Erik expected an argument, but instead his mother only nodded once and left without further comment. Puzzled by her lack of outburst, Erik stood a moment until the crackling of the fire under the tub reminded him he had a still-unfinished task. He took one of the hard cakes of soap used to wash the inn’s bedding and broke it in half. Tossing the hard soap into the tub, he began stirring with a paddle. As the water turned a deep brown, he thought: why no argument from his mother? There was an air of resignation from her that he had never seen before.
Leaving the sheets to simmer in the tub, Erik hurried back to the smith’s room, grabbing some rags and a mineral oil cleaner he used on especially filthy tack and tools. He removed the balance of Tyndal’s possessions, a single large chest and a sack of personal items. A rickety wooden wardrobe he left inside, in case Nathan chose to hang his cloaks and shirts there; he could always haul it away later if the new smith didn’t care for it.
When he had the last of Tyndal’s possessions outside, Erik regarded the meager pile. “Not a lot to show for a lifetime,” he muttered. He picked up the chest and hauled it over to one corner of the small yard behind the barn, and picked up the sack and placed it on top. He’d go through them later to see what Tyndal had left that might be of use. There were always poor farmers on the outskirts of the vineyards who grew other than grapes, and they always could use serviceable clothing.
Then Erik took the rags and cleaner and began scrubbing years of accumulated grime off the walls.
*
Erik entered the Kitchen to find Milo sitting at the big table, staring across at Nathan, who was finishing a large bowl of stew. Milo was nodding at something the smith had just said, while Freida and Rosalyn both made busy preparing vegetables for the evening meal.
Erik glanced at his mother, who stood expressionless at the sink, listening to the men speak. Rosalyn inclined her head toward Erik’s mother, indicating concern. Erik nodded briefly, then moved beside his mother, indicating he wished to wash up. She nodded curtly and moved toward the oven, where the bread purchased that morning from the baker was being kept warm.
Nathan continued what he had been saying when Erik entered. “While I have the knack with iron, I’m indifferent with horses, truth to tell, above the legs. I can adjust a shoe to balance a lameness, or to compensate for some other problem, but when it comes to the rest, I’m as simple as anyone.”
“Then you’ve chosen wisely to keep Erik on,” said Milo, showing an almost fatherly pride. “He’s a wonder with horses.”
Rosalyn asked, “Master Smith, from what you’ve said, you could have had any number of large baronial forges, or even a ducal charge. Why did you pick our small town?”
Nathan pushed away the bowl of stew he had finished, and smiled. “I’m a lover of wine, truth to tell, and this is a great change from my former home.”
Freida turned and blurted, “We’re scant weeks past burying one smith for the love of too much wine, and now we’ve another! The gods must hate Ravensburg indeed!”
Nathan looked at Freida and spoke. His tone was measured, but it was clear he was not far from anger. “Good woman, I love the wine, but I’m no mean drunkard. I was a father and husband who took care of his own for many years. If I drink more than a glass in a day, it’s a festival. I’ll thank you to pass no judgment on matters you know nothing about. Smiths are no more cut from the same bolt of cloth as all men of any other trade are alike in all ways.”
Freida turned away, her color rising slightly, but she said nothing save, “The fire is too warm. This bread will be dry before supper.” She made a show of turning the coals, though everyone knew it was unnecessary.
Erik watched his mother for a moment, then turned toward Nathan. “The room is clean, sir.”
Freida snapped, “Will you all be sharing that one tiny room?”
Nathan rose, picking up his cloak and leaning over to retrieve his bag. As he hoisted his possessions, he said, “All?”
“These children and your wife you spoke so tenderly of?”
Nathan’s tone was calm when he replied, “All dead. Killed by raiders in the sacking of the Far Coast. I was senior journeyman to Baron Tolburt’s Master Smith at Tulan.” The room was still as he continued. “I was asleep, but the sound of fighting woke me. I told my Martha to see to the children as I ran to the forge. I took no more than two steps out the door of the servants’ quarters when I was struck twice by arrows”—he touched his shoulder, then his left thigh—“here and here. I fainted. Another man fell on top of me, I think. Anyway, my wife and children were already dead when I awoke the next day.” He glanced around the room. “We had four children, three boys and a girl.” He sighed. “Little Sarah was special.” He fell silent for a long moment, and his face took on a reflective expression. Then he said, “Damn me. It’s nearly twenty-five years now.” Without another word he rose, and nodded his head once to Milo, then moved to the door.