The Anchor. #3
“Yet,” he replied with a hollow laugh. “If there were any hope of winning this war, the King himself would be leading the army to battle.” He paused, looking around like he was searching for something.
“But I don’t see him here or any of his legitimate sons.
No one my father cares about seems to be within a stone’s throw of Cambas. ”
“You’re here,” I remarked.
“You’ve proved my point. I’d wager one of his scholars has already penned a pitiful obituary for me,” Fitzroy scoffed.
“It sounds like you’re admitting defeat before the fight has even begun!”
Fitzroy dragged his gloved palm down his face in frustration.
“You’re all useless,” he said, his voice brimming with exasperation.
“None of you villagers can fight. Regina has the upper hand because she can freely employ magic to fortify her army. We might have many powerful sorcerers among our ranks—but they’ll never reveal their purple palms for fear of execution. ”
“Do you believe magic’s evil?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.
Fitzroy tutted. “Of course not,” he muttered beneath his breath.
“And you think spellcasting’s our only way to win?”
He replied with a curt nod.
“Then why aren’t you trying to change the prejudice?” I demanded, slamming my fists against my thighs. “Your bravery could lead us to victory.”
I couldn’t fathom why, if he knew magic was the key to winning this war, he was doing everything in his power to avoid it.
“How can I change a kingdom’s ideology when I cannot even win a duel against a village girl?” he asked, a bitter edge to his voice.
“Shh!” I hushed, clasping my hand over his mouth.
He shook me off and took another sip of ale. “Dying isn’t even the worst part. What upsets me most is that this could be my last drink in a disorderly house, and it tastes like it was brewed in a cesspit.”
I ignored him, consumed by my thoughts. On the morrow, our soldiers would march into battle, expected to destroy the very thing that coursed through my veins: magic.
“Why are we fighting against what we are?” I asked, the absurdity of it all hitting me at once.
Fitzroy didn’t answer. Instead, he drained the last of his ale in one gulp.
“Good night, Smith. I have a battle plan to finalize. Enjoy your evening with the thieves and whores.”
As Fitzroy strode through the tavern, his knights fell into step beside him, ready to escort His Highness back to his tent.
“My liege, wait,” I called, following his entourage. “Fitzroy, don’t be a coward.”
I chased him out of the tavern and across the deck, but he refused to stop. As I reached for his shoulder, one of his knights blocked my path—as though Fitzroy needed protecting from someone half his size.
“Coward!” I yelled after him, hoping to provoke a reaction.
One of the knights shot me a glare, but Fitzroy never looked back.
“What was that about?” Bash asked, suddenly appearing beside me on the wooden planks.
He glared after the prince as he waited for me to explain—but I couldn’t. Bash didn’t know I was a woman or that Fitzroy was a wizard, and it felt cruel to tell him, the night before battle, that even our own commander believed we were all destined to die.
So instead, I shook my head, aching to share every one of those truths with him. But Mother’s words rang in my ears: Sharing secrets was dangerous.
“I really despise that bastard,” I muttered, watching Fitzroy and his knights vanish into the darkness along the coastline.
Bash offered his tankard to me, and I accepted it gratefully, the cool liquid soothing my parched gullet—sore from shouting.
“What did he say?” Bash asked, perching on the edge of the deck, letting his legs dangle over.
The truth wormed its way up my throat—that Fitzroy was a wizard—but I swallowed it down. I couldn’t break a promise, not when His Highness held a secret about me, too.
“He’s apprehensive about the invasion,” I said, taking a seat beside him.
Bash sighed. “As my father always told me, whatever will be, will be.”
“What was—is your father like?” I asked hesitantly, unsure whether to assume he was alive or dead.
“Too generous,” Bash replied, shaking his head.
“He was always loaning people tools, labor, and coins without expecting anything in return.” He stared out at the sea, his brow furrowing as if contemplating his father’s every attribute.
“He was very loyal—sometimes too committed to people who didn’t appreciate his steadfastness.
Oh, and he was trusting—stupidly, naively, infuriatingly trusting.
That was what led to his demise. He boarded that ship knowing a storm was brewing but trusted his captain’s judgment over his own. ”
“He sounds like a good man,” I said, and Bash nodded in agreement.
“What’s your sister’s name?” he asked, his attention turning to me.
After a slight hesitation, I murmured, “Niamh.”
“Niamh,” Bash repeated, and I enjoyed the sound of him saying my name. “What’s she like?”
“She’s…” I hesitated—sitting beside you, I thought. “Just like me,” I said.
Bash rested his chin on his fists and sighed heavily. “All this family talk is making me miss home.”
“Me too,” I said, a sharp pang of sorrow piercing my chest at the thought of never seeing my brothers again.
“Do you have a sweetheart waiting for you in the Wetlands?” he asked, catching my eye.
I thought of Avice—the first person with whom I didn’t share blood that I cared for unconditionally.
I shook my head, knowing the only place I’d see her again was in the afterlife.
Bash chuckled. “Me neither. I’m hopeless at charming ladies.”
“That’s hard to believe,” I said, wondering if I’d ever met a man that I found more endearing than Bash.
He shook his head, dismissing my flattery.
I admired his strong profile as he gazed over the shimmering sea. Plenty of women residing in Green Vale would’ve hung off his neck like a pendant—perhaps I wouldn’t oppose marriage if he were the man my father picked.
“How many women have you laid with?” I asked, knowing his answer would be telling of his character.
Bash shifted his gaze from the water to meet mine. “More than a handful, less than two,” he said.
I nodded, deeming it an acceptable answer for a man.
“And yourself?” he asked.
I considered lying—portraying myself as a heartbreaking lothario who’d seen more women in compromising positions than sunrises. But with so many lies already weighing on me, I decided to be honest.
“Never have,” I confessed before glugging his ale.
I recalled a fleeting summer romance with a boy from Green Glenn. Our days spent in the forest, barely able to keep our hands off one another. We were driven by lust, yet careful not to overstep the boundary that could compromise my maidenhood.
Bash raised an eyebrow. “Are you a virtuous fellow by choice?”
I shook my head, knowing that it was both a lack of opportunity and fear of social ostracism that kept me chaste.
“Shall we go back inside the Anchor and change that?” Bash asked with a coy smile. “I could give you a helping hand?”
I choked, spluttering ale down the front of my tunic.
Bash laughed. “I’m talking in jest,” he said, patting my back before dabbing the dampness from my chin with his fingers. “Careful, you don’t want to die before you…”
His words trailed off, his attention completely absorbed in wiping the droplets from my bottom lip. His thumb brushed back and forth against my slightly parted mouth, sending a tingle up the back of my neck as I silently begged for him to kiss me.
Bash cleared his throat. “I’m drunk,” he admitted, folding his arms across his chest. “If I had one more ale, I wouldn’t even remember my own name.” He stood abruptly, his demeanor shifting. “I need to check if Fletcher’s managed to stay out of trouble. Are you coming inside?”
I nodded, swinging my legs back over the deck before rising to join him.
Bash hesitated in the flickering rushlight, as though he had something more to say. But he never did. Moments later, we stepped over the threshold into the welcoming warmth of the Anchor.
As we entered the brothel, a palpable unease filled the chamber. The air felt thick and suffocating with mounting tension.
“Argh!” A deafening scream shrilled.
All the remaining patrons were already staring toward the curtain, as if this wasn’t the first screech to erupt from that direction. My mind conjured unnerving visions of what might be unfolding beyond it—perhaps there was a creature like Dog, but not loyal to me, savaging flesh just out of view.
“Get off!” The desperate cry of a woman echoed through the stillness.
Bash’s hand found my arm as he stepped slightly ahead of me, like he thought I needed shielding from what was coming.
I peered over his shoulder as Red ducked beneath the curtain and into the main chamber. For a brief moment, I felt a surge of relief.
But as he stumbled into the firelight, I saw him fully—his cheeks as fiery as his locks. In his fist, he gripped one of the working women, dressed in nothing but her chemise, by a tight handful of her dark hair.
“She spoke in that nefarious tongue,” Red spat, his unhinged eyes glinting with feral rage.
Mr. Bednot stepped forward. “Margaret,” he said. “Is this true?”
Margaret shook her head slightly, restricted by Red’s ironfisted grip.
“The whore’s gone quiet,” Red said through clenched teeth. “Beneath the sheets she was garrulous, now she acts a milksop.” He yanked Margaret’s head back, so he could look down his nose at her. “Repeat what you said in that bedchamber.”
Without hesitation, Margaret pursed her thin lips and spat at Red, proving she wasn’t intimidated by his domineering presence.
Red wiped the spittle from his cheek. Then, with gritted teeth, he slapped her. The forceful blow sent Margaret stumbling into the barrels, before crumbling beneath the table.