Page 30 of Reign

We passed countless taverns in search of the square, each door adorned with a different swinging sign. One bore a portrait of the King; another, a knot of rope; but my favorite displayed a painting of a bunch of forget-me-nots. As I admired the flowers, a man stumbled out of the entrance, sprawling onto the sewage-caked cobbles.

“Son of a whore,” he grumbled from the ground.

Without hesitation, Fletcher offered his arm to the drunkard, taking the weight of the paunchy man and heaving him onto his unsteady feet.

“That cunt barred me,” the drunk belched.

Once upright, Fletcher left him staggering down the street. “He stank of piss,” he sneered as he rejoined us.

I almost gagged at the thought of a stinking man hanging off me. “Why would you go near him?” I asked.

“I’m a charitable fellow,” Fletcher replied, opening his hand to reveal a palm full of silver and gold coins.

Arthur chuckled. “Thieving twit.”

Fletcher plucked out two coins and slipped them into Bash’s pocket. “For the lodgings,” he said.

As we neared Regal Square, the conscripted soldiers formed a tightly packed throng, their presence clogging the streets. Frustrated by the blockade, residents cursed and shoved their way through the human barrier. In the near distance hung an ornate balcony, supported by grand sandstone pillars.

“I never thought I’d see it, but there it is,” Arthur said. “The Royal Palace.”

The palace was a breathtaking showcase of royal grandeur. I marveled at the intricate, icicle-shaped carvings that adorned its facade and the two woven tapestries bearing the King’s crest that flanked the balcony—a stark reminder of the reigning monarch’s authority. I doubted any dwellings, even those of the gods, could rival the magnificence of the King’s residence—it was truly majestic.

We squeezed into the crowd of hundreds of soldiers. A pair of white-haired men, likely from the Headlands, greeted Bash, Fletcher, and Arthur warmly. I stayed close to them; despite my brown locks setting me apart, I felt safer within their group. As Bash recounted our tussle with the boggart, a grand fanfare of trumpets silenced the bustling square.

Then the royal family emerged onto the ostentatious balcony, escorted by knights. I’d only ever seen portraits of the King in his prime, so it shocked me to see a gray-bearded man with a golden crown resting on his bald head. Though I was expected to venerate the divinely appointed sovereign, I found myself disinterested in monarchy, leaving the faces on the balcony unfamiliar to me.

I leaned toward Bash. “Who’s who?” I asked.

Bash cleared his throat eagerly, as if he had waited his whole life for someone to test his royal prowess. “The man to the King’s right is his esquire,” he said, pointing to a robust gentleman in a doublet embroidered with gold thread. Beneath his feather-topped cap sat a nose large enough to smell supper during breakfast. “I’ve heard the King cannot visit the chamber pot without consulting his confidant.” Bash chuckled. “The woman clinging to the King’s left shoulder is the Queen.”

The Queen—many moons younger than her ailing husband—wore a scarlet gown cinched at her hips with a jewel-encrusted belt. An ivory veil peeked out from beneath her gleaming crown, covering her hair—a subtle reminder to her subjects of her modesty and virtue. As she raised a crystal chalice to her lips, the fur-lined sleeve of her gown slipped down, revealing a delicate, gloved hand.

Bash leaned closer again. “The two men beside her are her sons—the Princes of Lyonesse,” he explained.

I studied them, wondering which of the two was supposed to marry Avice. They bore a close resemblance, with identical dark hair and cloaks matching the crimson shade of their mother’s gown.

My gaze drifted to a figure standing near the King’s esquire. His smug expression and swaggering toss of his dark hair made it obvious he knew he was the most handsome man in the square.

“Who’s that?” I asked, pointing to the mesmerizing gent.

I watched as he straightened the fur-trimmed waistcoat layered over his crisp linen tunic, then ran a gloved hand along his chiseled chin, surveying the crowd with quiet confidence. Modesty was a stranger to him—rings adorned every finger, and the lengths of gold chain coiled around his neck could have strung bunting across the entire city.

“Fitzroy,” Arthur said. “He’s the King’s bastard.”

My heartbeat quickened at the name. Fitzroy—the man Avice was engaged to wed. She never mentioned that her husband-to-be was an illegitimate royal. As I wondered if she had even known, an obnoxiously loud voice boomed across the square.

“These are desperate times,” Fitzroy declared, gripping the railing as he looked down at the soldiers. “When us men must unite to defeat our common enemy and return Lyonesse to a place of peace and prosperity.”

The crowd roared in response.

“We’ve all lost family, friends—even foes—to magic,” Fitzroy continued, disdain coloring his tone as he turned his nose up to that tainted word. “Even I, mere nights ago, lost my betrothed to a rampant magical beast.” He paused for a moment, clearing his throat as if regaining his composure. “I seek revenge for us all.”

Fitzroy struck his chest with his palm, as if his heart truly ached for the men. The crowd below responded with a furious outcry on his behalf. Yet, as I grieved my dearest friend, I doubted he was mourning the loss of a woman he had never even met. The princes offered polite applause to their half brother, while the Queen sipped her wine, choosing to ignore the bastard’s call to arms. The King stepped forward, resting a hand on Fitzroy’s back, his gesture teeming with pride.

“My son will be accompanying you all to Cambas,” the King announced, holding the rail to steady his old, shaky legs. “He’ll lead as your commander on the battlefield. Trust him—he’s the greatest swordsman Lyonesse has ever seen.”

Fitzroy rewarded the adoring crowd with a self-satisfied smile, puffing his chest like he brimmed with importance, while the King continued praising his combat mastery.