The Lost Love of a Soldier: A timeless Historical romance for fans of War and Peace

“Stand here,” the blacksmith called from within. The man had not even washed his hands, or his face. He’d become absorbed in the shadows, cast by the orange glow emanating from the fire of the forge. “There.” He directed them to stand before an anvil, on the opposite side to himself.

Paul changed his grip on Ellen’s hand, weaving his fingers between hers, uniting them before the words were even said.

“Have you a ring then?”

Yes, he had; where were his wits? Letting go of her hand, he took off his gloves, as she removed hers. He took the ring out of the inside pocket of his coat. It was a simple band of gold, nothing special.

A plump woman came into the smithy through a door at the back, and as he and Ellen turned, she smiled. “Another couple come to exchange vows then.” Two young children followed her. A girl who was probably eight or nine, and a boy of about five.

“Aye,” the blacksmith answered in a gruff voice. The children hovered near their mother watching as she came closer.

“Margaret can bear ye witness too.” The blacksmith said, calling Paul’s attention back. “Say y’ur piece and I’ll pronounce ye man and wife.” The cold dispassionate words turned Paul’s stomach. He needed this to feel a little more than something rash and hurried. He wished it to be a moment Ellen would look back on with fondness. He wished to make a memory they could treasure their entire lives.

He faced her, searching for the right words. Words that would profess all he felt, but he had never been a poet. “I love you, Ellen.” Her eyes searched his, the pale blue shining even in the low light of the smithy, and her lips pressed together, slightly curved. His chest filled with a warm sensation. “I promise to protect you. I swear I shall cherish you every day of my life. You may trust me, you may rely on me. I am yours. I wish to give myself to you – my life to you. Will you be my wife? Will you marry me?”

Her lips parted in a smile.

A few strands of hair had fallen about her face, the ebony curls cupped her jaw, caressing her neck. She stole his breath away.

“Yes,” she whispered. But she did not hold her fingers out for him to put the ring on. “I love you, Paul. I wish to be your comfort and your sanctuary. I pledge my life to you. I will be your wife. Will you be my husband? Will you marry me?”

A smile touched his lips. “Yes. I will. Give me your hand.”

She lifted her fingers, holding them out straight. He gripped her palm with one hand and slid the ring on her finger with the other. It stuck a little on her knuckle, but then slid over. A pain, like a sharp blade, pierced his heart as her hand dropped.

He had not expected love and marriage to feel like this.

Forgetting the other occupants of the smithy he gripped her shoulders and pressed a hard kiss on her lips. But then a loud ringing clang, a hammer hitting the iron anvil, broke them apart as Ellen jumped.

“I pronounce ye man and wife, forged together now ye are.” They both looked at the blacksmith, and his lips lifted in a smile of acknowledgement. The deed was done. Her father could not prevent it now. They were married.

“Congratulations,” the blacksmith’s wife said.

“Thank you,” Ellen answered, looking at the woman before glancing back at Paul, and giving him a self-conscious smile, her cheeks turning pink. He loved her like this, a bit tousled and unkempt, and looking young and slightly lacking confidence. To see her perfect beauty a little awry made her appear more human, more touchable.

“I shall fetch ye a piece of parchment to show we witnessed y’ur vows,” the woman said, before turning and hurrying back inside the living space of the forge; it must be no more than one or two rooms.

Ellen’s hand gripped Paul’s and he looked down at her. Her eyes said she truly thought he could master the world if he wished, her trust appeared absolute. She was so innocent. He prayed her faith would be honoured. Please, let all be well.

“Here ye are, Donald, here’s the marriage paper. I’ve signed it.”

The blacksmith took the parchment from the woman’s hand, and then held it out to Paul. “Ye sign it first. Then I’ll put me mark.”

The woman had brought a quill and ink as well as the parchment. Paul took the paper and moved to a wooden table then took the quill and ink from the blacksmith’s wife to sign his name. The woman’s name had been carefully written in a very precise script; it was probably the sum of her education. Paul handed the quill to Ellen who signed it too, then she passed it onto the blacksmith’s smutty hand, it marked the paper as he scrawled a virtually unrecognisable name. But it did not matter; it was evidence enough to prove they were married within English law.

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