A Final Night in Cambas.
I awoke to a pounding head and a sour stomach—the bitter aftermath of the surfeit of ale I’d glugged the night before.
Bash’s arms still encircled me, but I couldn’t savor his embrace; my corset dug into my skin as if trying to tear me in two.
I struggled to swallow, my throat painfully dry and parched.
Seeking relief, I decided to sneak off to the smithy in search of ale and comfier garments.
Stealthily, I attempted to disentangle myself from Bash’s embrace without disturbing his slumber. Yet, as I shifted, he drew me closer, his grip tightening. When I tried to gently peel his arms away, Bash stirred awake.
“Where you off to now?” he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep.
“The smithy,” I breathed.
His heavy eyelids fluttered shut as I stroked a finger over his flushed cheek.
The scent of sleep—warm and comforting—made me yearn to crawl back into his arms. But the pressing need to change out of the attention-drawing gown and ease my parched throat outweighed that desire.
Leaning forward, I pressed a soft kiss on his cheek.
As I drew back, I caught a faint smile curling his lips, and I knew he was still somewhat awake.
“I’ll see you this eve,” I whispered, rising to my feet.
Though Bash’s eyes stayed shut, he nodded faintly.
Ducking from the tent, I paused to behold the rising sun, its golden hues blooming across the skyline and casting a warm glow through the encampment. To my surprise, Regina hadn’t blown a distracting tempest our way—no doubt, she was preoccupied with preparations for war.
I filled a tankard with ale, convinced that the hair of the dog would cure my pounding headache. The first few sips made me heave as I stumbled through the camp toward the smithy.
Slipping through the tent’s entrance, I found solace in the familiar aroma of smoldering iron. Without hesitation, I rifled through the rags strewn across the earthen floor in search of something wearable.
Among the scraps tucked beneath the canvas—placed there to keep out the rain—I discovered blood-stained garments, likely stripped from a fallen soldier and repurposed as coal rags.
These would have to suffice. Grabbing a blade from the tool rack, I sliced through my beautiful gown; vanity had no place in war.
Freed from its constriction, I slipped into the musty garments.
The tunic was excessively long, and the breeches hung near my ankles rather than fitting snugly around my knees—nevertheless the outfit rendered me a soldier once more.
I fashioned a crude belt from my gown’s lacing and kept my stockings on as makeshift hose.
As for my velveteen slippers, all I could do was sully them with coal dust to mask their gaudy appearance.
Godwin staggered into the tent, his gait suggesting he was still drunk from the night before.
“Oh, Smith,” he grumbled, gripping his forehead like he thought it might fall off. “Is it Smith? Or should I call you by another name now?”
“Smith is fine,” I replied curtly.
“What happened to your garments?” he questioned, gesturing to the hacked-up fabric littering the smithy floor.
“The gown was impractical,” I explained, crouching to gather the remnants and tossing them into the pile of worn rags.
Godwin nodded as if he understood—even though I doubted he could fathom the discomfort of a corset.
Without hesitation, he started handing me bags of coal for the furnace, as if it were any ordinary day—seemingly unfazed by the fact that I was a woman and a witch.
I appreciated that.
“Did you know I’m in charge now?” Godwin grunted, moving another heavy bag in my direction.
I shook my head. “No,” I replied, grappling at the hefty sack.
“Well, I am,” he added, a proud grin pulling at his scar. “Are you back to work today?”
I gave a sharp nod. Though I thought the question was a little late; he’d already roped me into labor.
“Good. We need more hands,” Godwin said, tilting his head toward a barrel brimming with bent and broken blades.
As the morning wore on, I helped prepare the smithy for the workday, and slowly more craftsmen filtered in—among them was Finn.
Tugging at my baggy tunic, Finn shook his head. “You look like the village idiot,” he teased, smirking at my dishevelment.
“Men,” Godwin called, planting his hands firmly on his hips.
“I spent the early hours speaking with Prince Fitzroy. He’s given strict orders to ensure our readiness for the coming war.
” Retrieving an oil-slick apron, he tightened its strings around his waist. “I want mortal men on this side and wizards over there.”
To my astonishment, the workers split into nearly equal factions. I stared in disbelief, dumbfounded by how many men hid the same secret as me.
“Oh, and witches,” Godwin added, catching my eye with a knowing wink. “Mortal men, you’ll mend weapons, forge blades, and weld armor. Wizards, you are to enchant the iron to strengthen it. Prince Fitzroy’s provided a list of spells required to complete the task.”
The thickness of the parchment told of the hours Fitzroy must have spent writing them.
There was no time to hesitate. Everyone settled into their workstations, ready for the long day ahead.
Even those who clearly opposed witchcraft grudgingly followed Godwin’s orders, aware of their vulnerability to us magical folk.
As I guided the inexperienced wizards through the incantations, my palms projected a purple glow, illuminating the dim tent.
Some men at the forge directed wary glances my way—a stark reminder that the hatred sown by the King might take generations to uproot.
Godwin soon appeared by my side, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “It’s good to have you back. Your absence was noted.”
I gave him a kind smile before returning to the task at hand. Murmuring the incantation under my breath, I remained wary of speaking Yfelle aloud with so many ears nearby. The blade glistened as I spoke—a gleam sweeping across its surface as the spell took hold.
“Never would’ve guessed you were a wiza—witch, Smith,” Godwin remarked, picking up the enchanted weapon and placing another sharpened blade in front of me. “Nor did I imagine you were a woman.”
He shook his head, as if both revelations had somehow disappointed him.
“Does that change the fact that you noticed my absence?” I asked, a hint of indignation in my tone.
Godwin paused—his gaze drifting past me, as if he could see through the canvas to some faraway place while he pondered my question.
“I suppose not,” he admitted.
“Do you have any magical heritage?” I asked, though his previous threats of water-trialing witches left me doubtful.
“No—only man I’ve met who hated magic more than me was Red,” he replied, his fingers tentatively reaching for his tight and twisted scar.
“But this morning, during my conversation with Prince Fitzroy, he earned my trust and loyalty,” Godwin added, his hands no longer grazing his cheek, but busy sorting through weapons.
“The current King’s reign has brought nothing but disease and division. I pray that bastard will rule like his magical grandfather—that’s what he’s promised.”
A surge of pride swelled within me as Fitzroy rose to meet such a formidable challenge, though my admiration was tainted by deep hurt.
As I continued enchanting, my thoughts turned to Red—how he’d died by rope for no other reason than his hard-line views against magic.
I’d have guessed Godwin would’ve done the same—died a martyr in the name of magical banishment. But I suppose one should never assume.
It was as if the two men were cut from the same cloth, but with different knives. Both hated magic. I’m sure both had their reasons. Yet in the end, only one refused to tar all sorcery with the same brush, learning that the actions of one person don’t speak for an entire community.
The remainder of the day passed in a blur of spell work and iron, combining the two things I loved most: forging and magic.
As the golden light filtering beneath the canvas deepened to black, I knew the day was drawing to a close.
Usually, I’d welcome a break from labor, yet tonight, I felt only the heavy weight of what lay ahead.
With each passing breath, war crept nearer, chasing the first rays of dawn; by sunrise, a deadly battle would be poised on the horizon.
As I feared the near future, a clamor behind me spurred me to turn.
I saw the men rise in unison as Fitzroy entered, clad in a simple outfit reminiscent of the one I’d once complimented.
Though I knew our paths would cross again, I had no time to ponder my reaction.
When our eyes met, I wasn’t sure what to feel—if anything, I was numb.
The men bowed, and I followed suit; now dressed in a tunic and breeches, a bow felt far more fitting than a curtsy.
“Good eve,” Fitzroy said as he circled the smithy and inspected the weapons. “I’m pleased with the work you men have done.” He met each man’s eye, ensuring they felt his appreciation. When he reached me, I lowered my gaze, avoiding his acknowledgment—no longer craving his approval.
“My good man,” Fitzroy said, extending his hand to Godwin, who accepted it with a resolute shake. “I’m very impressed.”
“Thank you, my liege,” Godwin replied. “None of us have taken a break all day—we’ve been working harder than the gods on the first day of creation.”
“Go now and eat,” Fitzroy commanded, gesturing toward the exit. “You’ll need your strength on the morrow.”
I ducked out of the stifling smithy into the cool evening breeze, joining the others as we made our way to the bonfire for pottage and ale.
“Niamh,” Fitzroy called, sending a shiver down my spine—I noted how he’d returned to addressing me by my first name. “May I borrow you?”
I longed to tell him to vex me no further, yet I knew he must be seen as a respected leader. Despite his earlier cruelty, I still cared for him.
Nodding silently, I followed him through the encampment.