Rough Knight?

He was bare to the waist, clad in something leathery mixed with chain mail bits and a few studs here and there, mostly on a thick belt. His boots were clunky, and Sophie knew every bit of his clothing was functional. He wasn’t in costume per se, he had simply donned the clothes of a genuine blacksmith from centuries ago. A very well-built blacksmith.
It occurred to her that way back when, such workers might have preferred to keep their chests covered and thus protected from errant flying cinders or whatever the dangerous glowing sparks were called.
But Royce disdained such a shield, and she quickly realized there was a knack to hitting a piece of glowing metal with a hammer. Crash it down at the right angle and sparks flew away from, not toward, bare skin.
And what bare skin it was. Lightly tanned, rippled with veins and muscles as he moved, Royce was a study in masculinity. There was nothing soft about him at all. He could indeed have been a medieval blacksmith hard at work in the village forge. He ignored the onlookers, seeming utterly lost in his craft, focused entirely on the anvil, the metal and his rhythmic blows.
Sweat rolled unheeded from his forehead, sizzling and popping as drops spattered on the glowing metal. Even the young squire holding the tongs seemed hypnotized. He barely moved a muscle as his tools secured the hot metal in place against the anvil, and held it steady as Royce worked it.
There was a gasp as another smith walked up, grabbed a hammer and interspersed Royce’s blows with his own. Double-teaming the bright blade sent shivers of excitement through the crowd and people moved in time to the accelerated sound of two hammers.
Finally, it was done to their satisfaction and there was a round of applause as the metal was held aloft, examined and then dunked into a bucket of water where it produced a loud hiss and a cloud of steam.
Then, and only then, Royce looked up at his audience.
His gaze found Sophie almost immediately, and while his expression never really changed, she felt his awareness in the intensity of his stare. Then he turned away, spoke to the young apprentice and walked from the fire pit into the back of the forge, out of sight.
Another blacksmith walked out and directed everyone over to the stall where weapons of varying levels of destruction were available for sale to those who could prove they were old enough to bear arms.
Sophie grinned at one nine-year-old boy who was irate that he didn’t qualify. Clearly a student of history, the lad loudly denounced the vendor, offered the names of several well-known squires who were his age and contributed to history in their own ways, and pouted when all his rationalizations did no good. The law was the law, he was informed politely but firmly. Over eighteen or no sword.
Still watching the ongoing dispute, she hadn’t noticed Royce’s apprentice behind her until he touched her on the shoulder. “Would you come with me, Miss? Master Royce requests your presence.”