Page 47 of Reign

“I’ll keep your secret, if you keep mine,” he continued, sliding his finger away from my mouth. He held his purple-stained palm to my face, then turned it sideways—offering a binding handshake.

Fitzroy had made his proposition, and I had no choice but to accept.

“Fine,” I said, taking his hand in mine. “But you have two secrets on me. That doesn’t seem fair.”

Fitzroy smiled smugly. “I like having the upper hand.”

Tactics.

Once the weapons were mended, the boats plugged, and the invasion planned, Fitzroy called for a training session in the field behind the encampment. The morning was bright and rainless, but bitterly cold.

I huddled beside Bash, stealing his warmth and using his stature as a shield between Fitzroy and me. But His Highness was too preoccupied to notice the witch among the men.

Fitzroy’s breath billowed from his flushed lips as he stood with his hands firmly on his hips, eyeing up the few hundred soldiers before him. He shook his head like none of us were satisfactory.

I scanned the line and realized he was right. There were men old enough to recall the last King, boys young enough to remember the taste of their mother’s milk, and those in their prime were weary from life in the lower strata of society.

Fitzroy paced the length of the line, the sable fur trim of his cloak tickling his chill-blushed cheeks. “I shall teach you basic defense and attack,” he announced—his voice firm despite the tremors caused by the cold.

Having spent many years honing my skills as a blacksmith, I knew combat couldn’t be mastered in one day. Still, I hoped that familiarizing myself with the clash of steel might help me maintain my composure when battle came.

Arthur jabbed his elbow into my side, snatching my attention. “Rumor has it our enemy’s unbeatable,” he muttered, running a nervous hand through his thinning white hair.

“Heard that too,” Fletcher chimed in, agreeing with his Headlands home folk.

An older man, shrouded in a weathered cloak, took a wobbly step forward. “What exactly are we defending ourselves against?” he asked, the wrinkles around his hooded eyes deepening as he awaited his liege’s response.

Before Fitzroy could answer, a different soldier emerged from the huddle.

“Around the bonfire, I’ve heard tales of a winged beast that flies over the shore,” he said. His tone was steeped in skepticism, but the tremble in his hand as he pointed skyward told me he believed the stories. “Some say the wyrm spews skin-melting bile on the men below.”

A plump boy—face untainted by even a sun-kissed freckle—edged to the forefront. “In the Marshlands, they tell stories of sea monsters dragging sailors into the depths. Never to be seen again,” he whispered, his eyes darting frantically among us.

Terror looked misplaced on such an innocent face.

Beside me, Bash exhaled. I turned to him, hoping for reassurance about what creatures we might face, but his steely gaze was already fixed on Fitzroy.

“What use are a sword and shield against magic?” he asked.

Fitzroy sucked his teeth, giving himself a moment. “I’m carrying out the King’s bidding. His Highness has ordered me to invade Annwn, and his orders are final. I don’t know if the rumors are true—I’ve yet to see our enemy with my own eyes. All I can do is share my expertise on wielding these weapons. Then I will fight beside you on the battlefield.”

He flashed that self-indulgent smolder I remembered from the royal balcony. Bash glanced downward to meet my eye before rolling his, but the rest of the men shivering in the icy field seemed to draw strength from Fitzroy’s arrogance—it gave them hope.

Yet I’d heard the panic in his voice as he struggled to finalize the battle plan with his advisers. His confidence, I suspected, was nothing more than a facade.

“Are you a stouthearted fighter?” I asked, curious whether Fitzroy had ever truly tested his own abilities.

With a smirk, he unsheathed his blade in one swift motion. “My knight-errantry tutor said I was the greatest swordsman he’d ever met.”

As the men murmured about Fitzroy’s accolades, I rose onto the balls of my feet and leaned toward Bash’s ear.

“His subjects will say anything to stay in his good graces,” I whispered—regrettably, not softly enough.

Fitzroy aimed the sharp tip of his sword at me, edging closer until the point hovered dangerously near my face. I resisted the urge to retreat, determined not to flinch.

For a moment, he held my gaze—just as he had inside his lavish tent. I couldn’t tell if it was his sheer audacity or the way his eyes glittered like gold that kept me rooted. But I was certain of one thing: Fitzroy’s demeanor irked me more than anyone else I’d ever encountered.

“Someone hand Smith a sword!” he bellowed, his voice cutting through the icy air. “I’ll demonstrate a combat scenario.”