‘I’m a blacksmith.’The soldier’s bushy brows rose so high they disappeared into his hair.
‘Plague, take it!’The bearded man behind me threw down his sacks and put his hands on his hips.‘Women can’t be blacksmiths!’
Impatient people annoyed me, but rude people made me angry.I considered dismounting and standing over the man, who was a head shorter than I, and telling him to be quiet.Instead, I took a calming breath and tugged my braid over my shoulder to inspect the blonde ends for any debris I might have collected during the nights I had slept on the ground.
It had taken several days to get here, and I didn’t want to give the bushy-browed soldier a reason not to let me into Murus.
‘Is that all?’I asked the soldier.
His bushy eyebrows returned to their bored position.‘Yes.’He gestured to his men to let me through.
‘Wait, you don’t believe her bullshit story, do you?’
‘Don’t start trouble again, Mac,’ the soldier warned.
I lightly pressed my knees into Nightmare’s sides, urging her forward.
The man the soldier called Mac raised his voice so I couldn’t miss hearing him.‘Women aren’t blacksmiths!’
Well, this woman was.
Murus seemed to burst at the seams; the cobblestone street overflowed with other travellers, hawkers and residents, all passing in and out of the city gates on foot, in noisy carts and on horseback.
The blacksmith’s shop I was looking for was close to the ancient stone fortress.Murus’s fortress had been empty when I visited last, but the blue flags now on the turrets and the soldiers around the entrance signalled it no longer was.
I dismounted from Nightmare and peered into a tidy and neatly organised shop.The old blacksmith wasn’t inside.Remembering the forge was attached to the side of the shop, I followed the familiar hammering sounds of a blacksmith at work.
Two women gripping baskets filled with washing were standing in my way, chatting with each other while watching whoever was hammering.
‘Excuse me.’They moved aside reluctantly as I walked between them with Nightmare behind me.She flicked her tail at the pretty girl holding her wash basket on her hip.She was frightened enough by Nightmare’s size to scuttle closer to her friend.They both glared at me when I reached out to stroke the mare for her sassy behaviour.
The old blacksmith I had come to see wasn’t the one hammering.A much younger man was hammering a large piece of iron, every muscle and vein in his arms straining with the effort.He wielded the hammer expertly, and his blows were consistent andprecise – something I knew from experience was very hard to do with a hammer as big as the one he held.
I watched him work, admiring his focus and skill.His shirt, adapted to leave his arms bare, clung to him with sweat as he laboured tirelessly, his back muscles flexing with every hammer strike.A wavy lock of fair hair had escaped the leather tie used to keep it out of his eyes.
I patiently waited as he took the piece he was working on to a large barrel and dipped it into the water using long iron tongs.He tucked the escaped strand of hair behind his ear, drawing my attention to his face.The blacksmith’s features were pleasant enough to look at.When our eyes connected, I couldn’t help admiring the thick, dark lashes surrounding his golden-brown eyes.He was not the old, gnarled blacksmith I sought.
He glanced at the women standing on the street, who were no longer pretending they were there to chat, then turned his golden gaze on me.Setting down his tools, he nodded towards Nightmare.
‘Are you wanting the mare reshod?’
He pronounced his r’s with a slight roll of his tongue, the depth of the burr in his voice bringing to mind honey warming in a pan.I shook my head, but he continued to approach me.
‘She’s an extraordinary mare.May I?’he asked, coming closer.
Nightmare didn’t tolerate strangers touching her, especially men.‘She isn’t the petting type,’ I warned.
He smiled warmly at me, then unhurriedly reached an enormous hand towards her black muzzle.
Not touching, just waiting.
Nightmare let out a slight puff of air through her enlarged nostrils and trod forward, pushing her nose into his palm.He smiled, raising his other hand to her neck.
‘You little hussy,’ I muttered.
‘Don’t be too mad at her,’ he smirked.‘I have this effect on most fillies.’His chuckle sounded more self-deprecating than cocky, despite his words.
I found that to be oddly charming.
