The Anchor. #2
“It would be a waste of coins.” Arthur sighed, anxiety governing his jittery movements. “I’m so full of dread for the war, I wouldn’t be able to stand to attention.”
Bash tittered into his tankard.
“Would your wife not mind?” I asked Red, recalling how he’d often gloated about her in the smithy.
Red responded with a sly smirk, and I suddenly felt foolish for ever regarding him as an honorable man.
“She’ll never be wise to my trysts,” he said—loud and proud of his infidelity.
I tipped back my tankard, letting the hoppy ale flood my mouth before my opinions could spill out.
Red wandered off to sate his hunger for carnal pleasures, and I was thankful for his departure—had he lingered any longer, I would’ve said something regrettable.
“You don’t frequent the brothels in the Wetlands?” Bash asked me.
I shook my head, certain there were none in Green Vale.
“How else does a man of your stature plough?” Arthur quipped, his nerves forgotten just long enough to land a gibe. He cast a glance at young Tom, clearly expecting a laugh.
But Tom paid him no attention. His unblinking eyes were fixated on the barmaids with such intensity, I wondered if he’d ever spoken to a woman besides his mother.
I also ignored Arthur and kept my focus on Bash. “You do?” I asked, aware that my opinion of him would change if he said yes.
Bash shrugged. “I’ve visited a few, but the older I get, the less appealing they are—”
“He pretends to be an honorable man,” Arthur teased, his grin widening enough to reveal the brown edges of his teeth.
“I prefer bedding a woman who desires me as much as I desire her,” Bash said, keeping his voice low. “You can understand that?”
His eyes met mine—searching for agreement.
I nodded, a hot flush creeping into my cheeks as I imagined Bash sweeping the tankards off the table, laying me down, and then having his way with me.
The nape of my neck prickled, and my inner thighs throbbed—pulsing, aching, just from the thought.
I released my pint. The ale had gone not only to my head but to my loins.
Ease up on the drinking, I warned myself.
“You like to take the virtue of good women, whereas I prefer to sully the sullied,” Arthur declared, thumping his chest as if that was something to be proud of. “Tom, tell them you agree with me.”
Tom was preoccupied, his eyes fixed on beautiful Jane as Fletcher’s antics rouged her cheeks through fits of laughter.
“I-I… I’ve never laid with a woman,” Tom mumbled, his bony shoulders hunching over—timid and embarrassed by his confession.
Arthur laughed, cruelly unaware or uncaring that Tom was even more red-faced than usual.
“Go change that,” he said, jabbing a sharp elbow into Tom’s ribs. “Or else you may die a virgin.”
“Shut it,” I retorted, defending my prodigy. “When Tom returns from war, he’ll have many women wanting to be his wife. You’ll still be undesirable—forced to give coins to whores for attention.”
Tom snorted as Arthur rubbed his rotting teeth with his tongue, clearly irritated by my remark.
A clatter echoed through the tavern. I turned toward the commotion to find Mr. Bednot flustered and furious—gripping Fletcher by the collar, shaking him violently, and accusing him of stealing from behind the bar.
“Your thieving cousin,” Arthur tutted, heaving his hefty self to his feet.
“Not again,” Bash groaned, watching the altercation.
Fletcher raised his hands in a plea of innocence while Jane tried—and failed—to calm Mr. Bednot.
“Excuse me,” Bash muttered, scraping back his white hair and tying it off his face as he rushed to join Arthur at the bar.
As I watched the Headlands men trying to mediate the dispute, I realized most of the soldiers had already left the Anchor—likely too anxious about the impending invasion to enjoy the evening.
And the locals who gambled by the fireplace were also gone, leaving the fireside seating to a new occupant.
Fitzroy sat alone beside the warm hearth, sipping from his tankard while staring into the flames, seemingly spellbound by their dance.
When he was silent, there was nothing to fault about Fitzroy. Physically, he was flawless—a face so symmetrical it looked as though it had been drawn with a compass, leaving him with only one imperfection, his ability to speak.
A moment later, fresh-faced Emma interrupted Fitzroy’s pensive peace. From between two perfect braids she fluttered her eyelashes at him. I raked my fingers through my short hair, envious of her pretty locks.
As she leaned in, whispering in his ear, Fitzroy’s gaze drifted my way—locking with mine.
He beckoned me with a flick of his finger, but I firmly shook my head. My decline made him smirk as he rested his chiseled chin in his hand, studying me.
The longer his stare lingered, the more riled up I became—annoyed and heated.
At last, Fitzroy broke the hold, turning back to Emma and muttering something under his breath, lost amid the dispute at the bar.
As he whispered, Emma’s sweet smile faded.
She rose, slipped behind a nearby curtain, and vanished into the shadows—into where I assumed the sordid activities took place.
Fitzroy glanced back at me, tilting his head toward the space he’d cleared beside him. For a moment, I pretended—even to myself—that I was contemplating whether to join him. But when he gave me that irritating smolder, I couldn’t resist finding out why he so desperately wanted my company.
“I’ll be back in a moment,” I told Tom.
He didn’t respond—too busy biting the skin around his bony fingers, eyes locked on the curtain as if his life depended on it.
“That fair-haired girl keeps staring at me,” he murmured, nodding toward the partition. “She’s making me uncomfortable.”
I looked over and saw Emma’s youthful face peering out, her expression pained as she watched Tom.
“She probably thinks you’re handsome,” I said.
Though as I beheld his complexion—seeded with spots and red like a strawberry—I doubted that was the case.
As Emma shifted into the shadows, Tom sighed with relief.
“Save my seat,” I said as I rose, feeling like a hypocrite for judging the men for succumbing to their vices while I was steadily marching toward mine.
I leaned forward and peered down my nose at Fitzroy. “I thought men from well-to-do families were taught manners,” I said.
Fitzroy didn’t reply—instead, he gestured to the seat beside him.
“Sit,” he commanded.
“I’m not a dog,” I scoffed.
He chuckled sardonically. “I know exactly what you are, boy,” he replied, smirking. “Sit.”
Fearing Fitzroy might reveal my true identity, I reluctantly complied and perched on the armchair beside him.
“What was that about, the other day?” he asked.
“I don’t follow—”
“Your performance on the training field—you humiliated me in front of men I need to have unwavering faith in my strategy,” he snarled under his breath.
I leaned in, my irritation mirroring the furious glint in his eyes.
“I’m sure you’re accustomed to people feigning incompetence to make you look more talented than you truly are,” I whispered, my aggravation barely contained. “But wars aren’t won with inflated egos. The enemy won’t care about your lineage, and neither do I.”
Fitzroy punted his boot into a coal scuttle on the hearth.
The metal bucket emitted an earsplitting clang as it bounced along the tiles, scattering ash across the floor.
The sudden noise silenced the Anchor. Curious, cautious eyes turned to the source—even Fletcher, still held by Mr. Bednot, peered over his shoulder to see what had caused the commotion.
I scanned the watchful faces and caught Bash’s concerned one. He mouthed, “Are you all right?” I gave him a subtle nod of reassurance.
The men resumed their conversations, their interest waning now that the prospect of a brawl had vanished. Bash shot me a wink—sending my stomach into a giddy flip—before returning his focus to defending Fletcher.
“Look at me,” Fitzroy hissed beneath his breath.
But I was captivated by Bash, who was expertly charming his way out of trouble.
Fitzroy clicked his fingers in front of my face. “Do as I tell you,” he commanded, louder this time.
Reluctantly, I obeyed, meeting his intense gaze while keeping my distance.
Then, leaning in close, Fitzroy closed the gap between us until he was near enough to whisper. “I suppose you’re used to men overlooking your snarky remarks because of your fragile femininity. But now, you’re a man. Act like one.”
Having delivered his rebuke, Fitzroy sank into his armchair, his demeanor relaxing.
Together, we turned our attention to the unresolved conflict at the bar.
Bash insisted Mr. Bednot had accused the wrong man, while Fletcher backhanded him a fistful of loot.
With Bash discreetly pocketing the valuables and no evidence found on Fletcher, Mr. Bednot apologized for the misunderstanding.
“Do you associate yourself with that band of thieves from the Headlands?” Fitzroy asked, his tone steeped in disdain as he scrutinized the men.
“Your father stole the throne from his sister, and yet you wear your family crest with pride,” I retorted, flicking the signet ring on his pinkie. “Perhaps we’re more alike than you’d care to admit.”
Fitzroy barked a laugh. “Quick wit—I must admit, I do admire that about you. But I also suspect not biting your tongue will be the death of you—if not by me, then by someone else.”
Curling his lips, Fitzroy lifted the tankard and took a reluctant sip, as though he despised the taste.
“I find it amusing that you chastise my bite when you’re more unpredictable than the weather,” I said.
“I apologize for my temperament,” Fitzroy replied. His eyes had an unexpected glint of sincerity. “Purgatory’s proving far more difficult than I anticipated.”
“You’re not dead,” I reminded him.