Chapter 9

M agnus stepped out from the shadow of the farmhouse, the cool morning air brushing against his skin and tousling his hair. He closed his eyes briefly, his heart beating steadily under the rough fabric of his shirt. The conversation with Isabelle replayed in his mind; her words, her gestures, and the soft vulnerability in her eyes.

Thank you for keeping me safe.

How could she have known that such simple words would affect him so? He was used to people being afraid of him, wary of his size and strength. But Isabelle? This woman from the future who had fallen into his life like a star plummeting from the heavens? She saw him differently.

He made his way down the village’s single street, towards the paddock where Able had turned out the horse Magnus had stolen yesterday. As he walked, he studied the scene, etching every burned-out house and ransacked building into his memory, making sure he forgot nothing. He would bring the perpetrators to justice, and when he did, he’d remember, and make sure they remembered everything they’d done here.

In the dew-touched morning, villagers were already up and about, beginning the onerous task of rebuilding their lives and restoring their homes. A group of men were hoisting a new wooden beam into place on one of the gutted houses, while women, young and old, were busy gathering the discarded belongings from the rubble and washing them clean in large wooden tubs. Children ran about, some hauling water buckets or carrying firewood, and some playing amongst themselves—a semblance of joy amidst the chaos around.

Life went on, despite what had happened yesterday. After all, what choice was there?

Reaching the paddock, he spotted the gray mare he’d stolen from the outlaws grazing by the rails. The creature raised her head, eyeing him closely. Magnus approached cautiously, hands outstretched, whispering calming phrases in Gaelic. The horse trotted over and nuzzled her nose into his hand, clearly recognizing him.

“That’s a good lass,” Magnus said, patting the horse’s shoulder. “I owe ye quite the debt, my friend, yet I’m afraid I have to ask even more of ye.”

He slipped a halter over the mare’s nose and led her out of the paddock and back to the stable yard behind Morwenna and Able’s house. The yard was empty as he arrived but a moment later, a sable streak shot out of the stable and cannoned into him, knocking him back a few paces.

Snaffles, paws on Magnus’s chest, licked him excitedly, tail whipping in a blur.

“God’s blood, lad!” Magnus laughed. “I was gone less than an hour!”

He pushed the excited hound off then led the disgruntled mare over to a byre full of hay where the donkeys were already eating their breakfast. They gave the horse a doleful glare then moved over to give her room.

Leaving the animals to eat, he walked toward the barn, Snaffles trotting at his side.

“Isabelle?” he called. “Are ye there? ”

“Just a minute!” came the reply. “I just need to tie this dratted pair of laces. Honestly! How the bloody hell is anyone supposed to get dressed with so many fiddly bits?” There was silence followed by an exasperated sigh. “Could you come and help me?”

Magnus hesitated a moment, then breathed deeply to quiet the sudden burst of nerves. He strode into the barn to find Isabelle struggling with a bodice that wasn’t lacing up properly.

“Of all the convoluted, impractical...” she muttered, her fingers fumbling over the fastenings. Noticing him at the entrance, she looked up, her cheeks turning a rosy hue.

“Sorry,” Magnus said, trying to keep his gaze from straying and keeping his eyes fixed firmly on her face. “I can...ah...I can go back and...”

“No!” Isabelle exclaimed, perhaps louder than she had intended. She caught herself with a soft cough. “Please.” She gestured behind her. “I need your help.”

Magnus nodded, walking over steadily, trying not to let his gaze wander over her exposed collarbones and the stray curls framing her flushed face. He stood behind her, his fingers lightly brushing against her waist as he reached for the stubborn laces. She stiffened under his touch, but didn’t pull away.

“Sorry,” he said again, aware of the intimacy of their position and feeling a warmth spread across his own face. “I’ll try to be quick.”

The room filled with a heavy silence punctuated only by Isabelle’s soft breathing and the rustle of fabric as Magnus attempted to tame the rebellious laces. His fingers were large and rough, more used to handling a sword than delicate laces but finally, he got them tied.

He stepped back. “All done, lass.”

Isabelle turned to face him. She was dressed in a simple green woolen gown. It was too large on her, but she’d cinched it tightly with an old leather belt. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, slightly damp from washing. Despite the circumstances—or perhaps because of them—she looked beautiful.

“Well? Will I do?”

What was he supposed to say to that? His tongue suddenly felt thick and swollen. “Um...aye, I suppose so.”

He strode quickly away, knelt in the straw, and began stuffing their belongings—including Isabelle’s twenty-first century clothes—into a saddlebag.

Behind him, Isabelle stretched and fidgeted, grumbling to herself “How can anyone wear this? I can barely move.”

Magnus said nothing. He wasn’t about to tell her how much the dress suited her, or how much it brought out the color of her hazel eyes and highlighted the soft swell of her breasts and hips.

“Are ye ready?” he asked without turning. “If so, we’d best be getting on.”

Without waiting for an answer, he slung the bag over his shoulder and strode outside to the horse, grabbing the halter and leading her into the middle of the yard.

Isabelle followed him out, hands behind her head as she tied her hair back into a rough braid. “I’m ready,” she announced. “Well, as ready as I’ll ever be. ”

The back door opened and Morwenna and her husband, Able, came out.

“Ah, look at ye!” Morwenna said to Isabelle, clapping her hands together. “That’s one of my old dresses and I’m glad I kept it now.” She patted her ample hips. “I canna get in it anymore but it looks a picture on ye.”

“Does it?” Isabelle asked, looking down at herself. “I feel a bit stupid to be honest.”

“Oh, dinna fash! Ye may not be a Scotswoman but ye look a proper Highland lass, now.”

Magnus was glad to hear it. If the dress could fool Morwenna, then perhaps they had a chance of getting to Dun Saith without Isabelle’s real origins being discovered.

“Ye have my thanks for yer help,” he said, moving to stand by Morwenna and her husband.

“Catch the men that did this and ye’ll have repaid us a hundred times over,” Morwenna replied. “Now, take it easy the next few days. Dinna overexert yerself or do anything ye shouldnae. Ye dinna want those bruised ribs getting any worse.”

Magnus smiled at her motherly tone. “Aye. I’ll be cautious as a mouse. I need to ask ye something though—where is the nearest settlement that might have a blacksmith?”

Husband and wife looked at each other thoughtfully. “Hodwell, I reckon,” Able said in his gravelly voice. “About twenty miles north, on the border of McRae land. It’s a fair-sized settlement and there’s talk it might even be granted a royal charter to become a burgh. There’s lively trade in iron goods from out that way so if ye are looking for a blacksmith, I’d try there.”

Magnus’s stomach sank. Hodwell. Of course. Of all the places round about, it would have to be Hodwell, wouldn’t it? It was a place he knew all too well. Aye, they may well find a blacksmith there. But one willing to talk? That was another matter.

He took a deep breath. “Time we were going. Mount up, lass.”

Isabelle looked at him blankly. “Me? What about you?”

“I willnae be riding. The horse isnae big enough to carry me for any distance. Yesterday was an emergency but I’ll not put her through that again. Ye ride, I’ll walk.”

Isabelle looked up at the horse and went a little pale. “No. If you’re walking, I’ll walk too.”

Magnus didn’t want to say that if they both walked, she’d likely slow him down. Hopefully she’d soon tire and agree to riding anyway.

“Fine. Have it yer way.”

They bid goodbye to Morwenna and Able and then, with Magnus leading the horse, and Snaffles trotting alongside, they turned from the yard that had been their temporary sanctuary and headed north out of the village, towards the open moors. In only moments they had left the half-ruined village behind them but Magnus knew he would not be able to forget it so quickly.

Beside him, Isabelle trudged along at a steady pace, her face set in a determined scowl as she navigated the uneven terrain in her cumbersome dress. It didn’t quite cover her bright yellow boots but there was little help for that.

They walked in silence for some time, the only sounds being Snaffles’ soft panting as he ranged around them in a wide arc, nose to the ground as he followed various scents, and the occasional rustle of leaves as a light breeze swept through the scrubby trees and shrubs that dotted the landscape.

“You don’t think those raiders will attack the village again, do you?” Isabelle said at last.

Magnus shook his head. “I dinna think so. They like easy targets and now those villagers will be ready for them. Besides, I suspect they’ll return to their master with their spoils before they head out again.”

“Their master? That McRae guy?”

Magnus glanced at her. “Aye. Him.”

He could see curiosity in her eyes and sensed a barrage of questions were coming so he sought to distract her. “What do you do?” he asked. “In the future, I mean.”

She shrugged. “Not a lot. I work in a bank. On my rest days I volunteer at the rescue center Snaffles came from. I watch TV. Read books. Do a bit of crocheting.” She paused, screwing up her face. “God, I sound so dull!”

He snorted a laugh. “Lass, dull isnae a word I would associate with ye.”

She grinned at him. “Really? You find me exciting then?”

Her eyes flashed with mischievousness and Magnus felt his chest tighten. He stumbled over his words as he tried to explain. “I just mean... ye are from the future. Ye’ve seen things I canna even imagine. Compared to that, my world must seem so limited—so...” He shrugged helplessly, struggling to find the words.

“Rustic?” she suggested.

“Aye,” he agreed. “Rustic. ”

She cocked her head. “Rustic,” she said thoughtfully. “I can deal with that.”

He found himself smiling. He was about to say something more when she abruptly changed the subject, catching him off guard.

“What about your family?”

His mirth faded as quickly as it came, replaced by a hard knot in his chest. “My family?”

“Yeah, you know: mother. Father. Siblings.” She paused and glanced at him sidelong. “Wife?”

He paused, reluctant to go down this road. Isabelle waited patiently and if there was one thing he’d learned about her, it was that she was unlikely to be put off. “I dinna have a family,” he said finally. “Other than my sword-brothers in the Order of the Osprey.”

She looked at him sharply, her eyes wide and filled with compassion. “No family? Oh. I’m sorry, Magnus.”

He shrugged. “Dinna be. It was nobody’s fault. I was orphaned when I was twelve. Both my parents died from an illness that swept through our village.

Isabelle gasped. “That must have been horrific,” she murmured, but Magnus shrugged it off.

“Life was hard back then. Still is,” he said matter-of-factly. “I ended up in a monastery. A monk found me on the streets and took me in.”

Isabelle’s mouth dropped open. “You were a monk ? Tonsure. Habit. Prayers and all that?”

Magnus barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “Hardly. The brothers tried to teach me their ways of prayer and penance but I was too stubborn, too wild. Nay, I was more like the resident troublemaker than anything else.”

He paused for a moment, memories washing over him. “A nobleman came to the monastery and offered to take me off their hands. I think they were glad to be rid of me to be honest. So I went with the nobleman and he became my mentor. Taught me everything I know. He became a second father to me.”

“What was his name?”

Magnus didn’t reply at once. He stopped walking and turned to face the sweeping vista of the moors, his eyes trained on the horizon as if by doing so he could look back through time to happier days.

“Eamon,” he said at last. “His name was Eamon. He was proud, fierce, bad-tempered. But he was also honorable, fair, kind-hearted.”

“Was?” Isabelle said softly. “You said was. Is he not here anymore?”

“Nay,” Magnus breathed softly, thoughts of the past sparking an ache inside. How would his life had turned out if things had been different? If he’d not done what he did? “Eamon died a long time ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Isabelle said. “And the Order of the Osprey? You joined that after he died?”

Magnus fiddled with the lead of the halter, surprised by Isabelle’s insight. “Aye,” he muttered. “Something like that.”

He was surprised how easily the words tripped off his tongue. Not the truth. Never the truth. But as close to it as Magnus could bear to go .

“What about ye?” he asked, hoping to change the subject. “What family do ye have waiting at home for ye? A husband, perhaps?”

She gave him a flat look. “Hardly. I don’t think I’m the marrying type. In fact, I’m beginning to think I’m not the relationship type.” Her expression took on a wistful tone and she looked away, staring out at the horizon just as Magnus had done. Magnus sensed there was an old pain there and more to the story than she said but also sensed it would not be wise to push it.

“Parents?” he asked. “Siblings?”

She shrugged. “My parents divorced when I was five and both remarried. I lived with my mum until I was eleven and then I was sent to boarding school. My dad lives in Singapore with his new family, my mum in Dublin with hers. I don’t see them very often. During the week I work in a bank. At weekends I peruse flea markets or crochet blankets. Pretty boring, huh? “

She said it matter-of-factly, but Magnus wasn’t fooled. There was a faint undercurrent of hurt in her words and something else...loneliness. Why did she seem to think she wasn’t brave or special when it was clear to him that she was both of these things? Irene MacAskill clearly saw something in Isabelle too otherwise she would not have brought her back to this time. Which begged the question: why had she brought Isabelle back here?

Sometimes we need help to make these choices. Sometimes we need someone who sees through the masks we wear and sees us as we truly are.

Isabelle Ross was an enigma indeed .

They walked on, their boots crunching through the heather and bracken, the shrill call of unseen birds the only sound other than the whine of the wind. Occasionally, a lark would call out from above or a deer would dart from the cover of the bracken but aside from this, they were alone.

Isabelle broke the silence after a while. “The Order of the Osprey—what exactly do you do? I mean, besides rescuing damsels in distress?”

Magnus laughed at that, a low rumbling sound that echoed through the vast expanse of the moors. “Is that what ye were? I’m not so sure. I reckon it might have been ye rescuing me . Without Snaffles’ help, I might never have found the trail of those outlaws.”

At the mention of his name, Snaffles’ head came up, ears erect and tail wagging. He came bounding over and slammed into Isabelle, knocking her flat on her back in the heather. He slurped his tongue along her face in triumph, then bounded off again, eager to check out some new scent that had caught his attention.

Isabelle made no attempt to get up. She lay in the heather, limbs spread-eagled, staring at the sky. “That bloody dog!” she cried. “No wonder he’s been at the rescue center so long! One of these days I’m going to knock him flying then slobber all over him ! See how he likes it!”

She sat up, wiping her face. Magnus stifled a laugh and held out his hand to help her up. With a sigh and a little half-laugh, she took it and allowed him to pull her to her feet.

“Thanks.”

Reluctantly, Magnus released her hand and stepped back. “Ye are welcome. ”

Suddenly, Magnus’s stomach gave a rumbling growl. He felt his face flush and was relieved when he heard Isabelle’s light laughter. “I think that’s a sign we should stop for lunch,” she suggested, pointing to an inviting cluster of mossy rocks bathed in the glow of the noonday sun. It was a perfect spot for them to rest and eat.

Magnus nodded. They had not made as good time as he’d hoped and he guessed they were only a little over halfway to Hodwell. He gently pulled at the halter, steering the horse towards the rocks Isabelle had pointed out. Once there, he took off the saddlebag and began brushing the horse down before leading her to a burn to drink.

Isabelle rummaged in one of the saddlebags, pulling out bread, cheese, and some smoked meat before walking over to the burn to refill their canteens.

Magnus found himself watching her. There was a quiet confidence in the way she moved, a focus that spoke of an inner strength he had only begun to glimpse. She looked up then, catching him staring. Magnus quickly looked away, feigning interest in the horse’s halter, before leading her back to their resting spot.

Returning to where Magnus was sitting, Isabelle handed him a canteen then proceeded to distribute the food between them. They ate in silence.

“Do you ever regret it?” Isabelle asked.

“Regret what?” He’d been lost in his thoughts and taken by surprise by her sudden question.

She shrugged. “Leaving the monastery, joining the Order of the Osprey? ”

Magnus chewed thoughtfully on a piece of bread before answering. He considered his past; from the streets to the monastery to Eamon’s household.

There was much he regretted. There were many things he would change if he could have his time over, but joining the Order of the Osprey was not one of them.

“Nay,” he said, meeting her gaze. “I regret many things. But not that. The Order gave me purpose when nothing else could.”

Isabelle nodded, seemingly satisfied with his answer. She glanced towards the horizon. What was she thinking about? Her home? How desperately she wanted to get back there?

She stood abruptly. “We should get moving,” she said, repacking the saddlebags. She suddenly seemed agitated, eager to get on.

He stood, dusted off his plaid, and set to preparing their horse once more for travel. Gradually, as the day wore on, the landscape changed, becoming more cultivated, with fields of winter crops like turnips and kale blanketing the road as they drew closer to Hodwell.

Magnus found his thoughts turning to his mission. He ran his fingers over the hilt of the broken sword tucked into his belt, wondering if it would indeed prove to be the evidence he needed. And if it did? Would he really take it to the king? Would he really commit this final act of betrayal and break a vow he had made so long ago?

The images of the angry villager came back to him. Face twisted with fury and loss, despair in his voice as he shouted at Magnus. Ye! It was yer fault! Ye should have protected us !

His resolve tightened. Aye , he answered himself. I will commit the final betrayal. Because a deeper vow binds me now.

Perhaps half an hour later, Hodwell came into view. The town was a composition of crooked half-timbered buildings huddled together, punctuated by the occasional stone-built hall or merchant’s house. Around the edges of the settlement, the beginnings of town walls were going up and these hadn’t been there the last time he’d visited. Aye, Hodwell was prospering indeed.

His gaze moved east, to the large complex of buildings that sat perhaps a mile from the edge of Hodwell. Saint Bartholomew’s Monastery was a collection of stone buildings grander than most in Hodwell itself. With its arched windows and tall bell tower that stood against the afternoon sky, it was the monastery that had really brought Hodwell its prosperity, with the settlement expanding in order to serve the monastic community and then branching out into trade in iron goods.

“So that’s it?” Isabelle asked, looking down. “Hodwell?”

“Aye,” he muttered. “Come on. Let’s find this blacksmith then be on our way to Dun Saith.”

IZZY FELT THAT FLUTTERING of fear in her belly again. It had been absent during the journey when it had only been herself, Magnus and Snaffles, but now, with the settlement of Hodwell looming ahead of them, it returned with a vengeance.

How was she supposed to pass as a fifteenth century woman? And how was she supposed to get through this whole ordeal without doing something stupid and giving herself away? Oh heck. What had she been thinking in agreeing to this?

“All will be well, lass,” Magnus said, as if reading her thoughts. “I promise.”

She swallowed and nodded. What could go wrong with Magnus and Snaffles by her side? If her experiences so far were anything to go by, a lot, that’s what.

“We willnae be here long,” Magnus continued. “We’ll find the blacksmith and be on our way. Just follow my lead.”

“Follow your lead. Right. Speaking of leads, should I put Snaffles on his?”

Magnus shook his head. “I dinna think he’ll stray far. Looks to me as though he’s as nervous as ye are.”

He was right. Snaffles, on spotting the settlement up ahead, had slunk close to Izzy’s side and his tail had lowered apprehensively.

“And here’s me thinking you were getting brave,” she said to the big dog, scratching his head. “Turns out we are as bad as each other.”

She made a point of pushing her shoulders back and trying to look confident as they walked down to the settlement. As they entered Hodwell, she couldn’t quite figure out if it was a village or a town or something in between. Certainly bigger than Morwenna’s village, it had several muddy streets instead of just one and rather than just homes, there was commerce going on too. Several market stalls lined the streets selling vegetables, eggs, cheeses, and small barrels that she guessed contained beer or whisky. Chickens, goats and even the odd pig rooted around in the kitchen gardens attached to the dwellings and people bustled about on errands of their own. There was a general air of activity and life about the place, even if the inhabitants were grubby, the streets made of mud, and the air was pungent with the smell of animal dung, wood smoke and stale beer all mixed together.

Nobody paid any attention whatsoever to Magnus and Izzy. In fact, Izzy soon found herself losing her apprehension as she gazed around at the sights and smells and sounds, so different to what she was used to. Did this place still exist in the twenty-first century? If so, what did it look like? Were these same streets now full of shops, cars, businesses? Hundreds of years into the future were people walking down this same street talking on their phones, sitting at cafes, ordering takeaways? It was a dizzying thought.

She was so engrossed in looking around, taking everything in, that she didn’t notice a change come over Magnus until Snaffles let out a low warning, ‘uff’. She looked over to see that Magnus had stopped in his tracks and was staring down the street, eyes narrowed, face pale. Izzy followed his gaze and spotted a man walking along the street in their direction.

“Quickly!” Magnus hissed. He grabbed her arm and yanked her into a side street and the shadow of a tall building.

“What’s wro—” Izzy began, but Magnus made a cutting gesture with his hand, demanding silence.

Carefully, they peered out from their hiding place. The stranger didn’t seem to have spotted them as he was still walking up the street on the same course. He looked to be around the same age as Magnus, tall but not as broad. He had sandy-colored hair and a bow slung across his back. He moved with a strange, feline grace, and his eyes scanned the street as though he was searching for something.

Magnus pressed himself into the shadows. “Damnation,” he growled under his breath.

“Who is he?” Izzy whispered. “Another of those outlaws?”

“Nay,” Magnus replied, his voice low.

“Then who?”

Magnus watched the stranger with narrowed eyes, shoulders tense. “Someone we need to avoid.”

Only when the man was out of sight, did Magnus lead them from their hiding place. Izzy opened her mouth to ask for an explanation, but Magnus took the horse’s halter and set off at a brisk pace in the opposite direction to the one the sandy-haired man had taken. Izzy was forced to trot to keep up.

As they maneuvered further into the bustling settlement, Magnus’s pace began to slow, his eyes darting everywhere, searching. Finally, he paused before an elderly woman selling fresh produce from a cart and gave her a respectful nod.

“Do ye have a blacksmith in Hodwell?” he asked.

“Aye, lad,” she replied, pointing with a bony finger. “Just down that path there, on yer left. Ye’ll see a sign of an anvil hanging. Big chap, bald as a coot—ye canna miss him. But bear in mind he’s a grumpy sort, so keep yer pleasantries to yerself.”

“Thank ye kindly, madam,” Magnus nodded and tossed her a copper for her trouble .

They followed the directions and soon found themselves outside a large wooden shed-like building with smoke billowing from its chimney and the rhythmic clanging of metal on metal reverberating from within.

As they stepped inside, Izzy spotted the blacksmith hunched over an anvil as he hammered away at a red-hot blade, sending sparks showering with each blow. He was enormous, almost as big as Magnus, his impressive arm muscles bunching rhythmically as he went about his work.

He halted his hammering and looked up when he spotted them. A scowl pulled down his bushy eyebrows as he looked Magnus up and down, his eyes narrowing on the bird of prey brooch on Magnus’s plaid. “Well now,” he rumbled, setting down his hammer. “This must be my lucky day. Ye are the second one of yer lot been in today.”

A strange expression passed across Magnus’s face, his eyes flashing. “Wait outside, Isabelle.”

“What? But—”

“Please, Isabelle,” he said, his voice low and intense. “Wait outside and keep an eye on the horse.”

Something in his voice stopped any further protest. It was almost...pleading. Izzy nodded, took hold of Snaffles’ collar, and went outside to wait in the yard. It was muddy, a bit smelly, and to top it all, it was starting to rain. Whatever Magnus planned to do, she hoped he would be quick.

AS ISABELLE LEFT, MAGNUS turned to face the blacksmith. Just as the old woman had said, he was bald-headed and a thin sheen of sweat stood out on his scalp. He was all sinew and muscle from years of plying his trade and Magnus got the impression he wouldn’t be a man who was easy to intimidate. He crossed his arms over his soot-stained apron and scowled.

“Well? What can I do for ye? If ye need a new blade I—”

“What did he want?” Magnus said, cutting him off.

The blacksmith raised an eyebrow. “What did who want?”

“The man who was in here earlier. “My lot”, as ye named him.”

The blacksmith said nothing. His eyes roved up and down Magnus, his gaze calculating. “Looking for ye, I reckon. Asked if a big man fitting yer description had been seen in Hodwell recently.”

Magnus growled under his breath. Curse it. This was a complication he didn’t need. He’d hoped to have more time to do what he needed. If they were already this close...”The man... did he give ye a name?”

The blacksmith grunted and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a smear of soot in its wake. “Nay, and I didnae care to ask. I’m not fool enough to get mixed up in yer lot’s business. Now if there is naught else, I’m a busy man—”

“There is something else,” Magnus said, stepping forward. He took the broken sword from his belt and unwrapped it. Holding it up to the blacksmith, he said, “Can ye tell me who made this?”

A flicker passed across the man’s expression, so fast Magnus might have missed it had he not been expressly looking for it.

“Canna say as I can,” he said with a nonchalant shrug.

“Take another look,” Magnus growled. He took a step closer to the man, using all his size and strength to appear menacing. “There is a maker’s mark on the blade, see? I was hoping ye could tell me whose it was.”

The blacksmith made a show of examining the mark, taking the broken blade from Magnus and moving it to and fro to catch the light. “Nay, never seen it before in my life.”

“Strange that, seeing as yer guild has such strict rules about who is allowed to use such marks.”

The blacksmith hooked his thumbs into his belt. If he was intimidated by Magnus, he didn’t show it. “What my guild does or doesnae do is no concern of yers. I’ve answered yer questions. Now get out of my forge.”

Magnus didn’t move. He regarded the man in silence for a long moment. “Do ye know where I got this blade?”

The blacksmith shrugged. “I dinna know and I dinna much care.”

“I got it from a village. A destroyed village. A villager picked it from among the ashes of a house that had been set ablaze for no other reason than cruelty and greed. This blade belonged to the people who did it. Ye wouldnae know aught about that would ye?”

“Why should I?” the blacksmith snapped. “I didnae make the blade and even if I had, I have no control over who buys my goods.”

It was a smooth answer, but one that didn’t convince Magnus. This man knew more than he was letting on. He had hoped it would not come to this. He always hoped it would not come to this, yet it always seemed to, in the end .

With a burst of speed belying his size, Magnus exploded into motion.

His fist slammed into the man’s chin, snapping his head to the side and sending blood spurting. The man grunted in shock and pain but did not have time to react before Magnus grabbed his shirt with one hand and a discarded poker from the fire with the other. The metal glowed an angry, fiery red, and radiated heat.

“Think carefully, my friend,” Magnus growled, dragging him towards a nearby barrel. “This will only hurt if ye keep lying.” He slammed the man’s head into the barrel with a satisfying thud. The man tried to push himself up with trembling arms but Magnus held him down effortlessly.

“Now,” Magnus said, pressing the burning end of the poker dangerously close to the blacksmith’s eye. “I asked ye a question and I hope for yer sake, yer memory improves. Who made this blade?”

The blacksmith’s eyes bulged and he squeaked out something unintelligible.

“What was that?” Magnus said, pushing the hot poker closer to the man’s eye. “I didnae hear ye.”

The man had gone white with fear. These were not tactics Magnus enjoyed and he hated himself a little as he intimidated the man like some village bully, but he didn’t have time for pleasantries. If he was to stop more attacks like the one he and Isabelle had seen in Morwenna and Able’s village, he needed answers.

“His name is Armand!” the blacksmith cried. “A Frenchman! He works out of Torloch!”

“And who does he work for? ”

“I’ve no idea! That’s his mark—that’s all I know, I swear!”

Magnus released his grip and the blacksmith collapsed in a heap on the stone floor, gasping and clutching at his throat. The poker clanged loudly as Magnus tossed it aside, its glow dimming as it cooled. Despite the harshness of the interrogation, he found no pleasure in the man’s pain. The look in the blacksmith’s eyes was one he was all too familiar with. Fear.

A sharp intake of breath broke the silence. Magnus spun to find Isabelle standing in the doorway. From the horrified expression on her face, it was clear she’d seen everything.

Her eyes were wide with shock, her pale skin nearly translucent under the harsh glow of the forge fire. Her gaze moved from Magnus to the whimpering man on the ground and back again.

“Isabelle,” he said softly, reaching a hand towards her. “I—”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his. Her mouth worked but no words came out. Then she spun on her heel and fled.

The blacksmith laughed, his voice wheezing and broken. “Ye scared her away, big man. Seems she doesnae like the kind of man ye really are.”

Magnus grabbed the broken blade and slid it back into his belt before striding towards the door. He did not look back at the blacksmith sprawled on the floor, nor listened to his pained gasps.

Once outside, he scanned the crowded streets frantically. He was tall enough to see over most heads, but Isabelle was nowhere in sight.

Curse it all !

Guilt knotted his stomach. He knew what he had done was necessary; lives were at stake and time was of the essence. But that did nothing to alleviate the bitter sting of shame that twisted his insides. He had not wanted Isabelle to see any of that. He had not wanted her to see the kind of man he really was.

Untying Snaffles and the horse from where they were tethered to a post, he set off at an urgent run.

IZZY HAD NO IDEA WHERE she was going. All she knew was that she had to get away from the forge, from the terrified blacksmith, and from Magnus.

Fragments of what she’d witnessed in the forge danced before her eyes as she hurried through the muddy streets—Magnus’s brutality, the blacksmith’s fear...

She could still hear the cries of the man echoing in her ears, mingling with the deafening thrum of her heartbeat. The smell of burning iron and sweat clung to her nostrils, making her feel sick and woozy.

Stumbling into an alleyway to catch her breath, Izzy pressed herself against the rough stone wall. It was chilly here, away from the sun’s touch. Shaking hands reached up to push back stray locks of hair from her face. She had no idea where she was, but from the far end of the narrow lane, drunken laughter echoed. Startled, she turned to find a man stumbling towards her, a half-empty bottle clutched in his hand .

“Pretty lassie!” he slurred, his flushed face splitting into a grin. His lips were chapped and purpled from the cold, teeth rotting and yellow. He reeked of stale ale and unwashed body. “What are ye doing here all alone?”

Panic surged through her. Without a word, she turned on her heel and ran, bolting down another series of labyrinthine alleys lined with grimy buildings. The air grew colder, carrying with it the sharp tang of something metallic.

Turning a corner too sharply, Izzy nearly tripped over an old pallet piled with butcher’s waste. Gorge rose in her stomach at the smell and she stumbled on, deeper into a warren of ramshackle buildings whose purpose soon became chillingly clear. Blood ran in rivulets down both sides of the street and scavenger birds sat in rows on the roofs: crows, rooks, jackdaws, their grating calls shredding Izzy’s already shattered nerves. She had stumbled into the butchery district.

Pressing her hand against her mouth, Izzy ran. Yet she only ended up deeper in the maze of huts and sheds. Everywhere she looked there were slabs of meat hanging from hooks like gruesome decorations, and piles of offal swarming with flies. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping to block out the morbid sight, yet the iron-rich scent of spilled blood seemed to burn her nostrils.

No, no, no, she thought, pressing her hands against her ears to stop the sounds of knives thudding into butcher’s blocks and the eager calls of the scavenger birds. This is not happening. This is not happening. Horrible, horrible, horrible.

It was like she was caught in a nightmare from which she couldn’t escape. She leaned against the side of a building, doubled over with eyes screwed tight shut, trying to stop the panic attack that began to overcome her. But her breathing turned ragged, her heart thumped so hard she could feel it in her throat, and her hands shook uncontrollably.

No. No. No. Please.

Then dimly, she was aware of barking getting closer. Suddenly, strong arms went around her, a familiar scent drowned out the stink of blood and a deep, soothing voice spoke by her ear. “It’s all right, lass, I’ve got ye.”

Izzy didn’t respond or open her eyes as she was carried away from that awful place, away from the stink of death and the cries of carrion crows. Away from the noise and bustle of Hodwell, until the sounds around her began to change. She heard a deep, rhythmic chanting, and then blessed silence.

“Lay her down here, my boy,” said a kindly voice. She was placed on something soft and the strong arms retreated. Izzy wanted to ask them to stay, but couldn’t seem to form words. She wanted to open her eyes and see where she was but didn’t even seem capable of that.

“She’s worn out,” said the kindly voice. “And in shock. She needs rest.”

No! Izzy wanted to protest. I don’t need rest! I need to go home!

But darkness was already beginning to take her. She surrendered and let it pull her under.