The Blacksmith's Wife. Elisabeth Hobbes
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the first words Roger had spoken to Hal since the previous night. Both had returned to the camp separately and Roger had stamped around the tent, reminding Hal of when they were both children.
‘I wasn’t intending to,’ Hal answered, earning a petulant scowl from Roger who took the cup of warm milk Hal offered.
‘I’m allowing you to share my tent so the least you could do is help me prepare. You know my armour better than my squire,’ Roger grumbled. ‘You’d have made a better squire too if you hadn’t been so proud.’
Hal ignored the jibe. ‘You know I have matters of my own to attend to.’
‘Your work is all you think of. I’m on the lists before midday,’ Roger wheedled. ‘You’ll have plenty of time.’
Hal took a cloth-wrapped package from the chest at the end of his bed, laid it carefully on the table and unfolded it to reveal the sword he had crafted. The edge gleamed in the light as he drew it from the scabbard and weighed it in his hand.
Roger whistled in genuine appreciation. ‘I don’t know why you want to enter the guild. You’re a good blacksmith already.’
Hal laid it carefully back on the cloth and ran his fingers over the wide, flat blade.
‘Would you be content to stay aiming at wooden targets?’
Roger snorted. ‘Of course not!’
‘I don’t want to spend my life shoeing horses and hammering plough blades. There are other skills and other metals.’
‘Do you have plans for the weapon after you’ve presented it?’ Roger asked hopefully. ‘Something so fine deserves to be wielded by a knight.’ He couldn’t hide the note of longing in his voice and Hal’s throat tightened in annoyance.
‘I’m keeping it. Whatever you think, you are not entitled to lay claim to everything I possess,’ he said archly.
Roger snapped his fingers to summon his page. Hal drank his milk, feeling his stomach beginning to settle. He had not intended to drink so much the previous night, but after leaving the feast he had stalked around the city until he found a tavern where he could mull over what he had witnessed between Roger and Joanna. No doubt she would be at the joust. Anyone could see the foolish girl was blinded by the thrill of the tournament and her dreams of winning his brother’s heart.
‘When you spoke to Joanna last night did you mention your task today?’ Roger asked.
Hal started as the name he was thinking was spoken aloud. ‘Why would I tell her about that?’
Roger smirked. ‘I thought you might have told her about your sword, that’s all.’
‘I doubt your lady would care about my sword. I think her interest lies entirely in the jousting,’ Hal said.
Now Roger had introduced the subject Hal felt entitled to continue. Joanna was not the first woman Roger had caused to become infatuated and certainly would not be the last. If she was foolish enough to believe the sweet words that spun from Roger’s lips it was no concern of Hal’s, but her eyes brimming with sadness as Roger repeatedly ignored her presence had pricked Hal’s heart. Moreover she intrigued him. He’d seen energy in her when she bickered with him that she hid from Roger, to whom she had submitted meekly.
Which was the real woman? He’d like to find out. A worm of guilt wriggled in his belly as he remembered trying to persuade his brother’s woman to dance.
‘Did you speak to her last night as I told you to?’ he asked.
‘No, she left early and I was caught up with other matters. I’ll speak to her today,’ Roger said with a careless wave of his hand. ‘Now, for the final time, will you come help me this morning? If you’re seen with me it will increase your standing in the eyes of the Guild members.’
Hal doubted how much influence a young knight of middling wealth from the North York Moors might have, but to say so would be churlish. Roger would not stop until he had the answer he wanted and it was better to be busy than wait here until he had to present his work. ‘Very well. I’ll spare an hour, no more. I cannot be late to the Guild Hall.’
‘Good.’ Roger swung his legs to the floor. ‘I’m not entering the mêlée, but I could use a bout of swordplay to wake my senses. How about you pit your weapon against mine?’
Hal ran his fingers reverentially over the pommel and cross guard of the falchion. However much he craved it, Roger would not get this weapon.
‘I’ll spar with you, but not with this.’ He slid it back into its sheath and folded the cloth around it. ‘I’m not doing anything that might risk my chances of admittance to the Guild.’
* * *
Joanna could scarcely draw breath; her chest was tight with excitement. Last night Simon had secured admission from Sir Bartholomew’s steward to one of the most prominent stands at the tournament ground. This morning a messenger had called him away, leaving Joanna seated alone amid guests of the castle.
She did not care that her dress was of linen, not silk, and the band drawing back her hair was embroidered with flax, not spun gold. She was closer than she had ever been to the knights and Sir Roger would not fail to notice her today.
Trumpets sounded and the knights processed in. They paraded around the field, each with his entourage of pages and squires. Joanna craned her neck to find Sir Roger and spotted two heads of black curls walking side by side. She gave a small cry of surprise, causing the woman next to her to glance round.
The procession reached Joanna’s stand. She leaned forward once more, smiling and cheering along with the crowd. She waved at Sir Roger, but he did not see her. Beside him Hal turned and his eyes met Joanna’s, lingering on her in a manner that sent an unexpected shudder rippling through her. Unsettled, she raised an eyebrow haughtily. He stared at her unsmiling, a small frown knotting his brow, then carried on walking. Dressed in a dark wool tunic, Hal was out of place among the procession of squires who wore their masters’ colours proudly. From his bearing he could easily be a knight himself.
The knights took their places. Hal muttered something to his brother and both men stared in Joanna’s direction. She raised a hand and Sir Roger inclined his head ever so slightly towards her. He turned away to talk to the knight who stood beside him. Joanna lowered her hand slowly, her smile feeling suddenly tighter and forced. Hal patted the horse, his gaze still on Joanna. She dropped her eyes, unnerved by his gaze.
* * *
The first three bouts passed in a blur, Joanna barely watching until it was Sir Roger’s turn. He mounted his horse and trotted to where Sir Bartholomew sat. This was the moment Joanna had been waiting for, when each knight would choose a lady to present him with a favour to wear as he rode. Sir Roger turned his horse in Joanna’s direction and paused in front of her stand. She slipped the silk scarf from around her neck, her heart beating rapidly.
‘Will you give me a favour to wear, my lady?’
Sir Roger’s voice sounded loud across the tiltyard. Joanna’s heart stopped. He was not speaking to her. Slowly she felt the blood drain from her face.
Further along the stand a woman slipped a scarf of vibrant green over the tip of Sir Roger’s lance. Through swimming eyes Joanna recognised the dark curls of the woman Sir Roger had danced with the previous night. The crowd cheered. Oblivious to what followed, Joanna slumped back on to the bench. She gazed at the wisp of pale-yellow silk that lay across her lap.
What had gone wrong? She had not been able to speak to Sir Roger since she had submitted to his touch in such an indiscreet manner the night before. He had seemed pleased with her then, so why now was he so cold?
She raised her eyes. Across the field Hal was watching her still, his frown deepening. Joanna narrowed her eyes as she stared back. In response Hal’s lips twisted into a sneer. Unable to bear the knowledge that he was watching her humiliation, Joanna dropped her gaze. She bundled the scarf tightly in her hand, digging