Page 48 of Reign

A soldier tossed a sword toward me, and rather than attempting to catch it, I let the blade land on the frosty grass.

“Have you ever used a sword, Smith?” Fitzroy sneered, spitting my surname as if it were a filthy word.

“No,” I replied, bending down to retrieve my weapon.

I was familiar with the weightiness of a sword from my years spent mending them, but I’d never used one for its intended purpose.

Fitzroy chuckled as he watched me adjust my unsteady grip on the handle.

“This should be a quick defeat,” he said, spinning his blade in an impressively fast figure eight. “I hope all your estates are in order, not that I imagine you have any.”

With his final word, Fitzroy lunged. I blocked his strike, feeling the reverberation of clashing steel. He swung again, swooping the metal around his head and delivering a forceful blow that nearly knocked me over. My arms ached as I struggled to maintain my guard against his thwacks.

Fitzroy’s movements were skilled and unyielding—a relentless rhythm I couldn’t match. When my guard dropped, he stabbed forward, his blade slicing through my tunic. I wheezed, bracing for the searing pain I expected—but the injury was minor. The tip of the blade grazed my skin before its flat edge pressed against my torso. Relief flooded through me, for I’d narrowly avoided being impaled.

Fitzroy withdrew his sword and inspected its bloody point.

His fearful gaze flicked to my face. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice tinged with unexpected panic.

The arrogance that had exuded from him moments before now withered like a blighted crop. I delighted in watching him squirm with worry and wasn’t ready for it to end. Knowing my talent for theatrics, I decided to deliver my best performance of a tragedy.

I reached inside my tunic, pressing my fingers against the shallow wound. When I pulled them out, they were stained crimson. Unease rippled through the crowd as I staggered backward, grappling at my “grievous” injury.

“Help,” I rasped, falling to my knees.

“Are you well? Answer me!” Fitzroy demanded, louder this time.

I lifted my gaze to meet his. My eyes fluttered wearily before I rolled them and collapsed, still clutching my sword.

With one final theatrical sigh, I played dead.

“Damn,” Fitzroy breathed out, tossing his weapon down as he knelt at my side.

With my eyes closed, I listened to the gasps and hushed murmurs rippling through the crowd. The men believed the bastard had slain a young soldier. I stifled a chuckle, knowing that Fitzroy was panicking at the prospect of murder tarnishing his reputation.

As he frantically searched for a fatal wound that wasn’t there, I seized the moment. Grabbing his lapels, I threw myself over Fitzroy and pinned him beneath me, straddling his torso. My hand darted for my sword, my fingers curling around its hilt before I pressed the chilling blade to his throat.

“Have you prepared your estate, Prince?” I asked mockingly. “Or did your father reserve his land titles for his legitimate sons?”

Titters echoed through the crowd, though most men respected—or feared—their commander too much to laugh aloud.

I still dreaded Fitzroy’s wrath, but knowing his secret gave me leverage.

Fitzroy licked his lips with maddening nonchalance, as if he weren’t between my thighs and beneath a blade.

“You fight like a woman—using deception instead of strength,” he remarked, his tone dripping with disdain.

My grip tightened, and the temptation to draw blood from the bastard’s neck was almost overwhelming. “Surrender, my liege, and I’ll let you leave unscathed,” I said, a smug smile tugging at my lips.

Fitzroy swallowed hard, like his pride was lodged in his throat. “Get off, Smith,” he demanded—quiet, yet firm.

This time, I obeyed, lowering the sword before brushing grass stains from my breeches.

Bash shot me a charming wink of approval, Fletcher snickered beneath his cap, and Arthur looked more stunned than a field mouse caught beneath the shadow of a kestrel’s wing.

“Note to self,” Arthur said, a slight tremor in his tone. “Smith’s the master of surprise attacks.”

Fitzroy picked himself up from the dewy turf; his only injury was a bruised ego.