How to Seduce a Queen: A Medieval Romance Novel (3 page)

Chapter 5

The Isle of Man

Far below, the ocean crashed against the rocky shore. The north walls of the keep of Man melded into the black cliff which fell to the ocean. Above, a sliver of moon disappeared, giving way to orange light of early morn. The sky went on for miles and free clouds traveled to places unknown. The sails of a pirate ship disappeared in the offing, no doubt to the Danes or far beyond that.
Mayhap someday
, thought the former queen of Man,
I will do the same
.

Lady Fay tugged her bow off her shoulder and traversed the top of the wall to the opposite side of the castle. She’d tucked her long tunic into her belt, exposing her calves, but allowing her to walk with ease. Wild hair whipped about her face and into her eyes. In the distance, sixteen robed, tonsured men crossed her long fields where woolly sheep grazed. A Saxon rowboat rested nearby on her pebbly shore.

“Do you think this could be the king’s latest suitor?” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

Sean shook his mailed head. “Unlikely. They’re unarmed and dressed in rags.”

“They need to go.” Her arrow flew in a perfect arc and landed within inches of the man in the lead.

He jumped back, but instead of running, he stretched his hands up to the sky and shouted. “Father forgive them for they know not what they do.”

A larger man dropped off his cloak and faced her in just braies, hose, and boots. He put a hand over his eyes to block the sun and gazed up. “We are unarmed, peaceful monks. Prithee, allow us to enter.”

“What would you have me do?” Frowning, Sean put down his bow and clenched his sword’s hilt.

“Shush. Listen up. The leader speaks again.” The parapet wall chilled her belly as she squeezed between the stones and leaned way over. It’d been some time since any had dared approach the keep, and her curiosity was piqued.

The one clad in braies, cupped his hands about his mouth, and cried from the field far below, “My brethren and I are here to warn the Lady Fay.”

She took a deep breath and shouted back, “You can warn me from where you speak and be on your way.”

“For I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me no drink.” The half-naked man continued to walk forward. Even at this distance, he did not have the shoulders of a priest, more of a warrior.

Sean, always more pious, made a sign of the cross. “He quotes scriptures. ’Twould be best you let them in.”

She rolled her eyes, not convinced, and bellowed one last time, “Verra well. Just you, monk. Tell the rest to stand fast or die.”

The leader grabbed his robe and held it high. “Can I put this back on?”

“Nay.” With an internal grin at her boldness, she turned and said, “Let’s meet this alleged holy man at the front gate.”

Together, they climbed down the parapet ladder and ran the flights of stone around the wall’s edge. At the lowest level, gears groaned, and strong oak clunked upon the rocks. She paused to let her skirt free from her belt and grabbed her bow.

They met the half-naked man in the middle of the drawbridge. Underneath, the foamy ocean churned.

When she recognized the only man she’d ever cared for, her heart skipped a beat and her womanly folds dampened and throbbed. Then, irked by her body’s traitorous response, she pulled a knife from her kirtle’s belt. How dare he? Had the bastard son of Bruce gone daft?

She drew her bow taut. “Blood of all the saints. What are
you
doing here? And in monk’s cloth?”

He gently smiled, looked to the heavens, and palms moved slowly up toward the sky. “I’m sorry, my child. Have we met?”

“You know full well that we have. In Scarborough.”
Where I all but threw myself onto your pallet. Where you sent me away without a word of explanation. After which, I cried for days.

He brought his palms together, interlaced his fingers, and bowed his tonsured head. “Oh nay, dear, dear, lady. You must be speaking of my half-brother, Nicholas. I assure you, I am not he. See here. My hair is dark, his is red. I practice faith. He, debauchery.”

Her face heated. Was it possible that this man was not Sir Nicholas de Bruce? He did seem rather different. Older. Less like a cock in a hen house. And bearded. Bald except for a ring of dark hair. It was so hard to be certain. After all, she’d only known him a few days. How could she have fallen so completely for him? It defied all reason.

She grunted and lowered her weapon. If what he said was true, and he
was
a holy man, she dared not risk more wrath from the pope.

His eyebrows raised and familiar hazel eyes bored into hers as they had across the table last summer. “I hope you left before my half-brother defiled your good name.”

Her blood boiled.
That
was much more like the Nicholas of Scarborough she remembered. “So
priest
, what is it that you want? Speak now and be gone quickly.”

The man reached for her hand, but Sean, thankfully, stepped between them. Otherwise she might’ve pulled on it, and sent him off-balance, into the moat.

“I was just going to apologize to the lady. I’m here to make amends. I also came with a warning. King Edward is done with Wales and looks toward the Isle of Man. He sends my half-brother to wed you.”

“And King Alexander sends a Scottish suitor. As do the Danes. No doubt the devil himself expects me to wed. Let them all come to blows outside my walls. I will marry none.”
What ridiculousness.

The Nicholas look-alike shrugged. “We could converse better inside the keep, away from the roar of the ocean. Mayhap in a chapel?”

She eyed his thick warrior arms, obviously well accustomed to carrying a sword. His upper body was lined with firm muscles and angry scars. His stance was too proud for a priest and it seemed he had no damned issue with her studying his mighty chest.

“First, explain why you look, so . . . so,
not
monk-like.” She waited and shot him her best royal glare.

His voice gentled, as if speaking to a wee babe. “We are former knights. We pursue redemption for our many sins. We search the Holy Isles, for, uh, life-giving water that flows and gives out uh, God’s milk of forgiveness . . . and for the Holy Grail. Aye. The grail. We ask to stay at your keep until we finish our quest.”

Oh, for the love of Christ and all of his angels. She rolled her eyes, grunted, and pointed down the road where sheep grazed on either side. “There are inns in the village.”

“We have no coin. Like Christ himself, we travel with nothing but the robes that cover us.” He had the audacity to look pious.

An evil notion took hold and her heart did an inner jig. Was it possible her life’s fortunes had finally changed direction? Sixteen solid men working in her keep could make short work of her long list. What did it matter if they were trying to trick her? She would get revenge by way of their servitude.

“Your brethren will not mind some honest labor in trade for food and a roof?”

“We would be honored. May I put my robe back on?”

She nodded and the Nicholas-monk ducked into the rough wool tunic. He tied it with a belt of hemp and smiled as if she’d bequeathed him with a fortune of gold. Harrumph. He would get his due.

To the rest of her knights that had gathered along the length of the drawbridge behind her, she said, “Find them spots in the stables. They can shine your armor and groom your horses. Let them know that the Manx value charity, as long as it’s earned.”

She jammed an index finger into the monk’s chest, whoever he was. “You. Come with me.”

They crossed the moat where the gatekeeper stood at attention. From there, they climbed the stone staircase that ran along the outside wall. At the top level, they crossed the plaza to arrive at the door to the long main hall.

After placing her bow on a hook beside the keystone arch, she sat on a bench by the center hearth and shook her head. The fire warmed, dispelling the chill of the ocean’s wind.

“Soooo . . . The likeness is uncanny. Sit and tell me your tale and it’d better be worth the time, or you can
row
back to Wales.”

“’Tis not so strange for brothers, or even half-brothers to look alike, is it?” He folded his hands into his huge sleeves, and batted his lashes, no doubt trying to appear innocent as a lamb.

“Nooo . . . but . . .” She was still not convinced, but then again, couldn’t imagine the irritating lout in Scarborough looking quite so gentle and kind. Damnation. She just couldn’t be sure behind that beard.

The monk squatted beside her, cupped her hands in his, and gazed into her face with earnest. “I assure you, we are
not
the same man. We are brothers with uncommonly similar features.”

She let go her breath and slipped out of his grasp. Best not to touch him. “What do you need to tell me?”

He sat down, his gaze intense. “Edward is not happy that you’re on the throne of Man. Rather than kill you, he’s sending Nicholas de Bruce to wed you. He considers it an honor for you to join with his mightiest ally in the north.”

Her hands clenched and her voice shook with anger. “King Alexander rules Man. He earned that right by murdering my father and after, my stepbrother. Edward has no say. If I were to marry, which I assure you I will not, Nicholas the Bruce bastard would not be an honor, rather a curse.”

She thought she detected a twitch in the priest’s jaw. No doubt, he too, was low born, and she’d just insulted him.

With closed eyes, he clasped his hands and seemed to be deep in prayer before saying, “I’ve decided to help you. To keep my stepbrother and Edward at bay.”

“What do you expect in return, priest?” Her eyes narrowed.

“Prithee, address me as Brother Nicodemus. And you wound me. I’m a humble servant of God. I need nothing in return.”

“H’mph. To whom do you owe fealty? And why does your master let you wander so freely?”

He seemed honest enough, eyes guileless as he said, “We follow Saint Francis, a humble order. We own nothing, and wander the world, preaching his saintly ways. My master reports to the Bishop of Canterbury who allows me the freedom to travel.”

“So he doesn’t mind if you tarry here?”

A log in the fire pit clunked as it dropped and his gaze jumped to the flames. “He would insist. Your people are in dire need of salvation.”

Salvation? On Man? Where old gods still ruled with anvil and ax?

She tried not to snort her disdain. “Verra well. You can stay. I need workers, and obviously you need keepers. Gather your brethren and have them wait in the stables. I’ll send someone to direct your humble chores.”

For the first time, he looked put out. “But our duties lie with the poor, the downtrodden, not with wealthy landholders.”

“Don’t fret. We’ve plenty of downtrodden after my dear stepbrother rose against Alexander.”

She waited for something haughty to come out of his mouth, but he just nodded and shuffled off with tonsured head bowed low. That couldn’t possibly be Nicholas-the-Arrogant. Could it?

Chapter 6

Her comment about his low birth rankled. Struggling to keep his face serene, he descended via the well-house stairs to the lowest level of the keep. There, two of the arrogant queen’s guards watched over his men who milled about in the empty courtyard.

Eaton strode out of the cave that served as the stables and muttered, “Well?”

“We have permission to stay.”

His friend slapped him on the back and pushed him into the dark. “Well done.”

As was the norm, his antics nearly cost them dearly. Within seconds, a glowering knight ducked into the cave with hand on sword’s hilt. Recovering quickly, Eaton made an exaggerated cross over a goat’s head and bowed in prayer. When a palfrey nibbled his shoulder, he gave it a blessing as well.

The sentry grunted and moved back into the sun.

Nicholas exhaled and whispered, “There’s just one thing. In payment for her patronage, we’re to do her manual labor.”

Eaton snickered. “Mayhap she’ll chain you to her chambers, as concubine.”

“Quickly, look pious.” He closed his eyes and chanted in Latin as the one she called Sean rushed across the courtyard with sword raised.

Cursing at the muck, Eaton dropped to his knees.

When boots stopped at the doorway, Nicholas opened one eye, raised his hands to the cave roof, and smiled what he hoped was beatifically. “Peace be with you, my son.”

“Thank you, uh, Father.” The lady’s first knight sheathed his sword with face red, and crossed himself.

Brushing the shit off his tunic, Eaton rose. “We were just blessing the beasts as the good Saint Francis instructed.”

“Best be done quickly. The meals are inedible and the keep is a bloody mess. If you can improve either of those things, you can stay.” He glared.

Nicholas grabbed a shovel and lifted ripe manure into a barrel. “Can I ask, my son, why is it you have no serfs?”

“Ye may not because I wish to eat before sunset.” The knight grabbed the shovel out of Nicholas’s hands and threw it across the stables. “The muckin’ can wait. There’s a dovecote in back. Expect to feed seven men, Lady Fay, her aunt, and a tableful of laddies.”

Eaton whistled through his teeth as the angry man stomped out of view. “I say, do you know how to cook pigeon?”

Nicholas shook his head “Christ’s blood, nay. Go ask amongst the men. Find out if any can.”

Not much later, he stood at a long plank table in front of a brick wall struggling to deprive bird bodies of a little meat. Sir Gale dished gravy onto a flat bread with blackened edges. Outside, others raked a few coals from the ovens.

“I thought you said you could cook.” Nicholas glowered at Small John, who pounded dough until gray.

The lad looked up, eyes wide. “Nay, sir. I believe
you
said that.”

“Well, your aunt is a baker, is she not?” He grabbed another pigeon and gutted it. Before today, he’d never realized how much preparation went into a pie.

“Aye, but I’ve been in your service forever.” Dough stuck to the stoneroller, John scraped it off with his nails, and the ball got grayer still.

Nicholas’s stomach turned. “Damnation. Where’s Eaton?”

“Shaking rat droppings off the linens.” The boy did well to hide his smirk.

Nicholas cursed and tried to hide his own grin. He had to make this work or they’d be cast out before he could begin to woo the elusive lady of the keep. “Can you gut?”

“Aye. I would imagine.” The boy reached over and gathered the carcasses.

“
I’ll
make trenchers.” He pointed to the page’s ignoble attempt at dough. “Throw that to the dogs, if they’ll have it.”

Flour, butter, and water. How hard can it be?
Tentatively, he cupped a pile of brown powder onto the table, frowned, and stared.
Water next? And how much?

A cackle sounded from behind, and a familiar old lady grinned with eyes bright. “Never done this before, have ye, laddie?”

“Nay.” He grimaced.

“Ever cook anything ’tall?” Lady Agatha peered at the pile of flour in front of him.

He shrugged. “Only on a spit, over a fire.”

“Verra well. I’ll help ye on one condition.” Keen eyes pierced him to the soul.

“Aye?” He raised an eyebrow, full well knowing her request before she said it.

“You marry my great-niece.” A hard wooden spoon to his forehead stopped his protests short. “I know who ye are, just not the why of it. Bald head and beard aren’t enough to fool these old eyes. Yer that bastard Sir Nicholas, grandson of Annandale.”

His heart raced. What would it cost to silence her? He looked about, then hissed, “Have you told anyone?”

She gave him an innocent look and grinned with missing lower teeth. “Me? Nay. I want her married off. ’Tis high time. Do what needs to be done. So, do we have an agreement or not?”

His outraged conscience screamed in protest, but he refused to give it heed. “I give you my word.”

As if she could see his duplicity, she peered for a moment more, and gave up with a heavy sigh. Then, she made a perfect flat bread on the plank table and said, “Now, do it yerself. Best get a few more of your
brethren
into the kitchen.”

The dough stuck to his fingers as he rubbed them together. “Wait. First, explain. Why can’t you get serfs from your village to help with chores?”

Her old eyes lowered, watered, and she shook her head side to side. “They will not come, the way she is.”

“The way what is?” Nicholas swallowed hard, and braced for her answer.

Tears fell through the wrinkles in her ancient face. “’Tis not natural. A woman must lust after a man, nay another woman.”

“I am sure this is all a big misunderstanding.” He patted her gently and a white handprint appeared on the small of her back.

Surely it was not true. What about last summer, in Scarborough, when he’d found her lying on his pallet? That was not the action of a woman who preferred bedding another woman. Something was very much amiss.