AllFreeNovel
Share Us
* * *
Rowan stood at the anvil, sweat pouring down his face as he pounded the hot metal with his hammer. His strikes echoed through the castle, bouncing off the stone walls like thunder. Sparks flew as he brought the hammer down again and again. Heat rose into his face, and his muscles began to shake from the force of his work.
He’d always shaped all his own armor. Woodworking. Smithing. Since he was a boy, he’d found peace working with his hands in this way.
He brought the hammer down hard as if he could strike away his desire like that. Images from that dream kept creeping back.
I want her… and not just her body.
I crave so much more.
The hiss of metal meeting the cool, damp air, the rhythmic thud of the hammer, and the steady beat of his heart melded into a chorus.
He recalled crafting his wolf helm years ago. It bore the essence of the night itself, its snarling fangs a tribute to the shadows that lurked in his soul.
Rowan shook away the memory and focused on the task at hand, shaping the metal with his hammer and forging it into something intense and resilient for her.
For Blanchette.
He paused in mid-strike as her face swam before his eyes. He stared forward into the rising steam from the forge. Her features took shape there. Her piercing blue eyes and hair as bright as the gold from Norland’s mines.
On the edge of the anvil was a stack of arrowheads he’d finished hammering an hour ago.
He inhaled a long breath. His muscles strained as he swung his hammer down again, the hot metal glowing orange in the forge’s light. Sparks flew from the anvil as he pounded the metal into shape, his face contorted with concentration.
He had been working on it since midday when the sun was still perched in the sky. Now darkness filled the world. He heard his men training in the yard, the clash of blades, and the whirl of arrows cutting through the air.
It was a sword. He had to ensure it was perfect. Perfect weight. Perfect balance. Perfect length. Blanchette’s life might well depend on it.
Rowan wondered what battles she might fight and what enemies she would face at the end of this blade.
Finally, it was done. Rowan held it up to the torchlight. The sword was sharp and well-balanced, and intricate designs adorned the hilt.
Ravens in flight.
The power of life and death, he thought.
Fifteen
Blanchette and Governess Agnes idly sewed a pair of torn doublets. They’d just finished reviewing last season’s ledgers and the plans for the next. Afterward, they fell into wistful chatter that helped Winslowe Castle feel a little more like home again. Despite herself, a smile spread across Blanchette’s face, and a spark of sentimental joy ignited. The smile felt wrong and invasive. She tried to hold it back, but it sprang up, uninvited, at Governess Agnes’s reminiscing.
“Do you remember when Isadora and I filled the steward’s pillow with fish?”
“Oh, how shall I forget that?” Governess Agnes replied as she closed a hole in the doublet. “He was all in a rage. Didn’t know where the stench was coming from for nearly a fortnight.”
“He went to sleep with a clothespin on his nose.” Blanchette giggled.
How strange it felt to laugh.
What right did she have to be happy when her brother and mother lay in the cold, dark crypts? He’s resting there now because of Rowan.
“He did indeed. Blanchette? You look most troubled, my dear.”
Blanchette lowered the doublet and ran her fingers over the rough fabric. The Black Wolf sigil adorned its chest. She traced the snarling wolf head and inhaled deeply. “I close my eyes at night. I close my eyes and try to see their faces. Mother’s, my grandmother… Willem.” Blanchette inhaled a shaky breath as she felt tears come to her eyes. Governess Agnes laid a hand on her wrist and gently squeezed. “But I can’t. All I can see—all who I can see—is Rowan Dietrich. At first, I saw him, and I cursed him. He’d haunt my every nightmare. I’d see him standing there, in his crude armor and helm, his sword wet and dripping with the blood of my family’s. There was a certain comfort in that, you know? A tangible feeling of hate and revenge I could hold on to. It was so clear to me… who he was and what my path should be. I was… anchored.”
Governess Agnes gave a heartfelt sigh. “I felt the same way, my dear. But now…”
“But now,” Blanchette agreed, her voice strained. “But now… I still see him when I close my eyes. But not his armor or twisted wolf helm. I see the man. The knight. I see Sir Rowan. I see the man who gave the children food, blankets, and clothes. I see and hear the man who speaks soft words to me, words of comfort and courage and admiration. I see the man who took my hand and led me to the crypts so my family might lie in peace with the rest of their kin. I see a man I’m starting to feel for, and I am lost. And the guilt I feel… God, what a betrayal!”
