Page 44 of Reign

“What if you are wrong?” Fitzroy retorted.

The esquire offered no response, returning to his quill.

Fitzroy sighed. “Thank you for your counsel. We’ll reconvene on the morrow with a finalized battle plan.”

Dismissing his advisers and the esquire, he ushered them out of his tent. Bart hobbled slowly, hunched over his cane as Fitzroy hurried him along.

Once all three of them were gone, Fitzroy let out a deep exhale and turned to me, meeting my eye for the first time this evening—catching me off guard with the intensity of his gaze.

“Smith, was it?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Thank you for your patience,” he continued, giving me a look of genuine gratitude. “I shall prepare myself, and then you can fit my armor and ensure it’s impregnable.”

I nodded again as Fitzroy vanished behind a decorative partition. Moments later, he reappeared, stepping into the candlelight as he adjusted his gloves. His undergarments consisted of a padded coif to protect his head beneath his heavy helmet and a quilted gambeson over his torso to cushion the armor. For his lower half, he wore braies to house his manhood covered by tightly fitted hose that clung to his legs.

It was impossible not to feel intimidated in the presence of someone like Fitzroy—handsome and cruel in equal measure. One moment he burned hotter than the summer sun; the next, he blew colder than a winter’s night.

But I ignored the conflicting feelings he stirred in me, maintaining my decorum and focusing on the task at hand.

“First, I need to check that the mended hauberk is the correct size for my liege,” I said, picking up the chain-mail shirt. “I had to amend the placement of some surviving links—whoever repaired it last time did a shoddy job.”

I helped lift the heavy armor over his head while Fitzroy threaded his arms through the sleeves of interwoven links. Then, I tugged it down his torso, past his pert bottom, until it rested at mid-thigh.

“A perfect fit, Commander…my liege,” I said, unsure of what title to use.

Fitzroy peered down his strong nose, locking his piercing gaze on mine. “You may call me Fitzroy,” he said, in a low and husky tone that tingled the back of my neck. “To my face at least, and bastard behind my back—the gods know everyone else does.”

Ignoring his self-deprecating remark, I moved on to fitting the plated armor, beginning at his feet and working upward. As I attended to the lower half, I saw no need to humor His Highness with conversation. But once his feet, shins, and thighs were secured in metal, I found myself face-to-face with Fitzroy.

Meticulously, he observed my positioning of the breastplate. His hawklike focus made it impossible to tell whether he was studying my craft or trying to intimidate me into doing a decent job. This close, I could note the specks of emerald in his brown eyes and the auburn strands flecking his hair—reminding me of Avice’s reddish locks.

As Fitzroy huffed with what I could only assume was impatience, I wondered whether, if their union had taken place, Avice would have been content as his wife. She possessed a patience I lacked and might have tolerated his brashness—perhaps her pride would have blinded her to his faults.

I mulled it over—the idea of mentioning Avice—debating whether naming her might earn me favor, or if it was a bad idea altogether.

Before I decided, I could taste her name on the tip of my tongue. “I knew Avice,” I blurted out while tightening the straps across his chest.

Fitzroy exhaled dismissively. “Who?”

“Lady Avice of the Wetlands,” I clarified, silently questioning how many Avices he might know.

He sighed once more, as if this conversation exhausted him. “Should I know her?”

“I believe you were arranged to marry her,” I reminded him, recalling the self-pitying speech he had delivered from the royal balcony about the fiancée he had lost to magic. “You claimed your campaign in Cambas was in her honor.”

With a dismissive wave of his gloved hand, he remarked, “Oh, her. The daughter of that pompous lord. I never wrote that wretched speech—my father blackmailed me into performing it, just as he tried to force me into matrimony. Thankfully, I avoided the latter.”

“Forced?” I asked as I moved to fit his backplates.

“It took my father’s knights two years to hunt me down. I hid across the sea in the realm of Albion, avoiding the shackles of wedlock. After meeting her ghastly father, I knew that if she resembled him even slightly, I’d have been more miserable trapped in that marriage than a vagrant during winter.”

Fortunately, I stood behind Fitzroy, hidden from his full view and free to grimace at his words without consequence. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find the fortitude to bite my tactless tongue.

“Her untimely death was an unjust fate,” I muttered into the pointed pauldron I was affixing to his shoulder. “But marriage to you might’ve been crueler.”

Fitzroy snorted at my comment. “Were you fonder of her than a commoner should be?” he asked, offering me a condescending pat atop my head.