How to Seduce a Queen: A Medieval Romance Novel

by Stella Marie Alden

  She became aware of his thick length prodding her pelvis as his tongue asked for entrance. What would he be like inside of her? She held the back of his head, hoping the magic would never end, and pushed her need against his. Heaven called to her as she lifted her kirtle and wrapped her legs around his waist.

  He moaned and lifted his tunic. The soft skin of his cock slipped to her lower lips, trying to find entrance. Without warning, a vision of the-day-that-could-not-be-spoken appeared. Instead of her monk, her stepbrother, Gofraid, grasped her, leering.

  His cock that day was bulging and swollen. He turned her onto her back and there was nothing but pain.

  She screamed. “Nay. Stop.”

  She scrambled back and away, but Gofraid held her down. With nails, she tore at his face and she kicked and bit. She cried out, but he beat her and raped her.

  Finally she just wept into the solid form that held her and rubbed her back as one might a wee babe.

  “Fay. Lass? Where did you go?”

  She opened her eyes. Gofraid disappeared into the dark dream-world, and Brother Nicodemus sat beside her atop the small hill of stones and shells. His face was bloodied above his beard, where she’d scratched him. His eyes showed such concern that her throat tightened and tears began anew.

  “I let go the moment you screamed. I swear I meant you no harm. For the kissing, I may go to hell, but not for what you were screaming about.” His hands held hers tightly as if she might run.

  “Tell me. Did we …” She studied his eyes, his mouth, and his cuts. Dear God. What had she done?

  His brows creased. “You think I would take you while you fought me?”

  She shook her head back and forth. “Nay, Nay … Oh, I’m not quite sure of anything. One moment I was kissing you and the next I was ten and three, and you were Gofraid. Forgive me, Brother. I truly have no recall. You and I did not, not … your manly parts did not …?”

  He brought her palm to his injured cheek and gave a sad smile. “You were quite adamant. You should’ve warned me. I am a man of God, but I am but still a man and you are a very beautiful woman.”

  “I would guess that you no longer believe I cherish the cook.” She smiled as he wiped away her tears with the edge of her tunic.

  He nodded. “Aye. Go back to your chambers the way you came. Put a lamp to the parapets, so I know when it is safe for me to return. We should not be seen entering the keep together.”

  She pointed high and kissed his cheek. “Thank you. For being so sweet. Look to that wall. The top slit, that is my chamber.”

  Chapter 11

  She thanks me?

  After Fay disappeared, Nicholas moaned and fell to his knees. He truly was damned. It was one thing to seduce a queen for his grandfather’s connivance, but he would never hurt a woman so ill-used. ’Twas no wonder she shot arrows into suitors and was so confused about the ways of men and women.

  He sighed, utterly undone. That kiss, before she’d mauled him, was beyond any delight he’d ever known. The next time she offered her lips, he’d not let go until they both were fully sated and then God help them both.

  Tomorrow, I will tell her the truth and woo her as myself; Nicholas, the bastard son of Bruce, and almost-knight. Oh, that sounded noble. Who was he kidding? He was but a serf to his grandfather’s whims. He went onto all fours and repeatedly banged his forehead upon the sand.

  Loki, thinking his actions a wonderful game, frolicked and licked a soft tongue over his face. The dog was right. Self-loathing was not a thing to be tolerated. Once again, he ran into the cool ocean, and swam. Loki followed with short legs paddling madly.

  A flicker of light eventually appeared in a slit in the upper wall. By then, he was too numb and too tired to feel the ache in his chest. He walked across the green where sleepy sheep woke, stood, and bleated their displeasure.

  Loki followed happily, and greeted the shepherd’s dog, nose to butt.

  At the sight of the raised drawbridge, Nicholas cursed all the saints. The moat lay between him and a warm pallet. To call out, would be suspicious. Too damp and too chilled to sleep, he found a heavy branch for sword and went through his drills throughout the long night.

  In the orange of the early morn, he took another quick swim. When the iron gears groaned, and the wood of the bridge clunked, he entered the keep. Eaton was already dressed and met him at the stable door. The rest of the false-monks were out and about the castle.

  “So? Did you fuck her?” Eaton loomed, anxiously awaiting the news.

  Nicholas groaned and sat into a soft pile of new hay. He lay back, and closed his eyes. “Christ’s nails. Nay.”

  “I just assumed … being out all night.”

  “I’ve been practicing swordplay, just out of eyesight of the parapets. I grow too soft in the garb of a priest.”

  When Eaton eyed him as if he’d gone daft, Nicholas explained. “She kissed me. Like a wild cat without warning, she tore into me with tooth and nail. Then she cried like a babe while I held her in my arms.”

  “Is she possessed?” He crossed himself.

  Nicholas grabbed a nearby pottery lamp and threw it, which Eaton caught deftly midair.

  “Be serious. During the last uprising, she was raped by her stepbrother, while her dead mother lay nearby. A deed most foul. She was but ten and three.”

  Eaton put the lamp gingerly on a table, began to shovel a pile of manure into a barrel, and shook his head back and forth. “It changes nothing. You still must do as Annandale says, or die. If you don’t succeed, I’m to try next, or share whatever fate he has in store for you. His methods of torture make for a most convincing argument.”

  Nicholas clenched a fist. No one, other than himself, would ever touch her fair skin. “What we are about to do is not right. ’Twas one thing when I believed that by sending her to a nunnery I would save her eternal soul, but this, this is entirely different.”

  “Did you at least convince her that there is a heavenly Father?”

  “In truth? Right now, I am not so convinced.” Nicholas scattered clean hay onto the stable floor and sat. His skin itched from the drying sea salt.

  Eaton made the sign of the cross. “Tempt the devil and he will come.”

  “Aye. He lives in Carlisle and goes by the name of the Earl of Annandale. Leave me to sleep until the sun is halfway to high, then wake me. Try to keep the one with the prongs out of the stall.”

  “We shall both perish.”

  Nicholas put his forearm across his eyes and moaned. “You worry like an old granny. I’ll think of something.”

  Chapter 12

  Barely aware of her surroundings, Fay shuddered and hurried up the tunnel stairs to the kitchen. In the blackness, the ghost of her stepbrother laughed at her and breathed down her neck. Her heart raced as her mind struggled to grasp what had happened. She’d never before recalled the-day-that-could-not-be-spoken. Why now?

  As she tiptoed into her chambers, she felt blindly, and lit a tallow candle with fire ring. Over the ocean, the wind blew clouds covering moon and stars. Was he still out there?

  As promised, she set the light onto the ledge for him to see.

  What was I thinking? To kiss him so wantonly?

  Even now, her nipples tightened at the thought of his beautiful body. What kind of sickness was this? Haddr would understand. She almost went to wake her, but at the last moment, thought better of it. They couldn’t risk any more rumors.

  Kicking at the keep wall, in her mind she shouted, “I hate you. I hate your parapets. I hate your tiers. I hate the ghosts that walk here. You hold nothing but death.”

  How she wished to be wrapped in her monk’s comforting arms instead of pacing across the confining room.

  I kissed a holy man and fell into his arms like a tavern whore. She moaned. Worse than that, she’d do it again, if given the opportunity.

  Lying down on her pallet, she punched at the straw repeatedly. When that didn’t ease the ache, she grabbed he
r bow and aimed out the window. The coarse string pulled on her fingertips. She let go and imagined where her arrow would land. Thus, on went the night, until her mind stopped churning and her long-dead stepbrother disappeared into the shadows.

  She woke, barely rested, and spread across her pallet. The worn wood of her bow still rested in her hand. Outside, Loki barked, the drawbridge clunked, and she wandered to her window with a light heart. Below, for the first time in weeks, a few carts loaded with goods traveled across the bridge and into the lowest area of the keep.

  Her monk tossed a thick branch into the moat, and entered after. He’d been out all night? Today, she’d convince him to denounce his holy vows and take her away forever.

  Cheered by the thought, she shouted out her door and down. “Haddr?”

  “Aye, m’lady?” Her friend stood at the foot of the stairs, covered in flour.

  Fay itched her scalp, sandy from last night. “Can you find Aiden? Ask him to grab Ollie and fetch me a bucket of water. I need to wash.”

  In minutes, two of her orphans entered, carrying a large barrel of water. Aiden frowned, “It’s quite cold. I could warm it.”

  She kissed them both atop their heads. “It matters not. Go see Haddr and tell her you’ve earned a sweet roll.”

  Putting her feet into the barrel, she wondered what would become of them when she left them. The next lord of the Manx might put them out or worse.

  Before I go, I’ll have to see them all apprenticed on the mainland.

  Content with all the fine decisions she’d already made this early morn, she washed her inner shirt and hung it to dry. As she donned her spare, gray with age, it made her recall her last horrid trip to Scarborough. She grimaced at the thought of Nicholas-the-Knave and that her summer trading was cut short. How he was related to her sweet monk, she’d never know.

  For the first time ever, she dragged her mother’s old trunk into the center of the room, found a fine kirtle, and plaited her hair in the fashion of the Manx. Mayhap she’d go into the village today and find more help. With bow over shoulder, she belted her quiver and descended the stairs. There, her brood of orphans fought as they opened the trestle tables.

  Delicious odors of smoked herring and brown bread wafted on the breeze as Aiden ascended halfway to greet her. He bowed and asked politely, “May I lead you to your seat?”

  “Prithee, do.” She grinned at his noble antics and took his arm.

  When he seated her at the head of the main table, she bit her lower lip, and waited for tonsured heads to arrive. Chuckling, Haddr ducked out of the kitchen and set a pitcher of buttermilk on the table. “They come anon. The blond monk is very handsome. He breaks his vows with clever hands. And yours?”

  “Shush. They come.” Fay blushed and whispered, “I have so much to tell you.”

  The one known as Eaton, winked boldly at Haddr as he passed by her table. The next in line, Nicodemus, smiled kindly even though angry red scratches ran from eye to beard. She studied the floor, overflowing with guilt. Then, Sean and his twelve knights arrived, arguing hotly as they sat.

  After a quick grace, she asked, “What’s this all about?”

  He tossed his head in the direction of the monks. “Them. They need to go.”

  “You were the one who insisted they stay.” She stuck out her jaw. The man had become unbearable.

  He scowled and his voice tightened. “We don’t need them. The villagers will return to work as soon as you proclaim your faith in front of the priest in the village today.”

  She wasn’t proclaiming anything, certainly not in front of that devil. And not today. She had her own plans. “Won’t people just return for coin?”

  Snorting, he crossed arms over his chest. “Coin? What coin? I’ve not seen a halfpence since we arrived.”

  His fierce glare was met with an equal one of her own. How dare he? “Why look to me? You said yourself, you belong to Alexander.”

  “It was expected that you would pay out, as well.” He stood with hand on sword.

  Without thinking, she jumped up and met him eye to eye. “The Manx have barely enough to eat. I will not tax them further for your comfort. If you do not wish to stay, I release you all.”

  He leaned in so as to glower inches from her face. “The king commands whether we leave or stay. So I say we stay. And I say you tax. Your peasants must pay for our noble protection.”

  She screeched back at him, “Are you mad? Protection? I believe you were one of the Scots who burned down their villages.” Suddenly she wondered if she spoke too freely.

  His eyes went dark and dangerous, and his knuckles clenched white. “The Manx people brought on that war themselves.”

  She backed away as she lowered her voice. “Nay. They did not. The Danes came from across the ocean. The Manx had no say.”

  Sean put both palms down on the trestle table and leaned over. She could count the crumbs in his light beard and smell mead on his breath. “And after Alexander declared peace? Was it not your brother that killed your mother in the uprising? Right here in this verra room?”

  With life-drums pounding in her ears, Fay grabbed her knife, and stabbed into the table where his hand had rested just a moment before. “That day is not to be spoken. Not ever. Go. Should you find some manners, you’ll be invited back for sup. Otherwise, eat in the village, or in the stables. I care not.”

  God’s blood, have I gone too far? Knees shaking madly, she looked about the great room for support. Her monk was the first to rush to her side, followed by the rest of his table. Then her boys jumped from their benches and surrounded her, as well. She held her breath, waiting for blood.

  Sean tossed his blond head in the direction of the door, indicating his knights should rise. Thank all the gods. They put their eyes to the floor and stayed put. Their devotion lie with her.

  “The devil take you all ta hell.” He stomped across the room, kicked a log in the center hearth, and departed by the front door.

  Fay lowered her voice so as to sound calm while her innards tried to upend. She had never challenged Sean Ferguson before. “I thank you all for your loyalty.”

  Clasping her hands so they would not quiver, she turned to her monk. “Walk with me. Sean was correct in one matter. I must find more help for the keep and I must find a way to pay the knights. Maybe, as an outsider, you can view those things better than I.”

  He nodded, face grim, his lips a thin line. In silence, they circled down the narrow stairway by the well, and walked to the stables. His vigilant hazel eyes darted back and forth, as he prepared their mounts. He was right to be so concerned. Why was Sean being such a boar-brained maggot?

  After they clomped over the drawbridge, Freya tossed her head, wanting to run. Fay loosened her grip on the reins and her palfrey galloped freely. The fresh salt air on the uncommonly warm breeze cleansed her mood. She would find a solution to her problems. She always did.

  Suddenly, she stopped, realizing her monk was far behind. Were it not for stirrups, her monk’s toes would’ve dragged upon the road. The sturdy animal plodded along, more like a donkey than a horse.

  She couldn’t help but giggle at the sight as she turned her mount around and met him. “I’m so sorry.”

  His smile did not meet his eyes and his voice was tight when he spoke. “You should take more care. Do not fight so with Ferguson. And for God’s blood, do not ride alone.”

  He dismounted and led his horse to graze upon a tuft of grass.

  Exasperated, she did the same. “Why stop here? We’ve much to do in the village today.”

  His normally hazel eyes turned the same shade of blue as the sky. She’d never felt so attached to anyone. The notion that she could get lost there forever warmed her soul.

  He sighed. “We should talk about last night. I need to apologize.”

  “But I kissed you.” Damnation. This was not at all how she’d envisioned the morning. They were supposed to run away together. Mayhap far across t
he sea.

  “You are of the weaker, fairer sex. I am … rather … I was a warrior, but most importantly I am married to Christ. I stayed awake all night, thinking and praying, prostrate before God.”

  She grunted, disliking this conversation more and more. “Why, may I ask, does Christ care if you are horizontal or vertical?”

  His eyes met hers, as they had the night before, centers dark and wide. His nostrils flared and he took a step toward her. “Prithee. Stay on topic. I’ve never been so tempted.”

  With calloused palm to her cheek, he moved his lips to within a fraction of hers, and held her captive. “For you, I would sin again, and not give a speck for my eternal soul.”

  With his soft lips touching and caressing hers, she whispered, “You need not fear. I keep telling you. There is no God.”

  He pulled back and moaned. “What must I do to convince you of His existence?”

  “I don’t want to talk about God.” Not while his sweet mouth lay waiting and her body ached to be held in his arms.

  Enough of this. She kissed him with all her pent up need. Like dry pine needles sparked by flint, he ignited, and devoured her. One of his hands slid down her back and held her in place while his tongue demanded entrance. She opened her mouth, tentatively jousted, then let him in completely. Groaning, he slipped a hand over her breast, caressing and pinching. When her knees went weak, he held her close, his lust poking between her legs.

  Pulling up on her kirtle, she willed him to breach her.

  “God’s Blood. We cannot. Not here.” He jumped back, as if their desire was truly a hot flame.

  The fierce drumming in her chest refused to quiet as she panted like Loki. Between her legs, she was wet with want.

  “Why?” She needed him to take her, so they could marry, and run away together. So the nightmares would go away forever.

  “You’re not ready. We must go more slowly.”