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It was not long before Reynard realized that he’d made a potential miscalculation.
He’d had more ale than he should have, and even watered down to stretch rations, the drink apparently addled his ordinarily sharp mind. Fate had dealt him a shit hand of cards, for one, and for another, Gascon wore far too many layers upon layers of clothing to be a fair match in this particular sort of lewd drinking game.
The aim was humiliation, of course.
Each card that got knocked to the graveyard dictated the removal of one item of clothing. The game either ended with a forfeit as the losing party risked shedding the last scrap protecting their modesty, or the wholly nude party bravely continued to the natural conclusion of the match, freezing their bits off all the while and risking being forced to explain the situation to anyone from the camp who sought either of them out.
Reynard shivered on the bench, and Gascon poorly hid his smug grin behind his cards.
He was already down to his undershirt and hose, a tidy pile of his garments folded beside him. If Reynard’s full kit hadn’t been with the blacksmith for repair, he’d have out-layered Gascon easily, but his mistake had been assuming that the former bandit’s similarly dressed down state would put them on an even field.
“Admit th’ truth,” said Reynard. “You dressed in anticipation of this foolish venture.”
Gascon laughed. “Looked outside lately? Merely prepared for th’ weather to turn.”
“What purpose could one have in wearing so many hats?”
He’d discarded his pointed cowl earlier to reveal a second hood underneath, and when removed, a wool liner hid beneath that.
“No sense in havin’ cold ears,” said Gascon.
Reynard had a string of good fortune and forced his opponent to remove his stockings one by one, his colorful vest, and then the last hood, revealing dark curls frizzed by the wool.
Inexplicably, Gascon had removed his trousers early on rather than peel off one of his shirts, and Reynard’s eyes kept dropping to the crook of his bare legs beneath the little table. He had a tattoo of an erect phallus just above his knobby ankle and a ridged scar at his inner thigh that would have come close to a fatal wound.
It warmed something in Reynard, those little human details. For all that Gascon seemed to be brazenly forward in all that he did, he kept a fair bit of himself hidden away.
In the next round, Gascon examined his hand, humming contemplatively, then laid down a particularly fortunate card that spelled the end for Reynard’s entire ranged row. Far less fortunate for Reynard, who gathered each card to the discard pile with a feeling of sinking dread.
“That’ll be th’ lot then, my friend. All off. Get to it.”
“Hardly seems fair,” Reynard protested. He dropped a hand to the clasps pinning his hose to his undershirt, anticipating the chill of the air.
“You forfeit, then?”
Gascon’s expression was of unabashed smug victory, leaning forward in anticipation.
He’d yet to forfeit to him even once, and he’d endured worse than a bit of cold and embarrassment.
Not to be deterred, Reynard gamely shrugged the shirt over his head and stood to peel his legs from his hose, nothing beneath but his frumpy underthings. He didn’t think much of how his body looked, well-muscled but hardly as lean as he had been as a boy, the hair at his sternum gone grey and a softness clinging to his abdomen.
Gascon offered a low whistle as he watched in gleeful interest, and Reynard scoffed.
Of course, he was balanced on one leg fighting the fabric bunched at his ankle, his undershirt caught on an elbow, when the flap of the tent parted, and the Queen herself strode through.
He stiffened at once to instinctive parade rest, then thought better of that and covered his modesty with his dangling undershirt, convinced he may combust on the spot, and Gascon barked with sudden laughter, his own face bright red.
“Oh,” said Meve and absurdly covered her eyes only to peek through her fingers. “Have I interrupted something?”
“No,” Reynard blurted.
“Yes,” said Gascon. “Interrupted poor Reynard losing badly at cards.”
“Pardon my state of undress, Your Grace,” managed Reynard, his voice sounding tight and unfamiliar. “Nowt but a juvenile game.”
What felt like a long moment stretched between the three of them, Reynard’s burning sting of humiliation worsening with each second that the Queen regarded him quietly.
“Well I’d hate to ruin your fun,” said Meve. She dropped her hands from her face to reveal that she too was pink through her cheeks. “Don’t stop on my account.”
Reynard’s whole body felt aflame.
“I forfeit,” he said.
Undeterred, a lewdly grinning Gascon dared to look the Queen's way.
“Fancy a match, Your Majesty?” he asked, and feeling flayed wholly nude, Reynard watched with a rabbiting heartbeat as Meve settled decisively down at the bench.