He pivoted, preparing to grip and twist his assailant’s arm until it broke, until he saw the grim face of the innkeeper.
“Yes?” said Brand quickly, his heart pounding. “Is there a problem?”
“Beg pardon, sir, but ye don’t want to be goin’ in there. Out back through the kitchens would be better, I’m thinkin’.”
Carey gasped, and a fine mist of perspiration dampened his neck.
“Oh?”
“Maybe a quarter hour ago, a couple of rough strangers arrived. My good wife says they are askin’ a great many questions about a certain nobleman and a dark-haired doctor’s daughter. Thing is though, they forgot their purses. And that doctor, he were a dab hand with elixirs for a poorly young one. So nobody here seen or heard anythin’.”
“Bless you, sir,” said Carey fervently.
“You be careful, mistress. And you, sir. The wife says they got a mean look about them, and she’s met all types.”
“Will you see to the horses?” said Brand. “Perhaps some more food for us, easily carried?”
“Aye. Oh, and by the by, the smithy I hear ye be searchin’ for is three streets back and six doors down to the left. I’ll tell yer servants where you’ve gone. Go.”
Shoving a guinea into the innkeeper’s hand, Brand hurried past the man, pulling Carey through the stifling hot kitchen and down three stone steps to a long, narrow garden. Weaving around a large pig pen, several chicken coops, and neatly-kept rows of tilled soil, he helped her over a wooden sty and onto the muddy street.
He paused, looking left and right, but they were temporarily alone, most residents of Guildford seemingly unwilling to brave the cold, rain-misted morning just yet. As an added precaution he pulled up the hood of his cloak, and Carey quickly did the same.
“Come on,” he said tightly, curving an arm around her waist. “This way. We need to find the Blacksmiths before whoever was at the inn does.”
“What about Lucas? And your men?”
“No one would dare touch Lucas. And my men were previously mercenaries. They know how to disappear when necessary.”
Moving fast enough to put distance between them and the inn, but not so their gait would be remarked upon by anyone who happened to glance their way, they followed the innkeeper’s directions to a small but well-kept smithy.
“Hello?” he called, and eventually a simply-dressed, silver-haired man came out from the back, wiping his hands on a linen cloth.
“Mornin’, sir. Mistress. You must want a blacksmith right bad, to be wanderin’ round the town at this time and in this weather.”
“Indeed. We’re very particular. We owe a great debt to a certain young Blacksmith for the service he did us, you see, and we were told by a friend his father could be found here.”
Agony flashed across the man’s craggy face. “Is that right?”
Abruptly Carey pushed away from him and ran up to the lean stranger. “Please, sir. This is Sir Brandon FitzAlan, and I am Catherine Linwood. My father was Doctor Arthur Linwood. I need to find the family of Robbie Blacksmith. Several days ago he saved my life, and…well…please, it is so very important, and we have little time left.”
The old man stared hard at them, as though considering. Finally, he spat over his shoulder and ambled forward. “Robert Blacksmith is my name. You’d best come with me.”
The cottage behind the smithy was small, but immaculately kept. Brand was forced to bend well forward to get through the low door, but Catherine had no such issue. A quick glance around the room revealed a large black kettle hanging over a roaring fire, another pot with some sort of fragrant stew bubbling away, and a hand-carved table with four chairs around it. Through a doorway to her left she spotted the end of a large bed, several colorful quilts piled high at the end.
Charmed, she smiled. “What a lovely home.”
“Thankee. My wife keeps it as it should be. She would come out to greet you, but…she…she…took a draught to help her sleep. The news, you understand.”
Remembered pain made her shudder.
“When I received word of my father’s death,” Catherine said softly, “it hurt so badly I didn’t want to get out of bed. I am so sorry for your loss. And to know I was the cause of it…that is unbearable.”
Robert shook his head. “No. I saw what happened on the street to my boy, and those two will meet the devil firsthand when they pass. But I am glad to see you hale and hearty, Mistress Linwood, for I had grave fears what happened to your father and Robbie would befall you also.”
“Why?” asked Brand bluntly, his folded arm stance making his shoulders seem positively mountainous.
The older man hesitated, then gestured to the table. “Take a seat and I’ll tell you a short tale. Perhaps some mead to warm yer bellies?”
“That would be most kind,” she said, shooting Brand a significant look. “Mead is excellent for these chilly days.”
Bustling around the room, Robert poured three servings of mead then fetched a short poker. After holding it over the fire, he plunged it into each tankard to heat the liquid, filling the room with the delicious scent of honey and spices.
They sipped in appreciative silence for a few minutes. Finally, Robert put his tankard down and clasped his hands together as if in prayer.
“Several weeks ago, a man came into my smithy needin’ help with a thrown horseshoe. He was a pleasant fellow, said he was a doctor, come from London to Guildford to attend the noble folk on the hill. I was surprised, seemed a long way to call a man in winter when the weather and roads are so bad. My wife, Gwen, she’s a maid up at the manor, she hadn’t said anything about an illness requiring that kind of help, just that the ladies were feeling a mite poorly and wanted naught but broth and watered wine.”
“The ladies
