Page 41 of Reign

“So do I,” I replied, closing my eyes and seeing Henry’s bucktoothed smile.

“I mostly yearn for my mother’s cooking,” Tom added, patting his hollow stomach—his movements all gangly, like a foal still learning to walk. “She’s promised to make me my favorite oyster stew on my return to the Marshlands.”

His eyes lit up at the thought, and that made me smile.

Unlike the rest of the men in the smithy, Tom was as certain the war would end as I was that birds would sing at sunrise. But he was just a fledgling—this was his first time flying from the nest.

“Something to look forward to,” I said, throwing an arm around his narrow shoulders for a brief, reassuring embrace.

He nodded wearily. His actions were lethargic as he dragged the iron against the coarse rock, sharpening the blade at a snail’s pace.

“I’m thirsty, too.” Tom exhaled, setting his tools aside.

“Go get some ale,” I told him with a gentle pat on the back. “Get me some, too.”

Tom sighed with relief and nodded eagerly, not hesitating to fulfill my request.

From the moment we’d met, Tom had clung to me like fleas on a stray dog, but I didn’t mind. I liked having something to look after.

“Where’s your little prodigy off to?” Red asked, grunting as he lowered himself onto Tom’s still-warm stool.

“He’s finding the labor tough,” I replied, wondering how he’d fare on the battlefield. “But I’ll watch over him. He’s like a younger brother.”

The protective urge I felt for Tom mirrored the one I’d carried for Henry. Since fleeing the Wetlands, I’d known I would never see my family again. It hurt less when I filled the void in my heart with others. Unbeknownst to him, Tom had become a stand-in sibling.

“You’re a good man, Smith,” Red said, thudding his palm against my shoulder. “I hope my boy grows up to be kind like you.”

In some ways, Red had filled the father-shaped hole in my life. It wasn’t a perfect fit, but it was better than having an empty pit, absent of any paternal guidance.

Suddenly, Tom darted back inside, rainwater dripping from his bedraggled hair.

“The Prince,” he panted, eyes widening as he spoke. “He’s heading our way.”

Red heaved himself upright and lumbered over to the tent’s opening. Peering out of a narrow slit into the rain-drenched camp, he let out a throaty grunt.

“Men,” he called, his voice heavy with authority. The clamor of filing, polishing, and grinding ceased immediately. “Be on your best behavior. This is your liege, your commander—a son of our King. Like every great leader, he’s known for his hot temper. Obey his commands without question. We need every hand in this smithy—don’t let your pride cost you your head.”

It took two knights to throw open the tent flap for Fitzroy’s grandiose entrance. For a moment, I thought they might lay down their cloaks for him to walk upon, but the bastard found the courage to put his freshly polished boots on the muddy slats. Adjusting his embellished cloak adorned with the King’s coat of arms, Fitzroy strode inside.

I spotted the fluttering plume of the esquire’s feather-topped cap as he ducked into the tent behind him, coming to stand at his liege’s side. Fitzroy didn’t give his men the suave smile I remembered from the royal balcony—not that he needed to.

He was blessed with effortless allure.

Instead, he drained his goblet and held it over his shoulder, where the esquire accepted the glass with the deference of a cupbearer.

Without hesitation, all the men bowed to His Highness. Instinctively, I began to curtsy, crossing my ankles and pushing out my knees. As I reached for a nonexistent skirt, I remembered I was meant to be a man. Awkwardly, I tipped my head into a gentlemanly bow, hoping no one noticed my blunder.

“Good morrow,” Fitzroy said, running a hand through his tousled hair. “Might I speak to the man in charge?” His piercing gaze glanced between the sweaty faces in the smithy.

Red stepped forward. “My liege,” he welcomed, bowing his head in a display of subservience.

Standing beside Fitzroy, Red looked as though he was in dire need of a long, hot bath. Coal dust clung to the lines on his face, aging him beyond his thirty years. His garments were weathered and worn—a testament to his hard work—and a moth would’ve envied the number of holes the spitting fire had put in his tunic.

In contrast, Fitzroy was immaculate: his hair perfectly groomed, the lengths pushed back, the ends curling slightly where they met the nape of his neck. His well-kept stubble, slightly lighter than his dark locks, accentuated his chiseled features, while his thick brows drew attention to his captivating eyes.

Fitzroy extended his gloved hand, curling his fingers impatiently. The esquire promptly placed a scroll in his palm, which he then passed to Red.

“I cannot read, my liege,” Red admitted, unrolling the parchment with a disappointed sigh.