How to Seduce a Queen: A Medieval Romance Novel

by Stella Marie Alden

  “We’re all married to Christ.” The monk gazed up into the sky, to a God she knew could not possibly exist.

  “Good. That’s good.” She nodded. What a heathen she’d become. She’d truly hoped for a different answer.

  “Was that all?” A glint of humor flashed in his eye as he cocked his tonsured head.

  Certainly, he was reading her mind. She swallowed hard as one lone gull caught a sliver of moonlight. “But why?”

  “You ask why we give up coupling?”

  “Not all priests do so, at least so I’m told.” Being alone in the dark had made her quite bold.

  “We’ll need no women to service our needs. I assure you, you and your woman friends are safe.”

  She exhaled. Finally, a way to change the subject of conversation. “I have no friends.”

  “Surely that cannot be true.” His features softened and he reached to tuck a lock of her hair behind an ear.

  Shivers ran up and down her spine and she scooted away, into the spacing between the stones. What would it be like to spend time with him, in the ways of women with men?

  With knees to her chest, she shivered at the ocean breeze, and curled her cloak around. “The locals would rather I lay dead cold in the ground with the rest of my family.”

  Strong arms tugged her back against his chest and she moaned. Beyond, over the ocean’s constant roar, screeching gulls ducked in and out of the surf. For the first time in her life, she was not alone.

  “Why did Alexander spare you?” His chin rested on her head, his warrior arms wrapped around her waist, and his fingertips moved in tiny caresses.

  Entranced, she almost forgot what they were discussing. “Hmm? I’m not completely certain. I was only four when my father, King Magnus, was killed. I barely remember him.”

  “Go on.”

  Letting her legs dangle out over the cliffs, she took comfort in his tight hold.

  “My mother, fearing more reprisals, sent me to the English court. A year later, Scottish knights stole me away to Alexander. He treated me as a cherished daughter. I truly do love him.” Her voice cracked and a wet tear dripped down her face. “He’s the only father I’ve ever known and I’ve let him down.”

  A large hand gently caressed her head and smoothed her hair. “I’m sure he will forgive you.”

  “He canna. I was supposed to prevent a revolt, not cause one. Then soon after the rebellion, I killed the knight Alexander wished for me to marry.”

  “God’s Bl—I mean, why, my child?” His body tensed.

  She tried to explain, but even she did not fully understand. “We had not said our vows. I was young, not willing, and he insisted. On … bedding.”

  The monk pulled her away from the wall’s edge, turned her about, and pinched her chin such that she had to look into his deep hazel eyes.

  His breath tasted of mint. “God works in strange ways.”

  “If you believe He exists.”

  “Surely you are in fear of the Almighty.” The moon decided at that moment to duck under a cloud.

  She shuddered. “Nay. I am not.”

  As if waiting for some force to come down and smite her dead, his eyebrows raised to the heavens. Then his soft beard caressed her ear when he whispered, “You should not speak so, not even alone with me.”

  With a quick shrug, she slid off the ledge. “I’ve already confessed, hoping for some good counsel. My priest shared it amongst the villagers and now none will approach the keep.”

  The monk’s eyes turned dark as he took her hand. “That priest has sinned most egregiously. What is confessed is sacred.”

  After giving him a snort, she backed away, and began the long climb down the ladder. “What does it matter? Come. It grows late. No doubt your men have roasted the hares by now and we can have a bit of meat before we sleep.”

  The whole way down, she cursed her broken nature. Surely a woman should have better sense than to lust after a monk.

  Chapter 8

  Bleating goats woke Nicholas from the little sleep he’d managed and he cursed. Most of the night, he’d stared at the tufa ceiling, reliving that one sweet kiss. When he did dream, it was only of her. Bloody palms of Christ. Best not dwell on it. Already his shaft was hard and wanting for relief.

  At least I’ve made some progress with the prickly queen. Or has she seduced me?

  Rising, he kicked Eaton, snoring in a nearby pile of hay. “Wake up you lazy sod and see to it that breaking-of-fast is edible. I’m off to the village.”

  While his friend grumbled, Nicholas wandered into the open courtyard, still deep in shadows. Horse manure was knee-high in places, and broken vessels lay strewn about everywhere. High above, guards in the ramparts spoke quietly, gazing out over the ocean. In the brick gatehouse, the chest of the watchman heaved up and down.

  What she’d said last night about the village priest gave him grave concern. Best to see to it as his first chore of the day. Grabbing a skin of water, he exited the keep. The dog, Loki, ambled alongside under the clear blue sky, as if they’d been friends for years.

  Odd. No tradesmen met him along the way, nor carts filled with goods. The road from the village into the keep lay quiet except for scores of bleating sheep, running in circles and trampling pastures.

  Just outside the village, an armed guard woke from snoozing upon a large rune stone. He yawned and said, “State your trade.”

  “Are you blind, sir?” Nicholas held up the cross around his neck, and pointed to his sandaled feet.

  “Uh, you must be one of them new brothers. Sorry. Just so’s you know, I can’t allow you to go back. Evil business in the keep, that.” The guard winked, as if that explained all, and lay back down.

  What the devil? Giving a quick nod and blessing, Nicholas ducked through the gated hole in the crumbling wall. It would’ve been easier to climb one of the many piles of rubble. From there, he traveled the main road, dotted with rotted thatch, crumbled buildings, and piles of filth.

  The priest, no doubt forewarned, waited outside the only well-tended building in the center of town. Robed in fine wool, he shouted at two young men stuffing hay under a platform in a large square near a stone cross. A kind of pitch, as used in torches, sat in buckets beside the structure.

  “Father Michael?” Nicholas’s stomach rolled and his hand reached for a sword he no longer carried. God’s blood. He means to burn her alive? He stomped toward the priest while Loki sniffed and growled.

  The cleric fingered his ornate cross and sneered in Latin. “Franciscan, I presume, from your pathetic attire?”

  The bastard would pay for that tone. “I’m Brother Nicodemus and have been sent by His Holiness to serve the Isle of Man.”

  “Be gone.” The priest shooed both man and dog with a hand’s wave.

  “What poor soul are you roasting, today?” Frowning, Nicholas kicked at the iron bracelets attached to the base of the assembly.

  “I might say it’s none of your concern. However, as you are her guest, you should know.” The priest grinned, exposing yellowed teeth, and circled the wood. He pushed on the center post, nodding gleefully.

  Wary villagers, dressed in plain linens, gathered in the square to watch.

  “You intend to burn the queen?” Clenching his teeth, he pictured flames licking Fay’s ivory skin, her green eyes glazed in terror.

  “A sin as grave as hers cannot go unpunished.” The priest continued bobbing his tonsured head with a hint of madness.

  The curious grew to over two dozen as Nicholas argued her case. Finally, he raised his arms to the Almighty. With perfect timing, he pointed at the priest just as the sun ducked behind a cloud. “What if, as another holy man of God, I can prove to you that Lady Fay is God-fearing? Would you put-off her demise?”

  The priest jumped up on the platform, shouting to the crowd, “She confessed her sins. Vengeance is mine, so sayeth God, and I am His instrument here on Man.”

  Nicholas countered, thanking his mo
ther for the modicum of religion he’d managed to memorize. “For He is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.”

  A tavern woman, still holding her establishment’s ceramic pitcher, kicked at the wooden structure until a board came loose. “I’ll explain what ungodliness goes on here, Brother. Once Lady Fay is dead, him and his bishop take what is rightfully hers. And you would let him do it?” She turned to the townspeople and scowled at them all.

  The villagers that had gathered around the platform tolerated her disdainful scowl. With thumb and forefinger together, she circled her hand to the right and to the left twice. Her brown kirtle swirled when she turned and stomped back into the tavern.

  What a brave, or stupid wench. Nicholas made the sign of the cross over the small crowd, hoping to dissolve her curse. “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, waited, and frowned.

  One industrious lad, dressed in short tunic, stole the pile of straw. Another grabbed the pail of pitch. They ran off toward a building in need of a new roof. Then, one by one, the rest of the villagers pulled the small structure apart, and went back to their daily chores.

  The red-faced priest turned to Nicholas and said, “I give you a fortnight to bring her to me. She shall proclaim her belief in Christ, in front of me, here in the square, or burn.”

  Nicholas considered how best to thrash the weasel when Eaton surprised him by stepping out of the shadows.

  A large cowl covered his face. “Come along Brother, I do believe your work here is done.”

  “Not until I have gathered what we need for a few meals. From what I’ve seen of the ledgers, these fine folk owe back taxes. I’m going to collect.” He turned toward a shop with slabs of mutton hanging out front and his mouth watered.

  “That’s why you asked me to follow?” Eaton’s mail clunked as he raced to catch up.

  “I already have no love of this village or its people.” Under their feet, the road changed from dirt to slabs of stone, and the buildings more solidly built. “These good people should be aiding the lady, not building an altar to burn her.”

  “Now, now, Brother Nicodemus, a forgiving heart may be what is needed. We know not what evils these people have suffered.”

  “Eaton? You surprise me.” He stopped in front of the butcher, where the portly owner eyed them warily.

  His friend put a palm to his arm, and for once spoke with sincerity. “I was not always a knight. Even now, my fortune rests with your success. She’ll need the love of these people. Robbing food off their tables is not the way to make it happen.”

  “So what do you suggest?” Nicholas glanced at his rope belt, devoid of purse. Even if he wanted to pay, he could not under his current role.

  Eaton grinned, his normal devil-may-care attitude back again. “I may have dug up a few coins.”

  Nicholas hissed as he pushed him aside. “Christ’s blood. You take too many risks. What if you were seen?”

  “What’s done is done.” He shrugged and jumped to avoid a pile of manure. “By the way, I checked. The rest of our belongings remain well hidden.”

  “Very well. Buy us some food. I’ll see if that saucy tavern wench can cook. Abounding in such miracles, we could eat better tonight.”

  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.”<
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  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.