Page 50 of Reign

Clutching his cap with one hand, Fletcher swung the door open with the other as we rushed inside to escape the biting westerly winds. The tavern was cramped and dingy, its furniture a motley collection of old barrels now serving as stools around a long, worn trestle table. By the hearth, two disheveled men sat in tattered armchairs, pausing their card game to eye us warily. Any peace was quickly shattered by the raucous entrance of at least thirty soldiers, filling the chamber with lively clamor.

“Welcome, welcome,” called a man with a body shaped like an apple balancing on two toothpicks. “Come in! Take a pew.” He looked genuinely thankful for our custom.

I thought he ought to have been thankful to be alive. His skin was the same yellowish hue as a buttercup, and the whites of his eyes glowed lemony. As he waddled closer, the strong whiff of garlic on his breath nearly made me gag, forcing me to step back.

“I’m the proprietor of this fine house of ill repute,” he announced with a playful elbow to Tom and a spirited wink in my direction. “Mr. Bednot, at your service. What can I get you gents?” He scratched the flaky skin on his forearms as he spoke. “Perhaps a pint of our home-brewed ale?”

“Got any grub?” Arthur asked, patting his protruding stomach.

Mr. Bednot nodded. “We’ve got cockles, and mussels, and whelks if you’re partial. Used to sell jellied eels and rollmops, but since the war, fish are scarce.”

“I fancy something meatier,” Red said, licking his lips.

With a conspiratorial tap to his nose, Mr. Bednot opened his arms toward the bar. “You’re more than welcome to sample the finer fruits Cambas has to offer.”

Three barmaids lingered on the far side of the tavern. One leaned against the bar, chewing her fingernails, while the other two exchanged whispers. At the sound of Mr. Bednot clearing his throat, they turned their attention toward us. The one with the auburn hair winked at no one in particular, the nail-biter switched to biting her rouged lip, and the youngest twirled her golden locks around her finger.

That’s when it dawned on me. This wasn’t just a tavern.

“Is this a brothel?” I asked, glancing between the faces of the men, unsure whether I was naive or had been misled.

Godwin chuckled while Red gave me a seedy smile.

“You said we were visiting an alehouse,” Bash muttered. “One final drink before we lay down our lives for Lyonesse.”

Fletcher smacked his thigh and burst into belly laughter at the revelation.

“Emma pours a fine pint,” Red replied, nodding toward the youngest girl—her fresh face framed by winsome braids—as he edged closer to her.

“Maybe we’ve already died,” Godwin said, rubbing his hands together. “And this is our reward for sacrificing ourselves for King and realm…” He trailed off, following in Red’s shadow.

Tom stared at the women—his wide eyes locked onto them as if mesmerized by their sensuality.

I chuckled and gave him a grounding pat on the back. “Come on, let’s sit,” I said, knowing I’d need my legs on the morrow.

Bash sighed as he perched on an old barrel beside me—his leg brushing against mine.

“This isn’t what I imagined when Red said he knew a quaint little spot,” he said.

Fletcher huffed. “If you don’t make the beast with two backs, you can pretend it’s just a tavern,” he grumbled, clearly exasperated with his cousin’s attitude.

“You enjoy places like this,” Bash countered, slouching forward. I mirrored him, resting my elbows on my thighs just as he did. “I find being here disheartening,” he added, offering the women pitiful smiles.

I gave Fletcher a disappointed tut at the suggestion that he enjoyed brothels.

“Not for the reason you’re thinking—get your head out of the gutter,” Fletcher retorted, lowering the peak of his cap as he glanced around furtively. “Whores bring in men, men bring in coins. And I like coins, especially ones that don’t belong to me.”

With a resigned sigh, Bash stood. “On that parting message, I’ll get us a drink.”

As Bash neared the bar with Fletcher in tow—on the lookout for valuables to filch—the front door groaned open.

Benedict’s wiry beard fluttered over the threshold first, followed by knights flanking Fitzroy, who managed to look disheveled yet dashing. The wind had swept back his hair to reveal his chiseled jawline, and the cold had flushed his cheeks pinker than the blushing petals of bindweed. He adjusted his fur-lined cloak, biting his bottom lip as he concentrated on refastening the golden clasp. It was infuriating how Fitzroy made even a simple task look alluring.

“Your Grace,” Mr. Bednot announced, greeting the prince with a bow of his head. “How may I be of service?”

“Please, call me Fitzroy,” he replied. “Two tankards of ale would be much appreciated.”

I noticed how he was being uncharacteristically polite.