Nessa’s Seduction by Jayne Castel
23
EYES AND EARS
NESSA ROLLED OUT of the supply wagon, chains rattling, collapsing upon the ground in an undignified heap. Clenching her jaw, she clambered to her feet. Such a move was difficult with her wrists shackled, and she winced as her cramped and stiffened muscles cried out in protest.
It had been another long, tense day of travel.
She hadn’t spoken to a soul, not since her exchange with Hugh the night before. She’d lain awake until late, shivering from cold, and had heard him return to the pavilion. When he’d lain a blanket over her a short while later, she’d stifled a gasp.
Hugh de Burgh was English. He was everything she’d been brought up to hate. And yet even when he was furious with her, he could still find it within himself to show her kindness.
He’d been up before daybreak though, and out of the tent long before she stirred. She hadn’t seen him since.
Nessa was grateful for the reprieve. She had been far more honest with him than she’d intended the night before—and she’d spent most of the day going over their conversation in her head, checking to see if she’d revealed too much.
She hadn’t, yet she had to be more careful in future. One careless word could land her in deep trouble. She needed to refocus on her purpose here.
Stretching her aching back, and attempting to ease the stiffness in her shackled wrists, Nessa glanced up, her gaze alighting upon the vast stone fortress perched above her, its grey bulk the same hue as the dull afternoon sky.
Stirling Castle.
As she stared up at it, worry clenched in Nessa’s gut. Fyfa.
Her sister had been adamant that she would remain at the castle, along with her husband, the steward. Sir William Oliphant still governed Stirling at present, and the castle had held a garrison of no more than one hundred and twenty men when Nessa had departed less than a week earlier. She hoped that the reinforcements her sisters had been rallying had arrived.
Nessa swallowed hard. She hated the thought of Fyfa being trapped within those walls.
Glancing around, Nessa saw that the army had made camp on the slopes east of Stirling. The town itself sat huddled on the southern slopes, under the shadow of the fortress.
Nessa’s gaze rested upon the town, where dark, oily smoke drifted up from the thatch and slate roofs. She then heard faint shouting and the clash of steel. Her pulse quickened. They’d only just arrived, and already the English had set about taking control of the town.
The castle itself would be much harder to take.
Pulling her cloak tight, for the afternoon was damp and cool, Nessa couldn’t take her gaze off that smoke. She hoped her warning had ensured the folk of Stirling had fled long before the arrival of the English. However, from the sounds of battle, they’d encountered someone there.
Aware then that she was being watched, for the skin on the back of her neck prickled in warning, Nessa tore her gaze from the burning town and glanced left.
Lamia Delamare stood a few yards distant, swathed in a silver-grey cloak that matched her eyes. The lady was richly dressed, making Nessa feel drab and filthy in comparison. Her own cloak and kirtle were stained from sweat and travel, and she hadn’t bathed in days.
As if making note of this, Lamia’s gaze raked over her from head to foot.
Nessa tensed. There no mistaking the condescension in the woman’s gaze. What did she want?
Favoring Nessa with a knowing smile—an expression that made her nerves stretch taut—Lamia turned and walked away, swallowed into the sea of men, horses, and wagons.
A chill feathered down Nessa’s spine. If she had to be careful with Hugh, she had to be doubly so with Lamia. She wasn’t sure how much sway the woman had with the king. Despite that Hugh had taken her prisoner, it appeared that he was also protecting her identity. She wasn’t sure why he hadn’t yet dragged her by the hair before his king and denounced her as a witch—but she was grateful he hadn’t. She wondered what Lamia Delamare was planning to do.
Jaw clenched, Nessa turned her attention back to the majesty of Stirling Castle rising above her.
Look after yerself, Fyfa, she thought. I wish I could help ye … but I have a few problems of my own to deal with.
Moments passed before her attention returned to where the English were setting up camp a safe distance from the castle, far enough that catapults and crossbows couldn’t reach them. The thump and creak of pavilions being erected drifted through the camp, mingling with the rumble of men’s voices and the odd horse’s whinny.
Before traveling with the English, she hadn’t realized an army made so much noise. It was a moveable town, a highly organized one.
And of course, like their camp outside Dunfermline, this one would be built to last for a few weeks at the very least. Already, Nessa could see signs of greater permanence. A wooden perimeter was going up, hemming her in.
Standing there, watching the soldiers hard at work, Nessa felt exposed. She was also gaining unwelcome stares—most of them inquiring, yet one or two were lewd. Over the past two days, Hugh’s squire, Thomas, had come to fetch her as soon as they’d begun making camp, yet the lad hadn’t yet appeared this evening.
And Nessa was starting to feel nervous. She had little to defend herself with, for Hugh had taken her dirk from her on the night he’d taken her prisoner. He’d left the various pouches she carried on her belt though, although with her hands bound and her witch-will muzzled, Nessa couldn’t defend herself using the craft.
One of the soldiers called out something obscene as he sauntered past. Nessa glowered at him, her heart pounding a tattoo against her ribs. Drawing in a deep breath, she then scanned the milling crowd, watching for Thomas.
Where was that thrice-cursed squire when she wanted him?
She glanced down at the chain that connected her shackled wrists to the supply wagon she’d traveled west in. Hugh had taken no chances with her; he’d ensured the chain was bolted to one of the wagon struts.
Nessa couldn’t make use of the confusion and distraction around her and attempt an escape. But escape she must—as soon as the chance presented itself.
No … ye must remain here, Colina’s voice whispered to her then, as if her mother stood at her side. Even if ye are prisoner, ye have yer eyes and ears still.
Nessa swallowed. Aye, the High Bandruì would send her familiar south soon, in the hope that Eclipse would bring back news. But, as yet, Nessa had nothing to give the crow.
No, she wouldn’t seek to flee—she would stay put and gather anything that could aid them.
Shouts echoed across the camp then, and she glanced up to see the crowd part before her—as a knight upon a warhorse rode toward the heart of the camp.
Nessa’s breathing slowed.
The knight’s face was helmed, yet she knew, even without seeing his face, who he was. She’d know Hugh de Burgh’s proud bearing anywhere.
His steed was huge, one of those enormous beasts called destriers. Such warhorses were rare and expensive in Scotland, and they’d been bred specifically for battle. Even so, its muscular bay form was protected by armor that gleamed, despite the dull afternoon.
As horse and rider neared, Nessa spied blood splattered across the destrier’s breast plate and armor covering its face. Likewise, its rider’s blood-red surcoat was filthy and tattered.
Nausea lurched through Nessa. They’d just arrived at Stirling, and already Hugh had spilled Scottish blood.
Bile stung the back of her throat, and the wrenching feeling in her chest was so strong that she raised her bound hands and rubbed at her breastbone with her knuckles.
Why can’t I hate him?
Hugh de Burgh, bloodied and faceless in his armor, was a symbol of everything she’d been fighting against. After drugging his wine back in Dunfermline, she should have used her dirk on him while he slept.
But she hadn’t.
Hugh drew up his destrier a few yards away and swung down from the saddle. In an instant, Thomas was at his side. The squire appeared from nowhere, deftly taking the helmet that Hugh yanked off.
“How did it go?” Thomas asked, his voice tight with excitement.
Of course, to a squire who’d never yet tasted battle, this was thrilling. Hugh’s face didn’t share his eagerness.
“The town is ours,” Hugh replied, his voice terse. His cheekbones were flushed, his skin damp with sweat, and his short hair mussed. “However, we found no locals there,” he continued. “Someone likely warned the folk of Stirling that we were on our way.” His gaze shifted then, past Thomas’s shoulder, to Nessa. She hadn’t thought he’d seen her standing there, yet he had.
Of course, those words were meant for her.
“A host of Scotsmen were hiding in the homes instead,” Hugh added, his gaze still spearing her. “They ambushed us as we rode in.”
Nessa stopped breathing. Their allies had gathered.
Her belly lurched in an odd blend of elation and dread. She was standing in the most dangerous place imaginable for a Scotswoman. And despite that Hugh so far had shown her surprising mercy, she wasn’t sure how much longer it would last.
His face was hard this afternoon, his gaze glinted.
Splattered in Scottish blood and gore, he looked dangerous indeed.
“So now we can focus on the castle,” Thomas replied, his eyes shining.
Hugh tore his attention from Nessa and huffed a humorless laugh. “Aye, lad. The easiest bit, eh?”
Nessa lowered herself onto the low stool Thomas had placed in the corner of the tent. Catching a whiff of herself, she then wrinkled her nose. After days without bathing or changing clothes, she was starting to smell ripe indeed.
In a camp full of sweaty, dirty men, it didn’t matter much, although Nessa longed to bathe and scrub away the grime of the past days.
Trying to distract herself from her itchy scalp and skin, she glanced around her. Quite frankly, she felt as if she had entered a foreign land. On the journey here, she’d thought the interior of Hugh’s tent luxurious, but now that they’d made a more permanent camp, his pavilion looked fit for a king.
Use yer eyes and ears, Nessa, she reminded herself. If ye aren’t going to escape, ye need to start paying close attention. Not only that, focusing on externals helped settle her nerves—and so she took in every detail of her surroundings.
At least three layers of mats and furs covered the ground, to keep out the damp, while heavy hangings covered the pavilion walls, stoppering chill drafts. A large wooden bed, piled high with fine blankets, now replaced the narrow cot Hugh had been sleeping on en route to Stirling. A long scrubbed wooden table sat next to it, instead of the small trestle he’d used previously. Banks of candles lined the space, and a brazier burned in the center of the tent, casting a warm glow over the interior.
It was more comfortable than any home Nessa had ever lived in—and yet another reminder that she and Hugh de Burgh came from vastly different worlds.
As if summoned by her thoughts, the man himself swept into the tent, chainmail clinking and armor rattling, his squire at his heels.
Hugh didn’t look Nessa’s way as he stood, allowing Thomas to remove his armor. He removed his blood-splattered gauntlets before stripping off the knight’s red surcoat. The once lovely garment was a ruin.
Still ignored, Nessa looked on as Thomas removed the plate armor from the knight’s arms and the greaves that protected his legs. Hugh then leaned forward and shucked off his heavy hauberk before stripping off the sweat-soaked gambeson beneath. Clad in hose and a loose tunic, Hugh then turned to his squire and motioned to the ruined surcoat on the ground behind them.
“Throw it away,” he ordered, “and fetch me a new one for tomorrow.”
“Aye, Sir Hugh,” Thomas replied, scooping up the surcoat. “Anything else?”
Hugh paused, his gaze swiveling to Nessa for the first time. “Did you bring any belongings with you?” he asked in English, his voice toneless and clipped.
“Aye,” Nessa replied in the same tongue. “Two saddlebags with clothing … and some food that will be spoiled now.”
Hugh nodded to his squire. “Fetch them too … and a second bowl of hot water.” His mouth pursed as he glanced back at Nessa. “I’m not the only one who needs to bathe.”