Nessa’s Seduction by Jayne Castel
20
DANGEROUS TRUTHS
“WHO IS THAT woman? The men are saying she’s a witch.”
Despite that he’d been waiting for the question, Hugh immediately tensed. Dawn was breaking across the valley in which they’d camped, and the army was preparing for departure. He’d just ducked into the king’s tent, hailed by Edward himself.
Edward Plantagenet stood, battle-ready, in a glittering hauberk and long, blood-red surcoat, his hands wrapped around a steaming cup of broth. His grey-blond brows knitted together as he surveyed his commander, awaiting a response.
Hugh drew in a deep breath. He’d slept fitfully overnight, and the time had allowed him to think over the folly of what he’d done. In chaining Nessa up in the middle of the camp, he’d drawn attention to her—and him.
He’d have been wiser to keep her hidden. Yet he’d been so angry the night before, he hadn’t been able to think straight—and he hadn’t wanted her in his pavilion. She might have tried to bewitch him again.
He’d already fielded several questions about the woman who, still chained, had been escorted over to one of the supply wagons, in which she’d travel during the day. As such, Hugh knew what he would say to his king.
“She’s my lover, sire.”
Edward’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline, while his son, who’d just stepped into the tent behind them, barked out a laugh. “Not a witch then?”
“No … I only called her that out of anger. We didn’t part on good terms last time.” Hugh didn’t shift his attention from the king. “We met at Dunfermline … but she followed me here.”
“She’s a comely one too,” Prince Edward piped up once more, moving to his father’s side. “I certainly wouldn’t chain her up outside.” He shot Hugh a wolfish look. “She can warm my bed, if you don’t want her in yours?”
The king frowned, irritation flashing in his cool blue eyes as he glanced at the prince. He then fixed Hugh with another searching look. “My son has a point … why have you brought a lovers’ quarrel into my camp? I don’t want the men distracted.”
Hugh’s jaw clenched. Neither did he. It galled him that the king and prince both thought he’d argued with some besotted woman who’d chased him from Dunfermline. He could see the disappointment on the king’s face and the wry amusement on the prince’s.
Letting everyone think that was the case was making a fool out of him.
But the truth was too dangerous.
If Edward discovered that he’d let a witch-woman drug his wine, and extract God-knew-what from him, his rage would be blistering. Such carelessness on Hugh’s part could cost him his spurs. No, he couldn’t risk telling Edward the truth.
He was doing this for Nessa’s sake too. Damn the woman to the pits of hell, he shouldn’t want to protect her. She’d lied to him, tricked him. He should throw her to the wolves—yet he couldn’t.
If he told the king Nessa was a witch, chaos could break loose.
Who knew how Edward would respond? Some folk were suspicious about witch-women. Edward had been on Crusade; he knew what folk did to witches abroad. Would he have her burned, hanged, or drowned?
Hugh had no idea—but he couldn’t have Nessa’s blood on his hands.
“I don’t know what issues lie between you and this woman,” Edward continued, fixing Hugh with a stare that was growing icier by the moment. “But I give you two choices, Hugh: send her away this morning or keep her out of sight.” He paused then, letting the weight of his words sink in. “Is that clear?”
Hugh nodded.
Next to the king, Prince Edward was grinning. Hugh’s mouth thinned. The pleasure the young man was taking at his expense was starting to vex him.
“Aye, sire,” Hugh finally replied, dipping his head.
“Right.” The king’s tone turned clipped. “Enough of this nonsense. Have your patrols spied any Scots lurking in the woods nearby, ready to ambush us en route to Stirling?”
Hugh shook his head. Although humiliation burned like a hot coal in his belly, he was relieved to focus on military matters once more. “I’ve had men out scouting overnight,” he replied. “There’s no sign of trouble.”
“Good,” Edward grunted. “Let’s keep it that way.”
A short while later, Hugh exited the king’s pavilion. He strode toward where Thomas had just finished saddling Ajax, Hugh’s destrier.
Casting a glance in the direction of the supply wagons that were now being hitched to horses, ready to continue their journey west, Hugh’s pace slowed, and he halted.
Nessa.
He’d saved that treacherous woman’s neck and chosen the latter of the king’s two choices—to keep her close, yet hidden from the king’s eye.
Muttering a curse under his breath, Hugh continued on his way. He needed to find out what he’d revealed to her on that fateful night in Dunfermline. Who was she really, and did she work alone?
That scheming witch will answer me, he told himself, his jaw clenching. Or she’ll never taste freedom again.
“Who is that woman?” Margaret, queen consort of England, finished a neat stitch before holding out the embroidery she was working on so she could admire her progress. “The camp’s in an uproar about her.”
Lamia glanced up from her needlework. They both risked pricked, bloodied fingers, sewing in the liveried carriage that trundled westward toward Stirling. Yet the journey passed much quicker when they kept busy. And both women enjoyed spending time together, sewing or weaving.
Pale Scottish sunlight filtered into the carriage through the open window, bringing the scent of grass and rich, damp earth with it.
“Apparently, she’s Hugh de Burgh’s lover,” Lamia replied. “She followed him from Dunfermline.”
Margaret’s finely arched eyebrows lifted. “Vraiement?”
Alone together, the two women always spoke French, their native language. Much to the chagrin of the other ladies-in-waiting, Margaret preferred to share her carriage with her favorite and no one else.
A smile tugged at Lamia’s mouth. “Oui … the woman is clearly infatuated.”
Margaret cast her an arch look. “I thought you had your eye on Sir Hugh, Lamia … did you not?”
Lamia’s smile faded. “Perhaps,” she admitted, meeting the queen’s eye. She and Margaret were close, so close that they shared most things. However, she wished she hadn’t confided her interest in the knight to Margaret.
The queen’s brow furrowed then. “My handmaid tells me the woman is a witch … is she?”
Lamia nodded.
The queen’s brown eyes widened, and she leaned forward, her dainty hands clutching at the tunic she was embroidering for her husband. “Are you certain?”
Lamia quirked an eyebrow. Margaret knew who she was. In fact, she’d encouraged Lamia to develop her natural abilities over the years. They’d grown up together outside Paris. Lamia was an orphan, the daughter of a nobleman who’d fallen on hard times before taking his own life. She’d been raised as Margaret’s companion and then had become one of her court ladies, but the bond between them had never waned.
“That’s how she gained access to the inner perimeter,” Lamia replied, glancing back down at her own sewing project and making two neat stitches. “She used a mind-addling charm to convince the guards to bring her to Sir Hugh’s tent.”
Margaret frowned. “Is she dangerous?”
Lamia shook her head. “More of a nuisance than anything.”
“But … does she know who you are?”
Lamia nodded. “I introduced myself last night.” She then stroked her right arm, where her familiar now slept. “And I introduced her to Fantôme.”
Margaret’s worried look intensified. “Is that wise?”
Lamia shrugged. “The witch is in iron … and I doubt Sir Hugh knows what she really is either.”
“And he isn’t sending her away?”
Lamia shook her head. “I saw her being bundled into one of the supply wagons just after dawn.” She paused then, dwelling on this fact. She didn’t like that Nessa was traveling with them. The woman didn’t pose a threat to her, but Lamia didn’t trust her nonetheless. She would have to keep an eye upon her over the coming days.
Leaning back against the upholstered seat of the carriage, and abandoning her needlework for the moment, Lamia fixed Margaret with a level stare. “It’s best if you say nothing of what we’ve discovered to Edward,” she advised the queen. “We shouldn’t bother him with such trifling matters.”
Margaret nodded, although her brow furrowed. “Of course, I won’t say anything,” she replied. The queen generally refrained from mentioning anything related to witchcraft to the king. Best he remained ignorant of such things—especially with Lamia residing in his court.
Lamia smiled back at Margaret. She’d answered her mistress’s questions—but now she had one of her own. “Have you managed to convince the king that clan Bruce could be a threat to this campaign?”
Margaret sighed. She then put down her sewing and folded her hands over her rapidly growing belly. “I’ve brought the subject up with him twice now … delicately, of course.”
Lamia inclined her head. “And?”
“He wanted to know where I’d obtained such a warning.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That you’d taken a lover in Dunfermline, a man who’d recently arrived from Annandale. He’d once been in the employ of Robert Bruce the younger but had been cast out after an argument. As such, he’d been only too happy to spill the news that Bruce the younger believes his family are the rightful rulers of Scotland. I told Edward that although the clan appears to have bent the knee to him, it is but a ruse.”
Lamia nodded, impressed. “A fine tale … I don’t think I could have invented better myself.”
The queen flashed her a grin, her pretty face turning impish. “I learned from you, of course, my dear Lamia. I’ve always remembered what you said to me once … before we left France. Do you remember it? You said that men may rule the world, but women are the ones in the shadows, the puppeteers pulling the strings. A clever woman can wield her influence over her husband.”
“I do remember.” Lamia smiled back. “We women pay attention to details that slide by most men. And you are proof of how even a king’s ear can be bent … by the right woman.” Lamia paused then. “Yet Edward wasn’t swayed by your story?”
Margaret’s grin disappeared. “He listened to me, yet I could tell the news didn’t bother him. The second time I mentioned it, he muttered something about bitter men spreading rumors and then changed the subject.” Margaret’s gaze clouded. “He is friends with Robert Bruce the elder … the pair of them campaigned together in the Holy Land.”
Lamia frowned. She hadn’t realized Edward had such a connection to the Bruces. It would make convincing him difficult but not impossible. “He must take this news seriously,” she murmured.
Margaret nodded, picking up her sewing once more. “Edward is England’s warrior king … and he’s supremely confident.” Her brow furrowed as she peered down at her needlework. “Yet he is a good husband … a man who respects women.” She paused then before clearing her throat. “I was worried when we wed that I would never be able to equal the affection he held for his first wife … but ever since I joined him in Scotland, he has opened himself to me. I never thought I could fall in love with a man forty years my senior … and yet I have.”
Margaret glanced up then, her gaze meeting Lamia’s once more.
Lamia favored her with a soft smile. All of Europe had heard of the great love between King Edward of England and his first wife, Eleanor of Castile. The queen consort had even accompanied her husband to the Holy Land on Crusade. There was a tale that she’d once sucked the poison from a knife-wound when an assassin attacked him at Acre. And when Eleanor had died at Lincoln, he’d ordered a stone cross to be erected at each stopping-place on the journey to London, ending at Charing Cross, in her memory.
Edward of England was indeed a fascinating individual. A warrior, a conqueror, a king—and yet a man who doted on his wives.
Lamia’s smile faded then. “Careful, Margaret,” she murmured. “It’s not wise to love one’s husband.”
The queen huffed a laugh, even if her brown eyes shadowed a little. “Why not?”
“It clouds our judgment … leads us to make ill-advised decisions.”
Margaret shook her head, negating her friend’s cynical words. And they were cynical. Apart from Margaret, Lamia had let no one into her heart over the years—especially none of the lovers who’d warmed her bed. How could she realize her many ambitions if she let a messy emotion like love cloud her judgment?
“My place is at Edward’s side,” the queen pointed out with a shrug. “If I love him, I can do my utmost to help him, can I not?” She paused then, her features tensing. “That is why I rely on you so heavily, my dearest Lamia. Edward is a warrior, yet he is getting on in years. I want Scotland to be a success for him … and for him to return to Westminster in glory so that he can enjoy his twilight years in peace. Together, you and I can help ensure that happens.”
Lamia nodded. She intended to be instrumental in that glory. History would remember Lamia Delamare. She reached over and placed a hand over Margaret’s, squeezing gently. “And we will,” she promised. “But to do that, you must ensure he heeds my warning.”