The Bastard Son of a King. #2
Seated at his mahogany desk beside his military advisers, he downed goblets of wine as they plotted the invasion.
His inner circle of confidants was comprised of two men who looked wealthier than a monastery and older than the religion practiced within one.
I’d never understood seeking advice from the elderly; every senior I’d ever met lived in the past, detached from the realities of the present and yearning for bygone days.
Feigning focus on greasing the armor, I listened to their deliberations.
“W-w-when I was a boy, w-we w-were born knowing how to fight,” stammered the adviser who looked closer to death. “I don’t know w-where these soldiers w-were raised, but I know it w-was not in the same kingdom as me.”
As Fitzroy rolled his eyes, already exasperated by the unhelpful agism, a biting draft swept through the tent. The King’s esquire scuttled inside, drenched and looking like a drowned rat. Shaking off the raindrops clinging to his cloak, he shoved past me as though I didn’t exist.
Leaning over Fitzroy’s shoulder, the esquire placed a roll of parchment atop the military map spread across the table.
“You’ve received correspondence from the Lord of the Wetlands,” he announced.
“He apologizes for the delay in sending the soldiers he promised the King. The letter explains that no villagers can be spared until it’s certain none possess magical abilities.
As for his knights, they’re preoccupied with searching for a missing village girl.
He believes she may know what happened to his murdered daughter… if she’s still alive.”
Fitzroy snatched the scroll and unrolled it with an impatient flick.
“Write back to the lord and tell him I care naught about a missing village girl. It’s his feudal obligation to provide his sovereign with soldiers when called upon.
” Slamming his fists onto the table, he crumpled the letter in frustration.
“Tell him to send me more men and coinage—or face losing his land and titles.”
The esquire nodded, hastily picking up his quill to draft a reply.
“Bart,” Fitzroy said, turning to the eldest adviser. “How would you win a war when our noblemen fail to promptly respond to the King’s calls to battle?”
I was surprised that Bart had heard a word Fitzroy uttered, given he had more hair curling from his large ears than growing on his balding head.
“W-when I advised your father on his invasion of the Bristolia Islands,” Bart stuttered. “W-we managed that campaign w-with just a fraction of the soldiers that have been sent to fight in Cambas. Successful pushes can be achieved w-w-with smaller armies than desired.”
Fitzroy shook his head before the old man could finish.
“You cannot compare a skirmish with drunken pirates to a war against a powerful sorceress,” he snapped, his fist tapping the table.
“If Regina’s army was easy to defeat, my father would be here, at Cambas, waiting to claim glory for a valiant victory.
But he isn’t—because he doubts it’s possible. ”
Bart raised a shaky finger and said, “Do you w-want my advice or not?”
Fitzroy glared at him, jaw clenched, fists pulsing. “No.”
Turning his back to Bart, cutting him out of the conversation, Fitzroy addressed the other adviser. “Benedict, I propose we keep our skilled craftsmen—blacksmiths, carpenters, stonemasons, and weavers—safe here in Cambas.” He tapped the map as he spoke. “They’re too valuable to lose at sea.”
Benedict stroked his long, gray beard and nodded. “Unless they’re experienced sailors—in which case we’ll need them on deck.”
“You’re right,” Fitzroy agreed—something I hadn’t known he was capable of. “How many knights should remain onshore?”
I glanced up from my greasing to see Benedict twirling his mustache, his bushy brow furrowed in deep thought.
After a brief pause spent debating this conundrum, Benedict cleared his throat. “A few to guard Your Grace, but it’s unlikely Regina has the capacity to launch a counterstrike on Cambas. If we execute my plan, her army will be too stretched to respond with a retaliatory invasion.”
Fitzroy twisted the jewel-encrusted rings on his gloved fingers and nodded. “How would you suggest I organize my army?”
Bart opened his mouth, lifting his wrinkled finger once more. “W-well, I w-w-would—”
“Silence, old fool,” Fitzroy spat. “I wasn’t asking you.”
Benedict smirked, clearly relishing Fitzroy’s favor.
“Start by sending twenty ships, each carrying fifty unskilled soldiers.” He slid his finger along the battle map.
“Let Regina’s forces expend themselves on invaluable men.
Close behind, send fifteen more ships with knights, archers, and crossbowmen.
The first ships take the major blows, and then the equipped, battle-ready men will disembark on the Isle. ”
“It’s cruel—using these men like they’re nothing but shields,” Fitzroy said.
“Set your conscience aside,” Bart butted in. “It w-will make you cowardly. Peasants serve little purpose beyond decoys.”
Ignoring the interruption, Fitzroy kept his focus fixed on Benedict. “And if Regina attacks from the skies?”
“Her dragon can only incinerate one ship at a time,” Benedict replied. “Pray that most sail unscathed.”
Fitzroy bit his plump bottom lip, as though he didn’t like relying on the gods’ good graces. “Is there no way to bring down the dragon?”
Benedict shook his head. “You’d have more to fear from Regina’s wrath if you killed her beloved beast than you do from the fire-breathing dragon itself.”
“The gods favor us,” the esquire added, glancing up from his writing. “They’ll help our King win this war—not that evil sorceress.”
“What if you are wrong?” Fitzroy retorted.
The esquire offered no response, returning to his quill.
Fitzroy sighed. “Thank you for your counsel. We’ll reconvene on the morrow with a finalized battle plan.”
Dismissing his advisers and the esquire, he ushered them out of his tent. Bart hobbled slowly, hunched over his cane as Fitzroy hurried him along.
Once all three of them were gone, Fitzroy let out a deep exhale and turned to me, meeting my eye for the first time this evening—catching me off guard with the intensity of his gaze.
“Smith, was it?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Thank you for your patience,” he continued, giving me a look of genuine gratitude. “I shall prepare myself, and then you can fit my armor and ensure it’s impregnable.”
I nodded again as Fitzroy vanished behind a decorative partition.
Moments later, he reappeared, stepping into the candlelight as he adjusted his gloves.
His undergarments consisted of a padded coif to protect his head beneath his heavy helmet and a quilted gambeson over his torso to cushion the armor.
For his lower half, he wore braies to house his manhood covered by tightly fitted hose that clung to his legs.
It was impossible not to feel intimidated in the presence of someone like Fitzroy—handsome and cruel in equal measure. One moment he burned hotter than the summer sun; the next, he blew colder than a winter’s night.
But I ignored the conflicting feelings he stirred in me, maintaining my decorum and focusing on the task at hand.
“First, I need to check that the mended hauberk is the correct size for my liege,” I said, picking up the chain-mail shirt. “I had to amend the placement of some surviving links—whoever repaired it last time did a shoddy job.”
I helped lift the heavy armor over his head while Fitzroy threaded his arms through the sleeves of interwoven links. Then, I tugged it down his torso, past his pert bottom, until it rested at mid-thigh.
“A perfect fit, Commander…my liege,” I said, unsure of what title to use.
Fitzroy peered down his strong nose, locking his piercing gaze on mine. “You may call me Fitzroy,” he said, in a low and husky tone that tingled the back of my neck. “To my face at least, and bastard behind my back—the gods know everyone else does.”
Ignoring his self-deprecating remark, I moved on to fitting the plated armor, beginning at his feet and working upward.
As I attended to the lower half, I saw no need to humor His Highness with conversation.
But once his feet, shins, and thighs were secured in metal, I found myself face-to-face with Fitzroy.
Meticulously, he observed my positioning of the breastplate.
His hawklike focus made it impossible to tell whether he was studying my craft or trying to intimidate me into doing a decent job.
This close, I could note the specks of emerald in his brown eyes and the auburn strands flecking his hair—reminding me of Avice’s reddish locks.
As Fitzroy huffed with what I could only assume was impatience, I wondered whether, if their union had taken place, Avice would have been content as his wife. She possessed a patience I lacked and might have tolerated his brashness—perhaps her pride would have blinded her to his faults.
I mulled it over—the idea of mentioning Avice—debating whether naming her might earn me favor, or if it was a bad idea altogether.
Before I decided, I could taste her name on the tip of my tongue. “I knew Avice,” I blurted out while tightening the straps across his chest.
Fitzroy exhaled dismissively. “Who?”
“Lady Avice of the Wetlands,” I clarified, silently questioning how many Avices he might know.
He sighed once more, as if this conversation exhausted him. “Should I know her?”
“I believe you were arranged to marry her,” I reminded him, recalling the self-pitying speech he had delivered from the royal balcony about the fiancée he had lost to magic. “You claimed your campaign in Cambas was in her honor.”
With a dismissive wave of his gloved hand, he remarked, “Oh, her. The daughter of that pompous lord. I never wrote that wretched speech—my father blackmailed me into performing it, just as he tried to force me into matrimony. Thankfully, I avoided the latter.”
“Forced?” I asked as I moved to fit his backplates.