The Blacksmith's Wife
A passion forged from fireRejected by her favoured knight, Joanna Sollers knows she will never love again. Especially when the man she’s now forced to marry is none other than her beloved’s half-brother!For blacksmith Hal Danby, marrying Joanna makes his life-long dream of entering the Smiths’ Guild possible, even if the secrets in his past mean he’ll forever keep his distance. But everything changes with one stolen night, and in the arms of his new bride, Hal wonders if this loveless arrangement could transform into something real…
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His voice was hoarse.
‘When you touch me like that it tips me over the edge of madness. I want you so much it hurts beyond endurance. I’m cautioning you—if you carry on touching me that way I’ll take you here and now. I won’t be able to stop.’
Joanna licked her lips and swallowed. She slid her hand down between their bodies, feeling the proof of his words. She brushed her hand against the hardness she felt and lifted her face. Hal was watching her intently. She recognised in his expression the desire that filled her.
‘Then don’t stop,’ she murmured.
This story takes place in and around my home town of York and the North York Moors, an area I consider one of the most beautiful and dramatic in Britain. I’d urge everyone to visit—especially when the heather is in bloom and there is purple in every direction.
All but two of the locations mentioned in the book are real. Around a third of the way through writing I was delighted to find a female blacksmith named Johane on the lists of guild members working from St Andrewgate. Ravenscrag and Wharram Danby are my creations, but owe a lot to the centuries-old villages on the moors, including Wharram Percy which is managed by English Heritage and can be visited.
Sir Terry Pratchett died while I was writing this book, saddening me more than I can articulate here. When Joanna decided to adopt a dog—nothing to do with me…I didn’t know she was going to!—he became my tribute to Gaspode the Wonder Dog. There’s also another of his characters I’ve borrowed. Please let me know if you spot him.
The dog belongs to a friend who agrees with me that dogs with human names are extremely funny, and that Simon is by far the best example. His name was an unplanned but amusing coincidence—I love it when completely unrelated areas of my life collide.
As with all my stories, a particular song acted as a focus for my writing. This time it was Every Day by Stevie Nicks.
ELISABETH HOBBES grew up in York, where she spent most of her teenage years wandering around the city looking for a handsome Roman or Viking to sweep her off her feet. Elisabeth’s hobbies include skiing, Arabic dance and fencing—none of which has made it into a story yet. When she isn’t writing she spends her time reading, and is a pro at cooking while holding a book! Elisabeth lives in Cheshire with her husband, two children, and three cats with ridiculous names.
To Jenni, Paul and Fredi.
Thanks for the entertaining conversation about vellum and parchment. And the accompanying caipirinhas.
Contents
Hooves thundered on the ground as the horses charged. Lances met armour, splintering on impact and sending shards of wood cascading across the lists. The riders wheeled their mounts round to face each other once more. The crowd roared, stamping feet, pounding fists against the wooden fences that separated them from the contestants. In the stands the women gasped in alarm, clutching each other’s hands in excitement and suspense. To watch was agonising, but not a watcher, high-or low-born, could bear to tear his or her eyes from the spectacle before them.
None more so than Joanna Sollers.
‘Sir Roger leads. Sir Godfrey must unseat him or deliver a strike to the head to win,’ muttered a man to Joanna’s left.
‘Sir Godfrey will win,’ his companion replied. ‘He has twice the experience of Sir Roger.’
Roger Danby would win the joust; Joanna’s certainty was iron hard. It was true that today’s encounters were between knights untried in battle but Sir Roger was the best and brightest. His skill on horseback was the talk of Yorkshire. He told Joanna so whenever she mentioned her fears for his safety, laughing at her protests as he silenced her with clandestine kisses, more forward and demanding each time they met.
Joanna forced her eyes back to the arena. At either end of the tilt the knights wiped sweat from their brows, as squires brought them fresh lances. Sir Roger’s chestnut stallion pounded the dirt fiercely, tossing its head, as eager to be off as its master.
Trumpets sounded and the knights lowered their visors once more, hefting their lances in readiness for the final encounter. A hush descended as the flag was raised. Joanna bit her lip anxiously. For three years she had known Sir Roger and could not remember him ever becoming unseated. Even so her hands twisted the linen scarf she held in her lap, tightening it around her fist until the blood pooled in her fingers.
The flag dropped and the knights charged, roaring. Sir Godfrey’s lance smashed into Sir Roger’s chest. The younger knight rolled his shoulder back and the lance remained unbroken. At the same time Sir Roger’s weapon caught his opponent square in the chest, shattering on impact. The crowd surged en masse to its feet in a deafening roar. Joanna let out a breath she had not even been aware she was holding.
