Chapter 1
I sat hunched on my low stool in the front of Master Aldric’s shop, the afternoon light slanting through the open shutters and warming the rows of finished boots and shoes behind me. My callused hands worked a strip of supple calfskin over the wooden last. The steady rhythm of hammer and awl was the only music I allowed myself these days.
Giradin was not the name my mother gave me. In the damp fields of Thornmere, far to the north where the lord’s reeve still counted every soul by name and tithe, I had been Mira, daughter of a serf bound to the soil. Three years had passed since I became a villein, slipping away under a moonless sky, heart hammering louder than the dogs that might have been set after me. Three years of binding my breasts flat with linen strips, cropping my dark hair close to my skull, and learning to swagger instead of sway. Three years of being Giradin the cobbler’s apprentice, then journeyman; one of the better hands in the West End Cobbler’s Guild.
The Guild had accepted me with only mild grumbling. In return I paid my dues, kept my head down, and mended boots for merchants, apprentices, and the occasional man-at-arms. It was a thin life, but it was mine, and it was free from Lord Paulinus and his claim of prima noctis.
The front door opened, and a shadow fell across my workbench.
“Oi, Giradin! Still hiding behind your counterfeit guild’s skirts?”
I didn’t look up. Rulf’s voice was all too familiar. Two of his East End cronies loitered just outside.
“We told you last week,” he continued, stepping inside without invitation. “This stretch of the market belongs to the true guild. Your lot are nothing but cut-purses with fancy stamps.”
I set the hammer down carefully. “Master Aldric holds his charter from the city council, same as your guild claims to. Take it up with them, not with me.”
Rulf leaned over the bench, close enough for me to smell sour ale on his breath. “Pretty words for a skinny whelp. Maybe we should teach you what happens when—”
“Enough.”
The voice rolled in from the doorway; deep, warm, edged with the easy authority of a man who rarely needed to raise it. All three East End men straightened at once.
I glanced up and my breath caught.
Sir Emrich of Highcrag filled the entrance. He was tall and broad-shouldered beneath a well-worn surcoat of deep blue wool edged in silver. An arming sword hung at his hip, and his face—ruggedly handsome, weathered by sun and wind—carried lines at the corners of his eyes that suggested he smiled often. A short, neatly trimmed beard framed a strong jaw, and his dark brown hair, threaded with the first silver of his mid-thirties, was tied back from his face.
Rulf muttered something, but the knight merely lifted an eyebrow. The East End men found sudden business elsewhere.
Sir Emrich stepped inside, ducking slightly beneath the low lintel. His hazel eyes, flecked with green, swept the workshop before settling on me with open curiosity. My heart leapt at his gaze.
“Well met, Master Cobbler. I hope I did not interrupt honest labor.”
I wiped my hands on my apron and stood, squaring my shoulders and pitching my voice low. “No interruption, sir knight. Only the usual noise. What can I do for you?”
He unbuckled one of his riding boots and set it on the bench. The leather was good but badly scuffed, the sole beginning to separate near the heel. “I’ve ridden hard these past weeks. My feet are paying the price. Can you make these fit for another month’s travel, or better yet, craft me a new pair worthy of the road?”
I turned the boot over in my hands, feeling the quality of the leather. “I can mend these today. New pair would take a week, perhaps less if you can stand for measurements.”
“I’ve time.” He leaned a hip against the workbench, watching me with that same easy interest. “You’re young to be working alone in a shop like this. The guild lads giving you trouble?”
“I’m older than I look.” I shrugged, reaching for my measuring cord. “And they talk more than they act. I manage.”
“You shouldn’t have to.” His voice softened, almost playful. “A man who works with his hands deserves peace while he does it. If those East End curs return, send word to the barracks near the Lion Gate. I’ll have words with them. A knight’s words tend to carry further than a cobbler’s.”
I looked up, surprised. Our eyes met.
His gaze held mine a moment longer than necessary. A small, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Friendly. Almost teasing.
“I would not presume upon your time, Sir Emrich,” I said carefully.
“Nonsense. I like useful men who keep their heads. Too few of them in this city.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Besides, I’ve a weakness for honest craft. There’s something pleasing about a thing well-made. Boots that don’t fail you on a muddy road, a blade that holds its edge, a man who looks you in the eye and speaks plain truth.”
Heat rose in my face. I bent quickly to the boot, running the cord along the sole to hide it. The linen bindings across my chest suddenly felt far too tight for me to catch a good breath.
“I’ll do my best not to disappoint, then,” I muttered.
Sir Emrich chuckled, low and warm. “I suspect you rarely do.”
He stayed longer than necessary, asking about the quality of West End leather versus East End, about the best wax for waterproofing, and how a cobbler learned his trade. I answered carefully, aware of every word, every gesture. I kept my movements economical and masculine, yet something in the way he watched me made the air in the little workshop feel thinner than it should.
When he finally straightened to leave, promising to return the next day for the repaired boots, he paused in the doorway.
“Giradin, was it?”
“Aye.”
“A good name. Strong.” That smile again, genuine and warm. “Until tomorrow, then. Try not to let the rats from the East End gnaw at your peace.”
I watched him go—broad back, easy stride, the faint jingle of mail beneath his surcoat—until he disappeared into the crowded street.
Only then did I let myself exhale, pressing a hand to my chest where my heart beat far too quickly for a mere discussion of boots.
Idiot, I told myself. He sees a gifted craftsman, nothing more.
Yet as I returned to my workbench, the scent of leather and polish now carried the faint ghost of steel and warm wool. I could not quite banish the memory of those hazel eyes or the low timbre of his voice when he said my name.
Outside, the city bells began to ring for vespers. In the shadowed corners of the workshop, something far more dangerous than guild rivalry had already begun to stir.
