How to Seduce a Queen: A Medieval Romance Novel (5 page)

Chapter 9

Once back in the keep, Nicholas asked for the whereabouts of Lady Fay. Apparently, she’d ridden off with quiver and bow. Tired from the long walk, and barely having slept, he lay down in the stables and dozed.

The tines of a pitchfork poked at his backside. “Get up, ye’ lazy sodden monk.”

Still groggy, Nicholas jumped with knife to his assailant’s throat. Loki barked madly, circled, and growled.

Sores of Christ
. It was one of Fay’s countless orphans. The young man tried to squirm out of his grasp, but Nicholas held fast. “Forgive, me, my son. I was deep in prayer.”

“Was not.” The blond, young teenager shot him an insolent look that in some circles would’ve had him lying in a pool of blood by now.

Nicholas growled into his ear. “And I’m waiting to hear what He has to say about you sticking a prong into my holy arse. He may suggest I slice your throat.”

“Y-y-you would not, w-w-would you?” He trembled.

At the scent of the lad’s urine, Loki whimpered, waking Nicholas fully. Oh for the love of all things holy. His leg was pissed upon. “State your name.”

“Andrew, son of the son of the seed of Magnus. Nephew to the queen.” He jutted out his chin.

Nicholas well understood the underlying tone and put his knife down, but continued to hold on to the lad’s shoulder. He tried to speak a bit more gently. “How old are you? Why aren’t you working?”

A spark of anger lit the lad’s eye. “Who would have me? Bastard son of the son of a defeated king.”

Nicholas’s heart went out to the boy. His position in life was all but impossible. Neither serf, nor priest, nor knight. “I’ll speak to Sir Ferguson on your behalf. Mayhap he will allow you to begin some warrior training. Regardless, you’d best not poke a knight when he sleeps.”

“I thought you were a monk.” He glowered in the dimly lit cave that served as the stable.

Nicholas sighed and scratched his itchy bald head. “I’ve slept on battlefields. There, one learns the only way to survive is to wake up with a fast slice across the enemy’s throat. Do you ken?”

He let go of the boy who raced out the door faster than a hare. No doubt to find a change of clothing. Convinced that Andrew would never do anything so foolhardy again, Nicholas put the horses out into the courtyard, and began the work of cleaning the stables.

He hung his tunic on a nail, tightened the belt around his braies, and grimaced at having to wear sandals instead of boots. His respect for Franciscans grew daily.

By late afternoon, rivers of sweat rolled off his body. It was good to do a healthy, godly chore. One without lies and deceit. The job was near finished when Fay’s palfrey whinnied outside. Forgetting his attire, he walked out to take charge of the beast and to help her down.

Her face, rosy from the riding, became even redder when she spotted him. Instead of lowering her gaze, as more befitting a maiden, she stared without mercy at his braies, which were not loose enough to hide his growing attraction.

A chivalrous knight would’ve donned tunic or turned, but his quest was to light a fire between her legs and he hoped it was working.

He grabbed her waist, and lifted her down. “Apologies, m’lady, for my attire. I’ve been cleaning. Allow me to help you.”

A tall lass, she met him eye to eye as she licked her lower lip, and tucked a loose strand of red hair into her long braid.

He moaned as his want swelled, aching toward its goal.

“Oh.” She stared down between them, seemingly frozen for a moment. Then she blushed and hurried into the stables.

She stopped where he’d hung shovels, pitchforks, and any manner of tool with handle. Saddles sat upon newly constructed four-legged holders. Oiled leather shined like never before. Reddish pottery jars stood at attention in a neat row. A fresh torch was ready for use in an iron holder. The floor, were it not dirt, would’ve sparkled.

She touched the hanging tools and fingered pots, reverently. “This is miraculous.”

He cleared his throat, annoyed that the horses had lived in such filth. “No, m’lady.
This
is what a proper stable should look like. Who’s in charge? They should be stoned.”

Her eyes went wide, her mouth dropped open, and she paled.
God’s blood. The woman took me literally?

She whispered, “How could I’ve known? Until I was sent here, I lived as a princess. I’ve no idea how to manage a stable.”

Nicholas cursed his stupidity, patted her palfrey, and handed her a currycomb, hoping to undo his mistake. “’Tis but a turn of phrase,” he said offhandedly. “Saint Francis teaches us all beasts should be treasured. Let me show you.”

He stood as close as he dared, with her back against his naked chest. With one arm wrapped around her waist, he guided her hand. His swollen want pushed against her arse, and he bit down on his tongue. When she sighed and leaned back into him, he boldly let his hand inch up. The need to touch her drove him.

He cupped her breast, squeezed, and when she did not move away, he slipped his hand inside her tunic. “Tell me something, lass. What happened in Scarborough? With my stepbrother?”

“Honestly? Nothing.” She laughed without mirth. “I thought he cared for me. His eyes were warm when he gazed upon me, like yours . . . he didn’t tell you, did he?”

“We don’t speak.” He continued to comb with one hand, while caressing her puckering nipple with the other.

“I took off my kirtle, and waited in his chambers. I thought he and I would . . . you know. Kiss.”

Kiss? Holy God.
Nicholas sighed as he remembered how beautiful she was that night. How dangerous the castle, and that just behind the walls, spies watched from secret passages. Eyes that had the power to take her away and rape her.

“And then?” He barely trusted himself to ask.

Her voice cracked. “He called for Aunt Agatha. Made it known I could never return. Oh Nicodemus. How could I have misread him so fully?” She turned to him, eyes filled with tears.

Dear God, had he known, he would have found a way to wed her. “Did you spend much time with him? Give him a chance to know you? Did he make promises?”

She sniffed. “No. Aunt Agatha would give me no alone time with him. I thought perhaps . . .”

“If you bedded him, he would marry you? Take you away from Man?” Nicholas had been thinking the very same thing that night.

“Aye.” Her eyelashes, wet with tears, blinked against his chest.

He was undone at the unfairness of fate. “You should have told him, lass.”

“Aye. I suppose I should have. Now all is lost.”

He held her into his chest and whispered into her sweet -smelling hair. “Mayhap he was nobler than you give him credit for? A man should not take such liberties with an—” He cursed under his breath as hooves pounded across the drawbridge. Letting go of her, he jumped away.

Damn all the devils to hell. Horse frothing, face fuming, Sir Ferguson dismounted. He glared thunderbolts as he regarded Nicholas’s shirtless body and her guilty face.

He stepped between them and scolded Fay, “You should not ride so far ahead alone. Again, I find myself searching everywhere. This needs to stop.”

Oblivious to the depth of his ire, she waved him aside. “You were too slow.”

“When you’re married to me, you will obey.” His hand clenched his sword, looking as if he would cleave someone in two.

Nicholas gritted his teeth and managed to hold his tongue, but Ferguson was not done doling out punishments. He punched an iron fist into his stomach. Doubling over with pain, Nicholas sucked in the ether.

“God’s blood, mon! Have ye no respect for the lady? Get dressed.” Ferguson pulled back his fist, ready to deliver another blow.

Fay wedged herself between them. “Leave him be. He’s just a humble priest. What’s wrong with you?”

He stalled at the door and sneered. “See if you can talk some sense into her,
priest
. I know you were in town. Explain how she needs a protector, not some
priest
married to Christ.”

That much was true, Nicholas conceded.

When he stomped off in a huff, she turned. “Out with it. What did you see?”

How much should he tell her? He turned up a hoof from Ferguson’s charger and cursed under his breath. “This animal needs new shoes.”

Her face skewed and hands shot to her hips. “Surely I’m not responsible for that, as well. Tell me. Now.”

Her haughtiness brought the worst of him to the surface. A bit too roughly, he grabbed her shoulders, and pulled her back to his chest. Her hair smelled of sea salt and wild grasses. He moaned and fondled her soft, full, breast. “Would you like me to show you what you are responsible for? What you do to me?”

Her eyes widened and she whispered, “Sean will return and kill you, or worse.”

Letting her go, he found his wits, and ducked his head through his robe. “The village priest intends to burn you, lass.”

“I will send that devil straight to his God.” The former queen of Man grabbed her bow and quiver, and stomped toward her mount while Loki yipped at her heels.

When she tried to lift her saddle, Nicholas grabbed her upper arm. “Calm yourself. I’ve convinced him to wait.”

She elbowed his tender gut, aggravating where Ferguson had just bruised him. “For what? Another coming of the so-called Christ?”

“Och, no. For you to have a rebirth of faith. Proclaim it for him and for all to hear.” Angry, he turned her so they faced off, eye to eye.

“I will do no such thing. I hate lies.” She narrowed her gaze and stuck out a pouty lower lip.

He couldn’t imagine being so God-almighty arrogant about everything. As a bastard of Bruce, he’d been born from a lie. He would no doubt die from a lie.

He shook her shoulders, the muscles of his aching belly still throbbing. “God’s Blood, m’lady. You must halt this behavior or fry. Your skin will bubble, your eyes’ll pop out of their holes, and you’ll scream for mercy, but there’ll be none to save you. And it will not end there. You’ll go straight to hell where the fires burn forever.”

“I don’t believe any of that falderal. Let go of me.” She glowered and struggled until he let go, then stomped out of the stable cave.

Following her up and around the outer walls, Nicholas stewed while she muttered a mix of Scot and Manx curses. She ducked under a low arch to enter the long hall by way of the outside ovens.

When she squealed, he figured she was angry at yet some other nonsense. Instead, he was shocked as she hugged the new cook, apparently all else forgotten.

“Haddr? You’ve returned?” A giant smile covered her face, making him wish he could put one there.

“I would’ve come sooner, but the road’s been closed.” The village girl spat and made a familiar curse in the air.

Then Eaton poked his head out from the oven, and winked at the lass. “Can you send in the youngest brat? We could use some more firewood.” Covering his nose, he threw Nicholas a bar of soap. “For the grace of God, leave us, mon, and bathe.”

“Fine. The lady and I still have a conversation to finish.” He put a strong hand to Fay’s back that said he would not be dissuaded then walked them to the well-house in the middle of the plaza. Once there, he lowered a bucket into the deep hole.

She crossed her arms over her chest, sat on a nearby bench, and sniffed. “I have naught more to say to you.”

The bucket banged the sides of the well as he cranked fiercely. The image of the wooden platform with iron chains burned under his eyelids. “What about your funeral pyre? Will you let the priest rebuild it?”

“He would not dare.” She patted her bow, still slung over her shoulder.

Damn the woman
. So sure of herself. “And how do you think the church shall react to murder of one of its own?”

“What does it matter?” She scooted her arse up onto the well wall and watched him bathe with cat-like eyes. “I will not recant. God does not exist.”

Trying to ignore her, Nicholas set down the pail and did his best to wash limbs and face. It’d been years since he’d had to bathe in a well-house. And never with a woman watching. “Can’t you just say so, for the sake of your life?”

“I’m the daughter of a king. I do not lie.” That lower lip went out again but this time she bit it back.

“Hmph. There’s no honor in burning to death.” He closed his eyes and scrubbed his chest. Last summer she lay naked on his pallet, and now she was holier-than-thou about falsehoods. She would drive him daft. When she didn’t respond promptly, he glanced up. One giant tear rolled down her face.
Christ’s wounds, I’ve hurt her again.

“There, there, all is not lost, lass.” He stepped back, splashed a full bucket of icy water over his head, and shook like Loki. At least the cold set his aching cock back to a humble stance.

Smiling sadly at his antics, she said, “I’m afraid even a miracle could not convince me of the existence of a caring God.”

He chucked her chin and gazed into her green eyes. It would be so easy to kiss that look away. “Give me a fortnight to prove He exists.”

“You would try to redeem me?” The centers of her eyes stared black with want.

“Aye.” He would brave all the fires of hell, if need be, to save her.