How to Seduce a Queen: A Medieval Romance Novel

by Stella Marie Alden

  Before Nicholas could kill him, she screeched a Celtic war cry, and slammed her head back, smashing Eaton’s face. He put a hand to his bloody nose, she pushed him off the horse, and dug in her heels. In seconds, she was gone. Ten men galloped in pursuit.

  Despite all his urgings, Nicholas’s sorry excuse for a palfrey lagged behind. As the beast lumbered forward, Nicholas prayed fervently that Fay would find his sister’s home in No-Man’s-Land.

  Several hours later, Eaton returned, dismounted, and pulled sword from sheath. “Where did you tell her to go?”

  Nicholas’s heart rejoiced as he jumped off the old nag. She’d made it.

  Arms outstretched and grinning madly, he said, “I’m unarmed, old friend.”

  Eaton pointed to Sir Gasper, who’d just arrived with the rest of the knights. “Throw him a sword. We end this now.”

  Nicholas caught it midair and measured its worth. “To the death, Eaton? Is that what we’ve come to?”

  “I am knight to Annandale, who is loyal to Edward. They both say she belongs in the dungeon. I know you helped her. Tell me where she travels, or die.” His friend circled with sword forward, waiting for him to misstep.

  Nicholas circled wide and grimaced purposefully when he shifted weight onto his bad leg.

  Sensing his weakness, Eaton smirked, and hammered down his sword.

  But Nicholas was already moving his back and around. Metal met metal, he swiveled, and kicked at his opponent’s kneecap.

  His friend wobbled, cursed, and slammed a fist into Nicholas’s chest.

  Using the momentum of the blow, Nicholas turned in a complete arc, and took the flat edge of his blade to the knight’s back, who fell to his knees.

  A final round heel kick to the head sent Eaton face first into the ground.

  For a moment, Nicholas considered stabbing his friend through the neck. Instead, he helped him to sit and made sure he would live to fight another day.

  Ten frowning faces stared down from their mounts.

  Breathing hard, Nicholas challenged them, “Who’s next? Or will you all rush me at once?”

  Sir Gaspar dismounted, checked on Eaton, and said, “Go get her.”

  Shocked, Nicholas stared up and read nothing but good will. “What will you tell my grandsire?”

  “The truth. You went to recapture the escaped queen. Here. Take my charger.” He handed off the reins.

  Still stunned, Nicholas did not trust his ears. Mayhap the recent blows had rendered him stupid. “Why? Why do this for me?”

  Stroking his long gray beard, Gaspar sighed and said, “I’ve become rather fond of the lass.”

  For fear one of the knights might change his mind, Nicholas threw a leg over the horse and said, “I cannot thank you enough. Someday, I’ll make certain that you’re all well rewarded.”

  Then he raced north for his sister’s keep in No-Man’s-Land.

  Chapter 28

  After making her great escape from the English knights, Fay raced over miles of endless flat bogs spotted with boulders and scrubby pines. Dark clouds hid the sun, but at least it didn’t rain. She paused once to ask for directions from a shepherd who shrugged and pointed down the road. There, gray smoke exited from a thatched roof, and swirled into the violet sky.

  To Fay, it looked like heaven. With frozen fingers, she searched Eaton’s saddlebag, found two farthings, and approached the simple cottage.

  “What can I do for you?” An ancient woman with a toothless smile peeked out of the dwelling.

  Fay opened her fist and displayed the coins in the palm of her shaking hand. “Prithee? Allow me to stay the night?”

  “Where is your escort?” The old woman gripped the door as if about to slam it shut while a black bear-dog growled.

  If she was turned away, how could she possibly survive the night? Backing away from the dog’s sharp teeth, Fay quickly explained, “I ride to D’Agostine’s keep. I’m in dire need of the laird’s protection. He’s … my intended’s brother-in-law. I lost him when outlaws attacked us on the road.”

  She sighed in relief when the woman opened the door wide with a tsk-tsk. “Oh, you poor lamb. Come in.”

  Fay followed into the moist room filled with the smell of warm animal musk. The dog was shushed and Eaton’s horse settled into an empty stall. Two oxen lowed, three goats bleated, and a half-dozen sheep complained. A cat jumped up from where he slept in front of the glowing hearth and glared.

  Chuckling, the ancient closed off a gate that divided the one room dwelling. “You may call me Doreen. D’Agostine’s keep is only a few miles up the road but canna be approached at night.”

  Fay sighed, almost giddy. She was so close. Suddenly her heart raced as she wondered about the knights that no doubt followed closely on her heels. “You live here alone?”

  “Hardly that.” She patted the dog’s head. “I have Bruno here and an addle-brained husband. And I have D’Agostine’s men who constantly patrol. It’s usually very safe. Especially tonight, of all nights.”

  Old, yet sharp eyes studied Fay’s face. “You have no idea, do you? It’s Christmastide, the day of our savior’s birth.”

  Fay nodded sadly, remembering the wonderful festivities as a child in Alexander’s keep. Sweet orange peels, cakes, and tables piled high with food. Her empty stomach growled.

  “Sit, sit. I’ll put the pot on and you can tell me your tale of woe. Now, where’s my bread?” The woman poked at the fire, it crackled, and new flames surrounded the logs.

  A thick fur by the center hearth was her only choice of seats so she lowered cross-legged. Then the ancient put a linen on the low table. A thick piece of brown bread, slathered in jam, followed.

  Picking up the gooey goodness, Fay chewed, swallowed, and moaned her appreciation.

  “Let me see if I can find something to drink.” Doreen hobbled over to a cupboard, took a swig from a jug, and handed it to Fay. Sitting, she said, “Just start at the beginning.”

  Not wanting to seem disrespectful, Fay gave a tentative smile, took the pottery in both hands, and chugged. The strong ale coursed through her body, warming her. “I was born to King Magnus of the Isle of Man. Do you know of him?”

  The woman shook her head, her eyes wide. “You are a queen?”

  “Well. Not truly. I would’ve been but my father was defeated by King Alexander who insisted I marry an evil knight, known as The Ax.”

  Relaxing for the first time in weeks, Fay told her story from the beginning to the end. “… And so you see. My monk, who is not really my monk, rather Nicholas Bruce, wants to meet up at his sister’s keep. She’s married to Sir D’Agostine.”

  The woman smiled and wiped a tear from her eye. “That is truly a romantic tale, worthy of a great bard.”

  “I fear it ends tragically.” Fay shook her head, sadly. Nicholas had played her for a fool, again and again.

  “Mayhap not. It would seem, despite all your misfortune, that God has brought you to the only man in the kingdom who pledges allegiance to neither Alexander nor Edward.”

  Her heart leapt with a small bit of hope. “How can that be?”

  “You’ll have to ask him. People here believe he’s got the angel of the Lord on his side.” She rolled up in her rug, eyes heavy.

  “Not the devil?”

  Doreen chuckled. “Wait until you meet him and you decide. Sleep well. I’ll go with you in the morning to find my still drunken husband and bring him home. It won’t be the first time.”

  It was dark when Fay finally gave up trying to close her eyes and rose. Only by the chirping of the sparrows was she sure it was morning. Despite the warmth and coziness, sounds outside and the dog’s occasional growls had her worried.

  When Fay untethered Eaton’s charger from the stall and walked it toward the door, Doreen stopped snoring and said, “Stay. Or at least wait for my husband.”

  Fay sighed heavily. “I thank you, but nay. If what you say is true, then God will guard me the rest of the w
ay.”

  Wrapped in fur, the old woman stood and gave her a solid hug. “I assume there’s nothing I can do to convince you otherwise?”

  “Nay. I’ll be fine.” She broke away from the embrace, opened the door, and the fierce cold of the morning slapped her in the face. Her mount nickered and his breath created a small ghost.

  Only a few miles, she told herself as she swung a leg over the horse.

  Her heart stopped when a group of knights, wearing the colors of Man, approached. The leader raised his helm and a familiar blond head poked out. “Where’re you off to, lassie?”

  She squeaked and smiled. “Sean? What are you doing here?”

  He gave a grin, but something was off. His brows wrinkled over dark, shifty eyes.

  “Didn’t that liar Nicholas tell you? I was the one who arranged your escape from Carlisle. Not him. I sent Agatha. You’re safe with me, now, dearest.”

  Dearest? Since when did he speak endearments? Fay wondered if he’d gone daft in her absence. Perhaps Huntercombe had beat him as well and his mind had become soft. Convinced he meant her harm, she squeezed her knees to gallop away, but one of his men grabbed her horse’s reins.

  Then Sean dismounted and clamped her ankle. “Get down.”

  “Nay. You let go.” She kicked, but he pulled her off her horse and kissed her roughly. “I’m taking you back home with me. To Man.”

  Completely frayed, she struggled. “Are you mad? The Ax will have your head.”

  “No one will know. I’ll say you died in childbirth.” His face was that of a madman when he turned to the rest of the knights. “Leave us.”

  Terrified, she screamed, “Please. Someone. Stop him!”

  “Enough!” Nicholas rode forward. “I believe we agreed we would let the queen choose. From the looks of her, she obviously is not choosing you.”

  Sean Ferguson pushed her aside and unsheathed his sword. “She belongs in Man. Alexander promised her to me years ago.”

  The knights of Man, with whom Nicholas had broken bread, waited upon their mounts. With helms down, their loyalty was not clear. Would they now protect their queen, or their leader?

  Pulling his sword from sheath, he limped closer. “The promises of kings change like the seasons.”

  Ferguson’s face contorted to an ugly shade of red, and spit pooled in the corner of his mouth. He backhanded it away. “How dare she fall in love with you? A liar, a bastard, and now an invalid. Not even knighted. Look at you.”

  Nicholas inched toward Fay, who stood with eyes wide next to her horse. When her gaze met his, he lifted an eyebrow, and nodded toward her saddle. Thank all the saints. She understood his meaning and shifted into the slightest of crouches, ready to jump. With a small smile, he rotated his sword, caught the sunlight, and directed it at Ferguson’s eyes. The moment he blinked, Nicholas dropped his weapon, clasped hands together, and boosted her up.

  She landed hard, grabbed the reins, and gave the huge beast a slap on the rear. It screamed, bolted, and galloped down the road. A moment later, the stunned knights followed. But weighted down and on inferior horseflesh, they would never catch up.

  Ferguson screamed a Scott battle cry, which sent a chill down Nicholas’s spine.

  As tired as he was, his odds of survival were slim. He said as he retrieved his sword, “It doesn’t have to be this way.”

  “She picked you. Because of that, you must die.” Ferguson circled slowly, weighted with armor.

  In the past, Nicholas would’ve used speed to win the day. He cursed his injury and yet spoke with bravado. “How about I let you live, you go back to Man, and tell Alexander she died in England? I’ll tell Edward the same. History will forget she ever existed.”

  No luck there. His nemesis snorted, raised his sword, and the sharp edge of metal whooshed by his face. Nicholas jumped and rolled. Using the momentum to right himself, he squatted with sword in front. His bad leg shrieked from thigh to ankle.

  “If I promise not to kill you. Will you promise on your knighthood to leave her be?” Nicholas didn’t want to fight this man any more than he’d wanted to battle Eaton.

  The answer was a step forward and another horizontal swipe of sword over his head. “She’s mine. Always has been.” He moaned. “I love her.”

  “Oh, for the love of Christ’s nails.” Nicholas rose, jumped behind his foe, and clanged the flat side of his blade atop Ferguson’s thick head. He fell motionless but still breathing.

  An old woman exited the cottage from the side of the road and cheered.

  Nicholas grinned, gave her a nod, and shouted, “See to him when he wakes? He’s a good man, just gone mad over the love of a woman.”

  She cackled, while doing a happy jig, and waved him on. Had everyone turned mad?

  Chapter 29

  No wonder ’twas called No-Man’s-Land. Who in their right mind would claim it?

  Fingers and toes numb, Fay hid in the darkness within the only small forest of trees for miles. She’d played cat and mouse for hours with unknown knights and could still hear them nearby. Her morning hope had turned by evening to despair. There were so many players in this small acreage and she had no idea whom to trust. She only knew what Nicholas had told her. Go to the Castle and find his sister.

  Finally, the moon disappeared under a thick cloud. No matter the outcome, ’twas time to cross the long open field over the moors. Hopefully she’d make it to the gate before they caught up with her.

  She fumbled with the reins, grabbed the saddle’s crossbow, and dug in her heels.

  The growing thunder of hooves behind should’ve caused her alarm, but she was too damn cold to care. She’d not surrender to Sean, nor to any man, not with D’Agostine’s castle so close.

  She aimed Eaton’s crossbow, and turned.

  Her heartbeat stopped when she recognized the blue Huntercombe colors but a few feet away.

  The Ax. It had to be him in the lead.

  Taking a deep breath, she released the crossbow’s latch. The helmed man grunted when pierced, leaned forward, and yet managed to stay upon his horse and race toward the keep. Head on, he met D’Agostine’s knights pouring out from under the portcullis. She expected them to stop him, but they opened like the red sea, and gave chase to the rest.

  She stared, stunned. Why did they let The Ax in freely? Perhaps they plotted with him against her? Before she could turn tail, three of the keep’s knights approached, and grabbed her reins. The biggest lifted her, clamped a solid arm about her waist, and rushed with her in his lap over the icy field. They passed through an arch in the great stone wall, over a moat, through a smaller wall, then stopped outside a large stone tower.

  The big man cursed her in a foreign tongue and dropped her down to a waiting squire. After dismounting, he put the sharp edge of his cold dagger to her throat. Shivering, she waited as he watched villagers light torches and rush in and out of the building. Inside, she could hear women’s voices giving terse commands.

  She could not believe what she saw. “Are you all that fond of Huntercombe?”

  He growled, “Is that who you think you pierced?”

  She nodded.

  He dropped his knife and lifted his helm to reveal a furious black face. He said with a strange accent, “You pierced m’lady’s birth-brother. If he does not survive, I will take your pretty head and put it in on a pike for all to see.”

  She gasped. It could not be so. Surely God would not be so unkind. The world spun, she dropped to her knees, and she clutched his thighs. “Please. Take me to see him. I beg you.”

  “Gladly.” Taking her upper arm, he led her into a wealthy hall and threw her to the floor. “’Twas her arrow.”

  A dark-haired noble, kneeling over a body, regarded her with pure hatred. “Kill her.”

  Nay. They could not. She had to explain.

  In the mayhem, Robert Bruce descended from the top of a staircase, hastily tying a plaid around his waist. “Hold. That’s the one I was telling
you of.”

  With eyes no longer on her, she crawled slowly toward her lover on the floor, his life’s blood flowing out. When her hand met the sticky puddle of red, she cried out. Robert’s strong hands pulled her away.

  A black-haired woman, dressed in a sleeping tunic, threw wood atop the hearth flames and shouted, “Where, for the love of all the saints, are my flesh needles? Marcus? MARCUS.”

  “Calm yourself, Ann.” A giant of a man dug through a huge satchel.

  The Norman laird and the black man carefully carried Nicholas’s body across the hall and placed him on a table. A woman, who had to be Nicholas’s twin, cradled his head. Fay struggled to go to them, but Robert held her fast.

  Then, with one swift motion, the giant snapped off the arrow’s tip, and pulled it out. Dark liquid spewed up and Fay gasped.

  Nicholas moaned her name.

  Turning to his father, she begged, “Please. Let me see to him. He should not die, not without knowing.”

  The sewing gypsy gave a quick nod to the black man. “Let her come.”

  Fay sent her a grateful look and raced to her lover’s side. She placed his limp hand on her wet face and kissed his knuckles. “Don’t die. What will I do without you? Where will I go? What meaning will life have? I love you so.”

  The gypsy bit off the thread, glared icily at Fay, and said to his sister, “Keep him warm.”

  A group of villagers were instructed that the table should be dragged closer to the fire. His sister turned her face into the laird’s chest and she wept softly.

  Fay whispered to no one in particular, “He wore Huntercombe’s colors. I had no idea …”

  Robert Bruce walked around the table, took her hand, and patted. “There’s nothing to be done. He needs to rest.”

  She remembered how she had scoffed at Aunt Agatha’s prophecy. The monk’s God was a vengeful one. Mayhap she would not worship him, after all.

  “There, there, lass. The wound is not so bad as all that. Merely nicked his shoulder. I’ve seen men recover from much worse. See his chest? He breathes well. It rises and falls without effort.” Robert tried to drag her away.