered her face with her hands in an attempt to conceal the blush that was turning her pale complexion scarlet and peered through her fingers.

It was little wonder she had mistaken the man for Sir Roger. From behind they shared the same build and unruly curls. Facing her there was still a resemblance. She noticed for the first time that what she had taken for a belt was a long leather apron tied about his waist. Whoever he was, the stranger was no knight.

‘I beg your forgiveness!’ Joanna said, wincing with embarrassment.

The man ran a hand through the tangle of black curls that fell to just below his ears. He eyed Joanna with an open interest that made her heart thump.

‘No forgiveness needed. I thought Lady Fortune was finally smiling on me but alas it seems not,’ he said with an exaggerated note of regret. ‘It’s been so long since I have had such a greeting that I believe I should be thanking you for the experience! Perhaps I will do as a companion?’ he suggested.

The guards’ earlier comments flooded back. Another flush of shame heated Joanna’s cheeks, spreading across her chest to a neckline that suddenly felt much lower than before. Did this man also take her for a whore? Given her immodest greeting it would not be unlikely he had come to such a conclusion. ‘I don’t know what sort of woman you think I am but I can assure you that you are mistaken,’ she said stiffly, folding her arms defensively across her breasts. ‘I was looking for someone in particular.’

‘I gathered that. Now, I wonder who you’re searching for,’ the man mused, running a thumb across the stubble that peppered his jaw. His voice was deep, with a slight trace of accent, though Joanna could not say where it was from. ‘Would you care to wager a cup of wine that I can guess the identity of your quarry?’

‘I would not!’ Joanna said firmly. With as much dignity as she could muster under the circumstances she dropped a brief curtsy. ‘Once again I beg your pardon. Good day.’ She picked up her bag and spun on her heel before her heart pushed itself from her chest.

‘Try the alehouse,’ the man called after her as she fled. ‘Jousting gives a man more than one kind of thirst after all.’

Joanna wrinkled her nose in annoyance. She ran back through the camp, past Sir Roger’s tent towards the gate. She paid no attention to her direction and collided roughly with someone. Hands gripped her shoulders and she gave a cry of alarm, twisting to free herself.

‘Joanna?’

She jerked her head upwards to look at her captor and found herself looking into Sir Roger’s face. She let out a sigh of relief.

Sir Roger frowned.

‘What are you doing in the camp? I did not expect to see you until tonight at the earliest.’ His face relaxed into a smile as he drew her arm under his and led her back towards his tent, regaling her with an account of the tournament she had just witnessed. She pushed her thoughts of the stranger to the back of her mind.