A Final Night in Cambas. #2
As we neared his tent, he uttered, “What on the gods’ green earth are you wearing?”
“Practical clothing,” I replied, avoiding his gaze.
He held open the entrance flap, and I slipped under his arm, catching a faint hint of his musky scent.
Inside, Fitzroy stood opposite me, but I refused to meet his eye—instead, I focused on the wooden planks underfoot, wary that just the sight of him might rekindle my anger.
“I wish to apologize,” he said, tilting his head as he tried to meet my downward glance. “You know I don’t believe the things I said last night.”
I looked up, letting him see the anger glowing in my eyes. He scrutinized me before disappearing behind the partition.
“I’m sorry,” he continued from out of sight. “I was angry because I—”
“When we left for the Isle, you knew I was upset about him,” I interrupted, determined to say all the things I wished I had the night before.
“You were there when he declared we were no longer friends. You heard me begging for his forgiveness. During our time at Regina’s court, we became close, and I grew fonder of you each day.
When we returned, Bash sought amends—and all I did was explain why I’d lied and say that I still care for him.
I never betrayed you. I didn’t even embrace him—I merely shook his hand.
For in the time Bash and I were apart, when I believed he hated me, my loyalty shifted. It was no longer his, but yours.”
“I know,” he murmured, emerging from behind the partition with a clean tunic, breeches, and hose in hand.
I accepted the garments. “Thank you,” I said quietly, as he turned his back to give me privacy to change.
As I removed the musty tunic and slipped into the fresh one, more unspoken thoughts from the night before resurfaced.
“You sent me out—alone—as the only woman in this camp, with no regard for my safety or where I might sleep,” I chided, my gaze fixed on the back of his head, searching for signs of remorse. “How can I believe that you don’t mean those awful words when your actions say otherwise?”
Fitzroy sighed, his shoulders sagging. “All I can say is sorry—”
“I don’t forgive you,” I cut him off, uninterested in his apology—I was good at holding grudges.
“But I’ll keep my promise to stand by your side until victory—or death—because I truly believe you’ll be a good king.
For all your faults, you’ll make Lyonesse a realm where all can live freely, without fear of persecution.
For that, the kingdom will have your mother to thank—she raised you with strong morals. ”
Once dressed, I patted his shoulder to signal he could turn around. When our eyes met, I faltered briefly—if I hadn’t kept reminding myself of the insults he’d hurled at me, it would have been easy to forgive a face that handsome.
“I value your steadfastness,” Fitzroy said, moving to his desk to retrieve a wad of parchment. “I’ve a request. Go to the Anchor and inform the witches of the recent events. Give this to Margaret—it’s my battle strategy. Should she have any suggestions, I require her counsel before sunrise.”
I nodded as he handed me the parchment. “Of course, my liege.”
He then selected a scroll. “This contains what I expect from them on the morrow—protection incantations akin to those used against the selkies.”
I nodded again, keeping things formal between us.
“My final request is that you take Billy off my hands,” Fitzroy added, gesturing toward his desk.
“Is he beneath there?” I asked, ducking to glimpse some of his sallow skin.
Fitzroy nodded. “He’s not coping well with the revelation of Regina’s hoodwinking.”
“She’s a wench,” Billy mumbled as he crawled out from beneath the wood. “I trusted her, and she tricked me.”
He staggered to his feet, his disheveled rags accentuating his pitiable state.
“He’s drunk and utterly useless to me,” Fitzroy said as we watched the boozy goblin struggle to stay upright. “I want him out of my sight for the rest of the day.”
“I’ll do your bidding,” I replied.
As I turned to leave, Fitzroy placed a hand on my waist.
I stepped out of his reach. “You don’t get to touch me,” I said, my voice low and firm.
“Understood.”
“We’re merely loyal subject and commander. What happened between us on the Isle shall remain there.”
My bottom lip trembled as I fought to maintain my composure. Letting go of Fitzroy hurt, but the thought of losing Bash again was agonizing.
“Once this battle’s over, I’ll strive to earn your forgiveness,” Fitzroy vowed with a remorseful sigh.
Removing his cloak, he draped it over my shoulders, securing it with a gleaming gold clasp.
“For now, you must prepare the witches for battle, and I must focus.” Turning back to his desk, he murmured, “You are all-consuming,” almost to himself, as I departed with a despondent Billy.
Outside, we crossed paths with Benedict and Bart.
“Your Highness.” Benedict greeted Fitzroy as I held the flap open for the old men, acting in the manner of a servant.
Bart hobbled behind him. “You asked to confer w-w-with us,” he stuttered.
As we walked away, I realized that Fitzroy was right—allegiances shifted frighteningly fast toward whoever appeared most powerful. It made me wonder if anyone could ever truly be trusted.
I rolled up the pieces of parchment and tucked them securely into the pocket of my breeches, determined not to lose them.
Taking a brief detour to the smithy, I retrieved the blades I’d sharpened for the witches and arranged them neatly in a wicker basket.
With that task done, Billy and I set off for the Anchor.
As we neared the forest’s edge, the sound of heavy footsteps caught my attention. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Bash and Fletcher approaching.
“Smith,” Bash called.
The sound of his voice stirred a flutter in my belly—I’d missed hearing him say my nickname. Fletcher tipped his cap in greeting, his eyes no longer burning with resentment.
“Where you headed?” Fletcher asked.
“Off to the Anchor,” I replied. “I’ve a few tasks to complete.”
“Would you like us to accompany you?” Bash offered, taking the heavy basket of blades from my hands.
I nodded, desiring nothing more than to spend time in his company.
The four of us set out toward the Anchor—a route so familiar I could have taken it blindfolded. Although night had fallen, the weather was dry and cool—a welcome change—which made the journey pleasant.
“Hurry up!” Fletcher called after a staggering Billy.
Casting a quick glance back, I realized we’d distanced ourselves from him. Billy clung to the trunk of a rowan tree, his labored breaths betraying his struggle. He then dragged himself forward, using the foliage as makeshift handrails.
Growing impatient with Billy’s sluggish pace, Fletcher hoisted the goblin onto his back. Billy tightened his grip, his short arms wrapped around Fletcher’s neck in a near-stranglehold.
“Thank you,” he panted, relief softening his pained expression as he rested his head against Fletcher’s shoulder.
Walking side by side with Bash, I longed to slip my arm through his or take his hand, yet nerves held me back.
After our time apart—and despite our reconciliation—I wasn’t certain where I stood.
Instead of holding him, I stayed close enough that our arms brushed occasionally as we curled up the cliff toward the Anchor.
As we approached the brothel, I noticed that the rushlights still flickered outside the doorway, and I wondered if any late-night patrons lingered within.
“Get inside my cloak,” I instructed Billy.
Fletcher set him back on solid ground before Billy obediently tucked himself inside its folds, clinging to my side as though he were my familiar.
Upon stepping over the threshold, it was clear the witches were closing up for the night.
Emma swept the straw-covered floor, Jane scrubbed dirty tankards, and Margaret meticulously counted coins scattered atop the bar.
As we entered, the three witches glanced our way.
“All right, loves? It’s been a while since you lot graced us with your company,” Margaret said with a smile that wrinkled the skin around her eyes.
She set down a handful of coins as Fletcher’s gaze caught on the pennies glinting in the firelight.
“Need any help counting?” he offered.
“Fletcher,” Bash muttered, placing the basket of blades onto the trestle table.
His disapproving gaze was enough to stop his cousin from stealing.
“Fine,” Fletcher grumbled, sulking into a seat and flicking down the peak of his cap—shielding his eyes from temptation.
Scanning the chamber, I was relieved to note it was empty.
“Where’s Mr. Bednot?” I asked, half expecting him to emerge from behind the curtain, yellowed finger waggling as he told us it was time to leave.
“Sick,” Jane replied, resting her rosy cheek in her palm as she let out a deep sigh. “He hasn’t shown up for almost a week.”
Emma gave an energetic nod. “He’s left Margaret in charge—well, at least until he’s better,” she added.
Through her raven hair, Margaret’s eyes pierced mine with a stern look that told me Mr. Bednot wasn’t going to get better.
“Cannot breathe,” Billy squeaked from inside my cloak, drawing all eyes toward me.
With a careful tug of the fabric, I revealed the creature hidden beneath.
At the sight of him, Emma stumbled backward.
“Good eve,” Jane said politely, though her wide eyes suggested an unease at the sight of the goblin.
“This is Billy,” I said as he took a small shuffle forward.
“An honor to meet you,” he declared with a theatrical bow.
Margaret tutted. “Why does he look like that?” she asked. Her tone was the same one Mother often took: equal parts nurturing and disapproving.
I glanced at a disheveled Billy: wiry strands of hair sprouting from his flaky scalp like stubborn weeds in barren soil. He was still clad in Bronwyn’s old potato sack, which showcased his gnarly knees and hairy legs.
It wasn’t a pretty sight.
“Don’t feel sorry for him,” I replied briskly, knowing it was a pitiful image. “He’s Regina’s adviser—”