I know it's been a long time, so firstly I must apologise. Following a long illness of almost two months (which began on New Years Day – oh joy!), bereavement and other nonsense that hits us in every day life – I confess I lost my muse for sometime. But everything seems rosy again and my enjoyment in writing has returned to me. Thank you to everyone that read the first chapter of this story and thanks especially to all those that left reviews. If you've come back to read more, I'm amazed after all this time and I thank you once again! I'll do my best not to let you down.
This chapter continues where the first ended and as it's been such along time since I wrote it, it might be an idea to scan your eyes over the first one again in case this second chapter seems a little confusing! Lol!
Guyon – The Blacksmith's Apprentice – he's inspired by another of my loves. If anyone watches the BBC's 'Robin Hood' you'll know who it is! No apologises for the blatantly obvious name, I couldn't resist! LOL!
Chapter 2 ~ The Blacksmith's Apprentice
"Is something wrong, Aithne?" Guyon, the apprentice blacksmith asked, a slight frown darkening the sparkle of his steel-blue eyes. It vexed him to know he did not have her undivided attention, but he disguised his irritation well, giving away nothing but the appearance of concern.
Aithne hesitated a moment, as if the unexpected inquisition had not quite registered. Guyon's frown deepened in response to her faltering smile and the preoccupied eyes which stared up at him and he quickly glanced around as if in hope to find the answer to whatever it was that vied for her attention. But all he could see was the quiet courtyard, still empty but for a single Sarmatian knight leading a large grey stallion from the stables as he left on patrol.
"You'd tell me if something were troubling you?" The blacksmith insisted again in a lazy voice that was typically unhurried and deep and matched perfectly his towering stature. His sharp blue eyes flashed beneath his handsome, soot-blackened face with inquisitive guile, searching for whatever it was Aithne seemed intent to keep hidden.
Aithne shook her head, laughing lightly despite the pound of her heart that simply refused to be still, as she endeavoured to satisfy his unwanted scrutiny.
"Guyon, there's nothing troubling me, I'm just tired is all... Now I must hurry, I've still bread to take to the keep and me Da will like-as-not give me a cuffin' if I tarry much longer." With that, Aithne turned on her heels to go but was stopped by Guyon's calloused hand, oddly slender for a man of his trade, which reached out swiftly and held her by the wrist.
"Aithne…why are your skirts wet?" Sounding more accusation than question, a slow smile curled at the corner of his thin lips as he spoke, but his attractively carved face with its long, slim, hawk-like nose and piercing blue eyes remained stoic and spoke a different tale.
The look did not trouble Aithne, for it was the memory of Tristan glaring down at her over his wine mug which was causing her insides coil and not the reproachful glint of suspicion which Guyon flashed her way.
"I upset a pitcher in the tavern, is all…" Aithne replied, feeling somewhat piqued that he felt she should even explain herself to him, it was no business of his after all "…please let go Guyon, I must get on."
Aithne pulled away from him but he did not let go, holding her fast in his manacle grip. Instead he cocked his head to one side and stared down at her from beneath the waves of his long, tussled black hair, the air of cynicism obvious. A moments silence and then he leaned down towards her, so close she could feel his breath on her cheek.
"I'm only concerned for you, Aithne…" His voice as always was deep and slow, as if he were analysing every word before they left his lips. "…you know that don't you?"
Aithne stared back in annoyance, then cast a disgruntled glare at the fingers that still gripped her wrist with a possessive strength she was all-too aware of.
"Guyon" she said with calm insistence "I must go"
Guyon quickly dropped her wrist, as if he realised his thoughts had been unwontedly exposed.
"Of course," he replied quickly, taking a step back from her. He had overstepped the mark; he knew that and was quick and eager to make amends, for he had much to lose. "Forgive me, I should keep you no longer; we both have much work to do"
Aithne's mood immediately eased in response to the swift change in Guyon's disposition. He was smiling at her now, a devastatingly, attractive smile. A smile Guyon knew few, including Aithne, found difficult to resist. And there it was, the gentle flush of her cheeks which he knew signalled his small victory over her.
Despite her blush - that try as she might she just never had power over when Guyon looked at her that way - Aithne was no fool. This fine-looking man could have the pick of the village if he so wanted and probably did too most nights, Aithne suspected.
He stood over six feet tall, broad of shoulder with the dark, brooding countenance which made him easily mistaken for a knight-at-arms than for the unwilling smithy's apprentice he begrudgingly was. That together with his long ebony-black hair which hung to his shoulders, strong, attractive features and deep, husky voice he was indeed a hard man for any woman to ignore. But Aithne had long supposed his singular attention towards her had much less to do with what she considered her own, unremarkable physical attributes and more to do instead, with the material bounty that came with her, should she ever chose to marry again.
At first she had been confused and a little shocked by the initial attention shown by the man who had - up until she found herself a widow - never before shown the slightest interest in her. Not even an admiring glance as she passed by the Smithy's workshop of a morning. But when Guyon did he make his approach, as subtle as it was, it was perhaps with slightly inapproapriate haste. Aithne had been widowed but a few short weeks, her loss was still raw and her affection for her young, dead husband still heavy upon her heart. There could have been no room for consideration of another at such a time and so his attempt at courtship ineviatably proved unsuccessful - and to his ever growing frustration, continued to be so. Which was just as well for Aithne, for had she not been numb with grief, Guyon's honey-sweet words would no doubt have woven their spell, leading eventually to his great advanatge and most likely Aithne's grievous regret. As it happened, her initial grief had eased with time and left in it's wake a mildly bitter cynicism that loss often does to those that have loved. It didnt take long for her to realise Guyon's early attention for what it was.
Heith had always been a fragile boy. Fair-haired and slight of limb, he had been the image of his gentle mother who herself had been cruelly snatched away following her horrendous struggle giving him life. Guilt ridden and distraught from the loss of his beloved wife, Heith's father could find no solace in the infant boy, finding it easier to blame the innocent for the death of his wife and drown his sorrows in the bottom of an ale mug instead. It had caused Aithne's mother no misgiving to persuade her husband to take in their rapidly failing neighbour's child as their own and so it had been. Heith's father had offered no objection, just simply continued to drink himself in to a grave that took only eight short months for him to reach.
Growing up together as they did, it had never occurred to Aithne or Heith that they would be anything less than husband and wife one day. Their affection for one another had always been consistent and strong and so it seemed only natural that they should be hand-fasted. It was also, hardly surprising that no great passion ever burned between them; they had been together since the cradle after all and knew each other most completely. Both knew such all-consuming infatuations grew from the thrill of the new and the unknown. But what they did have together was a gentle love, deep respect and true friendship and so both could be nothing other than content.
The only darkness in their short union was Heith's delicate health. It was no wonder Aithne failed to beget a child in her three years as a wife. Often were his maladies, with the slightest of colds frequently turning into raging fevers and deliriums, and so then few were their couplings. The lack of a child was not only painful for Aithne and Heith, but every bit as painful to her father also, who himself had only Aithne to call his own. The Gods had seen fit to take all his children but her, before they were even grown in the womb. Surely they would be merciful in at least granting her father the joy of grandsons to carry on the family legacy? But it seemed the Gods weren't not of a mind to be merciful and instead they took not only his wife that year, but Heith as well.
The relentless cough began one summer following what had seemed a much lesser fever than most Heith had suffered. By mid-autumn the cough was racked with blood, by winter he was dead.
With her father now a widower and his only daughter herself, a childless widow with the tempting prospect of a modestly lucrative little bakery as a future dowry, it didn't take long for the likes of a discontented smithy's apprentice to spot the advantage of playing court to Aithne. After all, he had no future at the Blacksmiths.
The smithy had three sons of his own which left Guyon no hope of ever owning the business himself. He was nothing more than a lackey there anyhow and always would be; besides he detested the work. The heat, the grime, the eternal din – no, why should he have to toil like this when he could simply find a wife to do it for him, allowing him to sit back and enjoy the easy life it would mean for him? And Aithne was perfect! No brats, no siblings, just a tidy little bakery, which would eventually pass to her and of course, as her husband that would mean it would belong to him! She would bake her bread and he would live in effortless comfort. No more burning furnaces, no more ear-splitting thrash of molten steel. Ah yes, Aithne was perfect indeed. The only thing Guyon hadn't gambled on was how difficult persuading the baker's daughter to accept him would actually prove to be.
In the beginning, he never really considered that there was much to admire about her really, she seemed rather plain to the Guyon who had always been used to the company of the more pleasing looking women. But she was by no means an offence to the senses and he knew it wouldn't prove too much of a chore taking her to his bed. Of course, with the arrogant confidence he held in his own good looks, it never once entered his thoughts that his notice of her would be accepted with anything other than grateful delight. What he got however, was a baffling determination to keep him at arms length.
Her polite, but obvious rejection would normally have been more than enough to quash any further interest from him. But Guyon was a man little used to rejection from the feminine sex and it puzzled as much as annoyed him. Over time, her persistent evasion of his courtship began to stir more than just a desire for what material gain she would bring to the match. For the first time he actually began to see the girl and he found that over the months that perhaps she wasnt so plain after all. The sight of her became more pleasing to his eye, the sound of her voice sweeter on his ears until eventually, he found himself thinking much less of the comfortable life marriage to her would bring him and more of how comfortable his bed would be with her beside him.
He'd grown attached to her without even realising it. But these feelings were something new for Guyon; arrogant, egotistic man that he had always been and he found it all strangely confusing. The growing affection gave him little pleasure and served only to vex him more than ever when she avoided his attempts to get close to her. These days, he found himself growing dangerously more and more impatient to possess her.
Aithne inclined her head respectfully, grateful that Guyon had seen fit to release her without further interrogation. Despite his fine looks, his perfect manners and attractively crooked smile, there was sometimes a coldness behind those blue eyes which touched Aithne from time to time, just as there was now and this often made her uneasy.
"Good bye, Guyon." She spoke quietly as she turned to walk away, swiftly putting him from her mind, whilst he just stood and watched as she hurried across the courtyard.
She was desperate to be gone and so quickly made her way towards the quiet of a storeroom which stood behind her father's bakery. She knew she still had a delivery to take to the kitchens at the keep but she just needed a moment to be alone, a chance to overcome the humiliation she'd felt beneath Tristan's frown and she was annoyed with Guyon for prolonging her anguish by not allowing her to flee. She'd been aware of Tristan even then; when Guyon had waylaid her escape and kept her talking outside the Blacksmith's. She was certain he had been stood just out of her peripheral vision. She could even swear she felt his eyes upon her for a short while, if she hadn't been so eager to dismiss it as merely her imagination.
Aithne swept inside the dusky storeroom and sat down on a pile of flour sacks with an exasperated bump which sent a cloud of flour swirling around and settling upon her hair and shoulders. For the love of the Gods, he must think her a ridiculous, clumsy specimen, she whined to herself. She'd behaved like a tongue-tied imbecile in front of him and oddly it hurt Aithne to believe he would think of her in such a light.
She groaned aloud and dropped her weary head in her hands. She was being absurd and she knew it. He probably didn't think of her at all...and even if he did, why should she even care what he thought of her anyway? Besides, she didn't like him…did she? 'No' she thought obstinately, he was grubby and unkempt and she convinced herself he must smell as bad as he looked (although she knew by experience this at least wasnt true, it just suited her better not to remember!). To her, despite his now being free, he was still every inch the barbarian slave, unnerving her constantly with his dark and moody manner? She could be standing a whole battlefield away from him, she was sure and she would still feel the brooding intensity emanating from that silent scout. Just sensing his presence made her spine tingle and it scared her.
'But then', she thought, 'he probably scares everyone'.