Page 42 of Reign

Fitzroy’s brow knit tight, his gaze flicking to the esquire in silent disbelief, as if convinced he had misheard.

“Who put an unlettered man in charge?” he demanded with a chuckle—light enough to sound like jest, yet the sharp way he snatched the scroll from Red made me think his irritation was real.

Then, Fitzroy pointed at me, beckoning me closer with the waggle of his ring-stacked finger. Obediently, I stepped into his musky scent of sandalwood and amber.

“What does this say?” Fitzroy asked, thrusting the parchment so near to my face that even if I could read, I wouldn’t have been able to focus on the words.

“I don’t know,” I mumbled, shame heating the back of my neck.

“I don’t know,” Fitzroy mocked, playful in tone, but his hazel irises gleamed with something sharper—cruel amusement at my humiliation.

The men tittered, enjoying their liege’s ridicule at my expense.

Fitzroy rubbed a hand down his face, frustration plain, muttering something unintelligible under his breath before saying, “Give me one moment.”

With an exasperated tut, Fitzroy turned on his heel and stomped out of the humid tent into the cooling rain, the esquire scurrying after him.

“He’s a far cry from our last commander,” Red remarked, hefting a hammer and bouncing it absently against his palm.

“He’s a tyrant in the making,” I muttered. “I pray someone carves that arrogant tongue from his mouth.”

Godwin gave me a lopsided smirk. “Ask me how I got this,” he demanded, pointing at the undulating scar that veined his face—deep and dry as droughty riverbeds.

“How did y—”

“Down on that beach,” he interrupted, clenching his jaw—it bulged fiercely at the memory. “Dragon flew overhead, singed me—and I got off lightly. The rest of the men melted like candle wax, all while our last commander hid in his damn velvet tent. Sooner see beggars robed in silk than him fighting beside the commonfolk. But Prince Fitzroy? He stands before us like we’re not just soldiers, but comrades—he’s got the makings of a true leader.”

Most of the craftsmen nodded in quiet agreement, though I couldn’t fathom why they would put such an insufferable man on a pedestal.

Moments later, Fitzroy charged back into the tent, his strong jawline held high as he reclaimed the spot he had just left.

“Our King grows impatient,” he announced. “An invasion has been ordered. The knights and soldiers will set sail to launch an attack on the Isle of Annwn.”

The craftsmen exchanged anxious glances, as though this was a worrying tactic.

“I need sturdy weapons,” Fitzroy pleaded, his gaze fixed on Red. “I need strong armor, and I need the gods’ favor.”

“I can get you the first two,” Red replied. “You’re on your own with the last.”

A chuckle escaped Fitzroy as he patted Red on the shoulder. “Good man,” he said, prompting a proud smile from Red.

Fitzroy swept his sultry gaze across the tent before demanding, “Who’s your finest blacksmith?”

Red tilted his head toward me. “Smith here knows his stuff on the trade.”

“Can he repair my armor?” Fitzroy inquired.

Red nodded.

“By what time must it be mended?” I asked, fully aware that the task would be arduous.

“Tomorrow, if it’s feasible?” His tone wavered between genuine inquiry and sarcasm. “Unless you’re too busy.”

Unsure if he was being sincere, I erred on the side of caution, giving him an affirming nod.

* * *

Before dusk on the morrow, I was inside Fitzroy’s tent, meticulously arranging the armor I’d spent the past day painstakingly repairing. My fingers throbbed from welding the intricate, fiddly links of his chain mail, and my back ached from hours spent hunched over the anvil—hammering out hundreds of dents in his plated armor. Yet, as I completed the final touches, I knew the discomfort was worth the reward. I was proud of my work, and I hoped Fitzroy would be equally impressed.