Dog. #2
With Dog trotting beside us, we followed the track up the cliff edge toward the brothel.
When the Anchor came into view, it was clear closing time had arrived. The last patrons staggered out, heading for their cliffside homes, while Margaret doused the rushlights. Spotting us waiting in the distance, she waved.
“Come on, loves,” she beckoned, holding the door open.
I turned to Dog. “Stay,” I commanded. She whined, but obeyed, disappearing into the shadows as she sat.
Margaret ushered us in, and I was surprised to see Jane chattering to Mr. Bednot beside the bar. Before I could wonder if he, too, was a wizard, the slamming door diverted his attention from polishing tankards.
“We’re closed,” he said curtly—far less hospitable than on our previous visit.
Fitzroy stepped forward, flashing his usual smolder. “Sorry,” he bellowed.
“Your Highness!” Mr. Bednot stammered, fumbling over to us. “My apologies. We’re closed, but for a prince, we’re always open.”
As Mr. Bednot began listing everything he could offer Fitzroy, bright-eyed Emma emerged from behind the curtain. She skipped toward the yellow-tinged man, lifting her purple palms.
“Sleepe waescan ofer heo, dragan heo oe’th deop. Niman heo hwaer deorc, ponne sendan heo oe sleepe.” Slumber wash over him, drag him to the deep. Take him someplace dark, then send him to sleep, she said softly.
Mr. Bednot seized up as stiff as a board, then floated backward—as light as a feather—landing among the sawdust and straw covering the floorboards.
“Sleeping incantation,” Emma explained, playing with her pretty plaits. “The old lecher will be away with the fairies for hours.”
Fletcher nudged Mr. Bednot’s limp leg with his boot. “Does he not realize when he’s been knocked out?” he asked.
Emma giggled with a sprightly shake of her head. “He’s a drunkard. I doubt he remembers much of anything. He’ll wake up groggy, thinking he downed one too many tankards.”
A sudden, frantic scratching at the door drew all of our attention away from a snoozing Mr. Bednot.
“That’ll be Dog,” I said, knowing she hated being left alone. “Can she come in? She’s well trained.”
Margaret narrowed her piercing blue eyes, suspicion etched into every wrinkle. “Fine…” she drawled, as if questioning my sanity.
I opened the door, and Dog bounded inside the Anchor.
“Gods,” Margaret said, stepping back warily. “Is that the Black Shuck?”
I slowly nodded.
“The beast from the wanted poster!” Jane gasped, flicking her hand out toward the bar.
“In tou palma thee’ll wesan, be’th tid thou tally oe prie.” In my palm you will be, by the time I count to three, she intoned.
“An.” One.
The parchment peeled from the bar like shedding bark, then drifted through the air like it was caught on a strong breeze.
“Twa.” Two.
As if it had a will of its own, the parchment glided toward Jane’s outstretched hand.
“Prie.” Three, she said—and the paper crumbled into her grip.
Emma’s brow furrowed. “The what?” she asked, pinching the poster from Jane and studying the caricature.
Margaret’s head shook, ever so slightly, but her eyes widened in utter disbelief.
“When I was a child, I was told a tale,” she began, her voice heavy as she delved into folklore.
“The first wizard to call Lyonesse home was a wandering man. Lonely in his solitary exploration, he crafted a spell to manifest a traveling companion. After many moons spent perfecting the incantation, he performed it, and the Black Shuck appeared—a keen hunter, fiercely loyal, and unwavering.”
Margaret’s gaze fell upon Dog, who sat quietly before her—amber irises burning brighter than the fireplace.
“For many years, they lived together, just the two of them, until the wizard encountered a fair maiden—a fairy from the Isle of Annwn. He instantly fell in love and flew off with her, vowing to return to his loyal companion the next day.”
She paused to quickly give Dog a sympathetic smile before continuing her tale.
“But years passed, and the wizard never returned. The Black Shuck, created to be a devoted companion, was abandoned, and resentment took root in her heart. When the wizard finally returned with his new family, intent on creating his very own kingdom, the Black Shuck hunted him down and ended his life with a single fatal bite to the neck.”
She folded her arms and shifted onto one hip, taking in the sight of Dog.
“The tale of the wizard and the Shuck warns of the importance of loyalty. But now, seeing this beast before me, I wonder if it’s more truth than fable.”
“Even if she slew her creator, she’s never hurt me,” I murmured, crouching to tussle Dog’s thick fur as she licked my face.
“She’s bound to you,” Margaret replied. “Unless you betray her, she’ll protect you until your dying breath.”
Dog barked, then nuzzled her snout against me, a confirmation of our bond and her loyalty.
Fitzroy sighed, his patience for idle chatter waning—as if doubt gnawed at his faith in the witches.
Margaret, ever perceptive, noticed the shift in his mood.
“One moment, love. I’ve something out back that I think will interest you,” she said, vanishing behind the curtain.
Bash knelt beside me, his hand trembling ever so slightly as he reached for Dog. The hesitation in his touch stirred a quiet chuckle from my lips.
“She won’t bite,” I teased, gently petting her. “Unless I ask her to.”
Bash slowly copied me, stroking her coat cautiously. “I’d best remain in your good favor, then.”
His fingertips found mine among Dog’s fur, and for a moment, I couldn’t tell if he was stroking her or me. Our fingers fleetingly intertwined—until Jane wedged herself in the middle, forcing us apart.
She tucked her auburn locks behind her ears as she looked to Bash, her cherry-red lips parting with a deep breath.
“What’s her name?” she asked him.
I cleared my throat, drawing her alluring gaze away from Bash.
“I call her Dog,” I replied, bopping her wet nose.
Jane sighed softly, running her fingers through Dog’s silky fur.
“Poor thing—roaming the realm without a proper name,” she said, her voice as velvety as ever.
“I think it suits her,” Bash murmured, tickling behind Dog’s ears.
A slight smile tugged at my lips. I was pleased he’d defended my choice.
Dog whined, eager for more scratches.
“You need to do it rougher,” I said, nudging Bash’s hand aside to show him how she liked it.
Dog’s back leg kicked as I found the right spot, and Bash took over, diligently tending to her while Margaret returned, carrying a large, leather-bound tome.
“Here it is—my grimoire,” Margaret announced, placing the book on the trestle table. “This spellbook’s been in my family for thirteen generations.” She peeled back the fragile parchment, revealing pages filled with complex incantations and potion recipes.
“This is incredible,” Fitzroy muttered, sliding the grimoire closer to himself.
“I’ve selected spells I believe will strengthen an army,” Margaret continued, flipping between the chosen pages. “I made copies so you can memorize the incantations and use them when needed.”
She handed out a stack of parchment to Fitzroy, Bash, and finally me.
“This must’ve taken ages,” I said, admiring her dedication.
Margaret met my gaze—her under eyes were darker than her raven locks, betraying the true cost of her labor.
“Several sleepless nights are a small price to pay for the possibility of peace,” she replied.
I nodded—she was right.
“I hope this isn’t too forward, Your Highness,” Margaret went on, bowing respectfully to Fitzroy. “But I’ve devised a plan that aligns with the incantations in the grimoire. I’d be honored to explain it to you.”
“Go on,” Fitzroy replied.
“You’ll need to enchant the weapons, armor, and ships, to maximize the strength of your army,” she explained, indicating a specific page in the grimoire. “The necessary spells are in the copies I’ve given you.
“I’ve already instructed Jane to begin brewing a protective potion—disguised as ale. Once it’s ready, it must be served to the soldiers, unwittingly shielding them from blows. Thus, your army shall remain battle-ready, never knowing that magic has fortified them.
“When Regina strikes again, I understand that you men cannot cast spells mid-battle. So, we witches will take to the cliffs to watch over you, acting as discreet lookouts and protectors by performing spells to aid in your defense. Given the circumstances, I believe that’s the best we can offer.”
Fitzroy extended his hand to Margaret, and she eagerly accepted it.
“I’d be honored if you’d let me use your strategy,” he said, giving her hand a gentle shake.
Margaret’s thin lips curled into a proud, one-sided smile. “Of course, love—Your Highness,” she replied.
“May I have a moment alone with the grimoire?” Fitzroy asked. “I’d like to transcribe some of these incantations for my personal collection of spells.”
Margaret nodded; her eyes shone like sapphires as she realized her brilliance had been seen.
Fitzroy settled beside the fireplace, leafing through the pages with his mouth slightly agape in awe.
At one end of the trestle table, Bash and Fletcher took their seats. I followed the witches, stepping over the still-unconscious Mr. Bednot, and made my way to the bar, where Jane poured each of us a pint of ale.
“Do you think King James would be angry if he discovered his army’s using magic to defend Lyonesse?” Emma asked—her naivete as clear as the moon on a dry night.
Margaret scoffed, snatching a filled tankard from Jane’s hand. “Damn the King!” she said, raising her drink into the air. “If he knew what we truly are, he’d see us all slain.”
“You’re right,” I agreed. “Are we even fighting for the right side?”
“I don’t know anymore,” Margaret said, taking a hearty gulp of ale. “Sometimes I wonder if Regina would’ve made the better ruler—though I cannot ignore the rumors of her madness.”
“I like the idea of a Queen,” Jane mumbled into the keg, keeping her focus on pouring pints.