How to Seduce a Queen: A Medieval Romance Novel

by Stella Marie Alden

  Hi dee ho and woe has me.

  Wander not close for I fear for thee.

  “’Tis said she’s queen to the Isle of Man

  ’Tis said she bedded another man.

  Hi dee ho and woe has me.

  Wander not close for I fear for thee.

  “He beats her each day for her mortal sin

  And checks her womb for a babe within

  Hi dee ho and woe has me.

  Wander not close for I fear for thee.”

  The dulcimer stopped and the lad spoke the next verse slowly.

  “She took a knife and killed a man dead.”

  An index finger sliced across his throat.

  “Ran for the hills, or so ’tis said.”

  Then he leaned into the crowd and sang with a low, slow whisper, full of drama.

  “The laird, he followed with knights galore,

  And that’s my tale, I have no more.”

  He hammered wildly with a grand smile and encouraged the crowd to join the refrain.

  “I’ve heard enough.” The bench toppled when Nicholas stood with clenched fists. She was in danger, and he was sitting here, drinking.

  Ferguson pulled him back down by tunic’s edge. “Calm yourself. Let the drinks flow. Tongues will loosen, and you’ll hear more.”

  When the lad finally finished and walked over to their table, Nicholas did manage a tight smile. “I’ve never heard a finer minstrel.”

  “Would you like to hear another?” Byrn bowed and beamed.

  “In a moment. Tell me. Who gave you that tale?” His sword hand twitched as he pictured gutting Huntercombe.

  Missing his tense stance, the lad laughed, and pointed at a man deep in his cups. “The guard in the corner? He lost his post because of her. He goes on about it, to anyone who’ll listen.”

  Fay had escaped that huge brute? Nicholas stifled his moan and said more fiercely than intended, “Why hasn’t she been found?”

  For the first time, the lad looked concerned, and backed away slowly. “To whom do you owe allegiance?”

  “None. I am outlaw, belonging to no man.” It surprised him how the words stuck in his throat.

  The musician, seemingly appeased, sat down and motioned for a drink. He whispered, “I fear for my friend who disappeared soon after I wrote that song. Asked if I knew of a weapon. And a warm cloak. He must be helping her.”

  “Did he say where they were headed?” Nicholas allowed a bit of hope to soar. He stretched out his leg. It would need to heal faster, for he was about to run into hell to save her.

  The lad leaned in. “Nay. But heed this. Annandale’s knights were here asking after her.”

  Nicholas swallowed the bile rising in the back of his throat. If ’twas Eaton, he’d bring her straight to Carlisle. “What did the leader look like?”

  “Big man with yellow hair.”

  Standing, Nicholas quickly translated for Ferguson. Even if they found her, they were in for a fight.

  That was enough of a signal for the boy to down his drink and go. But he turned and said as an afterthought, “My friend is like a little brother to me. Fancies himself some kind of squire, but there’s no truth in it. He’s naught but the son of a serf. Send him home.”

  A quick nod and the transfer of coin finished the trade. With a curt bow, the minstrel strode back to the center of the tavern. Soon, he had the crowd singing and thumping again. While the rest were so engaged, Nicholas and Ferguson squeezed through the ripe smell of humanity, and out the door.

  There, the thunder roared, the wind blew up a new storm, and Nicholas cursed. “Eaton must have her.”

  “That’s fortunate, is it not?”

  Before he could answer, lightning cracked, slicing a tree with a blinding light. Then giant droplets of rain turned into a deluge. Covering his head, Nicholas limped toward their lodgings. “Eaton will present her to my grandsire.”

  “Isn’t that what you were going to do?” Ferguson hurried though the narrow alley between the stone houses.

  “I was. But not now. I’ll put her on a ship to the Danes.”

  With a vehement shake of the head, his companion narrowed his eyes dangerously. “We let her decide. Remember that well, my friend.”

  He would never let her go. And, as he had given up lying, Nicholas avoided the whole matter by saying, “Gather your men. In the morning, we make for Carlisle.”

  Late that night, he sharpened his blades by the fire, and notion after notion appeared in his mind’s eye. There has to be some way out of this rat’s nest. He played out the scenes, one by one, and discarded them. In his experience, that never bode well.

  Chapter 24

  Castle Carlisle

  What kind of queen let herself be duped so thoroughly? Tears froze to her cheeks in the cold wind as Fay rode north with Sir Eaton’s men. She’d vomited twice today, and fought hard to keep from doing so again. There was no doubt. She was with child.

  Too soon, the ten towers of Carlisle pierced the sky. Three gold dragons upon a field of red flapped in the wind, declaring that King Edward was in residence. At one time, her mother considered him an ally. Perhaps all was not lost and he would allow her to enter a simple life in a nunnery.

  “We’ve arrived just in time for Christmastide.” Sir Eaton flashed a rare smile and they neared the huge arch in single file. In front of them, children sang carols in a cart pulled by a pair of oxen. Behind them, a minstrel turned the crank of a hurdy-gurdy. The nobles, dressed in jewels and finery, were waved through by the guards without question.

  “Why is Edward here?” Fay pointed up at the pennants with her right hand and held the reins with her left.

  Eaton’s features slipped back into a frown as they inched forward in the long queue. “Now that Wales is settled, he keeps a watchful eye to the north.”

  Her mount stretched his long neck to tug on a piece of hay. Would that she could find something to eat so easily. “I thought Alexander and Edward were at peace.”

  “’Tis only a matter of time. Keep your voice lowered.” His eyes darted about.

  At the gate, a parchment with Annandale’s wax seal was all it took to gain entrance to the fair-like atmosphere of the courtyard.

  Inside the first wall, a blacksmith’s forge hissed and a woman with a basket of linens on her head dashed to the church. Merchants stared out from their small stone buildings as her captors paraded to the stables. From there, Eaton dismissed his men into the arms of loved ones who waited nearby. Their joyous cries tugged at her broken heart. Would that she had someone to welcome her as well, but it would never be.

  Waving a fond farewell to Carl, she followed Eaton back into the main square. Her stomach grumbled as they passed a bakery where warm bread baked in outside brick ovens. Trying to distract herself from hunger pains, she continued their earlier conversation. “Why wouldn’t Alexander just wed? He’s still young and vigorous.”

  “If he survives. Shush.” He took her by the elbow and led her over black stones toward an inner wall and another keystone arch.

  She skipped to keep up with his long strides. “Who would dare murder a king?”

  “Think lass. Surely, you know. Who would inherit upon the king’s death?” He stopped briefly to let a giggling couple pass. She envied their warm plaid caps, heavy cloaks, and new boots. Would lack of food, the cold, or Edward’s sword be her demise?

  For a moment, the world spun and she felt faint. “Which king? Edward or Alexander?”

  “Are you mad? We’re speaking of Alexander, of course.” He shook her by the shoulders.

  “Stop that.” She shrugged out his grasp and gritted her teeth. How could she possibly weave two thoughts together when half-starved? “There’s a girl-child in Norway. Margaret. I suppose she would inherit.”

  He snorted. “An infant and female? Try again.”

  “Verra well. There’s the family of Balloil and … and dear God. There’s Lord Annandale himself!”

  L
aughing without mirth, he slowly led them toward a massive carved door. Twelve footmen stared ahead, and two vigilant guards waited with eyes narrowed and hands upon swords.

  “Now do you see why Annandale wants you so badly, lass? Your child will be a Bruce, as well as heir to the Isle of Man.”

  “This would all make sense but for one thing. I’m a former princess. Never queen. None except Alexander ever acknowledged I exist. This is daft. Man does not even belong to England.” She rubbed her hands together, hoping to regain some feeling in her fingertips.

  He rolled his eyes at her. “Are you that naïve? A simple writ from Edward and the Isles are his.”

  “That’s just plain falderal.” Shaking her head too fast, she fell to the blessed ground. There she would stay. Forever, if necessary. Let him carry her the rest of the way. It would serve him right.

  He glared and lifted her onto her feet. “Get up. Your appearance is a disgrace. Annandale will expect us to report directly to the King.”

  “You’re the one who kidnapped me with naught but what I wear. Not even giving me proper time to piss or eat.” She fumed, despite her lightheadedness, reached for a bow, long gone, and then for a knife, also missing. Maybe she’d claw his eyes out. “You are an impossible boar.”

  “I do my duty. Would it have been my choice, I would’ve left you for Huntercombe to root with. ’Tis due to you, my friend is dead.” He scowled as this was all her fault and waited with hands behind his back.

  She resisted the urge to spit at him. Foul man. But his words brought back the ache in her chest for her monk.

  Damnation.

  Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

  Her monk never existed. She’d given her heart to Nicholas-the-Bastard and he’d used her, then shattered her. Now, nothing had meaning. Everything was lost. And like a shell washed upon the shore, all life within was long gone. She sat back down in the mud.

  The huge door to the main hall creaked open, and a lad of perhaps ten exited. He wore a feathered cap and was dressed in the finest wools. “The king is ready for you.”

  Wiping her wet hands on her already filthy cloak, she stood and followed. An ominous bang echoed as the door closed and her eyes adjusted to torchlight. When they passed a small hearth where knights warmed themselves, she slowed her gait at the blessed heat.

  The now frowning page said to Eaton, “Move her along.”

  Eaton grasped her elbow tightly, moving her toward the end of the hall. There, an unusually tall man stood and placed a crown on his head. That had to be Edward. Another older man, covered in a red plaid cloak, paced by a much grander hearth than the one she’d passed. His resemblance to a younger man standing nearby was uncanny. These must be the two Bruces who’d sent her monk to his death. A bead of sweat rolled down her side despite being chilled to the bone.

  “Is that her?” The king crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. It was difficult not to stare at his disfigured, drooping eye.

  She opened her mouth to speak but was stopped by an imperial hand. “Quiet. Let the knight speak.”

  Eaton held his cloak together, bowed to Annandale, and dropped to a knee in front of the king.

  Edward scowled and said, “Get up and report.”

  Someone should have informed the idiot that Edward hated court niceties outside of Westminster. Everyone knew that. She kept her face passive but inside she smirked. Piss on Eaton.

  But to his credit, he stood, quickly masked his confusion, and pointed at her. “As requested, I’ve recovered the sole heir to King Magnus.”

  “Send her forward.”

  She curtsied, but not by much, and held her filthy hand for Edward to kiss. She was a queen, by law his equal.

  He snorted out a laugh. “Feisty and no doubt beautiful under all that filth. Tell me lass, are you married to de Huntercombe?”

  “Aye, by priest but never consummated.” She hoped he couldn’t see how her knees knocked under her light tunic.

  “Look at me. They tell me you have not bled since leaving Man.” Edward leaned in, almost nose to nose.

  It was said he put to death those he thought lied so she considered her next words with care. “That is true enough.”

  “Who is the father?” His warm breath smelled of excellent Norman wine.

  She tried to meet his fierce scrutiny, but quickly lowered her gaze. “Sire. A full turn of the moon has only just come and gone. A lady cannot be certain of such things.”

  “Who was it that penetrated you?” He lifted her chin.

  “A man called Brother Nicodemus. He is dead.”

  An ill wind blew through the castle, sending a chill up and down her spine. How long would this inquisition last? She saw her death in his eyes and shivered.

  The man whom she assumed was Nicholas’s father, Robert Bruce, paled and clenched his fist. “Permission to speak, sire?”

  Edward nodded.

  “God’s blood, Eaton, look at me. My son is dead?” Robert’s face had paled to white, and his voice was strained.

  Eaton raised his sad eyes from where they were latched to the floor and whispered, “Aye.”

  “How?” Fists clenched, the man fought valiantly to keep his composure and Fay’s heart went out to him.

  Eaton scowled in her direction, pointed, and said, “Huntercombe found them out and nearly killed him.”

  This was not her fault. She tried to say so, but Edward put a hand to her mouth before she could utter a sound.

  The king asked in a low, dangerous, voice that did not bode well for the knight, “You did not see to his final hours?”

  “My duty was to see that she was returned to Annandale. I have done so.” His scornful tone caused several in the room, including her, to gasp.

  Edward’s bad eye ticked, his jaw clenched, but his famous temper did not unleash. He turned to a guard and said, “See that he remains nearby. I may need to question him later.”

  Eaton shot her one last hateful glance and bowed at the king. Then his spurs clanged on the stone floor, echoing ominously as he was led out of the hall.

  She dared not look up. A tear had dropped down her cheek upon hearing how her monk had died, but she dared not move to brush it away. She blinked hard until the rest were contained, then peaked up between her eyebrows. But it was not at her the king directed his anger. He fumed at the elder Bruce who seemed unaffected by the news of his grandson’s death.

  Like sudden thunder, the monarch slammed a fist upon the table causing a bottle of wine to crash to the floor. “You had the audacity to bed a queen to a bastard line of Bruce? I will not have it. You will have Alexander bearing forces down into my realm. Are you truly that daft? Or perhaps that cunning?”

  Annandale paled to the color of the edges of his aging hair and his voice lowered to a humble whisper. “It was for you, Edward. The island is strategic to the English and should not be in the hands of the Scots.”

  “I will not battle Alexander for his hard-won spoils. We are at peace. At least we were until this very moment. Put her under guard. Annandale, this time you go too far.”

  The king turned to the younger of the two men, whose eyes had turned moist. “Robert. Tell me you were not part of this falderal.”

  “I would not have willingly sent my son to his death.” The younger Bruce glared at his father, his eyes narrowed in hatred. His tone was laced with held-back fury.

  Edward pointed his finger at her, still shouting. “And you? Is there any reason I should not take your head?”

  She pondered her miserable existence, and shook her head no. Best to be done with this earthly existence and hope for a better one in the next. “Not that I can think of, sire.”

  “Do you understand the edge of a blade will cleave off your head?”

  She gulped, nodded, and proudly held back tears. “I would only ask that you sharpen it well.”

  He banged his crown on the table. “Damnation. Sit down. As a queen, you should understand how precious my time. ’
Tis only your title that affords you my attention. I don’t wish you dead, I want information. Do you need to be tortured to impart it?”

  For the first time, she allowed her eyes to lift and gaze into his. Dark circles under the young king’s eyes indicated he had gone days without sleep. His face was scarred with wounds from battle. His bad eye drooped prominently and his mouth was grim.

  Shuddering, she envisioned herself pulled apart by horses, flesh being seared by iron, or entrails pulled out of her belly and stuffed into her mouth. He was capable of all that and more. She swallowed hard and asked, “What do you wish to know, Your Grace?”

  “Everything. Start by how I’ve never heard of you and yet you claim to be daughter to Magnus.”

  She stood to her full height and took a step toward him. She never lied and would not be insulted so. “I do not claim, sire. I am of the line of Magnus. My mother sent me away when I was just a babe. She was wiser than my father. She knew what was coming and wished for her only child to survive.”

  “Proof, lass.”

  She slid her tunic off her shoulder, lifted her hair, and showed the ink. “The blue ‘M’ is faded, but only the line of Magnus are so marked as children.”

  Edward spoke to a scribe sitting at the table. “Find out if what she says holds any truth.”

  Then he turned back to her, and began to pace. “I will concede that you may be who you say you are. But why send you to Alexander? An enemy?”

  “My mother sent me to you, through the Earl of Lancaster. My understanding is he sold me to the Scots.”

  He slapped her. “You will not slander the good name of Thomas Lancaster.”

  The fire in her belly lit and her ears pounded. Years of anger burst from her, a hornet with a damaged nest. “You asked for the truth and refuse to hear it? Find him and ask him yourself.”

  The king scowled. “Have no doubt, I will. Go on. But with more care if you wish to keep fingernails on your lovely hands.”

  Shaking, she tucked them into her tunic. “Forgive me. You must understand. I have but here-say. I was but a babe. Alexander told me he tried to negotiate with Magnus for my return. My father, at the time, asserted he had no daughter. Later, when I asked my mother why, she would not say. I only know that Alexander sent me back to Man after my father died. I would guess he was hoping my presence would add a modicum of stability.”