Page 57 of Reign

Before I could reply, Tom appeared at my side and placed a fortifying hand on my shoulder.

“He’s protecting a woman,” he said, his voice breaking—from age, or maybe nerves—but his gaze was stern and steely.

I pointed at Red, trembling with both anger and fear. “You accuse her of being cunning folk, yet you have no proof—only muffled words in the height of passion,” I retorted, lowering my voice to give it a strength I didn’t naturally possess.

“We’re closing,” Mr. Bednot bellowed over the chaos. “Out! The lot of you,” he shouted, ushering the patrons toward the door.

Godwin nudged Red with his elbow. “Come on,” he muttered, and Red reluctantly followed him out of the Anchor.

Bash acted as Margaret’s crutch, helping her hobble through the curtain and out the back.

There were three wooden doors, and Margaret gestured toward the chamber on the far right. Inside, the space was confined and stiflingly hot, the acrid scent of vinegar clawing at my throat. Emma followed us, carrying a flickering candlestick that cast a warm, orange hue over the worn furnishings. She kicked aside a bucket filled with sponges and lemon halves, clearing Bash’s path as he carefully lowered Margaret onto the creaking wooden bedstead.

“Oh!” Emma exclaimed, holding the candle closer to illuminate Margaret’s face.

“You’re going to be more bruised than a fallen apple,” Bash said, inspecting her crooked nose.

“Why did he think you were speaking in Yfelle?” I asked, curious about what had incited Red to make such a life-threatening accusation.

Margaret tilted her head back, the lines that threaded her face collecting blood as she tried to stem the gush from her nostrils.

“When a woman doesn’t submit to a man, he’ll accuse her of hysteria and witchcraft.” She winced.

Emma let out a heavy sigh. “It’s a tale older than time herself.”

I nodded, a bitter memory surfacing—the night when Adder groped me in a desperate attempt to assert his power.

“I wouldn’t let him…” Margaret’s voice faltered as she struggled to keep her composure. Tentatively, she brought her gloved fingertips to the most swollen part of her face, flinching as the fabric grazed her tender skin. “I’ve morals I won’t compromise for any amount of coin, or forcefulness of a man.” Her bottom lip quivered as Bash gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

Mr. Bednot stepped into the chamber, with pretty Jane following close behind, a pail of water and a cloth at the ready to tend to Margaret’s wounds.

“We’re closed,” Mr. Bednot announced, throwing his thumb over his shoulder toward the exit. “Time to leave.”

“Thank you for protecting me,” Margaret said, her bruised eyes darting between both mine and Bash’s. “I dread to imagine what state I’d be in if you hadn’t intervened. How can I repay you good men?”

“No need,” I replied, knowing that she couldn’t give me the things I desired.

Margaret took my hand, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I owe you both,” she said.

Bash and I swiftly left the Anchor, joining the rest of the disgruntled soldiers as we made our way back to camp.

As we neared our humble abode, Bash let out a frustrated sigh. “When she said she owed us, I should’ve asked for a night alone, in the comfort of her proper bedstead,” he said, closing his eyes as if daydreaming about the delightfulness of decent dwellings.

I shook my head, sneering at the lingering memory of the vinegary stench that clung to every furnishing in her chamber.

“I’d have asked for a couple of coins,” Fletcher chimed in.

It felt merciless to even imagine taking her hard-earned coinage, especially after witnessing the ordeal she had endured that evening.

Arthur hummed thoughtfully, considering his hypothetical reward. “A pint of home-brewed ale would’ve sufficed,” he said, licking his lips like he could taste it.

I raised an eyebrow, wondering whether Arthur and I had sampled the same brew. The ale was drinkable, but nothing to dream of.

I took a moment to consider what I might want as payment for defending Margaret. Eventually, I gave up—I couldn’t think of a single thing she possessed that I wanted.

The Invasion.

“Men,” Fitzroy bellowed as he patrolled the sands, his gleaming armor catching the waning light.