“No, Lord Baldwin owns the smithy. Danbury rented from him, just as I do. I pay ten pieces of silver a year, and in return for charcoal, I do work for the manor at no cost.”

Royce nodded. “What about personal belongings? What became of Danbury’s things?”

Grimbald raised a suspicious eyebrow. “He left me his tools and if’n you’re after them, you’ll have to fight me before the steward in the manor court.”

Hadrian raised his hands and shook his head, calming the burly man. “No, no, I’m not here after anything. His tools are in good hands.”

Grimbald relaxed a bit. “Ah, okay, good, then. I do have something for you, though. When Danbury died, he made a list of all his things and who they should go to. Almost everyone in the village got a little something. I didn’t even know the man could write until I saw him scribbling it. There was a letter and instructions to give it to his son, if he ever returned. I read it, but it didn’t make much sense. I kept it, though.”

Grimbald set down his hammer and ducked inside the shop, then emerged a few minutes later with the letter.

Hadrian took the folded parchment and, without opening it, stuffed the note into his shirt pocket and walked away.

“What’s going on?” Arista asked Royce. “He didn’t even read it.”

“He’s in one of his moods,” Royce told her. “He’ll mope for a while. Maybe get drunk. He’ll be fine tomorrow.”

“But why?”

Royce shrugged. “Just the way he is lately. It’s nothing, really.”

Arista watched Hadrian disappear around the side of the candlemaker’s shop. Picking up the hem of her dress, she chased after him. When she rounded the corner, she found him seated on a fence rail, his head in his hands. He glanced up.

Is that annoyance or embarrassment on his face?

Biting her lip, she hesitated, then walked over and sat beside him. “Are you all right?” she asked.

He nodded in reply but said nothing. They sat in silence for a while.

“I used to hate this village,” he offered at length, his tone distant and his eyes searching the side of the shop. “It was always so small.” He lowered his head again.

She waited.

Does he expect me to say something now?

From down the street, she heard the rhythmic hammering of metal as Grimbald resumed his work, the blows marking the passage of time. She pretended to straighten her skirt, wondering if it would be better if she left.

“The last time I saw my father, we had a terrible fight,” Hadrian said without looking up.

“What about?” Arista gently asked.