Page 66 of Reign

“Be thankful that you are. If you were a man, I’d have your head for those words.”

His patronizing tone shattered my self-control. Before I could rein it in, I raised my quivering hand and slapped him hard across the cheek.

“Would you have my head for that, too?” I asked, trembling with anger.

My palm throbbed, yet Fitzroy didn’t flinch. He walked over to his table, putting it between us.

“No,” he said, stroking his reddened cheek, showing me my slap must have stung. “But if you do that again, I’ll strip you naked beside the bonfire for all to see. Everyone will know your secret—and war’s no place for a woman.” He chuckled contemptuously, pouring himself more wine. “I know you’ve no desire to be carted back to the Wetlands, so you’d best learn to bite your tongue quickly.”

His lordly laughter only stoked my rage further.

“Forgive me, my Prince,” I said, bowing my head. “Excuse my candor, but are you actually a prince?” I looked up, piercing his gaze. “Or are you just the glorified son of a whore?”

I hadn’t realized he had thrown the goblet until it shattered against a tent pole beside my head. Red wine stained my tunic, and a fragment of glass nicked my cheek, drawing blood.

Fitzroy sighed as if disappointed in his aim, then strode over. My instincts urged me to retreat into the corner, certain he’d hurl more shards my way, yet I found a surge of courage and stood tall in his presence.

With a sharp, exasperated breath, he hastily removed his glove. His fingertips hovered over the cut on my cheek as he muttered in Yfelle.

“Closen hire wund, hiersum tou hattan. Halen hire flasc, hedan tou crafa.” Close her wound, obey my command. Repair her flesh, heed my demand.

I fixated on the marble marking on his palm, swirling like he had purple whirlpools beneath his skin. Then, he wiped his fingers over my wound. I reached up, expecting to feel the sting of the gash—but there was nothing. He had healed it with magic.

“See you on the morrow,” Fitzroy said coldly, his tone dismissive. Turning away, he grabbed an intact goblet, filled it to the brim with fruity wine, and resumed his relentless pacing.

I ducked out of his tent, worrying I might combust from the anger burning inside of me. As much as I longed to challenge his defeatist battle plan, I knew I couldn’t. Fitzroy held the upper hand—in strength, status, and sorcery.

Army of Wizards.

A week had passed since our failed invasion, and I’d devoted every waking hour to the smithy, repairing the battered remnants of our weapons. Fitzroy had promised a fresh batch of recruits before the next push—as though manpower would somehow fell a fire-breathing, acid-spitting dragon. I knew that more men on the battlefield would only mean more grave digging.

On that dry afternoon, I sat at the anvil, hammering bent swords back into shape. The smithy felt dreadfully empty without Tom’s presence. I kept turning to my right side, expecting to see him, but he was never there. He was gone.

Red marched around the tent, barking orders at his men as he relished the small measure of power he possessed.

“The fate of the soldiers is in our hands,” he whispered to Godwin, his words barely audible above the clang of metal. “Strategy alone won’t win this war—but sharp swords and sturdy shields might.”

I sighed as I pounded a dented blade with my mallet. Though united under the King’s orders, our army had splintered into factions, each fighting for its own vision of Lyonesse, making a harmonious future seem impossible.

“Don’t let the men hear you say that,” Godwin mumbled, casting a wary glance over his shoulder. “In their eyes, the bastard can do no wrong.”

Red scoffed. “I’m more afraid of my own reflection than that son of a whore—or anyone who worships him,” he declared, flexing his muscular arms.

I didn’t want to imagine how brutal Red could be in a fight with another man, especially after I’d witnessed him effortlessly break Margaret’s nose.

“He claims to be the greatest swordsman Lyonesse has ever seen, yet he couldn’t even kill a goblin,” Red continued. “I don’t trust a single word that leaves his mouth.”

A part of me wanted to side with Red, still bitter from my argument with Fitzroy. Yet a stronger part believed I should defend him, though I knew that would be futile. Red loathed his liege, and no one could convince him that the bastard was trying to protect Lyonesse.

“I cannot agree with you there—I think Fitzroy’s a strong leader,” Godwin remarked. “But there are others at Cambas I don’t trust.” He stoked the flames. “That archer with the red branding—he must be a wizard. He’s probably the reason we lost, secretly aiding Regina’s victory.”

“Smith,” Red called, striding over to where I’d been keeping myself out of their conversation. “I’ve seen you sitting with the white-haired men by the fire at supper. Do you suspect that Fletcher’s cunning folk?”

I shook my head. “I think he’s a thief—nothing more crooked than that,” I replied, though doubt lingered in my mind.

I couldn’t ask him outright if he was a wizard. It was an unspoken rule. Still, I suspected he might be.

As if on cue, Godwin murmured, “There’s one way to know for certain. Trial by water.”