Tactics.
Once the weapons were mended, the boats plugged, and the invasion planned, Fitzroy called for a training session in the field behind the encampment. The morning was bright and rainless, but bitterly cold.
I huddled beside Bash, stealing his warmth and using his stature as a shield between Fitzroy and me. But His Highness was too preoccupied to notice the witch among the men.
Fitzroy’s breath billowed from his flushed lips as he stood with his hands firmly on his hips, eyeing up the few hundred soldiers before him. He shook his head like none of us were satisfactory.
I scanned the line and realized he was right. There were men old enough to recall the last King, boys young enough to remember the taste of their mother’s milk, and those in their prime were weary from life in the lower strata of society.
Fitzroy paced the length of the line, the sable fur trim of his cloak tickling his chill-blushed cheeks. “I shall teach you basic defense and attack,” he announced—his voice firm despite the tremors caused by the cold.
Having spent many years honing my skills as a blacksmith, I knew combat couldn’t be mastered in one day. Still, I hoped that familiarizing myself with the clash of steel might help me maintain my composure when battle came.
Arthur jabbed his elbow into my side, snatching my attention. “Rumor has it our enemy’s unbeatable,” he muttered, running a nervous hand through his thinning white hair.
“Heard that too,” Fletcher chimed in, agreeing with his Headlands home folk.
An older man, shrouded in a weathered cloak, took a wobbly step forward. “What exactly are we defending ourselves against?” he asked, the wrinkles around his hooded eyes deepening as he awaited his liege’s response.
Before Fitzroy could answer, a different soldier emerged from the huddle.
“Around the bonfire, I’ve heard tales of a winged beast that flies over the shore,” he said. His tone was steeped in skepticism, but the tremble in his hand as he pointed skyward told me he believed the stories. “Some say the wyrm spews skin-melting bile on the men below.”
A plump boy—face untainted by even a sun-kissed freckle—edged to the forefront. “In the Marshlands, they tell stories of sea monsters dragging sailors into the depths. Never to be seen again,” he whispered, his eyes darting frantically among us.
Terror looked misplaced on such an innocent face.
Beside me, Bash exhaled. I turned to him, hoping for reassurance about what creatures we might face, but his steely gaze was already fixed on Fitzroy.
“What use are a sword and shield against magic?” he asked.
Fitzroy sucked his teeth, giving himself a moment.
“I’m carrying out the King’s bidding. His Highness has ordered me to invade Annwn, and his orders are final.
I don’t know if the rumors are true—I’ve yet to see our enemy with my own eyes.
All I can do is share my expertise on wielding these weapons.
Then I will fight beside you on the battlefield. ”
He flashed that self-indulgent smolder I remembered from the royal balcony. Bash glanced downward to meet my eye before rolling his, but the rest of the men shivering in the icy field seemed to draw strength from Fitzroy’s arrogance—it gave them hope.
Yet I’d heard the panic in his voice as he struggled to finalize the battle plan with his advisers. His confidence, I suspected, was nothing more than a facade.
“Are you a stouthearted fighter?” I asked, curious whether Fitzroy had ever truly tested his own abilities.
With a smirk, he unsheathed his blade in one swift motion. “My knight-errantry tutor said I was the greatest swordsman he’d ever met.”
As the men murmured about Fitzroy’s accolades, I rose onto the balls of my feet and leaned toward Bash’s ear.
“His subjects will say anything to stay in his good graces,” I whispered—regrettably, not softly enough.
Fitzroy aimed the sharp tip of his sword at me, edging closer until the point hovered dangerously near my face. I resisted the urge to retreat, determined not to flinch.
For a moment, he held my gaze—just as he had inside his lavish tent. I couldn’t tell if it was his sheer audacity or the way his eyes glittered like gold that kept me rooted. But I was certain of one thing: Fitzroy’s demeanor irked me more than anyone else I’d ever encountered.
“Someone hand Smith a sword!” he bellowed, his voice cutting through the icy air. “I’ll demonstrate a combat scenario.”
A soldier tossed a sword toward me, and rather than attempting to catch it, I let the blade land on the frosty grass.
“Have you ever used a sword, Smith?” Fitzroy sneered, spitting my surname as if it were a filthy word.
“No,” I replied, bending down to retrieve my weapon.
I was familiar with the weightiness of a sword from my years spent mending them, but I’d never used one for its intended purpose.
Fitzroy chuckled as he watched me adjust my unsteady grip on the handle.
“This should be a quick defeat,” he said, spinning his blade in an impressively fast figure eight. “I hope all your estates are in order, not that I imagine you have any.”
With his final word, Fitzroy lunged. I blocked his strike, feeling the reverberation of clashing steel. He swung again, swooping the metal around his head and delivering a forceful blow that nearly knocked me over. My arms ached as I struggled to maintain my guard against his thwacks.
Fitzroy’s movements were skilled and unyielding—a relentless rhythm I couldn’t match.
When my guard dropped, he stabbed forward, his blade slicing through my tunic.
I wheezed, bracing for the searing pain I expected—but the injury was minor.
The tip of the blade grazed my skin before its flat edge pressed against my torso.
Relief flooded through me, for I’d narrowly avoided being impaled.
Fitzroy withdrew his sword and inspected its bloody point.
His fearful gaze flicked to my face. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice tinged with unexpected panic.
The arrogance that had exuded from him moments before now withered like a blighted crop. I delighted in watching him squirm with worry and wasn’t ready for it to end. Knowing my talent for theatrics, I decided to deliver my best performance of a tragedy.
I reached inside my tunic, pressing my fingers against the shallow wound. When I pulled them out, they were stained crimson. Unease rippled through the crowd as I staggered backward, grappling at my “grievous” injury.
“Help,” I rasped, falling to my knees.
“Are you well? Answer me!” Fitzroy demanded, louder this time.
I lifted my gaze to meet his. My eyes fluttered wearily before I rolled them and collapsed, still clutching my sword.
With one final theatrical sigh, I played dead.
“Damn,” Fitzroy breathed out, tossing his weapon down as he knelt at my side.
With my eyes closed, I listened to the gasps and hushed murmurs rippling through the crowd. The men believed the bastard had slain a young soldier. I stifled a chuckle, knowing that Fitzroy was panicking at the prospect of murder tarnishing his reputation.
As he frantically searched for a fatal wound that wasn’t there, I seized the moment. Grabbing his lapels, I threw myself over Fitzroy and pinned him beneath me, straddling his torso. My hand darted for my sword, my fingers curling around its hilt before I pressed the chilling blade to his throat.
“Have you prepared your estate, Prince?” I asked mockingly. “Or did your father reserve his land titles for his legitimate sons?”
Titters echoed through the crowd, though most men respected—or feared—their commander too much to laugh aloud.
I still dreaded Fitzroy’s wrath, but knowing his secret gave me leverage.
Fitzroy licked his lips with maddening nonchalance, as if he weren’t between my thighs and beneath a blade.
“You fight like a woman—using deception instead of strength,” he remarked, his tone dripping with disdain.
My grip tightened, and the temptation to draw blood from the bastard’s neck was almost overwhelming. “Surrender, my liege, and I’ll let you leave unscathed,” I said, a smug smile tugging at my lips.
Fitzroy swallowed hard, like his pride was lodged in his throat. “Get off, Smith,” he demanded—quiet, yet firm.
This time, I obeyed, lowering the sword before brushing grass stains from my breeches.
Bash shot me a charming wink of approval, Fletcher snickered beneath his cap, and Arthur looked more stunned than a field mouse caught beneath the shadow of a kestrel’s wing.
“Note to self,” Arthur said, a slight tremor in his tone. “Smith’s the master of surprise attacks.”
Fitzroy picked himself up from the dewy turf; his only injury was a bruised ego.
“Partner up and practice defending,” he ordered, his voice deeper than usual. “I want no blood drawn. You’ll see plenty of it on the battlefield.”
Arthur quickly latched onto Bash—uneasy as ever, and now wary of facing me in a duel.
I lunged toward the coward, feinting a grab for my sword hilt. He flinched, and I chuckled; Arthur was almost certainly scared of his own shadow.
“You’re a madman,” Arthur muttered, his movements still twitchy.
Bash tried to suppress the smile puckering at the corners of his lips, while Fletcher stepped forward, volunteering as my opponent.
“Remember who got you that coat before you wrestle me to the ground,” Fletcher teased, securing his cap firmly on his head—just in case.
I nodded, enjoying the esteem I’d earned among the men.
“Where did you learn that trick?” Bash asked as he parried Arthur’s blade. “You had me fooled—I thought you’d joined the gods.”
“I used to fake ailments to entertain my brother,” I said, recalling Henry’s laughter at my pretend afflictions.
“You have a brother?” Bash asked.
“Two,” I replied.
Before I could remember their faces, Arthur let out a sigh.
“There was once six of us,” he said, somberly. “Now, only my sister and I remain.”
“I’m the eldest of four sisters and five brothers,” Bash told me, and I nodded—that explained his kind and caring nature. “There’s never a quiet moment at home.”
“Your poor mother,” I said, thinking of how exhausted my own had been raising just the three of us. “And your father must treasure his days at sea,” I added, recalling how mine often sought refuge from his children in the smithy.
Arthur lowered his sword as he turned to me—jaw slack and brows raised.
Fletcher shook his head. “Unfortunate choice of words, Smith,” he muttered.
A heavy silence settled over us. I recalled the conversation, searching for what I’d done wrong. But before I could find it, Bash finally spoke.
“My father’s missing,” he said quietly. “Two summers ago, he boarded a ship that never docked. No wreckage, no debris—nothing. It’s as if the ship sailed off the edge of the sea.”
My heart sank.
“Feel terrible for jesting about his father yet?” Arthur teased. “I would.”
And I did. Bash was the last person in Cambas I ever wanted to see hurt.
“Ignore him,” Bash said, giving me a comforting pat on the shoulder. “If anyone understands my longing for my father’s return, it’s Smith.”
I nodded through the guilt, aware that he believed I was mourning a missing sister. But that wasn’t the case. The truth was far more complicated.