How to Seduce a Queen: A Medieval Romance Novel (14 page)

She sighed. “I was Alexander’s ward. Having no children of his own, he grew a tenderness for me. Except for recently.”

“Because?” He raised his eyebrows.

Her cheeks heated. Her next words would no doubt raise his anger once again. “I refused the man he sent to marry me. Two, actually. And the third that I did wed searches for me as we speak. No doubt, he will arrive soon from Pembroke's keep and demand me back. Please, do not make me.” She fell to her knees and clasped his hands.

He scowled. “Unwed queens should not bed bastards. Or monks.”

“I fully understand that.” She brushed away a tear and swallowed hard. “I was foolhardy. I allowed myself to be seduced.” She choked out what she hoped would placate him. “After all, I
am
only a woman. Weak by nature.”

He frowned. “True. True. But if you have a male child within your belly, England and Scotland could go to war.”

“’Twas not my doing. You heard Annandale. I am the victim here.” How was it that men could do the most horrendous of deeds, and the woman blamed? Just as God blamed Eve for Adam’s fall.

He paced by the fire, apparently done studying her face. “Here is what I know. Peace in the realm is tenuous. I dare not risk Alexander’s ire by killing his ward and favored knight’s wife. And if you are pregnant, I cannot send you back. I will make my decision in the turn of two full moons. I best not hear your name spoken until then, except that you are behaving as a well-bred queen.”

He motioned for a page with a wave of his hand. “See to it that she is well guarded. If she escapes, the whole of this keep shall know my wrath.”

Chapter 25

The inn at Carlisle had much more to offer than the one they’d left in Wales. It boasted two stone stories, three sleeping rooms with over thirty clean pallets, and two full meals a day. A modern in-wall hearth on the main floor warmed the whole building and served as kitchen. All one required for this opulence was plenty of silver coins.

“What have you heard?” Ferguson rushed across the dining area. With pointed hood, wool tunic ending just above his knees, and thick hose, he looked more Dane than Scot.

“She’s under the king’s guard as well as Annandale’s. It’s said that I, however, am presumed dead. So, I’ve been sitting here and thinking. That could actually prove to be a boon.” Nicholas, covered head to toe in a black cowl, had been resting against the far wall where he could see all comings and goings on. He sat up straight, causing the wooden bench under his arse to scrape against the stone flooring.

But Ferguson was fast. He grabbed a hen’s leg off from his plate and chewed appreciatively.

Nicholas grabbed the rest of the bird before that disappeared as well. “Have you ever heard how the first steward of Carlisle wanders the castle late at night?”

Chewing thoughtfully, the thief shook his head, no.

“What if I, being also just as dead, were to do so as well?” Nicholas smirked, thinking of what a grand jest this could be.

Ferguson, however, didn’t look convinced. “One arrow through your body would prove otherwise.”

“Let us say, for this discussion, that an arrow passed straight through me? Or I jumped from the highest tower and survived?” Truly, his companion had no imagination and Nicholas wished, not for the first time, that he plotted with Eaton who could always be counted on to understand a masterplan.

“These unnatural things bode evil for all, but I will rely on you.” He crossed himself three times and muttered under his breath as he picked the last meat off the bone.

Nicholas grinned, broke off a piece of bread, and finished his meal. “Perfect. Come, there’s much to be done.”

Later that night, when the full moon faded behind thick clouds, Nicholas balanced along the edge of the parapets. He checked the tiny strip of black powder that ran between the lamps. Below, it seemed that the rest of of God’s creation slept. Giving one final prayer, he took a deep breath, and blew into the ox horn. The obnoxious bleat burst apart the silence.

On cue, Ferguson rushed into the marching area in front of the main hall. “Up there! It’s the ghost of Nicholas de Bruce.”

And so the absurdity began. An arrow whizzed by Nicholas’s head. He ducked, lit his black powder, and waited.
Bloody wounds of Christ.
It spit once, hissed, and went out. Hands shaking, he covered his eyes and lit the next. That one flared so bright that he saw only spots for a moment, before all went dark.
Damnation.

An arrow bit into his mail by the thigh, but not deep.

Ignoring the pain, he pulled it out, and tugged the specially-crafted vest over his head. He adjusted it so that the shaft protruded out of the front as well as the back. Then he lit the next flare and stood behind it, letting sheep’s blood pour from the fake wound.

“Oooowwww,” he howled, and lit the last and largest pile of black dust. Thankfully, it went off with a thunderous bang. The sky blackened under the smoke which slowly lowered into the courtyard. No one could’ve asked for a better display. Nicolas chuckled at the chaos, threw the vest into the moat, and descended via the rope he had stored earlier.

Men below shouted, some prayed, and a few of the older knights tried to calm the younger. His grandfather, Annandale, shouted from the keep window. A few brave souls ventured up the ladders, but Nicolas was long gone, already dashing across the courtyard. Dressed as a guard and with his head low, he raced into the midst of those piling out, praying he’d not be recognized.

At the bottom of the dungeon stairs, he sighed in relief when he spied the same one-armed guard as last spring. The man still reeked of ale which was preferable to the smell of feces and urine coming from the one dark room below.

Nicholas nudged him. “Wake up, you old goat.”

“Huh? Is that you, laddie? What’re you doing, this side of the irons?” The old man sat up and coughed.

“I don’t have much time. Unlock the lady. If anyone asks, say I overwhelmed you.” How could they have put her in such a place?

“What?”

“Apologies.” Nicholas grabbed the keys and punched him in the chin. The man went down, snoring soundly once again. He probably wouldn’t even remember the interaction.

When he swung open the cage door, rats scattered, and the stench made his eyes water. “Fay? Where are you? Hurry, lass.”

Curled up in a corner, she stared with mouth agape. Her hair hung matted into strings. Dark circles lined her eyes. Her kirtle was torn and stained. His heart tore in two. He had done this to her.

Stepping over God-knows-what, he unrolled a monk’s large robe, and pulled it over her head. Like a babe, he fed her arms through, pulled the cowl over her face, and cradled her thin body close. “I am so sorry, angel.”

Her arms clasped around the back of his neck and she placed her mouth close to his ear. “As soon as I am well, I will kill you.”

That
was the Fay he knew and God help him, loved. He laughed for the first time in days and dashed with her up the stairs. She was alive. That was all that mattered.

As he had surmised, none worried about a guard who carried an infirmed monk into the fresh air. Especially in an evening where ghosts roamed freely. Looking both ways and seeing no one, he walked with her into the stables. From there, he carried her into the tool shed and bolted the door.

He found the bag he’d stored earlier and handed her a roasted hen from the inn. Moaning her pleasure, she ate until only bones were left, then looked up a mite guilty. “Oh dear. Did you want some?”

He smiled, shook his head
no
, and hugged her tight. Damn she felt good. Curled in his arms, she was all the sustenance he needed. “Sleep, if you can. I’ll keep watch. We’ll talk later.”

When her eyes closed, he placed a chaste kiss over her lips. He had come so far, and waited so long, surely she would not mind. She had to forgive him or all was lost.

She woke for a moment, sighed, and kissed him back ever so sweetly. Then her breathing steadied again. Poor dear, she was exhausted. He had arrived just in time.

He adjusted her weight off his injured leg, and inhaled her essence. How could he ever give her up?

He had to, unless . . . damnation. Unless she carried his child. Surely a babe could not be conceived with just two beddings? Without thinking, his hand moved to her belly but could detect nothing.

What if she carried a child, their child, in her womb? All his previous plans dissolved into ether as he held her into his chest. He’d find a way to stay with her forever, or die trying.

Chapter 26

In the small space, the man she’d known as Nicodemus caressed her and whispered little words of affection while she pretended to sleep. Was it possible that he cared for her? That everything that happened on the Isle of Man was not a cruel jest? She tried to make reason of it, but when completely fatigued, nothing made sense.

While she slept, she dreamt of a red-haired infant until a hand covered her mouth. Startled, she began to struggle until a familiar soft voice whispered in her ear. “We need to go.”

He lifted her onto her feet, tugged the huge monk’s hood over her head, and cracked open the shed door. A hundred or more stables lay in front and the horses nickered, unbelievably loudly. The stable master, who seemed to know Nicholas, greeted them with a worried nod and motioned them forward to the outside door. His dog stayed silent at his side while pigeons cooed their opinions from the rafters.

Taking her chin into has hand, Nicholas said, “If anyone stops you, bless them, and move onto the outer gate. Walk straight to the second ancient stone and pause as if praying. I’ll find you there.”

What else could she do when he pushed her out into the courtyard? Every time she turned, someone was forcing her somewhere else. When she stumbled on the long robe, she tugged the extra wool into her hemp belt. Sleeves reached her knees. The cowl was so oversized, she could hardly make out her own feet as they scuffed the flagstones.

“Brother? Matins are in the other direction.” A castle guard stopped her at the main gate.

Piss upon everything holy.
Would she never catch a moment of luck? Sleeves flapping, she made a sign of the cross that reached from sky to ground. Then she cleared her throat and prayed there was a colony of lepers nearby or she’d be back in the dungeon in a heartbeat.

“I go to aid the unclean,” she rasped in her best imitation of a male voice.

The guard jumped back as if facing an asp, and shouted to another at the gate. “Let the priest pass.”

She took a deep breath and ambled across the area between the two mighty outer walls. At the drawbridge, she turned and cursed the keep to hell for all time. She was sure her newfound God would understand, being omnipotent and all.

Under her feet, the stench of the moat turned her stomach. She shivered and gazed across the sea while the cold salty wind blew at her robe. She missed her home. Missed her boys. How long had it been? Weeks? Months? She tried to recall.

There’d been several days on the boat, two weeks in Wales, a week in the forest with her boy. Then another to get to Carlisle and another in the dungeon. Two months since she’d made love to her monk in the cottage.

Nay. Not a monk. A duplicitous snake.

Yet she still loved him. How could that be?

Straight down the road, she waddled as she had seen holy men do, pausing only to assess the long line of carts that queued at the great arch. Most were filled with goods for Christmastide. At a baby’s cry, she paused and blessed it. The mother thanked her which filled her with an odd mix of joy and guilt.

When she walked away, she secretly rubbed her belly. Would her son resemble her monk?

Mayhap it would not be such a bad thing, afterward, to enter the religious life and start an order on the Ilse of Man. Huntercombe would eventually annul their marriage. He’d have to find another willing wench to bear his solid fists and huge babes.

Finally, the two tall Druid stones appeared alongside the road. She let out a sigh and ventured a glance behind. Where was Nicholas? Why did she trust him to do as promised? After all, up to now, all he had done was lie to her.

A horse whinnied and stopped behind her, and she relaxed. Nicholas had not let her down.

“You there, monk. Halt.”
Eaton?

Damn you, God. Why?
She lifted her tunic and dashed into the forest while Eaton’s horse crashed through the brush and followed on her heels. A branch caught her monk’s hood, causing her wild hair to whip about her face.

“It’s her. Get her.” The hateful man drew closer.

Not in this lifetime.
She jumped over a branch and headed to where the trees were most dense, hoping against all hope that horses could not follow. There, the forest deepened and grew dark. A small mole darted away as she crawled forward on hands and knees. Ignoring the cuts to her skin, she pushed away the brambles.

“She went that way,” Eaton shouted from too close behind.

A fallen tree lay ahead, piled high with leaves. Where the trunk was crooked, she scooted under, and scooped the leaves around her sides. Her heart pounded so loud she was sure he could hear.

Overhead, a charger slowed and she held her breath. Where was Nicholas?

The horse whinnied. Eaton cursed and paused.

She prayed.

He left.

Moments later, the woofs of excited hounds frightened her out from under the tree. She picked up a large stone and waited to be torn to shreds. Odd. The only thought that she could maintain was whether or not Nicholas would mourn her death.

Nearby, the brush moved, she tightened her grip, and gritted her teeth. She would not be sent back to the dungeon. This time, she would fight to the death.

Time stood still, the birds stopped chirping, and she readied for a fight. Raising her arms, she imagined Eaton’s head being bashed by her rock.

The branches split open and . . . wait. Nicholas? She dropped the stone and fell into his arms, sobbing. His strong, warm body comforted her. Since when had she come to need him so very much?

He muttered a short prayer of thanksgiving into her hair. But then a charger broke through the clearing and he stiffened.

Eaton loomed overhead, high atop his mighty steed. “Well done, Nicholas.”

She moaned. What game was this? Why had he rescued her if only to take her back to Carlisle? At the thought of dungeon rats, she turned and vomited out the hen she’d eaten last night.

“Give us a moment, Eaton, she’s ill.” He held her hair and wiped her face as if they were friends.

“Very well, but if I do, I want a full reward.” Eaton shot her monk a toothy grin, his white horse whinnied, and they disappeared into the trees.

Nicholas leaned in and whispered in her ear, “Listen lass. Trust me. I can make this right.”

If she wasn’t so damn ill, she would’ve struck him with the rock nearby. She hissed, “You must be daft.”

“I beg of you. Make no attempts to escape. My first plan has failed, but I’ll come for you anon.”

She stared incredulously. He wanted her to return to the dungeon? “I’m not going back to that vile place. I’d sooner die here. Please. If you love me, put a knife into my heart and let this end.”

His voice cracked and he hugged her to his chest. “Nay. You will ride north to No-Man’s-Land. My brother-in-law and s—”

Eaton’s great beast broke through the forest. Sullen, he said, “If I didn’t know you better, I’d swear you were besotted.”

“Shut it. We’ll take her back to Annandale and collect our fee. I’ll share half when I’m knighted.” Without a care, he dropped her to the ground.

As she spit out pine needles, she fumed. A dolt. That was what she was. A dolt.

Eaton leaned over and said, “Hand her up. ’Tis good to have you back, my friend. Both from the dead, and from the spell of the witch of Man.”

Fay moaned. So that was the total of her worth to him. Knighthood? She let him grab her by the waist and put her into the horrid knight’s lap.

Trust him? Let all the Gods piss on him.
She’d been duped again. Where was her good sense when it came to The-Bastard-of-Scarborough?