The Blacksmith's Wife. Elisabeth Hobbes

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      ‘I’m sure you will win future contests,’ Joanna said with a confidence she suddenly did not feel.

      Sir Roger’s lip curled and she lapsed into silence. He turned his back on her and took hold of his horse’s reins. ‘The king has planned a tournament for St George’s Day in Windsor. I intend to be there. I shall be leaving York tomorrow.’

      ‘But you will return to York for the Lammas Day Tournament as always? That’s six months away. Perhaps then...’

      ‘I have no means to marry now. Nor the intention to do so at this time.’

      Sir Roger ran his hands through his hair in a gesture similar to Hal’s.

      ‘Farewell, Joanna,’ he muttered through clenched teeth. He led his horse out of the courtyard, leaving Joanna standing alone. She covered her face with her hands, her fingers slick with tears. The crowd moved around her and she wiped her hand across her face. She could not stay here at the scene of her humiliation.

      She pushed her way out, stumbling towards the city. Her feet led her on a path towards home but she could not go inside. Not yet. Not to admit to her uncle what had happened. She turned and walked through crooked streets of the city until her feet began to ache and her stomach cramped, reminding her she had not eaten all day.

      For the first time she took notice of her surroundings. Unconsciously her feet had brought her back to Aldwark, opposite the Smiths’ Guild Hall. She gave a wry smile. She could wait for Simon in the gardens and inform him of her failure when he came out. Better he vent his disappointment there than in front of her aunt and cousins.

      A fountain stood in the centre of the gardens. Wearily Joanna trailed her hand in the cool water, scooping up the heavy copper cup and drank. She sat on the step behind the basin and leaned back against the carved stone edge. She drew her knees up and, unwatched by anyone, started to weep in earnest.

      * * *

      Five guild officials sat at a long, oak table, chains around their necks and well-fed bellies bulging under tunics of fur and velvet, the visible signs of their prosperity. The calluses and scars on hands that now bore ornate gold rings were the only indications that they had once been in Hal’s position: young and untrained, used to the heat of the furnace and the weight of a hammer. Admittance to the guild would set him on the path they had walked.

      On the table before them lay Hal’s sword. The Guild Master stood and placed his hands on the table either side of Hal’s work. He affixed Hal with a steely gaze.

      ‘An interesting choice of subject for your masterwork. You have pretentions to be an armourer? How many knights do you meet in your moorland village?’

      A ripple of laughter ran around the room. Hal did his best to smile at the feeble jest. The Guild Master picked the weapon up, scrutinised it, then passed it on. Hal held his breath as each man examined it before it was returned to the centre of the table.

      ‘Wait outside,’ the Master commanded.

      Hal walked to the outer chamber as the men turned to each other, muttering in low voices. He struggled to discern anything from their tone or expressions. Lulled by the heat of the fire on what had developed into another mild day his mind began to wander.

      What had the roars from the tiltyard meant? Had Roger won or lost? He hoped Joanna had had the sense to heed his warning and save her confrontation. The shock on her face when Roger had chosen another woman’s favour had caused Hal’s heart to throb unexpectedly. Perhaps now she would understand how fickle Roger’s affection was.

      He realised his name was being called and snapped his attention back to the present. He re-entered the chamber and the Guild Master beckoned him forward, gazing down his crooked nose.

      ‘You are young,’ the Guild Master stated. ‘Eight months out of being a journeyman, you said?’

      Hal nodded slowly, locking eyes with the Guild Master.

      ‘Your work lacks finesse,’ the Guild Master announced stiffly. ‘The blade is good, but the work on the quillon lacks technique.’ There were murmurs of agreement from around the room.

      ‘No subtlety in the ornamentation,’ another man interjected. There was a familiarity about the man. Hal couldn’t place the resemblance but something in the straw-coloured hair and pale eyes clawed at his memory.

      ‘Your ambitions outstrip your skill at this time,’ a third added.

      A burning ache began to grow in the pit of Hal’s stomach as he took in the meaning of their words. He had failed.

      ‘Go back to your village, young man,’ the second man said with a stiff smile. Once more the turn of the man’s lips reminded Hal of someone, though now he did not care about remembering who it was.

      The Guild Master stood. ‘Practise your trade. Take a wife and increase your standing. Perhaps in a few years you will have acquired the necessary skills to see beyond the bare form of the metal.’ He gestured at the weapon on the table.

      Hal stepped forward and wrapped it in the cloth, casting his eyes over the twisted knots of the cross guard.

      ‘Thank you, sirs,’ he said as politely as his disappointment would allow. He walked out, head high. It was only when the door had closed quietly behind his back that he allowed his frustration full vent.

      With a growl he turned and kicked the gate. It was childish but it relieved some of his disappointment. A greasy-haired man standing at the street corner with a tray of pies gave him a suspicious stare. Hal glared back and took a breath that rasped in his throat. He needed a drink. Water first to quench his thirst, then something more potent to numb the disappointment.

      He strode to the fountain in the gardens and lifted the chained cup to his lips, drinking deeply. The lion’s head grinned at him, its sightless iron eyes mocking. Irritated, Hal flung the cup back into the basin sending water slopping over the edge.

      A cry of annoyance made him start. He had not noticed the figure sitting on the step at the other side of the fountain, but now a woman stood and rounded on him furiously.

      ‘Watch what you’re doing, you great oaf!’

      Joanna stood before him. She seemed to register who she was speaking to for the first time.

      ‘You!’ She wiped her hands over her damp dress. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘Did your brother send you to find me?’

      ‘Do you take me for his lackey?’ Hal said bitterly. ‘I have better things to do than traipse around the city on errands for him!’

      ‘Then why are you here?’

      Joanna folded her arms across her chest with indignation.

      ‘Don’t annoy me, woman,’ Hal growled. ‘I have no idea what brought you to this part of the city, but I am here on my own business and I am most definitely not in the mood to listen to your accusations.’

      Joanna’s eyes glinted brightly and she gave a sob. Her eyes were red and swollen.

      ‘You ignored my advice, I take it.’ Hal sighed.

      She СКАЧАТЬ