Nessa’s Seduction by Jayne Castel
1
AT THE GATES
Dunfermline, Scotland
Late winter, 1304
SHE STRAYED CLOSE to the gates of the enemy camp—close enough to draw the attention of the guards.
Pretending not to notice their lewd stares and coarse comments, Nessa plastered a smile onto her face and tightened her grip upon her basket, even as nervousness constricted her belly. She resisted the impulse to pull her heavy woolen cloak tight, swivel on her heel, and march home. Instead, she glanced wistfully back in the direction she’d come. Perched high above the jumble of slate roofs of Dunfermline town, the abbey loomed dark against the fading sky.
No matter where one traveled in Dunfermline, the abbey was a constant landmark—one that was as yet untainted by the English. The sight of it galvanized Nessa’s resolve, causing her anxiety to settle. Tearing her gaze from the abbey, she focused upon the mail-clad guards flanking the gates.
She’d braved this spot for a reason. She couldn’t flee now.
The men were still staring at her with wolfish grins. She stood just yards from the entrance to a temporary settlement—a township that comprised a sea of white and red pavilion tents and fluttering pennants. Somehow she needed to get in there—but an outer perimeter of ‘war wagons’, carts equipped with high wooden shields with openings for archers to fire through, blocked her path.
Ignoring the guards’ leers, Nessa peered into the camp. Somewhere in there was The Hammer, Edward Longshanks himself. That bastard needed to die—but she hadn’t been charged with assassinating the English king.
Nessa’s purpose here was a very different one.
Still observing the camp, she wrinkled her nose. The reek of the army—peat-smoke, manure, and stale sweat—hung heavily in the dank, chill air. It was so cold this afternoon that the skin of her exposed cheeks prickled. More snow was on its way; she was sure of it.
But snow wasn’t the only thing she was certain about.
Ye shall meet him today … the Englishman ye must seduce.
That morning, just after dawn, she’d cast the bones, and they’d given her the sign she’d been waiting for. If she wanted to make contact with one of the king’s knights, she needed to get inside the English camp—today.
“Ho, wench!” One of the guards called out. “What have you got in your basket?”
“That Scot slut won’t understand you,” another guard chortled before making a crude gesture. “She doesn’t speak our tongue.”
Heat ignited in Nessa’s belly. This dull-wit was mistaken. She’d grasped every word. Forcing herself to keep smiling, she patted her basket. “I have trinkets … to bring you luck.”
Her words brought looks of surprise. Nessa had taken care over the last years to learn their tongue. Her English was a little halting and strongly accented—and not half as good as her French—yet she wagered few Scots used it.
Recovering from their surprise, the men exchanged smirks.
“Come here then,” one of them drawled, beckoning to her. “Show us your wares.”
The suggestive note to his voice galled, yet she couldn’t show her distaste. She’d been in Dunfermline since Samhuinn, watching and waiting. She wouldn’t let her hatred of the English make her lose focus.
Colina would be wondering why it was taking Nessa so long to discover Edward of England’s battle plans—when and where he would strike next. The High bandruì—druidess—had instructed Nessa to find work at a tavern frequented by the English and use a blend of wiles and witching to seduce one of the knights within Edward’s inner circle. Her first step was to cross paths with a king’s man and then take him to her bed. After that, she was to use the craft on him to loosen his tongue.
Yet with so much at stake, Nessa wanted to ensure she seduced an Englishman who could actually help her, and in truth, she didn’t want to work as a tavern wench. She’d decided to do it her own way. So she set herself up in a cottage on the edge of the town and established herself as a healer: a wise woman who knew some hedge-craft, a woman who employed more than salves and tinctures to mend what ailed her patients.
She’d busied herself in her new life, and now the time had come to find a suitable target.
Moving close to the smirking guards, Nessa readied the working she’d prepared. In her free hand, she carried a ‘cairn stone’—a lump of smoky quartz—which she’d imbued with her witch-will during the full moon of the night before.
“What luck are you in need of?” she asked, meeting one of the guard’s gazes boldly. The cairn stone pulsed cold against her palm in response to the question. Witching surged through Nessa’s blood, and the wind picked up, whistling across the shallow valley.
The guard stared at her, blinking. As the stare drew out, his expression grew slack.
Nessa fought the urge to grin. Soon she’d have these two fools eating out of her hand.
“What’s all this?”
A powerful male voice intruded, jerking the guard out of the enchantment she’d started to weave upon him. Shaking his head, as if to clear it, the guard’s attention shifted away from Nessa, his stance going rigid.
Silently cursing at being thwarted—for she’d been about to suggest the guard let her pass into the camp—Nessa glanced over her shoulder to see three men approaching. They strode over the humpbacked bridge that crossed the burn between the town and the camp, their spurs clinking on stone.
Nessa went still, her gaze settling upon the newcomers.
Dressed in heavy hauberks, with their coifs pulled down, they wore crimson surcoats covering the mail. The three knights were all big men; they were also clean-shaven, something that wasn’t common among the Scots. One was balding, another was dark-haired. The third knight, the one who strode out front, had light-brown hair cut short—and a surly expression.
Nessa stepped back from the guards, her pulse racing.
Her attention remained upon the knight leading the others, certainty and relief settling in the pit of her belly. She’d thought she’d have to gain access to the camp in order to cross paths with one of the king’s knights—yet The Three had blessed her this day.
I’ve found him.
The lead knight halted before her, his expression inscrutable. “State your business here, woman.”
Nessa flashed him a smile. “Trinkets to bring you luck, brave knight.” She gestured to her basket. “Or would you prefer I read your fortune?”
All three knights had now stopped before Nessa. Her words brought looks of surprise to the balding and dark-haired men, although their surly friend frowned. He’d called out in English, yet, like the guards, the knights hadn’t expected her to speak their tongue.
Of course, these men would likely speak French as well. However, she’d wanted their full attention—and now she had it.
“Best I don’t know what the future holds,” the bald knight replied, favoring her with a flirtatious smile. “A soldier’s life usually has a violent end.”
His dark-haired friend snorted. “Aye, better let the Lord decide.” Nessa saw that the knight wore a small silver crucifix around his neck; it glittered dully in the fading light.
The ill-tempered one continued to observe Nessa, his gaze hooding. “How is it you speak our tongue?” he asked, clearly suspicious. His voice was a low rumble, a deep timbre that was pleasant on the ear.
Nessa inclined her head, meeting his eye. She wasn’t about to be cowed by this man—instead, she took his unfriendliness as a challenge. “I lived on the borderlands for a while,” she replied, “and healed a number of English soldiers.”
His gaze narrowed. “So you’re a healer, not some peddler of witch ways?”
Nessa inclined her head. He was a sharp one. “Perhaps I’m both?”
He held her stare. “And what is it you’re selling?”
Needing no further encouragement, she dug into her basket and withdrew a length of rope. “Can I interest you in a Druid’s Ladder?” she asked. “It’ll cost you just one penny. To draw good fortune to you … tie a knot toward you upon a waxing moon and picture the thing you want.”
The knight’s handsome face—for she’d noted he was handsome, with a strong jaw, proud features, and a finely molded mouth—stiffened.
Ignoring his reaction, Nessa dug into her basket once more and produced a smooth, dark river stone with a white line running through it. “Or two pennies will buy you a Wishing Rock. Keep it with you at all times when you wish for things, and your desires will come true.”
The knight’s brows crashed together. “Is that right?” he growled, while next to him the dark-haired, crucifix-wearing knight muttered something under his breath and crossed himself. “Sounds like nonsense to me. Take your baubles and peddle them elsewhere, witch.”
His reaction wasn’t unexpected. However, Nessa wasn’t put off. She held the knight’s stare. “Or, if you prefer, I can cast the bones and tell you if providence shines upon you?”
The knight’s bald companion smirked at this. “Hugh de Burgh makes his own luck.” He then cast a pointed look at his friend. “Isn’t that right, Sir Hugh?”
Hugh de Burgh.
Nessa once more fought the urge to grin. Indeed, fortune was shining upon her this day. She’d heard of this man—few in Dunfermline hadn’t—for he was the English king’s commander, a man who would certainly know Edward’s intentions.
The bones hadn’t failed her. Now, she just had to find a way to make the dour knight warm to her.
“Shut up, Nicholas.” Sir Hugh cast his companion a baleful look.
It was then that Nessa saw the knight’s right hand was bound. A linen bandage swathed it, and a dark stain seeped through the material.
Nessa’s pulse quickened, excitement constricting her chest. This was her chance. “Shall I take a look at that for you?” she asked, careful to keep her tone calm and solicitous.
“No,” Sir Hugh replied gruffly. “Just move on, woman. This isn’t market square. Go and sell your trinkets elsewhere. None of us are interested in your witchery.”
Nessa stilled. He’d spoken those last words in fluent Gaelic, something that unbalanced her. Of course, some of these men had been campaigning in Scotland for years now. This Hugh de Burgh had the weather-beaten look of a man in his mid-thirties, a man who’d lived through many battles. It shouldn’t have surprised her that he spoke her tongue.
“This isn’t witchery,” she replied softly in Gaelic, spearing him with her gaze once more. “I’m a healer … and that hand will fester if someone doesn’t tend to it.”
Nessa placed her Druid’s Ladder and Wishing Rock back in her basket and took a step away. The man’s rudeness didn’t bother her. She’d made contact—trust would come later. It didn’t matter that de Burgh’s attitude toward her bordered on hostile, for she’d noted the way he held her eye far longer than was necessary.
The knight hid it well, but she sensed his interest.
“My cottage sits on the edge of the woods north of town,” she told Hugh, continuing in Gaelic. It was obvious from his friends’ confused and irritated expressions that neither of them understood their exchange. “I suggest ye pay me a visit … if ye wish to keep that hand.”