Willow trailed Christian inside.
“Good day,” Christian greeted a short man bent over a square anvil with a hammer.
The blacksmith’s head was balding, and the remainder of his gray hair was tied back from his face. He looked up, running a hand across his brow. “What can I do for you?”
Christian approached him. “I’m here to pick up a horse. He was being shoed.”
Willow studied the room. A large stone oven was housed against the back wall, its fire hot and blazing. A bellows stood before the forge. Her gaze shifted from the blacksmith’s equipment to the walls. Swords, axes, and horseshoes hung on pegs. She walked by them, inspecting them while searching for some sign Sage had been there.
“I have a horse being shoed, but he doesn’t belong to you,” the blacksmith said.
“Sir Leo de le Roche gave him to me,” Christian answered.
The blacksmith surveyed Christian, and then his lips twisted, and he began pounding out a piece of metal. “He won’t be ready for another hour.”
Christian nodded. “That’s well.” He pulled a coin out of the pouch at his belt and held it out to him. “I’m also looking for someone.”
The blacksmith paused and glanced up at Christian.
“Marcus de Nogaret. A woman with a sword and leather armor would be accompanying him.”
“I’d love to take your coin, but I haven’t seen either of them,” the blacksmith replied and pounded on the metal again. The ting, ting, ting rang through the room.
Willow moved to the door, stepping outside as Christian questioned the blacksmith. She leaned against the door frame, watching the boy work. He was shoveling horse manure off the road. He was young, probably an apprentice to the blacksmith.
She wasn’t convinced Sage had been there. There was no evidence, but she hadn’t expected to find any. She heard the low timber of Christian’s voice from inside. If the blacksmith were a friend of the man who kidnapped Sage, or if he had been well paid for his silence, he would never tell Christian they had stopped there.
She stared at the boy as he scraped the metal shovel against the muddy ground.
She was familiar with horses and had cleaned up after them many times. The amount of manure the boy was shoveling was from one night. She could tell by the saturated ground. One horse. It must be Christian’s friend’s horse, the brown palfrey.
Sighing to herself, she rolled her eyes and dropped her chin. She wanted to find Sage. The boy was simply performing his chores. Nothing more.
Sage had not been there.
Willow turned to enter the smithy. A flash of white in the mud at the entrance caught her attention. It was out of place amidst the dark and light brown of the soil. Her father had always said when she was tracking to look for things that didn’t belong. She bent to it and brushed off some of the dirt. At first inspection, it seemed like the petal of a flower.
She picked it up and stood. It was too heavy to be a flower. Realization blossomed in her chest. It was a piece of parchment.
Sage had been there.
