“Come, Mother,” said Erik softly. “Let’s go home. The forge is banked, but if there’s work, I’ll need to get the fire hot again. Tyndal is certain to be in no condition to do it.” He gently put his arm upon his mother’s shoulder, astonished at how frail she suddenly felt. She quietly allowed him to guide her along.
The townspeople stepped away, giving the young smith and his mother an open passageway from the square, all sensing that somehow there would soon be an ending to this tradition, begun fifteen years earlier, when first the beautiful and fiery Freida had boldly stepped forward and held out the squalling baby, demanding that Otto von Darkmoor recognize the child as his own. Nearly every soul in the Barony knew the story. She had confronted him five years later, and again he had not rebutted her claim. His silence gave her declaration credence, and for years the tale of the bastard child of the Baron of Darkmoor had been a source of local lore, good for a drink from passing strangers bound between Eastern and Western Realms of the Kingdom.
The mystery was always in the Baron’s silence, for had he denied it but once, from that day forward Freida would have had the burden of proof put squarely upon herself. The itinerant monk was never seen again in that region, and no other witness existed. And Freida had become the drudge of an innkeeper, and the boy a blacksmith’s helper.
Some claimed that the Baron was merely being kind to Freida, refusing to publicly brand her a liar, for while he had obviously fathered her child, the claim of marriage was certainly the ranting of a disturbed woman or the calculated concoction of one seeking some advantage.
Others said the Baron was too much a coward to proclaim a public lie by saying Erik was not his; for anyone had merely to glance at Otto to see that Erik was his very shadow. The Baron carried shame for a badge where a better man would wear honor, for to acknowledge Erik, even as a bastard son, would cast doubt upon his own children’s right to inherit, and bring down the wrath of his wife upon him.
But for whatever reason, by saying nothing, every year, he let the challenge stand unanswered. Erik could claim the name “von Darkmoor” because the Baron had never denied him the right.
Slowly they moved through the street, back toward the inn. Roo, never one to let two minutes pass in silence back to back, said, “You going to do anything special tonight, Erik?”
Erik knew what Roo referred to: the Baron’s visit was an excuse for a public holiday, nothing as formal as the traditional festivals, but enough so that men would pack the little Inn of the Pintail and drink and gamble most of the night, and many of the young girls of the town would be down at the fountain, waiting for the young men to drink enough liquid courage to come pay court. There would be plenty of work to keep Erik busy. He said as much.
Roo said, “They are their mother’s sons, no doubt of that.”
Erik knew whom Roo meant: his half brothers. Roo glanced over his shoulder, down the street to the square, where the Growers’ and Vintners’ Hall and the Baron’s carriage were still visible, and found that the two noble boys had returned outside, ostensibly to oversee the removal of the Baron’s baggage, but both were in hushed conversation, their eyes fixed upon Erik’s retreating back. Roo felt an impulse to make a rude gesture in their direction, but thought better of it. Even at this distance, he could tell their expression was of open hostility and dark anger. Turning back toward the inn, Roo hurried his step to catch up to Erik.
Darkness brought a lessening of the day’s activities everywhere but at the Inn of the Pintail, where workers and town merchants who were not of sufficient rank to attend the dinner at the Growers’ and Vintners’ Hall gathered to enjoy a mug of wine or ale. A near-celebratory atmosphere gripped the inn as men told stories in loud voices, played cards and dice for copper coins, and tested their skill at a dart board.