Nessa’s Seduction by Jayne Castel

17

MY BUSINESS IS MY OWN

“I’M GOING TO need more than candle witching, Fyfa,” Nessa murmured the words aloud, even if she knew her sister couldn’t hear her.

Fyfa Comyn remained within Stirling’s curtain walls, safe for the moment at least. But fortunately, she’d sent Nessa on her way prepared for what was to come.

Nessa had saddled Honey in the early dawn and ridden east, as the mist lifted from the River Forth and curled across the green hills around Stirling. The first signs of spring were upon them now: crocuses, snowdrops, and daffodils poked through the soil, their friendly faces greeting Nessa as she traveled the highway. However, even the spring flowers, which usually put a smile upon her face, couldn’t ease the nervous knot under Nessa’s ribcage.

Fyfa had done her best to aid her. The women had sat together in the storeroom while Fyfa drew a pentagram upon the stone floor with a nub of charcoal. Drawing the pentagram was a ritual that honored the elements and opened them up to witching.

“It’s a good time of year for bold moves,” Fyfa had murmured. “For the Horned God rises, and we are at the beginning of the Egg Moon, a time of growth and renewal.” She’d glanced then over at Nessa, who’d barely spoken a word since they’d entered the chamber together. “Are ye ready?”

Nessa had nodded, and Fyfa handed her a candle—red for passion and strength—and the nub of charcoal. “Write the name of the man whose trust ye must regain, from top to bottom.”

Nessa had done as bid, knowing that to write the thing one focused on, from top to bottom, would draw it to her. She then placed the candle at the heart of the pentagram and watched as Fyfa lit it. Candle witching on a new moon was strong.

“Close yer eyes,” Fyfa had instructed then. “Think of him.”

Ever since leaving Dunfermline, Nessa had deliberately forbidden Hugh de Burgh from creeping into her thoughts unless absolutely necessary. Yet she needed to cast the reticence aside. Her jaw had clenched as she recalled his hazel eyes, the rough timbre of his voice, and the strength of him.

Honey stumbled, jolting Nessa out of her thoughts. Blinking, she glanced around her. They rode up a hill, Stirling now far behind, and the morning mist had all but burned away. The sky stretched overhead like a washed-out blue sheet, and the sun was a hot pinprick in the center of it. Warmth was returning to the world.

Nessa’s fingers tightened on the reins as she urged her garron on. She’d lingered a long while in that storeroom with Fyfa the evening before, had focused on Hugh de Burgh while Fyfa murmured a soft chant, invoking the craft. And eventually, when her knees ached from kneeling for so long, Nessa had opened her eyes and blown out the candle. Fyfa had then produced a knife and swiftly cut the pad of her sister’s thumb so that Nessa could write out a mind-bending charm upon a piece of parchment. She now carried the scroll tucked into the bodice of her kirtle, against her heart.

The working was done, but would it be enough?

Nessa also carried the lump of smoky quartz in a pouch upon her belt, her cairn stone of protection and persuasion that she would use to gain access to the camp.

A wry smile stretched Nessa’s lips then. Fyfa had done her utmost to ensure Nessa was prepared and had even risen at first light to see her off.

“Trust in yer witch-will,” she’d murmured to Nessa as they hugged outside the stables. “And remember what’s at stake if ye fail.”

Nessa’s mouth flattened, and she kicked Honey into a brisk canter. She would, on both counts. The craft will see me through.

Nessa sighted the English vanguard first—a long, glittering serpent that inched its way west. Pennants fluttered in the afternoon breeze, the red and yellow of the Plantagenet banners alongside the white and red Saint George’s cross.

It had taken her another day to reach the English army. As she’d suspected, such a large force moved slowly. A day out from Stirling, she’d deliberately left the highway and skirted north, ensuring that she kept the road in sight while making herself as unobtrusive as possible.

Nessa’s mouth thinned as she surveyed the vanguard. Those bastards don’t belong here. The anger that warmed her belly galvanized her and settled her nerves. If Colina’s vision came to pass, then those banners would one day be trampled in the mud.

English blood would be spilled.

And so will Hugh’s.

The thought made her belly knot. Nessa’s ire subsided, anxiety rising once more. She shook her head, in an attempt to quell her reaction. He’s the enemy,Nessa, she reminded herself sternly. Ye don’t care what happens to him.

Reining in Honey under a yew tree upon the brow of the hill, she watched the vanguard rumble along the highway. Her gaze narrowed as she peered at the riders out front.

Hugh would likely be up there, riding with the king’s bannermen.

She could go down now to see him, but such an act would be foolish indeed.

She’d likely receive an arrow through the throat for her trouble.

The Hammer’s infamous Welsh archers had a long reach, and they wouldn’t question her before loosing their arrows.

Nessa drew in a deep breath, counseling patience. No, she’d better wait till the army made camp for the day. The shadows grew long now, and the sun was dipping toward the tree line to the west.

She wouldn’t have to wait long.

It was almost time for her to move.

Nessa sat astride Honey, looking on from a hillock as horses pulled in armored wagons around the perimeter of the camp and supply wagons formed an inner circle. And as she watched and waited, nerves danced in her belly.

While she kept moving, it was easier to keep the dread at bay. But now that all she had to do was bide her time, she was starting to feel a bit sick once more.

Hugh wasn’t going to give her a warm welcome—she would have to work fast once she faced him. There wouldn’t be time for hesitation or sentiment.

Nessa had followed the army for the rest of the afternoon, careful to keep as far back as possible. Although she viewed The Hammer’s army as a blight upon the landscape, she had to admit that the soldiers setting up camp was an impressive sight. Every man seemed to have a role. Not one appeared idle.

Within the hour, both perimeters were raised and a sea of billowing pavilions popped up like white and red toadstools on the valley floor where the English now camped.

She waited for as long as she dared, until the torches and hearths were lit and the valley twinkled gold as if a swarm of fireflies had settled there. And then, her body stiff with cold and tension, she urged Honey down the hillock and toward the entrance to the camp.

The soldier peered up at Nessa as she drew up her garron before him, his expression incredulous. “What do you want, woman?”

Next to him, another soldier sniggered. “You know what Scotswomen are like … they can’t get enough English iron.”

This comment drew rough laughter from the small group of men gathered before the gates.

Halted before them upon Honey, Nessa gritted her teeth.

She’d like to give all of these fools some Scottish steel. Her dirk sat at her side, hidden under her blue cloak. She’d love to draw it across the sniggering soldier’s throat and watch his smirk fade.

Instead, her grip tightened around the lump of smoky quartz that she now palmed. She needed to keep her focus.

“I’m here to see Hugh de Burgh,” she replied in English. “Please take me to him.”

This comment drew surprised looks from the soldiers. They exchanged glances before the soldier who’d greeted her frowned. “What do you want with him?”

“My business is my own,” she answered with a demure smile. She felt the heat of the cairn stone pulse against her palm.

My business is my own.

The soldiers stared at her, and then one by one, they went slack-jawed.

“Take me to Sir Hugh,” she murmured. “Now.”

“He’ll be too busy to see you,” the soldier, who wasn’t sniggering any longer, growled. However, there wasn’t any force to his voice. He wore a dazed look as if he were struggling to focus.

The charm was working.

“He will see me,” Nessa insisted before she shifted her attention to the first soldier who’d spoken to her. She’d sensed less resistance in him. “Take me to his tent.”

Nodding numbly, the soldier motioned to his companions to stand aside, before he gestured for Nessa to follow him. “This way.”

Nessa urged Honey on and focused on keeping her breathing deep and even. The quartz now burned hot against her skin; she could feel its power crackling in the air around her.

She and Fyfa had done an admirable job with this one. Fyfa had always been particularly gifted at candle witching and charm casting, whereas Nessa had a knack for working with elemental objects such as earth and stone. Together, they’d created a potent charm.

She rode into the English camp, following the soldier as he led her down a narrow thoroughfare, through the tents and flickering torches, toward the inner perimeter. Around them, the camp bustled with industry. The rumble of men’s voices, and the snorts of horses, blended with the clang of iron pots as soldiers went about heating their supper.

A few curious gazes turned Nessa’s way when she rode by—but both she and her escort ignored them. The line of supply wagons appeared before her then, as did another gateway and more guards.

As she approached, Nessa closed her eyes and tightened her grip on the rapidly cooling cairn stone. She then murmured the charm once again. “My business is my own.”

The stone flared hot once more against her palm, and a soft witch-wind, bringing with it the scent of pine and freshly turned earth, whispered through the camp, causing tents to billow and torches to gutter.

Nessa breathed the witch-wind in, gathering strength from it.

The guards at the inner perimeter drew back without a word, letting the soldier and the woman cloaked in blue, riding upon a sturdy dun pony, enter.

The main camp was dirty, noisy, and crowded compared to the inner circle. Large pavilions, their sides decorated with colorful banners, dotted the grassy space while a fire burned at the heart of it.

Honey snorted then, tossing her head. The garron side-stepped, her stocky body tensing. Nessa soothed her with a murmured word.

Something had unsettled the mare.

Nessa glanced around her, looking for the source of upset. Apart from the odd soldier crossing the space, there were few folk about.

And then Nessa saw her.

The woman stood by the central hearth, her slender form bathed in golden light. Finely dressed, with white-blonde hair coiled around the crown of her head, the woman’s unnerving stillness caught Nessa’s eye.

Honey snorted once more, and this time, Nessa stroked her neck. As she did so, her gaze never left the woman.

The garron wasn’t her familiar, but the pony had been with her for many years. She was used to Nessa’s witching, to the strange wind it brought with it.

But this evening, Honey sensed something different, something unnerving.

And Nessa felt it too. Cold washed over her limbs, and suddenly she found it difficult to focus on the task ahead. Her pulse started to race.

Maiden’s blood—what was another witch doing in this camp?