“I don’t understand,” Rock said to Martin the next day in the great hall as they broke the fast with their morning meal. Martin was an early riser, but the first meal of the day didn’t typically happen until about seven o’clock. Today, he insisted on the first meal of the day just before sunup. That meant everyone had to get up early. Most people slept in the rushes on the floor of the great hall. The trestle tables had been set up and the cooks busily prepared food. Everyone hustled, trying to heed to their lord’s spontaneous wishes.
“Bring me some ale,” Martin called out, raising his hand to get the butler’s attention. The butler was in charge of all drinks.
Martin sat on his dais chair, although the rest of the table was empty since no one knew he was going to want an early meal. “What is it you don’t understand?” he asked Rock.
Rock yawned before answering. “Why do we have to eat so early? Normally, you insist chores be done before anyone has a bite of food. The sun hasn’t even risen yet.”
“Where is that ale?” Martin growled, not at all in a good mood after last night.
“Here you are, my lord,” said the cupbearer, having taken a pitcher of ale from the butler so fast that it splashed over the rim. Martin held out his cup and the boy filled it.
“Does this have something to do with the fact Lady Winter and the others are leaving this morning?” asked Rock with another yawn.
Bringing the cup to his mouth, Martin stopped in mid-motion. “Have you seen her today?”
Lambert walked up to the dais, climbing the stairs and sitting next to Martin.
“The stableboy said that he prepared a wagon for the four of them,” Rock replied, standing next to Martin’s chair.
“Sir Gawain,” he called out, flagging over his most-trusted knight that also served as his steward. Since Martin’s father was addled and Martin did not have a wife, Sir Gawain ran the castle when Martin was away. The man had a sharp sense about him and also a keen eye. If something went on inside Castle Heaton’s walls, he knew about it.
“Yes, my lord?” asked Sir Gawain, coming to the front of the table. He was a dark-haired man in his early thirties. His eyes were deep-set and he had a long nose.
“Has the traveling party left yet for the docks?”
“Are you speaking of Lady Winter and the others?” the man asked.
“Aye. Is she still here?” Martin had purposely called for an early meal, hoping to entice Lady Winter and the others to the great hall for something to eat before they went to the docks. He’d made a mess of things last night and wanted one last chance to try to convince Winter to stay.
“Why, no, my lord,” said Sir Gawain. “I had the pages load up their trunks an hour ago. They’ve left for the docks. You said the ship would sail at daybreak, so I wanted to make sure they didn’t miss it.”
“Who all went?” he asked, feeling frantic, needing to hear for himself that Winter was no longer there.
“My lord?” asked his steward, confused.
“Tell me who all left my castle this morning.”
“The blacksmith, his son, the old healer and Lady Winter,” Sir Gawain replied. “A guard and a page went with them. Is something wrong?”
Martin’s heart dropped in his chest. He was too late. Winter had gone, and now he would never see her again.
“Nay,” he said with a wave of his hand to dismiss him. “Thank you.”
Sir Gawain bowed and headed away looking very confused.
“I’m sorry, my lord,” said Rock. “I was sure Lady Winter would have stayed after you asked her to marry you.”
“You didn’t ask her, did you?” Martin’s father reached over and took Martin’s cup. He stared into it, inspecting the contents and then took a sip.
“Nay,” said Martin, shaking his head, angry with himself.
“Why not?” asked Rock. “I thought that was your plan.”
“It was,” Martin admitted. “But when I kissed her she thought I only wanted to bed her and she stormed away.”
Lambert spat the ale halfway across the table, choking on it when he heard Martin’s words. Then he started laughing.
“What’s so funny?” growled Martin.
“You are a fool, Martin. I’ll bet you groped her as well and got what you deserved.”
“That’s enough!” Martin shot to his feet. Aye, he had let his hand wander during the kiss, but he couldn’t help himself. He wasn’t used to being romantic – and certainly not used to asking anyone to marry him. Once again, being close to the girl was affecting his body and he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about coupling with her. Still, he would never admit it to his father. “I don’t want to be bothered by anyone for the rest of the day.”
“Aye, my lord,” said Rock.
As he headed away, he heard his father talking to his squire. “When his mother gets home, she’ll probably coddle him, but Martin got what he deserves. I’ll tell that to my dear, sweet Amelia, although she won’t believe me. She’s always favored Martin.”
Martin headed straight for his bedchamber, ignoring the greetings from his servants and men along the way. He stormed into his room and slammed the door. Then he crossed over to the wardrobe and moved aside a tapestry that was hanging on the wall. He yanked a lever, causing a secret door to open, allowing him access to his hidden room.
After lighting a few candles, Martin sat down on a stool, concentrating on his latest project. He had always been fascinated with inventions. As a child, he used to hide away for hours building things. It was when his father had taken him on a trip when he was younger and they’d stopped at Dunstable Priory that he’d found something that truly interested him. The clock tower. It was not a water clock since it was above the rood screen. Instead, it was mechanical.
Martin decided he’d build his own clock and had been trying for years to perfect it. When he’d gone to trade in Italy eight years ago, he’d become obsessed with Giovanni de’ Dondi’s astronomical clock. It was a device made to keep time using a balance wheel. Of course, it also had calendar dials with indicators for the sun, moon, and planets, but Martin was only trying to construct a simple clock. So, why couldn’t he get it to work for very long?
It always seemed to stop just before midnight.
He didn’t work on it long. Martin was so distraught that Winter had left that he found it hard to concentrate. He blew out the candles and closed up the secret room, deciding to take a nap. When he headed toward the bed, his foot hit something in the rushes. He bent down and picked up the key he’d given Winter. The key with the heart shape at one end. It seemed to keep coming back to haunt him.
Caressing it in his hand, he felt as if he’d never forget Winter. He was a fool to let her go. He should have tried harder to ask her to marry him yesterday. Why the hell hadn’t he?
The sound of tinkering took his attention and he headed over to the window, pulling back the tapestry, trying to figure out from where the noise came.
“The smithy,” he said, seeing the smoke billowing out of the hole in the roof of the blacksmith’s shop. There was only one person who would be in there. “She’s returned!” Excitedly, he took off at a run.
* * *
“Wallace, are the coals hot enough yet?” asked Winter, hammering the edges of Lord de Grey’s sword. She had gotten to the docks with the others and decided she didn’t want to leave before she finished the sword. Never in her life would she have thought she’d be returning after the way Martin had been treating her, but it was the challenge of the sword that made her turn around and head back to Castle Heaton.
Nairnie, of course, had returned with her. But to her surprise, Wallace and Josef said they would go with her as well. Since she’d helped them out, they didn’t want to leave her stranded. With the three of them working together to forge the sword, she’d have it completed in no time.
“Aye, Lady Winter, everything is ready,” said Wallace, poking at the fire and pulling the rope that activated the bellows, blowing air underneath the bed of coals. Sparks flew up in the air and the coals glowed, looking like an angry monster from hell.
“Wallace, you don’t need to call me Lady Winter. You’ve called me Winnie for most my life, so there is no reason to stop now.”
“Nay, my lady. You deserve respect. If the others hear me using your title, mayhap it will help.”
“Lady Winter, I have everything ready for the quench,” said Josef, stirring a poker in a long vertical tube filled with oil.
“Is the oil hot?” she asked. “It won’t work well if it’s not.”
“It is,” he told her.
“Good. Then I think we’re set.” She placed the sword into the fire, watching as it heated and started turning an orange-red.
“Lady Winter,” she heard from behind her. When she turned, Martin was standing there watching her. Nairnie lingered in the shadows, not saying a thing.
“Good day, Lord de Grey,” she answered coolly.
Martin stood in awe, watching Winter and barely able to speak. “You’ve returned. Why?”
“We told you we would forge your sword and we will finish the job,” she replied curtly.
“You’ve all returned,” he mumbled, feeling very confused. He’d kept Josef as not more than a prisoner for the past few months, yet he and his father had come back to Castle Heaton of their own choosing.
“We came to help Lady Winter,” said Wallace.
“Aye,” answered Josef. “We wouldn’t let her return alone.”
Since Winter was facing the forge and doing her best not to look at him, Martin walked around the anvil and came to her side. “I’m happy you’ve returned,” he told her.
Finally, she looked up at him. He thought he’d see care in her eyes or perhaps longing or even anger. But all he saw was indifference.
“I am here only to finish the sword since I found it a challenge I could not live without. Josef and Wallace will be helping me, so it shouldn’t take as long now to get it completed.”
“You don’t need to do this,” he told her, wanting to reach out and touch her, but knowing he shouldn’t.
“Nay, you are wrong. I need to forge this sword because it is a dream of mine to work with the coveted and rare Damascus steel. Since this is all I have left to look forward to in life, I ask you not to send me away before I’ve met my goal.”
“I won’t send you away,” he said, reaching out his hand to touch her. She stepped to the side. Using the gloves and tongs, she picked up the red-hot sword.
“I suggest you move because this sword is glowing hot and I’m about to quench it.”
“Aye, of course.” He moved aside, fascinated to watch her work. Knowing only a little about how swords were made, he was curious as to her process.
She dipped the sword into the quench. When flames shot up around it, he realized she used oil instead of water. “You’re using oil to quench the sword instead of water?” he asked, feeling as if his sword was about to be ruined.
“I am,” she said stoically, continuing to work. “I learned the technique from Wallace.”
“My father got his reputation for making high-quality swords by using some unconventional methods,” explained Josef.
“The swords are harder when quenched in oil,” muttered Wallace, spreading out the coals with the poker, seeming to try to cool down the fire now.
“This is the true test,” said Winter, still holding the sword in the quench. “I think every swordsmith has some anticipation during this part of the process since we can never be sure if the sword will warp or not.”
“Warp?” asked Martin, holding his breath. He didn’t want a warped sword.
“Don’t look so frightened,” she said with a slight smile. “I’ve done this before and know what I’m doing. Besides, even if it warps, there are ways of straightening it.”
“Oh, good,” he said, moving closer as she pulled the sword from the liquid dip. Winter laid it atop the anvil, looking down the edge of the blade. “Did it warp?” he asked, craning his neck to see it.
Winter checked one side and then the other. Then she nodded with satisfaction. “It looks good.” Martin swore everyone in the room let out a breath of relief.
“So, that part is done,” Martin commented.
“Not yet,” she explained. “When I quench the sword, it cools it off very quickly, therefore making the sword very hard.”
“That’s good,” said Martin.
“Nay, not really,” she continued. “If it is too hard, it becomes brittle.”
“Ah,” he said, understanding the process now. “We don’t want it to break or crack when I use it.”
“Nay, we don’t.” She turned around and used a polishing stone to remove the dark color covering the quenched sword. “I’ll remove the soot so I can see the color of the sword. Then I’ll temper it in a cooler fire so the middle of the blade is pliable and will bend when you use it. But I need to be careful, so the edges of the blade remain hard and strong.”
“That is fascinating,” said Martin, never having taken the time to find out all the details that went into constructing a sword. “How will you know when to stop the tempering process?”
“When the sword is plum-colored in the middle, that will mean it’s softer there. On the outside, we’ll want a wheat color.” She continued to grind with the stone.
“Lady Winter,” he said, clearing his throat. Can I – talk with you? In private?”
“I’m very busy,” she said, not looking up from her work. “Whatever you have to say, please do so. I have no secrets from my friends.”
Martin looked around the room. Nairnie watched him from the shadows. He had Wallace and Josef’s attention, too. The only one who was paying him no attention at all was Winter. He couldn’t ask her to marry him now. Nay. This wasn’t the right time or place.
He turned on his heel and hurried out the door.
“What’s yer hurry, Lord de Grey?” Nairnie followed, stopping just outside the entrance to the blacksmith’s shop.
“Never mind,” he said and kept on walking.
“Ask her. Dinna be so afeard.”
He stopped and turned around. “Ask her what?” he said in surprise. Was the woman a mind reader to know what he had planned to do?
“Give her yer promise as well as yer heart, and she’ll say yes.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, old woman.”
“I’ll send her to the garden tonight after everyone has gone to bed. Be there.”
“She won’t meet with me. You saw the way she just shunned me.” He walked back to Nairnie, not wanting anyone in the courtyard to hear their conversation.
“I have never seen such a frightened warrior in all my days,” she scoffed.
“I’ll have your tongue for speaking to me that way, Healer.”
“Ye’re afeard of bein’ rejected, are ye no’?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I ken more about ye than ye do about yerself. Look into yer heart and see what it is that is keepin’ ye from the lass ye love.”
His head jerked upward. “What did you say?”
“She loves ye, too, but she doesna ken it yet. Ye are goin’ to have to make her realize it.”
“Marriage has nothing to do with love.”
“But it should.”
“Mayhap,” he said, fingering the key in his pocket - the key to the box with the heart lock that depicted the two lovers.
“I’ll make sure she’s in the garden when the guard atop the tower rings the bell to change shifts at midnight. If ye care at all about her, I suggest ye worry about yer own tongue and quit threatenin’ to rip out mine.”
“What does that mean?” he asked her.
“Keep yer tongue in yer mouth, and yer sword sheathed and think about somethin’ other than lust if ye dinna want to lose her.”
Nairnie turned and headed back into the blacksmith’s shop, leaving him wondering if perhaps her words of wisdom were exactly what he needed to hear right now.