How to Seduce a Queen: A Medieval Romance Novel (12 page)

“Patience.” Already at work, the old woman turned and clucked her tongue while pounding spicy herbs in her pestle. Scraggly gray hair fell into a knowing eye under her cap.

“I need to get off this accursed island.” He stood, limped a few steps, and grimaced as the pain shot up the side of his leg. As always, mornings were the worst.

“Impossible. No ships have come since that Scot declared Man pox-ridden. You’re stuck here, along with the rest, until some physician dare come from the mainland and deem the whole thing a terrible mistake.” She grabbed several tufts of dried moss, sniffed, and added it to her mixture.

Frustrated, he grabbed for a pottery mug hanging on a peg, balanced on his good leg, and ladled a cup of thick broth from a kettle that bubbled over the smoky fire.

After taking a deep gulp, he said, “I damn well cannot swim home to England.”

Her mouth turned down, deep wrinkles abundant. “Do as you will. I see no chains.”

Knowing he owed his life to the old nurse, guilt pounded at his already burdened conscience. He hopped over and patted her hand. “Apologies. I’m just overly anxious for the welfare of the lady of the Isle.”

She shook her head and tsk-tsked. “How many times have I told you? There’s no hope. The full moon has come and gone. She’s either dead or wed by now.”

“I know, I know. But none-the-less I’ve vowed to save her. Tell me, did my men leave any words with you? Anything?” He dared hope as she paused from her making of medicines, tapped a finger to her lips, and skewed her face.

“Hmm. They may have left some scribbles. I’d forgotten all about it until just this very moment. ’Tis a problem of the aged.” Still mumbling about her years, she shuffled over to an old wooden trunk and placed one jar after another upon the floor. Then she beamed and passed him a roll of parchment.

He read.

My Dearest Friend Nicholas,

I am weighted down with sadness, for I fear we shall never meet again in this life. I must leave before word gets out of the pox on Man. Your lie was a blessing and a curse. It will save your life, should you survive, for Huntercombe will surely never return.

If you are reading this, then I praise God that you have recovered and I know you will forgive us for our departure. I’m going to find Lady Fay. Otherwise, I fear for my life, for I have failed in my duty to your grandsire, as did you.

I’ve explained the whole of our ruse to Sir Ferguson. I believe that is where you may find your only ally. Go to him. I would say, fare thee well, but that is not possible. Instead, I will say as the Normans, until we meet again.

Yours,

Sir Robert Eaton

Ferguson as friend? Last time they’d parted, they’d threatened each other’s early demise. Regardless, Nicholas grabbed for his crutch, his cloak, and ducked under the lintel of the tiny cottage. “I must go.”

“You cannot. You’ll never make it.” The old woman tugged back at his arm.

He wobbled, held both her boney hands in his, and smiled without mirth. “I cannot die. There’s too much pleasure for the devil to have at my expense. But worry not. I’ll see to it you are well rewarded for my care.”

“Pooh. Even if you had it, what good would gold buy? More mutton and cheese? At least let me walk with you.” She grabbed a wool shawl from a peg, placed it over her shoulders, and led them out of the village.

Their breath sent cold smoke upon the ether. He shivered and said, “My path takes me to the castle where I cannot guarantee your safety. You must stop at the edge of the village. Sir Ferguson and I did not part on the best of terms.”

“Aye, so the minstrels tell. I am not
that
infirmed of mind.”

“What do they sing?” As they wandered past thatch-covered huts, he wished by all the demons that tortured him, that his leg could bear his full weight.

“That you are no monk. That you are bastard and grandson to the powerful Bruce of Annandale. Your sister is married to the wealthy Sir D’Agostine of No-Man’s-Land. That you fought with valor with the English against the Welsh. And that you are not a knight.” She eyed him shrewdly.

He grimaced at the last truth, again laden with guilt. “Aye. I’m ordered to do the most unchivalrous deeds for the Bruce clan. It would not benefit my grandsire to knight me with a code of honor.”

And his last act would be the most dishonorable yet. For in stealing Fay, he would sin against the sacrament of marriage. The devil of his fevered dreams laughed hysterically.

Forcing conversation to a lighter nature, Nicholas walked with her to where the forest started.

She left him with tears and a fierce hug. “I would have you come back to visit, lad, when all is well.”

He nodded and agreed to return, even though he knew it nigh unto impossible. The next two miles could’ve been hundreds. He sat often, his body drenched in sweat. By nightfall, the drawbridge came into view. Gathering up the last of his strength, he hobbled past the sheep, past the barking dog that guarded them, and to the moat’s edge.

“Ho, there!”

Screeching sea birds mocked his greeting, circling overhead. They landed on the turrets on either side of the drawbridge, peering down at him, as if archers with beaks.

“Damnation, Ferguson, are you deaf or are you ignoring me?” Nicholas leaned upon his crutch, wondering where he would sleep, if none came out to greet him.

At length, muted voices sounded behind the walls, the drawbridge gears squealed their discontent, and the wood lowered to the ground with a clunk. Using his crutch and a walking stick, Nicholas thumped across like an ancient.

Sir Sean Ferguson met him halfway, stopped, and put his hands upon his hips. “You look like dung.”

Nicholas shrugged, wanting nothing more than to sit for an eternity. “Are you going to kill me? If so, do it now and end my suffering. God’s blood, I’m tired.”

“I see no need. Look at you. You no longer present a threat.” Ferguson lent him an arm and helped him across.

Embarrassed, but too exhausted to object, Nicholas took the offer, limped over the churning sea, and into the castle grounds.

At the stable cave, Loki barked, tail wagging, and came out to greet him. Nicholas bent over to pet his friend on the head. It seemed like years, not months, since he’d last made this place his humble home. He missed it and he missed Fay with an intensity that ached all over.

“I’m afraid I cannot make it to the top.” He gazed toward the stone stairwell with dread.

“Then take your rest with the beasts. Aiden? Where are you, lad?” Ferguson turned about.

The man who must be stable master came out from one of the stalls holding a shovel and pointed at the boy hiding behind a palfrey.

“Aye, sir?”

“Go upstairs and have Haddr prepare a plate for our guest.”

Stopping in front of Nicholas, Aiden gave an awkward bow. “Welcome back, Sir Bruce. You’ll help us get our lady back?”

“Aye. But I am no Sir. Call me Nicholas-the-Nothing, if you must.” He eased down upon a pile of hay, stretched out his throbbing leg, and for a moment, lamented his circumstances.

To make matters worse, Ferguson looked upon him with pity, and nodded at the splint. “Did it break?”

“Why are you being so damned amicable?” he asked, shamed by the gaze.

Loki, who’d been sitting quietly, whimpered and nudged a wet nose under his arse. Nicholas patted his head. “It’s all right, old friend.”

Ferguson watched the interaction, sighed deeply, and shoved a clean bundle of hay. He sat down and said, “After Huntercombe left with Fay, your man Eaton came to see me and explained everything.”

“Why didn’t you go with him? Help fetch her back?” Nicholas wondered what, if any, chivalry lay in that cowardly soul.

Deep creases that had not been there previously lined the knight’s forehead, and his eyes sunk into dark circles. “I could not. I pay allegiance to the King of Scotland. He sent word I was to serve Huntercombe. But after he left, I did provide your men with weapons, sustenance, and a sturdy boat. Her old aunt left, as well.”

“So, what’s changed?” He shifted his arse and the pain in his leg subsided somewhat.

Ferguson hid his face in his hands. “The halls are empty. There is no joy. Just endless day after day of gray nothingness. Do you get my meaning?”

Nicholas was sure that somewhere in hell the devil chuckled. He tried to sound sympathetic. “Aye. I believe you love her.”

“I don’t know if it is love, but I want her back. Here. With me.” Suddenly animated, he glanced up with hope. “I tell you what. We’ll have peace between us while we find her and let her decide. When she learns of your treachery, the choice will be obvious. ’Tis certain she’ll pick me. On our honor, we agree here and now to abide with her decision. Do you promise?”

Nicholas shook his head, no. He didn’t trust this man. “Not yet. What need have you of me? Why not just go after her yourself?”

“That’s easy enough to explain. I need your grandsire’s long reach and influence to bring her home. He doesn’t want Fay. He only wants your heir. Is she? Could she be carrying your child?”

A guilt-ridden sigh eased out from deep within Nicholas’s black soul and he said, “It is a distinct possibility. Time will tell.”

Ferguson muttered a foul curse and stood at the door with hand to sword’s hilt. “Once this is over, and you are man enough, we’ll have this out. Until then? Rest and eat. You’ll need your strength.”

He turned on a heel and left.

In seven days’ time, they stood on the same small dock where just weeks before Fay had rowed him to the cottage. The sea air reminded him of the smell of her hair, the way it blew about in the wind. Then his thoughts turned to how he’d never told her the truth. Would he ever get the chance to make it right?

He moaned, while watching a small ship list to the left in the harbor. “Is that normal?” he asked. “Mayhap that pirate gave you a bad deal?”

Ferguson laughed and slapped him on the back. “It takes a few days for the sea water to soak into the new boards. Have faith. It’ll take us where we need to go.”

“And just where is that?” Leaning on his cane, Nicholas eyed the man warily. Today, however, he seemed to have forgiven him for sleeping with the woman they both loved.

The knight gave him a small shove toward the rowboat. “Wales. Huntercombe left one rather witless man behind. He’s given us much detail as to where they will mostly likely be found. Come. The tide is with us.”

Chapter 22

In Wales

Where is George? What is taking him so long?

Fay moved closer to the fire, deep within the woods. With her knife, she fashioned a third arrow. What a mess she’d made of her life. If only she could return to Alexander’s court and beg his forgiveness, but that would never be. She’d find no love there. He’d given her one last chance to do his bidding. She’d defied his decree and lost her only ally.

Her thoughts vanished when horses’ hooves sounded on the hard clay road. She clutched her bow, kicked out the fire, and ducked into a thicket. Trembling such that she could barely hide, she imagined how The Ax might punish her this time.

She was holding her breath when boots tromped upon the forest floor and twigs cracked nearby.
Please, please. Let them not find me.

“Lady Fay? Are you here?” Fully armed and mailed, and wearing Edward’s colors, one of the monks of Man regarded the smoldering fire as he whispered and looked about.

She exhaled, released the fierce hold on her knife, and crawled out of the thick brush, “Brother Eaton? Is it truly you?”

“Thank God Almighty, I’ve found you.” He sheathed his sword, went to one knee, and kissed her hand.

“What of Brother Nicodemus? Is he with you?” She searched his suddenly grim face.

He frowned, lowered his eyes, and his voice went tight. “He is not.”

“Is he . . .” Her heart broke, not wanting to hear aloud what she had already surmised to be true.

“I’ll explain later. I hear hounds.”

Before she could ask more, he grabbed her upper arm and pulled her along, taking massive strides over mossy ground. It was impossible to keep in step without stumbling.

She tugged to free her shoulder. “Stop. We need to wait for my man, George.”

“He’ll catch up,” he said brusquely.

They neared the road where men whispered, leather saddles creaked, and horses pawed the ground. Her mouth dropped open. Lined up along the road, mounted upon fine chargers, were the monks of Man. But instead of humble robes, they wore fine mail and bright red tunics.

“We must go.” Without asking permission, and with no further explanation, Eaton lifted her upon a charger. Damn the man. Was it too much to ask what the devil was going on? His head was close enough to kick.

So she did. “I will not leave without my lad.”

Eaton’s curses were suddenly drowned by young George’s shouts. Just down the road, a mounted Huntercombe knight scooped him up off the ground by the scruff of his tunic.

“Put him down or die.” Without hesitating, she pulled bow off her shoulder, aimed her slightly crooked arrow, and bit her lower lip in fierce concentration.

The man laughed.

Infuriated, she let go the string and missed. Six more knights in Huntercombe blue galloped forward to join the first. If she didn’t do something quickly, George would soon die. So she rushed her steed forward.

Behind her, Eaton’s monks shouted for her to turn back.

Never.

Reins tucked tightly by her legs, she aimed, and let go. The arrow hit the nearest horse’s saddle, it reared, and the knight dropped George to the ground. Seeing her only chance, she leaned over, grabbed his outstretched arm, and pulled him behind. While he threw a leg up and over, she pivoted back toward the armored monks of Man, and urged her mount faster.

War cries ensued from both sets of knights. Fear gripped her innards, for she and George would be caught in the middle.

Eaton, face red with fury, passed her and shouted, “Damn it, m’lady. Ride. Ride on to Carlisle.”

Thighs aching from their tight hold, she pressed the well-trained charger between the grim-faced warriors. Were it not for her fondness of the boy, she would’ve gladly stayed to fight Huntercombe’s men.

Behind them, swords clashed, men screamed in pain, but she dared not glance back. Nor did she wait for the victor. Only once she felt safe, miles down the road, did she allowed her fine charger to slow to a walk and recover.

As it drank in a stream, she wondered how to get to Carlisle and honestly, if she truly wanted to go there. Then Eaton’s red colors appeared far down the road, and she muttered a small prayer of thanks that she was not alone.

Eaton, however, was in no thankful mood. He shouted from where he sat on his high horse, “What were you thinking? You could’ve been killed. Are ye daft? From now on, you obey my commands. Mount up. We follow along this path, then take to the woods.”

She frowned, insulted by the tone. She was no child to be ordered about. “Hold up a moment. You need to explain some things to me.”

His disdain grew more so. “What did I just say? Carl, see to her.”

Another big knight, who had been all but silent in Man, firmly placed her upon her horse, and shrugged apologetically.

As they galloped, she rode forward alongside her obnoxious savior. “Can you at least tell me our destination?”

“I did. Carlisle.” He glanced nervously behind and urged them all to a faster gait.

It took her a few moments to catch up. “As in the home of the Earl of Annandale? Isn’t that Brother Nicodemus’s grandsire?”

“Aye.” Face grim, Eaton refused to look at her.

This was not at all the happy winking monk from Man. She leaned over and pushed at his solid body. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Much. But there’s no time now. Come. We ride hard or start a war.” He scowled, grabbed her reins, and it was all she could do to hang on for the next long miles.

When it was too dark to ride safely, he finally stopped, and she all but dropped onto the blessed ground. Curling her cloak about her, she fell asleep at once. In the darkness, someone woke her long enough to feed her hard jerky. After, her sleep was naught but troubled.

As was her norm since Man, she dreamed of Nicodemus. Bloodied, he kept calling to her for help, but she lay frozen and unable to move. It was all her fault that they beat on him. Still exhausted at the first orange slivers of dawn, she took her morning piss, then vowed to have more words with Brother Eaton and find out once and for all, what had happened to her monk.

In the clearing, knights rolled up their sleeping furs and chewed jerky beside their mounts. She decided to speak to the one called Carl. His nose was crooked and a deep scar ran from eye to chin. But as scary as he looked, she knew him to be kinder than the rest.

“Where’s Brother Eaton?”

He handed her dried pork, a skein of mead and said, “He scouts ahead.”

“I need to know.” She swallowed a mouthful of tough meat. “What happened to Brother Nicodemus? And why are all you monks mailed and riding expensive warhorses? I can make no sense of it.”

He cleared his throat, his eyes shifted, and he busied himself with putting the meager meal back into his saddle sack. “I should not be the one tellin’ ya, lass, but we’re knights belongin’ to the Earl of Annandale.”

“Wait. You mean to say you
were
all knights and then turned to your God.”

He turned, his face full of pity, shook his head no, and grabbed her hands. “Listen closely, lass. We
are
knights. Never
were
monks.”

“Nicodemus as well?” She studied his guileless face as her stunned mind refused to accept what he was saying.

“I’m afraid so.” Nodding, he patted her hands.

The forest closed in, her knees gave way, and she sat near the horses’ hooves. Not monks? She thought back to that first day on the parapets, to Sean’s warnings, to her own misgivings and she moaned. Duped? It could not be. That would mean she’d given her heart to a duplicitous snake.

George ran to her side, pushed at the giant, and shouted, “What did you say to her?”

The closest of the knights lifted him away, still kicking as if taken by the devil.

“Wait, don’t hurt him.” Her breakfast hurled.

When she was finished, she looked up into their compassionate faces. “You all knew?”

They nodded.

“But why?”

None spoke and all stared at the ground while her throat tightened. It could not be.

Frowning, Eaton returned, looked at her pile of puke, and must’ve surmised what had been said. “We need to be off.”

“Not another inch until you explain.” She grabbed her knife from her belt and pointed it at him.

He hissed. “Do you wish to be back in the bed of The Ax?”

She shook her head, unable to put to words the emotions that threatened to consume her.

“Get up. They’re all but upon us.” He nodded at Carl, who took her knife and placed it carefully back into its sheath, then lifted her onto her charger.

About midday, after countless miserable miles, they left the road and hid behind some pines. She held her breath as knights dressed in Huntercombe blue thundered by on massive chargers.

When they were long past, she tried to get Eaton to speak. “Are we safe?”

“Not at all. They’ll circle back and get more men. By now, he no doubt knows where we’re headed.” He startled her when he blurted out suddenly, “Did my friend bed you?”

His rudeness fueled her ire. How dare he ask such personal questions, especially after treating her so poorly? “’Tis none of your concern.”

He pulled on her reins and brought them all to a halt. “’Tis only for my love of Nicholas, that I ask. Do you ken? I need to know.”

“Nicholas of Scarborough? What does that devil have to do with all this?” Suddenly her heart stilled and she knew she didn’t want the question answered.

He rolled his eyes. “Are you that dull of wit, lass? They’re one in the same. That, too, was part of the ruse.”

Her mouth dried and heaviness clutched at her chest. So many things became clear. She
was
a dolt. She didn’t even recognize her voice when it cracked. “Why? Why such a cruel jest?”

“’Twas no jest, lass. ’Twas his grandsire’s plotting. He wants the heir of Man to be joined with his line. So are you or aren’t you with child?”

She stared, incredulously. “I honestly don’t know and will not discuss it with the likes of you.”

“Nicholas was a good man. Too good for you. I will return you to Carlisle and he will be knighted post mortem. I will see to it.” He snorted and moved forward.

Was a good man?
Grief welled up inside, tears poured down her cheeks, and she wailed. She wasn’t sure if she wept for his loss, for the fact he’d used her so badly, or for the possible child within. What did it matter? All hope was lost.

While sobbing into her horse’s mane, Carl carefully removed the reins from her hands, and led them forward.

Her monk, nay, Nicholas-the-snake was dead. The man she loved was a farce, along with any dreams they’d shared. Better to end her life now. But even that was not an option, for it’d been too long since her last monthlies. She let go her total despair in one last cry, sat up, and wiped a sleeve over her wet face.

Such things happened to queens. Had not her mother warned her when she’d abandoned her with Edward years ago? Had not Alexander explained, when she was kidnapped into his court?

God, answering her curses, made it rain so hard that the river to their left swelled, reaching the banks. With face wet from nature, she allowed herself to surrender to pure misery, not even attempting to swallow her sobs. She’d been used most foully. There was no Brother Nicodemus, only Nicholas-the-Bastard.
How could I have been such a fool?

The wind blew from the north and her hands turned to ice. When she ran out of tears, her stomach hiccupped continuously, refusing to be solaced. She recalled her mother’s parting words, when she’d left her with Edward, years ago. “Above all things, a queen must be brave. And never cry. Only
she
can hold back the tide of her people’s tears.”

What meaning did any of it have now? Her mother was long gone. Her father and brother lay dead. The Manx belonged to the Scots. And her monk had used her worse than all the rest.