The Bastard Son of a King.
Rain drummed against the canvas sheltering the makeshift smithy as I focused on tempering swords for the soldiers.
Unlike the weeks before, I no longer spent every waking moment with my friends from the Headlands.
Bash’s working days consisted of collecting timber from the forest or repairing the ships anchored along the shore.
Fletcher and the archers were tasked with protecting the skies, as though an imminent invasion loomed, while Arthur dug graves alongside the other foot soldiers.
All could sense we were preparing for something, but no one had told us what.
“I miss… I miss home,” young Tom mumbled, his words almost lost in the scratching of his whetstone against a blade.
His heavy gaze focused on the task, but a look of defeat blemished his face almost as much as the pimples—his mind was clearly somewhere far from Cambas.
“So do I,” I replied, closing my eyes and seeing Henry’s bucktoothed smile.
“I mostly yearn for my mother’s cooking,” Tom added, patting his hollow stomach—his movements all gangly, like a foal still learning to walk. “She’s promised to make me my favorite oyster stew on my return to the Marshlands.”
His eyes lit up at the thought, and that made me smile.
Unlike the rest of the men in the smithy, Tom was as certain the war would end as I was that birds would sing at sunrise. But he was just a fledgling—this was his first time flying from the nest.
“Something to look forward to,” I said, throwing an arm around his narrow shoulders for a brief, reassuring embrace.
He nodded wearily. His actions were lethargic as he dragged the iron against the coarse rock, sharpening the blade at a snail’s pace.
“I’m thirsty, too.” Tom exhaled, setting his tools aside.
“Go get some ale,” I told him with a gentle pat on the back. “Get me some, too.”
Tom sighed with relief and nodded eagerly, not hesitating to fulfill my request.
From the moment we’d met, Tom had clung to me like fleas on a stray dog, but I didn’t mind. I liked having something to look after.
“Where’s your little prodigy off to?” Red asked, grunting as he lowered himself onto Tom’s still-warm stool.
“He’s finding the labor tough,” I replied, wondering how he’d fare on the battlefield. “But I’ll watch over him. He’s like a younger brother.”
The protective urge I felt for Tom mirrored the one I’d carried for Henry. Since fleeing the Wetlands, I’d known I would never see my family again. It hurt less when I filled the void in my heart with others. Unbeknownst to him, Tom had become a stand-in sibling.
“You’re a good man, Smith,” Red said, thudding his palm against my shoulder. “I hope my boy grows up to be kind like you.”
In some ways, Red had filled the father-shaped hole in my life. It wasn’t a perfect fit, but it was better than having an empty pit, absent of any paternal guidance.
Suddenly, Tom darted back inside, rainwater dripping from his bedraggled hair.
“The Prince,” he panted, eyes widening as he spoke. “He’s heading our way.”
Red heaved himself upright and lumbered over to the tent’s opening. Peering out of a narrow slit into the rain-drenched camp, he let out a throaty grunt.
“Men,” he called, his voice heavy with authority.
The clamor of filing, polishing, and grinding ceased immediately.
“Be on your best behavior. This is your liege, your commander—a son of our King. Like every great leader, he’s known for his hot temper.
Obey his commands without question. We need every hand in this smithy—don’t let your pride cost you your head. ”
It took two knights to throw open the tent flap for Fitzroy’s grandiose entrance.
For a moment, I thought they might lay down their cloaks for him to walk upon, but the bastard found the courage to put his freshly polished boots on the muddy slats.
Adjusting his embellished cloak adorned with the King’s coat of arms, Fitzroy strode inside.
I spotted the fluttering plume of the esquire’s feather-topped cap as he ducked into the tent behind him, coming to stand at his liege’s side. Fitzroy didn’t give his men the suave smile I remembered from the royal balcony—not that he needed to.
He was blessed with effortless allure.
Instead, he drained his goblet and held it over his shoulder, where the esquire accepted the glass with the deference of a cupbearer.
Without hesitation, all the men bowed to His Highness. Instinctively, I began to curtsy, crossing my ankles and pushing out my knees. As I reached for a nonexistent skirt, I remembered I was meant to be a man. Awkwardly, I tipped my head into a gentlemanly bow, hoping no one noticed my blunder.
“Good morrow,” Fitzroy said, running a hand through his tousled hair. “Might I speak to the man in charge?” His piercing gaze glanced between the sweaty faces in the smithy.
Red stepped forward. “My liege,” he welcomed, bowing his head in a display of subservience.
Standing beside Fitzroy, Red looked as though he was in dire need of a long, hot bath.
Coal dust clung to the lines on his face, aging him beyond his thirty years.
His garments were weathered and worn—a testament to his hard work—and a moth would’ve envied the number of holes the spitting fire had put in his tunic.
In contrast, Fitzroy was immaculate: his hair perfectly groomed, the lengths pushed back, the ends curling slightly where they met the nape of his neck.
His well-kept stubble, slightly lighter than his dark locks, accentuated his chiseled features, while his thick brows drew attention to his captivating eyes.
Fitzroy extended his gloved hand, curling his fingers impatiently. The esquire promptly placed a scroll in his palm, which he then passed to Red.
“I cannot read, my liege,” Red admitted, unrolling the parchment with a disappointed sigh.
Fitzroy’s brow knit tight, his gaze flicking to the esquire in silent disbelief, as if convinced he had misheard.
“Who put an unlettered man in charge?” he demanded with a chuckle—light enough to sound like jest, yet the sharp way he snatched the scroll from Red made me think his irritation was real.
Then, Fitzroy pointed at me, beckoning me closer with the waggle of his ring-stacked finger. Obediently, I stepped into his musky scent of sandalwood and amber.
“What does this say?” Fitzroy asked, thrusting the parchment so near to my face that even if I could read, I wouldn’t have been able to focus on the words.
“I don’t know,” I mumbled, shame heating the back of my neck.
“I don’t know,” Fitzroy mocked, playful in tone, but his hazel irises gleamed with something sharper—cruel amusement at my humiliation.
The men tittered, enjoying their liege’s ridicule at my expense.
Fitzroy rubbed a hand down his face, frustration plain, muttering something unintelligible under his breath before saying, “Give me one moment.”
With an exasperated tut, Fitzroy turned on his heel and stomped out of the humid tent into the cooling rain, the esquire scurrying after him.
“He’s a far cry from our last commander,” Red remarked, hefting a hammer and bouncing it absently against his palm.
“He’s a tyrant in the making,” I muttered. “I pray someone carves that arrogant tongue from his mouth.”
Godwin gave me a lopsided smirk. “Ask me how I got this,” he demanded, pointing at the undulating scar that veined his face—deep and dry as droughty riverbeds.
“How did y—”
“Down on that beach,” he interrupted, clenching his jaw—it bulged fiercely at the memory.
“Dragon flew overhead, singed me—and I got off lightly. The rest of the men melted like candle wax, all while our last commander hid in his damn velvet tent. Sooner see beggars robed in silk than him fighting beside the commonfolk. But Prince Fitzroy? He stands before us like we’re not just soldiers, but comrades—he’s got the makings of a true leader. ”
Most of the craftsmen nodded in quiet agreement, though I couldn’t fathom why they would put such an insufferable man on a pedestal.
Moments later, Fitzroy charged back into the tent, his strong jawline held high as he reclaimed the spot he had just left.
“Our King grows impatient,” he announced. “An invasion has been ordered. The knights and soldiers will set sail to launch an attack on the Isle of Annwn.”
The craftsmen exchanged anxious glances, as though this was a worrying tactic.
“I need sturdy weapons,” Fitzroy pleaded, his gaze fixed on Red. “I need strong armor, and I need the gods’ favor.”
“I can get you the first two,” Red replied. “You’re on your own with the last.”
A chuckle escaped Fitzroy as he patted Red on the shoulder. “Good man,” he said, prompting a proud smile from Red.
Fitzroy swept his sultry gaze across the tent before demanding, “Who’s your finest blacksmith?”
Red tilted his head toward me. “Smith here knows his stuff on the trade.”
“Can he repair my armor?” Fitzroy inquired.
Red nodded.
“By what time must it be mended?” I asked, fully aware that the task would be arduous.
“Tomorrow, if it’s feasible?” His tone wavered between genuine inquiry and sarcasm. “Unless you’re too busy.”
Unsure if he was being sincere, I erred on the side of caution, giving him an affirming nod.
* * *
Before dusk on the morrow, I was inside Fitzroy’s tent, meticulously arranging the armor I’d spent the past day painstakingly repairing.
My fingers throbbed from welding the intricate, fiddly links of his chain mail, and my back ached from hours spent hunched over the anvil—hammering out hundreds of dents in his plated armor.
Yet, as I completed the final touches, I knew the discomfort was worth the reward.
I was proud of my work, and I hoped Fitzroy would be equally impressed.
The crackling brazier—a portable firepit—kept the tent toasty, though Fitzroy still donned an ermine-lined coat. I couldn’t decide whether his ostentatious attire served as a reminder of his wealth and power, or if he knew that the white fur complemented his dark features.