Niamh Smith. #3
As I clutched my aching heart, Fitzroy reentered the tent.
I quickly wiped the tears from my eyes—though it was unnecessary, for he offered me no acknowledgment.
His face, marked by a dismissive scowl I hadn’t seen in some time, set my stomach churning in anticipation of the brewing argument.
Without a word, he seized a bottle of wine from his desk and drank straight from the neck while searching for a goblet.
“What troubles you?” I asked, my voice gentle yet hesitant.
I tried to catch his eye, silently praying that I was merely overthinking his quietude and that he wasn’t truly seething.
But he remained mute, sitting to sift through the scrolls that had been left in his absence.
I edged forward cautiously until my shadow eclipsed him.
Only then did his strong brow furrow as his gaze met mine.
“You still care for the carpenter?” he asked.
My heartbeat quickened. “You were eavesdropping?”
A smirk played on Fitzroy’s lips as he glanced down at the parchment he’d just crumpled in his fist.
“Last night, you were begging for me to bed you. Now you’re alone with a different man, declaring your affection for him.”
“Of course I care for him,” I replied, baffled that he believed I could so swiftly cast aside my feelings for Bash. “You know I do—but that doesn’t lessen the affection I feel for you.”
He slammed his fist against the desk, causing me to flinch.
“I shall not compete with another man for any woman, let alone a commoner,” he declared in a loud, firm tone.
Though his words would wound if spoken by another, I knew Fitzroy often deployed cruelty to provoke a reaction.
“Hold your tongue—let me speak,” I pleaded. “I’m not asking you to duel for my hand—”
“He can have you,” he cut in, dismissing my protest with a sweeping gesture as though commanding the wind to carry me away. “Not that I imagine he’ll want you in your pitiful state.”
“Pardon?”
“You’ve sullied yourself.” He sneered as his eyes roamed from my head to my heel like the very sight of me repulsed him. “I’d never entertain a woman for more than a night if she’s been touched by another man. If the carpenter has any sense of pride, he’ll feel the same.”
My throat constricted as if twining honeysuckle vines had coiled around it.
“But—I—”
“Look at Elizebeth,” Fitzroy interrupted, his sharp tone matching his gaze. “Destined to die an old spinster for lacking control over her desires.”
Angry tears brimmed in my eyes.
“You told me not to care about my piety—that I was too talented a blacksmith…” I trailed off, feeling foolish for trusting his words. “You said I was a gemstone—”
“Tarry here a moment,” he said, speaking over me once more. “You believed me? Did you also believe I’d entertain the idea of courting you, too?”
He snorted, shaking his head like the idea was absurd.
“I’ve no interest in a woman who lacks scruples. Unlike you, I uphold my morals for the gods.”
For the first time, I was utterly speechless. My mouth opened and closed, desperate for furious words to fall out, but none did. I wasn’t angry—I was deeply hurt.
“Good night, Smith,” Fitzroy said, turning his attention back to the stacks of parchment.
“Everything you said to me—was it all a lie just to part my legs?”
I waited for an answer, hoping he’d say he meant those kind words, for he’d made me feel seen in a way I never had before. But Fitzroy didn’t answer. Instead, he pretended he was alone in his tent.
“You might bear the blood of a king, but you remain the son of a whore,” I snapped, trying to hurt him with my words like he had hurt me. “If you win this war and become a king, never forget—behind your back, your subjects will call you nothing but a bastard.”
After I spoke, I lingered—desperate for even a flicker of a reaction—but he didn’t look up. I stormed out of the royal tent.
The moment I ducked beneath the flap, the sound of shattering glass rang in my ears—Fitzroy, no longer composed, had succumbed to one of his fits of rage. Though he could mend his wounds with magic, I hoped he’d cut his hands on the broken shards.
I paced the camp, the echo of his cruel words stinging as anger coursed through me. With time, I crafted perfect retorts to each of his biting remarks. Humiliation and hurt weighed upon me—I’d been a fool for trusting him.
I laughed bitterly at my own naivete—for ever believing that he cared, and for thinking I should let go of Bash—the man who stirred feelings in me I’d never known—simply because Fitzroy claimed that he needed me. But I suppose I’d grown dependent on him, too.
I was nothing but a naive, feckless idiot.
Frustration eventually boiled over. I furiously pulled at my hair realizing he’d lured me into bed with false compliments, only to later use our intimacy against me. He’d played me better than that harp he plucked at court.
It wasn’t long before I grew tired of overthinking, and my anger dulled.
Not knowing where else to go, I settled by the bonfire, ignoring the snide comments and glances cast in my direction.
Once the stares finally ceased, I grabbed a used tankard from the dirt, marched to the communal keg, filled it to the brim, and drank in vain pursuit of numbness.
For what felt like hours, I stared into the flames, each flicker rekindling memories of the Isle’s unfolding tragedies. Occasionally, I paused my reflection to refill my tankard.
As the night wore on, men staggered off to bed, leaving only a few stragglers behind. Among these was Billy—clutching a tankard of ale in one hand, his expression solemn.
“I thought she valued me, but alas! That evil witch kept me blind for her own gain,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.
The man beside him patted his shoulder as Billy drained his drink.
Poor goblin.
A gentle tap atop my head startled me. I turned, hoping to see Bash, but it was Finn. I released a sigh of disappointment.
“Good eve,” he said, clashing his tankard against mine.
I took a hearty swig of my bitter brew, secretly wishing it were wine. It was astounding how swiftly I’d grown accustomed to the comforts of noble life.
“Where have you been?” I asked, realizing, as Finn teetered slightly on the stool beside me, that he was as drunk as me.
“I went to the Anchor with some of the other soldiers,” he slurred.
I gave him a dubious look.
“We were celebrating the return of magic to Lyonesse,” he explained. “Nearly half the men are wizards or hail from families blessed with magic. It seems more unusual to lack abilities—though I know naught of spells myself. I’m quite the useless wizard.”
“Did Bash go?” I asked.