Nessa’s Seduction by Jayne Castel
2
THE KING’S MAN
HUGH DE BURGH watched the woman walk away, his gaze tracking her.
“She’s a comely one … for a witch,” Robert le Breton spoke up next to him. Hugh tore his gaze from the blue-cloaked figure, to see that his friend was fingering the crucifix around his neck, as if hoping it would protect him from lustful thoughts about such a woman.
Next to Robert, Nicholas Harrington cast his friend a withering look. “Dolt … did you really think they are all gap-toothed hags?”
Ignoring his friends’ conversation, Hugh’s attention drifted once more to the departing woman.
“Still,” Nicholas continued “I’d happily give that one a swiving.” A pause followed. “She seemed to take a liking to you, Hugh?”
“Did she?” Hugh replied, affecting an uninterested tone. He glanced back at his friends to see that Nicholas was favoring him with a sly look.
“Aye … and you spoke to her in Gaelic.” Robert’s brow furrowed. “What did you say?”
“That I didn’t need her assistance, and that she should leave.”
Nicholas snorted. “Miserable bastard … some of us were enjoying her company.”
Hugh’s mouth thinned. Of course Nicholas had been—the knight had a weakness for women. And despite that he was bald and had a face like an old hound, lasses actually liked him.
Hugh wasn’t so easily distracted. Even so, the woman, who had now been swallowed up by the gathering dusk, was the loveliest thing he’d set eyes on in a long while.
He’d marked her as he’d approached the bridge. It had been impossible not to. Tall and well-formed, with thick red-gold hair that fell unbound over her shoulders, she carried herself like a queen. She wore a sky-blue kirtle, with a darker blue cloak over the top, and carried a basket as if she were a wife off to market. As Hugh had drawn near, he’d seen that she had milky skin, a pretty face, expressive green eyes, and full lips.
His gaze had lingered on that mouth a moment too long, and he’d felt his groin tighten in response. Lush and red: those lips were made for sin.
His swift physical reaction had irritated him, but it was far too long since he’d had a woman. Even when she’d produced her ridiculous witchy trinkets, he’d found himself captivated by her.
Her sensual smile and knowing eyes had drawn him in. She was no innocent blushing maiden; although her face was unlined, he guessed she’d seen five and twenty winters at least. She’d met his eye boldly and hadn’t even flinched when he’d been rude.
“Even so.” Robert’s voice roused Hugh from his reverie. He then cast a pointed look at Hugh’s hand. “She’s right. You should take care with that.”
“I am.” Hugh glanced down at his bandaged extremity before shrugging. He’d already been to see the camp’s physician twice. The man had cleansed the wound, rubbed salve upon it, and put on clean bandages. However, the cut—one he’d taken in a skirmish outside Dunfermline just before Yule—throbbed constantly these days and now felt hot to touch. “You fuss like an old woman.”
Robert shrugged, taking the point. He then glanced up at the heavens. Snow was starting to fall: white flakes fluttered down from the darkening sky. The gloaming always came on them so early this far north. It was still difficult to get used to, even after all this time. “Come on then … let’s get ourselves some supper.” Robert met Hugh’s gaze. “Do you want to join me and Nicholas in my pavilion … we can both beat you at knucklebones afterward.”
Hugh snorted before shaking his head. “It’ll have to wait till tomorrow. The king expects me for supper this eve.” In truth, he’d have rather dined with his friends. Edward had been on edge of late and had been pushing for an early departure from Dunfermline—something Hugh was against. Such discussions weren’t good for one’s digestion.
The three of them moved toward the gates.
“Mind yourselves with that woman,” Hugh murmured to the guards. “If she comes near the gates again, you’re to chase her off.”
The guards all nodded vigorously. However, Hugh’s attention settled upon the one who’d been standing the closest to the Scotswoman. The man now wore a sheepish expression. “You’re not posted out here to flirt with local lasses, is that clear?”
The man’s throat bobbed. “Aye, Sir Hugh.”
Hugh cast the guard a narrow-eyed look, hauled his cloak about him, and entered the camp with Nicholas and Robert. His boots crunched on snow, his chainmail jangled, and despite the warning he’d just issued the guard, his thoughts returned to the comely figure clad in flowing blue.
My cottage sits on the edge of the woods north of town … I suggest ye pay me a visit … if ye wish to keep that hand.
A scowl marred Hugh’s brow. Aye, she was a bold one. Such women were trouble.
Hugh quickened his step, moving ahead of his friends. The cold was raw, and his breath steamed in a cloud before him. They made their way down a thoroughfare toward the heart of the camp. On the way, they passed clusters of smaller tents, where most of his men slept, as well as make-shift stores, fowl coops, and byres.
The three friends had just returned from visiting an alehouse in town—and as always when Hugh re-entered the camp, the noise, dirt, and stench of so many men living at close quarters struck him. Passing the privy tents, which had been erected over sink holes, Hugh took shallow breaths through his mouth.
Nicholas mumbled an oath under his breath as they walked past before stifling a gag.
Hugh’s mouth thinned. Indeed, after nearly four months of use, the reek of the privies was almost unbearable. He’d have to see about having them shifted.
The three knights walked on, and the stench faded, replaced by the odor of overcooked cabbage. The sulfurous smell drifted from cook fires throughout the camp, a reminder that supper was approaching—cabbage and turnip pottage from the smell of it. Hugh was grateful his position afforded him more palatable fare.
Ahead, he spied the circle of the inner perimeter—a space shielded by supply wagons rather than armored ones. To reach the gate, the three men walked through the training arena, which was empty at this hour. Hugh, Nicholas, and Robert spent the best part of their mornings here, taking men through drills. Despite the long wintering at Dunfermline, they had to keep their soldiers fighting fit.
At the sight of the arena, which was little more than a sea of frozen mud at present, Hugh’s brow furrowed. The king wasn’t the only restless individual in this camp. The winter hadn’t yet ended, but his men were impatient to move on.
A few men-at-arms had grumbled about the long wait that morning. Hugh had told them that only a fool went to war in the midst of winter this far north, which had shut them up. However, restlessness still simmered.
Entering the inner perimeter, Hugh moved through the grand pavilions—one of which belonged to him—to the largest tent of them all, in the heart of the camp.
Vast, with four peaks and a cartwheel and spoke design, the king’s pavilion was impossible to miss. Banners hung down its sides: the red and white flag of Saint George and the Plantagenet banner of Edward’s family—three golden rampant lions against a crimson background.
Bidding his friends ‘good eve’, Hugh strode toward it, jaw clenched. He was in a bullish mood this evening. If the king wanted an argument, he’d give him one. The snow fell heavily now, swirling around the tent in flurries. Two soldiers stood guard outside, flanking the entrance. Shoulders hunched against the cold, they greeted Hugh as he approached, and he nodded back.
Bending his head against the stinging wind, Hugh ducked inside.
“Hugh … glad to see you remembered to join us.” The king’s low, yet powerful, voice greeted him.
“Of course, sire … I would never forget.” Hugh straightened up, brushing snow off his shoulders as his gaze swept across the plush interior of the king’s tent. This might have been a temporary structure, yet it was far more comfortable than most keeps.
The tent’s woven sides had been insulated with heavy woolen hangings and tapestries, and thick furs and mats covered the ground. Braziers burned in each corner, warmth suffusing the space. Banks of candles lined the walls, casting a golden light over the tent’s interior and the poles and spokes that held up the vast roof. An array of large stuffed cushions, stools, and bench seats lined the living area of the pavilion.
A long oaken table sat in the center of the space, and King Edward of England lounged at the head of it, his tall frame folded into a carven chair. Edward was getting on in years, halfway through his sixth decade to be exact, and his once blond hair was almost entirely grey, as was his neatly trimmed beard. Yet when Hugh met the king’s ice-blue gaze, he was reminded that England’s ‘warrior king’ was just as formidable as he’d ever been. He dressed like the soldier he still was, in a heavy hauberk, and the body under it was strong.
The king reminded Hugh of a mighty oak. In many ways, the man seemed ageless, and yet when he fell—as one day he would—the ground would shake.
The pair of them had locked horns several times over the years, although the king respected Hugh’s opinion. Edward didn’t like toadies, but sometimes Hugh tired of having to stubbornly hold his ground on certain matters. He had a feeling this eve would be one such occasion, for Edward had a glint in his eye that Hugh knew well.
“Take a seat.” Edward waved a ring-encrusted hand to the empty seat to his right before gesturing to a circling page boy. “Fill up his goblet.”
The lad moved eagerly to do his king’s bidding, filling the empty pewter goblet with French wine.
Hanging up his cloak by the entrance to the tent, Hugh moved to his place at the king’s side, lowering himself down onto the bench seat. He then took in the ample spread of roasted fowl, fresh oaten bread, the ubiquitous pottage, and aged cheese before him. His belly growled, reminding him that the noon meal seemed hours away now.
Of course, Hugh wasn’t taking supper alone with the king. The prince and the queen consort, Margaret, had joined them, as had Lamia, one of the queen consort’s ladies-in-waiting.
Hugh nodded to his supper companions, and was just taking a sip of wine, when Prince Edward spoke up. “So, are the men ready to depart, Sir Hugh?”
One and twenty, and keen to prove himself, the prince bristled with the same ill-concealed impatience as his father. Edward the younger was also tall and muscular, although he wore his dark-blond hair shaved close to his scalp in a severe style.
“Aye, Your Highness,” Hugh replied, keeping his own expression veiled. “They’re always ready to march … although that doesn’t mean they should.”
“And why’s that, Hugh?” Margaret asked. The queen spoke English with a heavy French accent. However, it pleased her husband that she learn his native tongue, and so she made an effort to speak it.
Hugh’s mouth lifted at the edges. “Because winter isn’t done with us yet, Your Highness … and this one is particularly harsh.”
Margaret’s brow furrowed as she took his words in. Small, with a pert face and curly walnut-colored hair, she’d insisted on accompanying Edward on his campaigns, as his first wife, Eleanor, had done. Her belly was starting to swell with her third child, yet that hadn’t stopped her from remaining at her husband’s side.
The king snorted. “That’s a dull answer to my dear wife’s question.” The king then cast his wife an indulgent look. Edward had been lucky in love—more fortunate than most folk, Hugh included. He’d adored both his wives and now had an enormous brood of offspring: sixteen by his first wife, and two by his second. Likewise, the queen consort smiled back at her husband. The look of devotion that passed between them made Hugh go still. His late wife had never gazed at him like that in all the years of their marriage.
“A little snow shouldn’t bother us,” Prince Edward piped up, scowling. “We’re Englishmen, not warm-blooded Spaniards.”
Hugh drew in a deep breath and counseled patience with the hot-headed prince. “The snow isn’t done with, Your Highness,” he murmured. “The last thing we need is to be caught in a blizzard with Scots closing in on us.” He paused then, frowning. “They know this land better than we ever will.”
“Well said, Sir Hugh.” Lady Lamia spoke up then. “The Scots are a hardy breed … we’d best not under-estimate them.”
Hugh shifted his attention from the prince to see that the court lady was observing him keenly. He’d caught her doing that rather a lot of late.
Clad in a form-fitting, dove-grey cotehardie, a snowy ermine stole about her shoulders, Lamia was slender and possessed a gamine beauty. She had white-blonde hair that she wore pinned high upon her crown, with a few artful oiled ringlets framing her face. Her eyes were unusual: they were so pale grey they were almost colorless, like a winter’s sky.
Surprised that he’d found an ally at the table, Hugh nodded. “Aye, history has a list of unfortunates who did just that, Lady Lamia.”
“But fortune favors the bold, does it not?” the prince pressed on.
Hugh suppressed the urge to snort. It also favors those who use the space between their ears. However, he wisely didn’t voice the sentiment. He held a privileged position as the king’s commander, yet there were some lines that he wouldn’t overstep.
As such, when Hugh replied he was careful to keep his tone low and respectful. “If we move too early and more snow falls … as is common in Scotland … we risk our horses foundering and our men losing limbs to frostbite.” He glanced then to the head of the table, meeting the king’s eye. “As such, I’d prefer to wait till winter loosens its grip, sire.”
Edward scowled back at him. The king helped himself to some fowl breast and speared the meat with his eating knife. “Even so … a wintering army cannot grow complacent. I don’t want my men fat and lazy come spring.”
Hugh held his eye, meeting his liege’s challenge. “They won’t be.”