Dog. #3
“Lyonesse needs a ruler who values both magic and mortals,” Margaret mused, knocking her fist against the bar as she contemplated who should wear the crown next.
“Perhaps someone like Fitzroy?” she added.
Emma nodded enthusiastically, twirling wispy strands of her hair around her fingertips, while I silently questioned whether he was mature enough for such a role.
Firmly, Margaret placed a hand on my shoulder. “Do you think Fitzroy desires kingship?” she asked—a look on her exhausted face told me she hoped I’d say yes.
“I don’t know him well enough to say,” I replied honestly.
Though I’d spent considerable time with Fitzroy in Cambas, our conversations had always revolved around war, wizards, and quarrels.
Emma closed her eyes. “I’ll listen for prophecies about His Highness’s future,” she murmured, cupping her hand to her ear like she could already hear whispers of his destiny.
With a winsome smile, Jane slid a pint across the bar to me. I grabbed two.
Drinks in hand, I settled into the armchair beside Fitzroy. Dog was already curled up beside the hearth, savoring the warmth of the fireplace.
Fitzroy glanced up from the grimoire. “For the first time since arriving in Cambas, I feel a glimmer of hope,” he said, accepting a tankard from me. “The women in this brothel have more to offer the kingdom than any man I’ve met in power.”
“You sound surprised,” I replied.
“Margaret is wise,” Fitzroy said, his tone heavy with respect.
“Her intelligence could have easily been wasted simply because she’s a poor woman.
It makes me wonder how many people with far greater intellect than those born into nobility, never get the chance to explore their gifts due to circumstances beyond their control. ”
I nodded, amused as Fitzroy voiced his revelation—a thought I’d already harbored since childhood.
“Um, Sebastian!” Jane’s voice rang out across the chamber.
My eyes darted to the pair, curious about what he had done to make her scream his name.
I observed from a distance. She laughed, clearly charmed by Bash, while jealousy twisted my stomach. If anyone could overlook her scandalous occupation, it would be him. Usually, I valued his unjudgmental nature, but as they flirted, I found myself wishing he wasn’t so accepting.
Jane, with her perfectly cinched corset showing off ample cleavage, had Bash’s gaze drifting downward. I glanced into my tankard, catching a rippling reflection of my unkempt hair and unrouged cheeks.
Not wanting to dwell on my pitiful appearance, I downed the ale in one gulp, belching softly as the bubbly liquid settled uneasily in my belly.
Unable to stop myself from stealing another glance, I saw Bash wholly focused on Jane, as though they were the only two people in the chamber.
I sighed, certain his interest in Jane had been piqued after glimpsing her pleasuring the knight.
Clearly, Jane possessed the secret to capturing a man’s undivided attention, while I seemed only skilled at irritating them.
Fitzroy clicked his fingers in my face—a habit of his I despised.
“I know you’re uneducated, but surely you’re aware of how rude it is to ignore someone,” he chided, right on cue.
“Sorry,” I said, turning to give him my full attention.
Despite months of war, Fitzroy still looked infuriatingly dashing. His ruggedness suited him—the slight stubble and salt-tousled locks only heightened his charm.
After a moment studying his striking face, I said, “Your mother must be a beautiful woman,” recalling the mediocrity of his half brothers.
“What makes you say that?” Fitzroy asked, a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth.
“Because…” I hesitated, my heartbeat quickening as if I were about to make a confession.
“You’re handsome,” I replied plainly.
My reaction confused me—calling Fitzroy handsome was no different from calling Dog an animal or Jane a prostitute. It was a fact. Nothing more.
Fitzroy responded with that irritating smolder.
“But the prettiest flowers don’t always smell the sweetest,” I added, unwilling to cultivate his ego.
“A rose is both beautiful and sweet-smelling,” Fitzroy countered, his smolder unrelenting.
“Beneath the petals hide sharp thorns,” I reminded him.
Raising a brow, Fitzroy asked, “You think I’m thorny?”
I nodded. “You’re a right prick,” I teased.
Fitzroy chuckled and sipped his ale. He turned his gaze toward the golden glow of the fireplace. As the crackling flames danced in the hearth, his eyes glazed over, lost in thought someplace far away.
I found myself relaxing into his company—even enjoying his conversation, something that so rarely happened when we spoke.
After a moment of silence, staring into vacancy, Fitzroy cleared his throat and looked back at me.
“She was very beautiful—a great painter, too. The best, in my admittedly biased opinion,” he said, his tone hollow.
I’d never looked past the opulence of glistening jewels to consider Fitzroy’s personal life. I’d naively assumed his concerns were confined to himself and his status. But his melancholic expression when he spoke of his late mother revealed a depth I hadn’t expected.
“Is she known for her art?” I asked.
Fitzroy snorted as though that was a ridiculous question.
“The only thing my mother is remembered for is being the King’s favorite mistress,” he said, his lip curling as if that notion left a foul taste on his tongue.
“How does one become a mistress to a king?” I asked, still naive about the workings of high society.
“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.”