How to Seduce a Queen: A Medieval Romance Novel (11 page)

Chapter 18

Her monk was magnificent at avoiding the three fully mailed knights that thrust at him with swords. With arms and feet, he delivered blows to their bodies that sent them reeling.
Odin’s Ax!
One blade sliced his shoulder. Blood gushed everywhere in the worst of nightmares.

Screaming, she stood, and lowered a rock onto a Scottish skull with a sickening crunch.

From the door, The Ax’s eyes perused her naked form. She wrangled a bow from the fallen man’s shoulder, grabbed an arrow from his quiver, and aimed. She’d send him straight to hell.

The Ax howled and approached. “Whore.”

“Devil. Take not one step more. I warn ye.” She aimed at an eye, his head the only thing not covered in mail. She would not miss.

“You bedded this, this, priest?” he roared with face as red as beard.

“Aye. And we did so more than once. His seed will take. The babe will not be yours. I told you. I will not marry you.” She pulled the string tauter. He would die badly.

“I will kill it upon birth and feed it to you.” His ugly words matched his face, teeth crooked and black, face marred with childhood pox.

He lunged forward, causing her arrow to go high. With an iron grip, he clamped onto her arm and pulled her close while she kicked at him with all her might. The gleaming edge of his dagger flashed in front of her eyes just before it lowered and cut the edge of her throat.

She stopped when blood dripped down her chest and excruciating pain came from the wound.

“Tell him to stop,” he shouted as he turned her toward her monk who was about to kill off another of the Scottish dogs.

Her monk caught a glimpse of her and dropped his weapon. “Let her go.”

“You are a dead man.” Huntercombe’s voice was filled with disdain.

Nicodemus’s eyes narrowed. “Allow her to live and I will surrender peacefully.”

The Ax threw her to the ground, her chin hit the stones of the fire pit, and the smell of burning hair caught in her nostrils. She rolled away and moaned.

“Run Fay, find Sean.” He still held out hope.

Hers was gone. Would that she could follow his directive. Instead, she crawled, but The Ax pulled her by the hair, then punched the air out of her.

Inhaling sharply, she yelped and her stomach turned. He must’ve broken at least one of her ribs. Now she was unable to do anything except watch.

Her monk was wild, but he was naked and The Ax fully mailed. Also, the ugly giant had over a foot of reach.

When she could take no more, she strained for the sword of the fallen knight, went to her knees, and leaned her chest over the tip of the blade. “Stop. I will come with you peacefully, but you must promise, on your honor as a knight, not to kill the priest.”

Will I fall upon the point, ending it all too soon?
She wobbled and hoped not.

The Ax let his lustful gaze move up and down her body, making sure she understood. He smiled evilly and said, “If I do this, I have your word, when I come for you, you will bed me eagerly. Suck my cock? Do as I ask?”

Her monk moaned. “Nay, Fay.”

“Aye.” She died inside and let the sword fall.

The side of The Ax’s blade slammed into her monk’s head. She crawled forward to stop him, but The Ax tossed her over his shoulder.

“I did as you asked. He is not dead. You will keep your word.”

He snickered evilly, turned to his men, and said, “Beat him to an inch of death. Make him hate her for sparing his life.”

At that, a blessed blackness encompassed her.

Chapter 19

Walter de Huntercombe sat down on a bench in the great hall of Man, and pondered the newest turn of events. Not even boasting a proper hearth, the keep was an abomination. It’s only true worth was the solid walls and tactical location.

He pondered taking one of the villagers, tying him to two oxen, and pulling him apart slowly, while the rest of the miserable serfs watched. They would bring their goods or he would do it again and again until all lie dead at his feet.

Convinced and cheered there might be some amusement to be had, he motioned his squire with a wave of his hand. “Where’s Duncan?”

“He’s not yet returned from his accounting, sir.” The tall lad, not yet ten and four, stood shivering in the damp, a weakling who would never survive to be knighted.

“Don’t just stand there. Damnation. Go find him. And fer all of the bloody wounds of Christ, create a proper fire and find the storehouse.” The boy dashed away, just out of reach of a good beating. Another disappointment.

Three of his men, whose opinions almost mattered, sat at the long table with him, their faces grim. His second in command, Patrick, spoke without permission. He’d pay dearly for that mistake, later. “I advise that we leave this place without delay. I’ll send for the ship’s captain.”

“Not yet. Something is amiss.” Huntercombe snorted, pulled out his knife, and pretended to clean his nails. How amusing. Patrick paled, no doubt wondering when his knife would fly.

Standing, he strode over to the door and opened it. The sick ethers of Man swirled, wetting his face, and arms. In the courtyard, the ghostly forms of his squire and Duncan appeared from out of the mist.

“Report.” He crossed his arms and gave them his fiercest frown.

Duncan, the warrior with whom he’d fought side by side for years, stood pale and trembling. He gazed out over the ocean, as if he could cause their ship to materialize. Both knew it bobbed on the sea, just off the coast.

“The villagers, or rather what is left of them, are poxed.”

“God’s blood. For how long?” Huntercombe clenched a fist and held back the urge to beat his men into oblivion.

Duncan glared up with accusing eyes. “The brute of a monk in charge, James of the Meadows, says it has been like this for months.”

“Damnation. Why wasn’t I told?” Huntercombe ushered them in and pointed at the central hearth. Smoke replaced fog and he coughed out fumes as the men dried. “Tell me, is there any worth on this isle of the damned?”

His first in command scoffed. “Other than its obvious strategic value? Not that I could see. Even the chalice in the church is naught but wood. The island has been plundered so many times only a few sheep and cows remain. And cheese. And, after hearing of their afflictions, I must confess, I did not pause long enough to learn more.”

Huntercombe’s ears burned with fury. “Where is that maggot who’s been in charge of this disgusting ruin? Sir Ferguson-who-Guards-Harlots.”

“In the dungeon, sir. Where you left him, after learning of the woman’s . . . uh, situation.” Duncan did well to not mention his intended was a fucking whore.

He shouted to all who sat in the great hall, “Let it be known. I’m leaving this piss-hole to him and his men. I will nay be returning until it is befitting of my rank. I hope they all rot in hell.”

Lowering his voice for only Duncan’s ears, he said, “So Alexander has played me for a fool. For all my valor, I now own harlot queen and an isle of pox.” He paced the long Dane hall and fumed.

Duncan cursed and spit into the fire. “It would seem so. And he expects you to defend it with
your
coin.”

“By Christ, I will not. Pack up the men. Find a physician to wrap the harlot queen’s ribs and bring her. If she’s with child, I’ll rip it from her womb. We leave when the tide turns.”

“What about the monk?” He raised an eyebrow and waited.

“Chain him to the pox house. Let nature take its course. I’ll not have the condemnation of the church.”

Duncan gripped a silver cross that hung at his neck, and kissed it as he always did when the battle was won. “What about the Lady Fay? She may be poxed as well.”

“By God, I’ve gone through five puny wives. I’ll not let go of this sturdy one. Do whatever needs to be done to keep us safe, but bring her along.”

Huntercombe considered searching for more wealth, but shuddered at visions of skin lesions and boils. He rubbed his itchy arms, strode out of the accursed castle, and down the steep steps. From there he boarded the rowboat and onto the ship. He prayed the ill winds of Man blew in the opposite direction.

Chapter 20

Nicholas struggled to move against iron chains, iron walls, and the iron clouds in his fevered mind. Pain burst in screaming bubbles when he attempted the tiniest of motions.

He gritted his teeth and spoke to the flaming shadow sitting on a throne. “I cannot lose her.”

“Why? So you can be knighted?” The devil sounded eerily like his grandsire when he spoke.

“Nobility be damned. I love her.”
So this is hell. An eternity of wishing for what can never be.

The horned creature raised an eyebrow, came closer, and chuckled. “Love? You never even told her the truth.”

“I had every intention. I was interrupted.” Nicholas conjured Fay and their sweet lovemaking. She floated into the room and lay down next to him. When he tried to kiss her, she faded away.

“Heed my words. I will see to it that she despises you for all eternity.” The devil smiled with flames in his eyes and sulfur on his breath.

Nicholas tried to slap the smug look off the demon’s face but could not move. Then the devil shrugged, leaving him chained to the wall like a hound. The flames of hell burned hot and bright, and the room spun.

Fay’s pretty face came to him again. His hands reached into the emptiness to clutch at her body and he moaned out her name.

She turned to him with disdain and hatred in her eyes. “You bastard.”

“Nooo.” Every time he grabbed for her, she disappeared into the fog, leaving him alone and shivering in the dark. The pallet of straw smelled of sickness and death. He kicked off his blankets and cried.

Eaton’s voice sounded over the roar of the flames of hell. “He comes out of the fever.”

Nicholas willed his eyes to open but darkness prevailed. At one point, Brother James prayed the last rites in Latin, and more flames devoured his soul.

When he woke again, surprisingly the fires had gone out. His mouth moved. “Water.”

His efforts were rewarded by a tepid broth. He swallowed hard over a lump and coughed. “How long?”

“A fever took you and . . .” The rest of Brother James’s words were lost in the blasting flames of fire and brimstone.

Eternity.

Much later, he forced an eyelid open, expecting to see the devil, and instead found a rather ordinary hut. Kind eyes from a gray-haired woman met his.

She stood from where she’d been sitting on the side of his pallet. “So. You’ve decided to live, after all? Just a moment.”

Dressed in plain brown tunic and white linen hat, she walked across the room to a huge array of pottery jars upon planks. She poured liquid into a large cup and again sat down beside him.

Weaker than a babe, he let her lift his head. “Where am I?”

“This is my cottage. I’m Helga, the healer. What do you recall?”

Nicholas struggled. Many visions of his life’s story flashed by. He focused on a beautiful girl child as his younger self played by the sea. He recognized Scarborough. The girl was his birth-sister. He remembered how she was presumed dead, to return years later. He remembered her wedding to Sir Thomas D’Agostine. He remembered his grandsire’s impossible demands. Then he remembered The Ax and Fay and moaned. “Where are my men?”

“When you showed no signs of living, they left you in my care.” The old woman wandered to a steaming black pot on a hook in the center of the room. She returned to force weak broth into his mouth.

“God’s blood? How long have I been here?” He held his breath, not really wishing to know the truth.

“For one full turn of the moon.” Another spoonful crammed into his mouth.

He swallowed, his heartbeat stopped, and he gasped, “It cannot be.”

“Aye. The fever that took you was strong. But you fought. Every day you called for the fey to come help you. I worried for your soul, lad. Should be to the good Lord you prayed, not the fairy folk.”

“Help me sit.”

She shook her head but did as asked.

He toppled back and banged his head into the pallet. The effort exhausted him.

“Now lad, don’t be discouraged. It’s going to take some time.”

“Find me a confessor. I’ll not waste this, my second chance at life. I begin anew without sin.”

Chapter 21

The coast of Wales, Castle Pembroke

Fay paced her prison cave, inhaled the tufa, and cursed. Once more, she broke off a piece of straw, placed it with the others, and counted. Seven days had passed since leaving the ship. With fists clenched, she recalled how she’d been beaten, tied up, and put in the hold. How she’d had to worm on her belly in order to eat the scraps they’d tossed down. The Ax would pay.

Her thoughts of revenge were interrupted by a sliver of orange that indicated someone approached. When a piece of flatbread slid under her door, she smelled the mold, and hurled it against the wall. It stuck for a moment and fell onto her pile of poo. Her horrid husband was no doubt vexed with her. Despite the ache to her jaw and her throbbing rib, she chuckled at Huntercombe’s astonished face last night when she’d bit instead of sucked. Oh, aye, he’d beaten her, but it was well worth it. He’d remember her today, every time he pissed.

When a key rattled in the lock, she jumped.
What does that vile man want now?
Iron groaned, the door creaked open, and she squeezed her eyes tight. She’d been so long in the dark, she was all but blinded by the torch carried by her guard.

But it wasn’t The Ax who spoke next, nor her guard. Instead, outside her cage, an old woman’s voice cackled, “Bloody pustules of Christ’s wounds. ’Tis foul smelling. I’ll nay go in there. Send her out.”

Fay’s guard clamped onto her bruised arm and dragged her out of the cave as she kicked and took a bite out of his hand. Mayhap her husband had more punishments readied for her, but she would nay go willingly.

“Leave us.” A familiar knurled index finger pointed out from under a great black cloak on a small woman.

“Huntercombe says she’s to be watched over at all times.” The knight in blue plaid frowned and looked more confused than usual.

“Would you rather I share how you enjoyed her naked form as I checked between her legs?” Intelligent eyes within the deep cowl sparkled. Aunt Agatha winked at Fay when the idiot turned his head.
What the devil?

“Make it quick.” He cursed, spit, and stomped out of view behind a damp stone wall.

Abruptly, her aunt came to life. She flung her wrapping over Fay and placed the cold shaft of a dagger into her hand. “Kill the guard. Go three flights up, turn to the right, and out the door. Understand?”

A bit stunned, Fay nodded as her heart raced. Vigor coursed through her body as the guard reacted to the noise, and raced forward. She ducked under his rising sword arm and sliced the dagger across his fleshy neck. Blood gushed. He fell to the rock floor, an astonished look forever stuck upon his face.

Horrified, Fay stared, unable to move.

She’d never seen her aunt so spry as she removed her boots and pushed them forward. “Gather your wits, girl. Go up the stairs. Turn Right. That will take you into the courtyard.”

“Aren’t you coming?” She found it almost impossible to pull away from the dead man’s gaze.

“Nay. Help me drag him into the cave. Cover his blood with rushes. Lock me in and douse the torch. We have it all worked out. Hurry now.”

We? What we? Given no time to ask questions, Fay did as told and dashed up the narrow staircase carved into the mountain. At the top, another of The Ax’s knights sat on a bench while chewing a greasy bird leg. “So? Does she bleed?”

Fay shook her head no and studied the ground, hoping she’d not to have to kill him. One death was plenty.

“Out with you, then.” Laughing, he coughed out a mouthful of meat and took a hard boot to her arse.

She gasped, stumbled onto her knees, and the bloody dagger almost slipped out of her hand. When he did not say more, she got up and raced down a dark hall lined with gilded portraits. At the end, a keystone arch waited, filled with sunlight and hope. Despite an overwhelming urge to run like hell, she bent, and hobbled slowly forward, imitating the old woman.

“You there. Hold.”
Holy Balls of Odin.
The dreaded voice of The Ax froze her in place.

She took a deep breath and shrunk deep into the cowl. Shaking, she prayed to the deaf Christian God as The Ax closed in on her.

This may be my last moment on earth.

“Tell me, old hag, is she with child?” He waited, fresh onions on his breath.

She pinched the hood tightly around her features and shook her head.

“You best be right.” He threw a halfpenny across the floor.

Was this a test? No serf would let such a thing go unnoticed. Dropping to hands and knees, she picked the coin out of the thatching, clutched it with white knuckles, and rose. Then she quickly tucked her young hands within the cloak’s long sleeves.

His boots inched closer and with it, his voice grew louder. “If I find she is with child, you die. Do you understand?”

Bastard.

Nodding, she braced for another kick. Instead, his huge feet swiveled, his spurs tore at the rushes, and he was gone.

Breath whooshed out, terror momentarily lessened, and she shuffled past one last set of guards. Just beyond, a courtyard swarmed with people. Once out of the keep, she fell on her knees in the middle of the busy square, unable to take another step. How long had it been since she’d eaten? Her stomach grumbled at the smell of roasted boar.

“Oils, apples, iron . . .” Vendors sang their wares in cacophony from a maze of booths. She needed to get out, but in what direction?

A young lad with concerned eyes approached, and handed her an apple. “Are you ill?”

She took a bite of blessed apple and showed him her coin. “Get me out of this keep and this can be yours.”

A smile flashed, she was reminded of her monk, and she quickly brushed away a tear. Her lover was lost to her forever. The only thing left was revenge. And she would have it. Nothing else mattered. Hate would be her strength.

As he led her around winding narrow streets of the village, she pondered her next move. They stopped at an intersection where both horse and human excrement pooled.

“Tell, me. Are you a good thief?” She jumped over the puddle with his help.

“Why do you ask?” Pausing, he turned and pursed his lips.

Fay hoped she’d judged the lad correctly. “If you find me a quiver and bow, and take me to a secluded wood, I’ll see to it we both eat well.”

“If you feed me, I’m yours for life.” A grin lit up his face and he pointed to an arch in the twelve-foot wall that surrounded the town. “Go through and walk on. I’ll catch up shortly.”

She nodded, put a hand on his, and said with earnest, “Say nothing about me to anyone, or we’ll both loose our heads.”

From there, she walked down the narrow road between the stone houses. How could she appear normal when any moment someone might recognize her and drag her back into hell? And what of her Aunt Agatha? The gatekeeper watched her closely but said nothing, then she dared hope she was free. In the distance were trees. There she could find something to eat.

She couldn’t wait to share with her monk all she had accomplished. Her throat tightened when she again had to remind herself that he was lost to her forever. How long before this pain would go away?

By the time her lad caught up, the castle turrets had disappeared behind a blanket of fall colors, and she was reminded that winter was not far off.

He gave her a cheery wave as he entered into the shade. In his hands he held a longbow with missing string and three misshapen arrows. “You’ve no idea how well people guard their weapons.”

“I’m afraid I do. This will not work without a string.” She shook her head, missing her own cherished weapons.

But his face beamed. He lifted his tunic and untied the flaxen rope holding up his braies. “I’m no idiot. Will this work?”

She gave him an encouraging smile, but she hadn’t wrapped her own weapon for many seasons. “It may take a bit of time. Can you find some beeswax or something sticky to help me bind it?”

“Tree pitch?”

She brightened. “That’ll do. But we need to get deeper into the forest before we do anything more.”

“I know just the place.” He took her by the hand and they walked deeper into the trees until she could barely put one foot in front of the other.

Finally, he stopped at a rune stone near a cave with the remnants of a stone ring for a hearth. His stomach grumbled loudly, and he glanced up at the rustling in the orange covered branches. “Can you shoot squirrels?”

She sat, rubbed her sore feet, and tried to sound hopeful. “That would be lovely but it might be hours before I can aim well and shoot. What I would not give for a slice of brown bread.”

With a bit of mischief in his eyes, he winked, and pulled a loaf from a linen bag hung over his shoulder. “A good servant knows the needs of his lady.”

Her mouth watered, she gobbled down the piece he handed her, and then had an awful thought. “You could’ve lost a hand. Although I am grateful, you must not steal for me again.”

Much heartened by some sustenance, she worked the belt into a proper bowstring. All the while she imagined sending an arrow into the face of The Ax, which made the work go faster.

That should’ve helped her to forget her monk and how they’d made love so sweetly. How his calloused fingers had touched her and brought her to heaven. What good would come of this lamenting? Any joy had left with him. She was doomed to walk this earth sad and alone. No mother, father, siblings, or lover. So be it. Far easier to ponder how she would kill off The Ax. She spat onto the ground and shouted at God in a spiteful prayer.
Liar
.

As quickly as it was thought, she let it go.
I apologize, uh, God Father, m’lord. After I kill The Ax, I pray that you kill me quickly, so I can join Brother Nicodemus in your heaven. He said you are a just God. If I’ve had so much bad luck in this life, it might be safe to assume I’ll have better in the next?”

After she finished her string, she put a knot in the end and grabbed the bow out of the nearby stream. The loop went over the top of the arc, the wood creaked, but the wet wood bent without breaking.

She smiled. It would do.

Next, she needed arrows. The bone tips of the old misshapen spears were surprisingly sharp and the feathers still useful. After rolling a wet shaft upon a rock until straight, she placed it into the bow and aimed at a tree in the distance. It went far to the left. She frowned, tried the next, and it sunk into the wood at the root of the tree. She whooped in glee.

This might take some time, but soon she would eat, then regain her strength. As if summoned by her good mood, a white tail flicked just beyond where she stood. A small doe flicked its ears and small black eyes stared. Without another thought, she aimed, shot, and the deer dropped to the ground.

By the time the lad had returned, she’d already gutted its belly, and her mouth salivated at the meal they would soon eat.

He jumped up and down, shouting, “Holy Jesus Christmas day!”

“Shush. We’re poachers. Thieves. To be found out is to die.” A strong vine sufficed as a rope around the animal’s hind legs. She threw the end over a tree limb, and lifted it up off the ground.

“Aye, but we’ll not die of hunger.” He nudged her with his elbow until she just had to return his happy grin.

Then his face dropped at the sight of her blistered hands. “Oh, nay. I’m a very useless manservant. Hand me your blade. I’ll finish this and get at the meat.”

In that moment, he reminded her of Aiden, and she smiled sadly. She’d never see her orphans again. With her new faith, she prayed that God would see to their wellbeing. For once she’d killed The Ax, her life would be over and she’d never have a chance to apprentice them all.

Stomach growling, she started a small fire, hoping it would not give them away, and they ate. When she could not take another bite of venison, she asked, “What is this place called? That castle?”

The lad looked up, rubbed his greasy mouth, and shook his head slowly back and forth. “How is it that you don’t know?”

“I am a kidnapped queen, and was brought here against my will on a boat.” She raised her eyebrows.

Meat spewed forth at his guffaw. “And I’m the Prince of Wales.”

She chuckled at the game. “You are? How peculiar. Together we will make our quest and have revenge on an evil laird. What is your name, good sir?”

Standing, he bowed. “George. Like the dragon-slayer.”

“Well, Sir George the-dragon-slayer, how well guarded are these woods?” She moved closer to the fire and added a few twigs to make it flame.

Watching her, his face suddenly became all-serious. “The king’s men guard the castles. The Welsh lords, what’s left of them, are in hiding. You picked the best time to become a poacher. Could you teach me that?” He pointed to the bow.

“It may take some time . . .”

“But I’m your servant for life, am I not?”

If only he knew how short hers was to be. Perhaps it would be well to leave him with a skill that would someday earn him a living. “If we have the time, I will. Now. Are there any you trust in the village?”

“A few.”

“Do you think you can trade our stag for warmer clothes and less perishable food? While there, guard your words well, Sir George. The penalty for poaching is high.”

He nodded, readied himself,  and then rushed back down the road.

Long after he was gone, she lay her head against the earth, hoping to dream of revenge, but instead, her monk appeared, all bloodied and broken.

Back in Man, Nicholas woke when the hens clucked and the cocks crowed. A fire in the center hearth crackled and warmed the room, but his blood was still cold. Six weeks. He moaned, picked up a small dagger, and made what he vowed would be the last notch in his pallet. By the bloody palms of Christ, today would be different. He pushed up with arms that had regained some strength, sat, and adjusted the wood slats on either side of his right leg.