The Anchor.
On the final night before the planned invasion, I joined a rowdy group of soldiers for one last pint of ale.
Walking alongside Bash—always desperate to be near him—I peered over the cliff edge at the burnt sands below.
Cambas was a quiet seaside town that didn’t look like it had been bustling before the shores turned black.
Small, timber-framed houses were nestled into the rocky cliffside, while an abandoned shipyard lay below.
The briny scent of sea drifted inland and clung to my long coat, so I smelled like I’d washed my garments in a rock pool.
“Look!” Tom called over his shoulder, pointing toward the shore.
There, a few oyster shuckers sat hunched by the water, their rag-wrapped hands cradling barnacle-encrusted shells. With practiced precision, they wedged knives into the shell hinges and twisted until they cracked open.
“Reminds me of home,” Tom murmured, staring wistfully at the shuckers.
In the near distance, little orange flames flickered in the dusk, marking the entrance to the only tavern left in Cambas.
Tucked into a cave with a small deck facing the sea, the alehouse was flanked by flaming rushlights that illuminated a wooden sign overhead—a painting of an anchor.
It seemed a fitting name for a seaside brewery.
Clutching his cap with one hand, Fletcher swung the door open with the other as we rushed inside to escape the biting westerly winds.
The tavern was cramped and dingy, its furniture a motley collection of old barrels now serving as stools around a long, worn trestle table.
By the hearth, two disheveled men sat in tattered armchairs, pausing their card game to eye us warily.
Any peace was quickly shattered by the raucous entrance of at least thirty soldiers, filling the chamber with lively clamor.
“Welcome, welcome,” called a man with a body shaped like an apple balancing on two toothpicks. “Come in! Take a pew.” He looked genuinely thankful for our custom.
I thought he ought to have been thankful to be alive. His skin was the same yellowish hue as a buttercup, and the whites of his eyes glowed lemony. As he waddled closer, the strong whiff of garlic on his breath nearly made me gag, forcing me to step back.
“I’m the proprietor of this fine house of ill repute,” he announced with a playful elbow to Tom and a spirited wink in my direction. “Mr. Bednot, at your service. What can I get you gents?” He scratched the flaky skin on his forearms as he spoke. “Perhaps a pint of our home-brewed ale?”
“Got any grub?” Arthur asked, patting his protruding stomach.
Mr. Bednot nodded. “We’ve got cockles, and mussels, and whelks if you’re partial. Used to sell jellied eels and rollmops, but since the war, fish are scarce.”
“I fancy something meatier,” Red said, licking his lips.
With a conspiratorial tap to his nose, Mr. Bednot opened his arms toward the bar. “You’re more than welcome to sample the finer fruits Cambas has to offer.”
Three barmaids lingered on the far side of the tavern.
One leaned against the bar, chewing her fingernails, while the other two exchanged whispers.
At the sound of Mr. Bednot clearing his throat, they turned their attention toward us.
The one with the auburn hair winked at no one in particular, the nail-biter switched to biting her rouged lip, and the youngest twirled her golden locks around her finger.
That’s when it dawned on me. This wasn’t just a tavern.
“Is this a brothel?” I asked, glancing between the faces of the men, unsure whether I was naive or had been misled.
Godwin chuckled while Red gave me a seedy smile.
“You said we were visiting an alehouse,” Bash muttered. “One final drink before we lay down our lives for Lyonesse.”
Fletcher smacked his thigh and burst into belly laughter at the revelation.
“Emma pours a fine pint,” Red replied, nodding toward the youngest girl—her fresh face framed by winsome braids—as he edged closer to her.
“Maybe we’ve already died,” Godwin said, rubbing his hands together. “And this is our reward for sacrificing ourselves for King and realm…” He trailed off, following in Red’s shadow.
Tom stared at the women—his wide eyes locked onto them as if mesmerized by their sensuality.
I chuckled and gave him a grounding pat on the back. “Come on, let’s sit,” I said, knowing I’d need my legs on the morrow.
Bash sighed as he perched on an old barrel beside me—his leg brushing against mine.
“This isn’t what I imagined when Red said he knew a quaint little spot,” he said.
Fletcher huffed. “If you don’t make the beast with two backs, you can pretend it’s just a tavern,” he grumbled, clearly exasperated with his cousin’s attitude.
“You enjoy places like this,” Bash countered, slouching forward. I mirrored him, resting my elbows on my thighs just as he did. “I find being here disheartening,” he added, offering the women pitiful smiles.
I gave Fletcher a disappointed tut at the suggestion that he enjoyed brothels.
“Not for the reason you’re thinking—get your head out of the gutter,” Fletcher retorted, lowering the peak of his cap as he glanced around furtively. “Whores bring in men, men bring in coins. And I like coins, especially ones that don’t belong to me.”
With a resigned sigh, Bash stood. “On that parting message, I’ll get us a drink.”
As Bash neared the bar with Fletcher in tow—on the lookout for valuables to filch—the front door groaned open.
Benedict’s wiry beard fluttered over the threshold first, followed by knights flanking Fitzroy, who managed to look disheveled yet dashing.
The wind had swept back his hair to reveal his chiseled jawline, and the cold had flushed his cheeks pinker than the blushing petals of bindweed.
He adjusted his fur-lined cloak, biting his bottom lip as he concentrated on refastening the golden clasp.
It was infuriating how Fitzroy made even a simple task look alluring.
“Your Grace,” Mr. Bednot announced, greeting the prince with a bow of his head. “How may I be of service?”
“Please, call me Fitzroy,” he replied. “Two tankards of ale would be much appreciated.”
I noticed how he was being uncharacteristically polite.
“Anything for His Highness,” Mr. Bednot said with a nod. “Would you like Jane to entertain you this evening? Jane…” he called in a musical tone.
At the sound of her name, the ginger perked up—lips the color of summer berries, hair thick and glossy. With a flirtatious smile, she fluttered her fingers at Fitzroy.
“Thank you, but no,” Fitzroy said firmly. “Tonight, I’ll sit with this good fellow and discuss war tactics.”
Mr. Bednot bowed his head once more as Fitzroy and Benedict withdrew to the quieter end of the table.
Their voices dropped to hushed tones, as if their conversations were too important for lowly ears.
I watched Fitzroy fiddle nervously with his rings while Benedict steered the conversation; it was unsettling to see him consumed with worry—his usual hubris had momentarily waned.
Bash soon returned to our group, balancing four tankards of ale that sloshed over their rims as he slammed them onto the wobbly table.
I slid a tankard toward Tom before claiming another for myself.
“Thank you,” I said to Bash as he settled onto an old barrel beside me. “This must’ve cost a small fortune.”
Bash chuckled. “It did, but I think Fletcher will earn it back for me,” he said, nodding toward the bar.
Fletcher was engaged in animated banter with Mr. Bednot, his unscrupulous hand patting the owner’s shoulder one moment and slipping into his breast pocket the next.
“He always does the same routine,” Bash murmured, leaning in close to my ear.
I tingled in wishful anticipation, hoping his lips might graze my skin.
“First, he distracts his target.”
I watched as Fletcher shifted his amoral attention to Jane, ushering her backward until she collided with a drinker slouched over the bar. As Jane turned away to apologize, Fletcher took his chance to position himself behind her.
“Next, he takes advantage of the target’s diverted attention,” Bash continued.
It wasn’t obvious to an onlooker, but I could tell from the mischievous grin on Fletcher’s face that his hands had found their way into the pouch hanging from Jane’s hip. She turned back to him, unaware that Fletcher had pocketed a fistful of her coins.
“Then, he claims his reward,” Bash finished, his breath warming my cheek.
Fletcher flashed Jane a pleasant grin and placed a hand on her neck, drawing her ear toward his lips.
As he spoke, his fingers deftly fiddled with the clasp on the chain of her locket.
Suddenly, his elbow shot out, knocking over a tankard of ale.
His feigned clumsiness created just enough commotion for him to smuggle the jewelry away from Jane’s neck without suspicion.
“He’s good,” I admitted, shamefully impressed by Fletcher’s sleight of hand.
Arthur tutted, struggling to fold his thickset arms over his robust stomach. “He gets caught. A lot,” he muttered, his tone heavy with exasperation.
Bash let out a breathy chuckle, prompting me to look his way.
Our faces were closer than they should’ve been—his gaze flitted over my face before his gentle eyes met mine. I could feel his breath upon my lips. I could almost imagine the taste of his mouth—warm, slightly sweet—and how I longed to know if I was right.
Something heavy clapped my back, snapping me out of a place I longed to stay—close to Bash.
“You’re not tempted by the ladies?” a husky voice asked.
I turned to meet Red, rubbing his calloused palms together with a wild look in his dark eyes. “It might be the last time you feel the soft embrace of a woman.”
A heavy disappointment settled in my chest. For lack of better judgment, I’d come to see Red as a father figure. Yet as he stood before me, urging men to succumb to their desires, I felt nothing but disgust.