Page 96 of Reign

“My mother joined the King’s court at seventeen as a lady-in-waiting to the Queen,” Fitzroy explained. “She enjoyed courtly life—attending grand balls, managing the Queen’s wardrobe, and serving as her confidant. But unfortunately, the King took a liking to her, and she was forced to become his mistress. A woman simply cannot reject the King’s advances.”

I nodded as if I understood, though I couldn’t begin to imagine the grandeur of a ball—it was a far cry from the sweat and soot of the smithy.

Talk of King James stirred a memory—the first time I saw Fitzroy, chest puffed on the royal balcony in the Walled City.

“Was the King pleased when your mother told him she was with child?” I asked, recalling how his father’s eyes had glinted with pride at his son’s combat prowess.

But I wondered if that was merely a facade for the adoring crowds below.

Fitzroy arched a brow, as if trying to decide whether I was genuinely asking or jesting.

“For the first three years of my life, my father didn’t acknowledge my existence,” he said. “My father only claimed me as his bastard son after my eldest half brother died of poppy pox. To the Queen’s humiliation, he legitimized me, fearing that being heirless made him vulnerable. His legacy outranked his pride.”

“But you’re no longer his heir?” I asked.

Fitzroy shook his head again. “Not long after that disgrace, the Queen gave birth to another son. At her request, my father removed me from the line of succession,” he said, then took a long drink of his ale. “She’s always resented me. Even when I was a child, she made no attempt to hide it.”

“That’s awful,” I muttered, picturing a young, lonely Fitzroy struggling under the weight of his expectations and rejection.

Fitzroy sucked his teeth. “She’s wicked,” he muttered—his mesmerizing eyes tainted by a bitter glint.

“When I was fifteen, she convinced my father to send me away, claiming I was an unruly bastard who needed to learn gentlemanly behaviors. So, across the Dozmary Sea I went—to the Empire of Albion, where I joined their royal court as a page. To the Queen’s dismay, they didn’t teach me much in the way of manners.” He chuckled, a warmth returning to his tone, thankfully.

“I learned to hunt, horseback ride, sword fight, even compose music. Albion’s citizens hold freer views on magic, so they assigned me a personal mage—an ancient man who looked older than a hundred, yet carried wisdom far beyond his years.”

Fitzroy paused—a slight smile pulling at his lips as if he were watching his memories play out before his very eyes. I caught myself copying him—grinning like I knew what he was recalling, though I didn’t. But I wanted to know. I wanted to learn everything about him.

“He taught me incantations and alchemy, and I was even asked to cast spells for entertainment in court. I rather enjoyed the attention and fared well in my role as the magical boy from the kingdom across the sea. But above all, I appreciated that no one called me bastard. There, I was simply Fitzroy.”

I smiled at the thought of him entertaining. I’d never have guessed he’d possess a flair for theatrics—he always struck me as too serious. Perhaps he was a different man in Albion than he was here in Lyonesse. Maybe that’s why he was so short-tempered—because he wished he didn’t have to return. I wondered, was his prearranged marriage to Avice the reason he’d come back?

“Did you return because of your and Avice’s wedding?” I asked, my curiosity about his life deepening.

Fitzroy nodded. “After my half brother was born, my father used me as a political pawn—promising I’d wed a favored lord’s daughter. I tried hiding in Albion, thinking I might outrun my responsibilities, but after a few years, his knights tracked me down.”

His jaw clenched tightly.

“My father was furious. That’s why I’m here now, playing the role of commander. This duty is my punishment for defying him.”

He sucked his teeth, his irritation at the events that had brought him to Cambas unmistakable.

I could only offer a slight measure of sympathy—after all, many would have wanted nothing more than a chance to marry Avice.

“Are you really that desperate to remain a bachelor?” I asked, trying to understand why he’d so staunchly opposed marrying her.

He shook his head. “My mother wanted me to marry for love—not to some woman chosen by my father to strengthen his alliances. I always hoped it might happen.”

He paused. His gaze remained unchanged, but the silence intensified it—until I wondered if eyes alone possessed the power to heat someone’s cheeks.

“I’ve come to accept it’s unlikely,” he continued. “My mother was a hopeless romantic, like so many artists are.”

I nodded, though I knew no artists. Still, I saw that same yearning in Avice—her idealistic vision of love, imagining that a life with Finn would be perfect if they could run away and live in the Walled City together. I sighed, feeling profoundly sorry that her chance for amour had been stolen.

“Did your mother ever find love?” I asked, hoping her romantic spirit wasn’t entirely lost to the King’s advances.

Fitzroy nodded. “A kind man who was widowed and wealthy, with land and titles. They married, and my mother was content.”

I hesitated, wanting to ask why she was no longer here but uncertain if it was an insensitive question.