How to Seduce a Queen: A Medieval Romance Novel

by Stella Marie Alden

  “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.

  Chapter 7

  At sup, Lady Fay picked another small bone from between her teeth, put down her fork, and stood. What had seemed like such a good idea yesterday, needed rethinking.

  “You may all depart in the morn.” She glowered at the Nicholas look-alike, sitting across the table.

  Sean glared, raised up from the bench, and pressed a heavy hand upon her shoulder. “The monks stay. We canna defend the fort and muck the stalls. We need their strong backs.”

  Before Fay could argue, Agatha cleared her throat and stopped all conversation in the hall. In the silence, the wind whistled through the slits in the keep. “You should be thankin’ them, not castin’ them out. If you’re gonna lead, young woman, you must have some tolerance and grace about you.”

  Tolerance? Was I not the one who offered the brothers shelter? Who rules this keep? Cheeks hot from being so thoroughly reprimanded in front of all her court, Fay rose, and strode across the long room. She grabbed her long bow and slammed the door. There had to be hare, bird, or even squirrel to be found.

  Bloody wounds of that Christian God, she should have say who was allowed to stay or go. And that monk had to go. He disturbed her in ways not at all holy.

  The musty ether of the well-house grew thick as she descended the long flight of stairs. At the lowest level, she entered the stable cave where her palfrey, Freya, whinnied, expecting a treat.

  “Sorry, dearest. Not tonight.” That man made her so crazy, she’d forgotten.

  Loki barked excitedly and ran in mad circles until she untied his bindings. “Och. You might as well come along, too.”

  Silently, her youngest knight, Derek, who must’ve followed from the great hall, helped with her saddle and saw to it the drawbridge was let down. She allowed him to follow through the first acre of sleepy sheep, before racing ahead, along the ocean cliffs. She needed to spend some time alone.

  Who was that monk? Was it really Nicholas, or as he claimed, Nicodemus? And why did Agatha need to scold her in front of everyone?

  The salty breeze blew her hair about when she let Freya run at will across the fields of purple clover. Bounding alongside, Loki woofed, his joy infectious. At the end of the path, she turned toward the black cliffs, where waves crashed against stones. She rode hard into the forested hills and stopped at a small clearing.

  “Stay.”

  With a doggy grin, Loki obeyed with tail thumping.

  A brown hare twitched its ears in the thistles, and she aimed, pulling her bowstring taut.

  An arrow whizzed from behind and speared her prize between the eyes. What the devil?

  Turning so quickly that her neck strained, she stared with mouth open. About thirty paces behind, the Nicholas look-alike met her gaze. She’d praise the miraculous hit if his face were not so cock-sure. And if his robe had not ridden so high that naked thighs hugged horseflesh.

  As if reading her lascivious thoughts, he ogled her from head to toe, stopping at her bared calf. His tongue flicked over his lower lip. That’s no priestly gesture. Sinfully, she pondered on what it might be like to kiss him and boldly eyed him back.

  One side of his mouth curved up delightfully. “I must apologize for the dreadful meal. You were correct. My monks cannot cook. We usually eat whatever scraps our patrons provide.”

  He rode forth such that his bare calf brushed against hers, lighting her on fire. Heart pounding, she tugged on Freya’s reins, and studied the violet blossoms of Devil’s Bit Scabious.

  Another hare flicked its ears from deep within the flowers, and again, his arrow flew.

  Before she could utter a word of praise, Loki woofed, fetched, and dropped the dead animal at their feet.

  She dismounted, strung the hare on her saddle, and said, a bit jealously, “With archery skills such as yours, I’d imagine you eat quite well.”

  “Poaching is punishable by loss of eye or hand. I’d dare not risk it. Surely a queen would understand that.” His tone was censured.

  For the second time today, she’d been chastised as a child. She scowled at him. “We have no such laws. Here on Man, I allow all to hunt freely.”

  Hazel eyes never left her face as he swung a foot to the ground. In one quick move, his hands were about her waist. Then he lifted her down, squeezed her hand, and said, “Come. Let’s not quarrel. Instead, we will hunt. Together.”

  It’d been so long since someone had asked just for her companionship, that she nodded without even thinking. In the peaceful countryside, he spoke of fiber for strings, the most pliable bow wood, and which feathers worked best for flight. She shared her secrets of arrow points for small game until the sky deepened to dark violet. All the while, he stood close—touching, smiling, and being attentive. By the time they traversed the drawbridge, torches were lit.

  Inside the stables, two of the monk’s brethren greeted him, and he handed off the hares. “Roast them on a spit.”

  Wishing the evening to never end, she said, “Walk with me, Brother, while they prepare our meal.”

  “As you wish.” Hazel eyes held amusement or mayhap it was just a flicker from the firelight. Whatever it was, it was endearing. She put her palm on his arm and exited the stables.

  Outside, Derek gave them both a fierce scowl and grabbed the torch from its sconce. “You’re late. Everyone is searching.”

  “You may go now and let them know that the monk will be my protector.” She gave Nicodemus what she hoped was a flirtatious smile.

  The worried Derek tried to push her in the direction of the stairs. “But Sir Ferguson said he wished to speak to you immediately upon your return.”

  Of course he did. He was always bossing her around. But not tonight. “By all the gods in Valhalla, tell him I’ll spe
ak when I deem it’s necessary to speak. Now go, tell him I am fine, and stop fretting.” She waited until the young man’s boots no longer pounded upon the hard earth before grabbing another torch.

  Assured they were alone, she led him to the stairs by the outer wall and stumbled. His strong arm slid about her waist and held tight. He smelled of horse and leather, and something else wonderful. When his fingers squeezed her waist, her nipples hardened and her breath quickened.

  The round dark centers of his eyes widened and his nostrils flared.

  She licked her lips, leaned in, and waited, with her heart pounding. Will he be my first real kiss?

  Soft beard caressed her cheeks, then sweet lips brushed across hers.

  Suddenly, a moan emerged from deep within him and he backed away. “God help me. I cannot.”

  Oh nay, not again. She’d misread him as she had his brother. Cheeks aflame and muttering an apology, she rushed up to the top of the wall. Below, the silver whitecaps, lit by the moon, slid unendingly forward until crashing into the cliffs. She wished to be swallowed up by the night.

  Behind her, the monk set the torch at the base of the ladder, and slowly climbed up the wall. After some time, he sighed, stirred, and she met his now dark eyes that drew her in.

  “Why did you bring me here? Alone.” He lowered his forehead to hers and their lips all but touched again.

  How could she explain that the mere scent of him turned her wanton? She searched for a subject and was horrified at what came out of her mouth. “I, uh, I was worried, uh, for my village women. I mean, for their wellbeing and I needed to talk plainly. I can send for a wench if you and your brethren need servicing.”

  “You asked me here so as to inquire if my fellow monks need to be bedded?” The man’s brows raised.

  When he put her intentions in that tone, she sounded even more improper but had no choice but to trudge forward along the path she’d created. “I have no idea of the needs of monks. I just wanted to make sure. Well? Do you or don’t you?”