Skirmish by the Sea. #3
“I’m not ready to say goodbye,” Finn interrupted Bash, his voice cracking as tears welled in his eyes.
I raised a trembling hand to touch his face and offer comfort, knowing that on the morrow, he’d be agonizingly grieving while I’d no longer be in pain.
Bash snatched Finn’s wrist. “Stop saying goodbye and go find Fitzroy! Tell him Smith’s going to die.”
Finn stumbled to his feet and bolted out of the tent.
Bash remained at my side, softly stroking my head while whispering kind words into my ear. He praised my talent, telling me how he adored the blade I’d crafted for him. He chuckled as he recalled my altercation with the boggart at the inn and reminisced about our magical wyvern flight.
“When I kissed you beneath the trees,” he murmured, “I thought you’d never talk to me again. But then… You kissed me back.”
His voice became muffled as the smithy dimmed and my surroundings faded to black.
A searing, agonizing sensation jolted me awake. Fitzroy loomed over me, methodically cutting away my tunic to expose the wound. My eyes darted downward, and terror gripped me at the sight of torn flesh around the arrow shaft.
I reached for Bash, clutching his forearm weakly, but he didn’t hold me back.
With what little strength remained, I followed his gaze and realized he was staring at my chest. As Fitzroy tugged my tunic aside to free the fletching entangled in the fabric, the delicate curve of my right breast was exposed.
Shame flooded me; I scrambled for a shred of linen, my arms trembling as I desperately tried to cover myself. Bash quickly snatched a rag from the workshop floor and draped it over my exposed chest.
“Thank—” I began, but my gratitude caught in the blood coagulating in my throat.
“Hold Smith down,” Fitzroy commanded sternly. “I need to pull the arrow out before I can cast the healing spell.”
I shook my head frantically, terrified in anticipation of the upcoming pain.
“You’ll hate me now, but you’ll thank me later—when you’re still breathing,” Fitzroy said.
Bash firmly took my wrists, pinning them above my head and using his weight to hold me still.
“No, please no,” I begged, staring into his eyes.
“It’ll be over soon,” he murmured, though his voice wavered.
As Fitzroy worked to dislodge the arrowhead, I thrashed in agony—my screams tearing through the smithy in a cacophony of excruciating anguish.
“Sorry,” Bash said, his tone laced with guilt as he maintained his unyielding restraint.
My body convulsed and my lungs burned as Fitzroy finally removed the arrow.
“Closen hire wund, hiersum tou hattan. Halen hire flasc, hedan tou crafa.” Close her wound, obey my command. Repair her flesh, heed my demand, Fitzroy chanted.
Gradually, the pain subsided. The smithy dimmed into darkness as I succumbed to exhaustion, falling asleep.
When I next awoke, Fitzroy was gently wiping my forehead with a wet cloth. He let out a relieved sigh—his stern features softening into a reassuring smile.
Looking down, I realized my blood-stained tunic had been replaced with a clean one, bearing his initials—FB—embroidered on the cuff.
“She’s awake,” Fitzroy announced over his shoulder.
I slowly sat up, noticing Bash, Finn, and Fletcher waiting by the entrance.
Finn kissed his fingers, raising them skyward to thank the gods, while Fletcher pulled down the brim of his hat, concealing his eyes.
Bash stepped forward. “My liege, can I talk to Smith?” he asked Fitzroy.
For a moment, Fitzroy lingered, his touch gentle as he dabbed my brow once more before rising.
They swapped places, and Bash knelt beside me. “How are you feeling?”
“Disoriented,” I managed to whisper.
Bash inhaled deeply. “Are you Niamh?”
I held his gaze, the truth hanging heavy in the humid air. For months, I’d longed to tell him—but not like this.
“Would you feel differently about me if I am her?” I asked hesitantly.
His expression darkened. “I’d feel betrayed that you never told me. That you let me believe you could relate to the torment of my missing father.”
“I understand,” I murmured.
“It would deeply hurt if you’ve lied to me for all this time,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, taking his hand.
He quickly glanced over his shoulder, before returning his gaze to me. “Did Fitzroy know before today?” he probed.
I hesitated, but that alone answered his question.
“I see,” Bash mumbled, then withdrew his hand and stood. “Is Smith going to be all right?” he asked Fitzroy, who nodded. “Then there’s no reason for me to stay.”
“Bash,” I cried, struggling to rise. “Let me explain, please.”
“I’m not interested in your apology,” he snapped, his anger startling—it was a tone I’d never heard him speak in. “Not once have I lied to you.”
“Forgive me,” I pleaded, clasping my hands together pathetically, begging for his affection.
He shook his head. “I don’t want to hear it. We can fight side by side, but when this war’s over, we won’t be friends.”
My chest ached worse than when the arrow had struck as he turned and walked away.
“Carpenter,” Fitzroy called just before Bash ducked out of the tent. “Fix up the gallows. One man won’t be seeing sunrise.”
“Of course, my liege,” Bash answered, bowing stiffly before leaving with Fletcher in tow.
As I struggled against the tears, Finn sighed heavily. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Niamh.”
* * *
Once I’d composed myself, Finn and I headed for the gallows. Rain battered the encampment as hundreds of men gathered, eager to witness the hanging of a traitor.
Finn placed a steadying arm around my shoulder. “You all right?” he asked, looking down at me.
I nodded, but I didn’t meet his gaze—I felt anything but fine.
Though it was dark, Red’s fiery hair burned through the shadows like a torch.
His hands were bound tightly behind his back, two knights restraining him on either side.
As they dragged him forward to face his comrades, a cacophony of boos and profanity erupted.
Soldiers hurled insults and even rotten food—but Red appeared unfazed by the barrage.
His frantic eyes pierced through the drizzle, fixed on the gallows ahead, where the noose swayed in the breeze, awaiting him.
While the other men relished in vengeance, I felt nothing. It was as if I were dead inside, leaving only the desire to take Red’s place in the noose and end my misery.
Bash and Fletcher stood far from Finn and me, keeping their distance.
Bash—his white hair plastered to his face—stared at the gallows.
I silently prayed he’d sense my gaze and come over and tell me I was forgiven.
But it wasn’t Bash who looked my way—it was Fletcher.
He glowered at me, shaking his head in disappointment.
Red became ireful as Fitzroy appeared, tipping back the hood of his cloak to meet his eye. Wrestling against the knights’ grip, Red spat at him. The spittle didn’t bother Fitzroy, who swirled wine in his goblet and grinned in amusement.
“Any last words?” Fitzroy asked, calm and composed.
Raindrops rolled down his face as he waited for an answer.
“You bastard! Son of a whore!” Red bellowed, his fury flushing his face the color of his hair. “Wizards—the lot of you! May the gods smite you all!”
Fitzroy took a leisurely sip of wine, waiting for Red’s tirade to lose its steam.
“Are you quite done?” Fitzroy asked, feigning a yawn. “I’m growing tired of this. Let’s make haste with the hanging.”
It took four knights to drag Red onto the execution platform.
He fought desperately as they placed the noose around his neck.
Despite his resistance, when the trapdoor was released beneath him, there was no escape.
The rope cut into Red’s throat, his legs kicking wildly, driven by vain instinct.
But it wasn’t long before his convulsions stilled, and he hung motionless.
I knew I should feel sadness, watching a man who I’d worked so closely with perish—but knowing he’d wanted to kill Bash stripped away any sorrow, leaving only certainty that he’d deserved his grim fate.
I looked toward Fitzroy, who watched on with an unsettling sense of serenity. He sipped his wine, a slight smile appearing as though he were enjoying a theatrical performance. As I studied him, I couldn’t help but wonder if insanity ran through the Belfour bloodline.