The Rightful Heir.
Once Mother called Henry into the main chamber for supper, the three of us set off for the tavern. Thankfully, the rain had stopped, making the short journey pleasant despite the biting cold.
Before we even reached the heavy door, I knew the tavern was teeming with revelers. The hum of drunken voices swelled, and the pungent smell of spilled ale became stronger with every step. Finn thumped his shoulder against the wood, swinging it open.
Inside, the smoke was thicker than the winter fog outside.
I couldn’t be certain if the haze was from men chuffing on their pipes or the sooty hearth.
Avice brushed her hand through the mist, clearing a path for us.
She flicked her head, looking over her shoulder to me.
I caught her auburn braid before it became fuel for the torch hanging precariously on a timber beam.
“Busy tonight,” she yelled over the strumming of an untuned gittern.
I nodded, swiftly dodging a belly-laughing man’s headbutt to my thigh as he threw himself back with such force he nearly toppled off the bench.
His hearty cackle rivaled the slurred singing for the loudest noise in the chamber.
All the faces in the tavern were familiar—some were patrons of the smithy, others were from the neighboring villages.
Yet they all shared one common truth: Their bodies held more ale than humors.
Finn elbowed his way toward the front of the bar, while Avice and I claimed one of the only unoccupied tables, tucked in the corner beside the crackling fireplace.
“I’m freezing!” Avice chattered, peeling off her cloak.
I grabbed the poker and gave the coals a prod. “After an ale you’ll be warmer than a sinner in a…” I trailed off mid-sentence, distracted by Avice’s attire.
She adjusted her bodice, lifting her cleavage until it nearly tickled her chin.
Since the Dark Days, hunger had become an accepted part of being a villager, but the fullness of Avice’s figure suggested life behind the castle walls was plentiful.
She chuckled, catching me staring—my envy of her plumpness all too obvious.
“You can keep your chastity and still show off what makes you a woman,” Avice teased.
Even if I donned something as daring as she did, no man worth risking my reputation would spare me a second glance—not with her beside me.
I ran my hands down my chest. “What could I possibly flaunt? I’m as flat as an anvil.”
Avice giggled, her fingers darting toward my kirtle, but I clutched the linen close to my bony frame.
With a swift tug, I grabbed the hem of her frilly chemise, which peeked above her kirtle, and pulled it upward to cover her chest.
“Need I remind you, you’re engaged,” I said, though jealousy simmered beneath my words.
She embodied everything a woman was meant to be—everything I wasn’t—and I envied her for it.
Avice delicately took my hand in hers. “By summer solstice, I’ll be residing in the Walled City, married to a man I’ve never met. Let me steal a few moments of joy while I still can,” she said, a lone tear trickling down her cheek.
Before I could apologize for my sharp tone, Finn slammed three tankards of ale onto the table.
“Here you go,” he said, sliding into the seat beside Avice.
She reached for one, her fingers grazing his as she claimed the handle.
“Thank you,” she murmured softly.
Finn slid mine across the table’s uneven surface. I caught the tankard just before it tipped over the edge, though a splash of ale still escaped the rim, dampening my lap.
“Finn!” I groaned, glaring at him while he smirked.
He was trying to show off, and I wasn’t about to play the role of his jester so he could entertain Avice.
As the lovers whispered secrets into each other’s ears, I chugged my ale.
It wasn’t that I’d never yearned for affection—I had. But I knew that being someone’s wife made me their property. I had a better chance of becoming a master blacksmith as a spinster than if I surrendered to marriage.
Yet with each passing year, the burdens of womanhood crept closer, and I knew I couldn’t outrun the expectations—marriage, children, household duty—for much longer.
From the corner of my eye, I sensed someone staring my way.
Even in the fuzzy stretches of my sight, I recognized the sway of his braided beard as he teetered on his barstool.
Todd. He was old, widowed, and always drunk.
Despite his good-hearted nature, Todd lacked an understanding of social cues—or simply didn’t care to adhere to them—subjecting anyone who met his gaze to his inebriated nonsense.
I tried not to glance his way, but my eyes kept flitting to him. Todd regarded me with a pitiful smile—as if he believed we were both lonely. Yet I had friends at the table, even if they were more interested in each other than me.
Todd eventually staggered to his feet and weaved his way through the crowded tables. I stretched out as far as possible, hoping to make the seat beside me appear occupied. Still, Todd continued closing the distance.
I kicked Finn’s shin beneath the table, but he remained engrossed in his conversation with Avice.
I watched as the gold pendant around her neck jingled every time she giggled at his whispered words—both of them carefully avoiding my gaze.
Frustrated, I kicked again, this time with enough force to make my toes throb. Finally, Finn flinched.
“Stop doing that,” he snapped.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered, glancing over his shoulder. “Not for the kick—but for what’s heading our way.”
Finn turned and groaned. “How many times do I have to tell you not to look at him?”
Before I could reply, Todd reached us. “Evening all,” he mumbled, his voice as rough as sandpaper, thick with ale.
“Feels like just yesterday, you were here, lad, in this very tavern—your father, proud as a peacock, showing off his firstborn son.” He collapsed onto the bench, missing the empty space and half falling onto my leg.
“Now I hear—you, eh—you might be a better blacksmith than him, eh?”
I swallowed down a bitter wave of envy, knowing I’d crafted every notable piece of iron since Father left.
Finn shook his head. “I highly doubt that. I look forward to his return.”
After he spoke, Finn turned toward Avice to resume their private conversation, abandoning me to endure the sot alone. Yet again, I’d drawn the short stick. I slumped forward, resting my chin on my fist, sulking at the idea of an evening spent with the village drunk.
“I reckon my absence weren’t much noticed, eh?” Todd asked, but I didn’t bother to answer—his glassy-eyed expression told me he couldn’t hear much over the ale sloshing inside of him.
“But if—if you were wondering, I just returned from the Marshlands,” he said. “Visited my brother. Old sod’s consumed by sweating fever, an’ he won’t be here come Yuletide. Won’t be anywhere… Aye, death’s got an eye on us all, eh?”
He waved a hand toward the gods, knocking his tankard with his clumsy gesture. With a quick reaction, I managed to catch the teetering mug before it toppled over.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.
Todd shrugged, nearly spilling his drink once more as he snatched it back, splashing ale onto his tunic before taking a hearty gulp.
“Don’t—don’t be. Sixty-four years under his belt, that’s lucky, eh?
” He let out a wet belch and shook his head.
“The Lord’s marching lads off to war to die.
Some of ’em—gods—some of ’em so young they don’t even have chest hair to keep them warm in the camps.
” He leaned back, muttering into his tankard, “Cannot believe it. Boys, just boys, fighting wars.”
Todd continued mumbling incoherently as the barmaid thumped a wicker basket onto the table, hauled up her gray kirtle, and elbowed her way back through the throng. I grabbed a roll, wincing as I nearly chipped a tooth on its stale crust.
Instead of trying to understand the old bibber’s ramblings, I watched the barmaid, who, from behind, might have been mistaken for a beauty—with her thick braid of dark blond hair and waist small enough to wear a bracelet as a belt.
But from the front, life had clearly been unkind to her.
She caught my eye and attempted a charming smile, but it was marred by teeth the color of autumn leaves and skin as textured as tree bark.
I smiled back, hoping to escape a future as bleak as hers.
Todd slammed down his tankard, the clatter claiming my attention.
“On—on my travels,” he mumbled, blinking slowly, breathing heavily, “I spent a night at the Bell Inn. Got talking to some wayfarer—real rogue lad—but listen, listen to this.” He jabbed a finger at me.
“The lad refuses to call our King James anything but the usurper!” He cackled loudly, smacking his palm against his thigh.
“The lad was a soldier, fighting in Cambas. He fled, fearing for his life. Told me—listen here—Regina’s formed an army, unbeatable without magic. ”
Before men were conscripted to war, Todd’s tales of Regina always felt like nothing more than fables. But since Father left to fight, they had started to feel real, like magic was returning to seek revenge.
Finn gave me a glance, rolling his eyes as the barmaid leaned over us—her hot breath burned my nose with the stench of her rotten teeth.
“How many times do I have to tell you to be careful talking about…” she began, pausing to glance over her shoulder.
I relished the brief surge of fresh air before she ducked back into our conversation.
“Magic folk,” she whispered so quietly I couldn’t tell if I’d heard the words or read them on her chapped lips. “You know the regulars get rowdy when talk turns to witchcraft.”
Todd let out a sharp huff, swaying slightly as Finn turned his attention back to Avice, settling his hand atop hers.
After stacking empty tankards until she could carry no more, the barmaid glanced over the table. “You lot want another round?”
We all nodded.