Nessa’s Seduction by Jayne Castel

26

FALL BACK

CHAOS REIGNED ON the hillside below Stirling Castle.

The spring rains had ceased for a spell, although the heavy deluge of the past days had turned the ground into a bog. The siege was in its fifth morning.

Ajax sank up to his fetlocks in mud as the destrier lunged forward, meeting the howling Scotsmen who raced toward them, claidheamh-mòrs—their great Scottish broadswords—swinging.

The warriors had appeared from nowhere, seeming to sprout from the ground beneath the volcanic outcrop on which the castle perched.

Hugh’s blade bit into flesh, and cries and grunts of agony followed. Yet he plowed on, jaw set.

He’d been waiting for this attack.

Hugh had said nothing to the king of Nessa’s compatriots gaining word of the siege weeks before they arrived at Stirling—he couldn’t do so without giving himself, and her, away. Nessa’s warning had given the Scots a chance to rally, to spread the news throughout Scotland. In the meantime, Hugh had increased the guards around the perimeter every night and urged the king to send for more artillery.

Edward thought him overly cautious. Yet all the while, Hugh knew all the small attacks would be building into something much bigger. And here it was.

These Scottish warriors didn’t belong to the garrison at Stirling Castle. They wore Highland sashes. Some of the colors, Hugh recognized: MacLeod, Sinclair, and Mackay. They’d been waiting for word from their allies in the south.

And now the time had come for them to unleash their fury.

There was no time to think about the woman he held prisoner now—or the searing kiss they’d shared just three days earlier. Hugh’s world narrowed. Nothing existed but steel, blood, and death.

One of the Scotsmen came howling toward Hugh, long dark hair flying behind him, claidheamh-mòr arcing toward Hugh’s armored thigh. Ajax was in danger from these warriors fighting on foot.

Hugh leaped down from his destrier, bringing up his shield just in time to ward off the heavy blow that vibrated down the length of his left arm.

The warrior was good. Unlike Hugh, who wielded a lighter English longsword, he gripped his claidheamh-mòr two-handed and so carried no shield. Hugh’s shield shuddered a second time under the impact of a blow before he used it to shove his opponent backward.

Hugh stabbed then, driving the Highlander back farther.

Edward fought to his right, still on horseback. The king roared curses as he swung his sword at the men who challenged him. His crown, which sat atop the raised coif of his hauberk, gleamed in the watery morning light.

A few feet from his father, Prince Edward gutted an opponent. The man’s howls rent the air, echoing down the hillside.

An instant later, Hugh slashed his own opponent across his exposed throat, taking advantage of the moment the Highlander stumbled in the mud.

They fought on, driving their attackers back—and then, suddenly, the remnants of the originally savage force of Scots turned tail and ran.

“Cowards!” Prince Edward roared after them.

Hugh swung up onto Ajax’s back once more. As always, the destrier had waited farther back from the fighting and came when the knight whistled to him.

Sweeping his gaze around him, Hugh’s brow furrowed. Cowards, indeed. He couldn’t believe those attackers had given up so easily.

An instant later, a shadow fell over them.

Hugh’s chin kicked up, to see a huge boulder sailing toward them, launched from a trebuchet on the walls.

Cursing, Hugh shouted to the others, reining Ajax back.

There was little time for any of them to avoid the rock, and it took down a knight on horseback, just feet from the king.

Edward’s bearded face went rigid, as his attention snapped to the walls. “Retreat,” he boomed. “It’s a trap!”

Hugh realized it too at that moment.

The Highlanders had attacked with great savagery. It had taken a number of English to repel them—and to do so, they’d pushed them back toward the foot of the cliffs.

But now their attackers had fled down the steep rock-studded slopes either side of the battlefield, Edward and his men were exposed to the walls.

Thud.

A crossbow bolt embedded in the cantle of the king’s saddle.

Fury pulsed through Hugh. They were all in the sights of the row of archers wielding crossbows, their helmeted heads outlined against the washed-out blue sky.

“Shit-eating bastards!” Prince Edward roared.

“Fall back!” Hugh shouted, reining Ajax around. “Fall back!”

His order echoed across the hillside, reaching every man there. But it was too late.

Crossbow bolts flew through the air, descending upon them in a deadly hailstorm. And they were stuck in the midst of it.

Hugh raised his shield high and urged Ajax to his king’s side. Nicholas Harrington and Robert le Breton followed suit. They closed their shields around Edward, while all four men turned their mounts and drew back toward the safety of the camp below.

Some of the bolts clattered off shields or thudded into the earth, yet others found their mark. Screams ripped through the air, and Hugh was dimly aware of men falling around him.

Somewhere close by, he could hear Prince Edward’s curses ringing through the air.

Next to Hugh, Robert grunted.

The knight then toppled off his horse. Hugh snarled an oath, torn between going to help his friend—a man he’d known since they were both squires—and remaining at the king’s side.

He never got to make a decision either way though, for two crossbow bolts hit Hugh.

Thud. Thud.

The force of them threw Hugh off Ajax and onto the muddy ground. Hot pain lanced through his right thigh and down his back. He was vaguely aware of shouting, although a strange roaring in his ears dimmed out the sounds.

Hugh clawed his way through the mud to Robert’s side. His friend lay on his back, his helm raised, a bolt embedded through the throat. Blue eyes gazed sightlessly up at Hugh. Robert’s lips were parted as if he were about to call for help.

Hugh collapsed next to his friend, his vision dimming. Pain ripped down his back, heat pulsing through him.

Robert was dead, and it looked as if he too would soon be.

They carried Hugh into the tent, insensible and covered in mud and blood. Two crossbow bolts protruded from him.

Rising from her stool, Nessa stifled a gasp of horror.

At first, she thought Hugh was dead.

He was so pale, so still.

However, the care the men were taking with him, as they placed him on the bed and gently removed his armor, told her that Hugh de Burgh still breathed.

Moments later, the camp physician—a harried-looking man with a red face—hurried into the pavilion. Thomas Charlton followed close behind.

The squire’s face was taut, his cheeks wet with tears.

No one looked Nessa’s way or acknowledged her. Their attention was wholly upon the knight, now clad in hose and gambeson, who lay upon the bed, his blood soaking into the sheets.

Nessa’s belly twisted, and she realized then that she was trembling.

It had been a strange last few days. Things had been awkward in the aftermath of that kiss. Hugh’s face had been set in stern lines as he’d quickly pulled on his tunic and gambeson. She hadn’t been surprised when he’d approached her, retrieved her shackles, and replaced them around her wrists.

The knight had been withdrawn ever since. He’d spoken to her only when necessary and kept their exchanges short and formal. Likewise, Nessa had been uncomfortable in his presence. The kiss had indeed muddied things further between them.

But there was no awkwardness now, only concern.

I have to help him.

The physician had already gotten to work. He clipped off the end of the two bolts and slowly drew them from the wounds; one had lodged in the meat of Hugh’s right thigh, and the other in the upper right of his back.

The physician then set about staunching the wounds and bandaging them.

“Will he live?” Thomas asked, the quaver in the lad’s voice giving his dread away.

“I think not,” the physician grunted as he wrapped the bandage about Hugh’s leg. “He’s still losing a lot of blood … and the bolt in his back has likely pierced something vital.”

Not his lung though. Nessa had noted that blood didn’t stain Hugh’s pale lips.

“Can you do something for him?” The plea in Thomas’s voice cut Nessa deep. The lad looked to Hugh like a father.

“Not at present,” the physician replied with a weary shake of his head. “The best thing you can do for him now, lad … is to stay by his side.” He then met the squire’s pained gaze, his voice softening. “No man should die alone.” Without another word, the physician gathered up his things and headed for the tent’s entrance.

Nessa watched him go, her brow furrowed. There was no mistaking the fatalism in the man’s voice. He thought Hugh was done for.

And he likely was.

Alone in the tent with Hugh and his squire, she made a decision.

“Thomas,” she murmured. “Free my hands … and let me treat Hugh’s wounds.”

The squire turned to her, knuckling away tears. He’d clearly forgotten she was even there. “What?” he rasped.

“I’m a healer,” she replied, nodding toward the saddlebags of her belongings that sat against the wall of the tent. “I have salves and herbs that could save his life.”

Thomas stared at her, yet he still hesitated. “I can’t,” he said after a pause, his voice hardening. “You’re Hugh’s prisoner.”

“I won’t be for much longer,” Nessa shot back, her anger quickening. “If you don’t let me aid him, he’ll most certainly die.” Her belly tightened as she said those words. Hugh was seriously injured. It would take more than just her healing skills to save him.

She’d have to use witching.

“Please, Thomas,” she said, holding her bound wrists up to him. “If you wish for Sir Hugh to live, release me … let me help him.”

The squire stared at her a moment longer before his eyes guttered. With a nod, he retrieved a key from a pouch upon his belt and stepped forward.

The heavy iron shackles fell away, dropping to Nessa’s feet.

Moving quickly, she went to her bags, withdrawing her pestle and mortar and a few cloth bags of dried herbs.

“I need freshly boiled water,” she said, carrying her items to the bedside table. “Can you get me some?”

Thomas didn’t move, and Nessa glanced toward him, her gaze narrowing. “Thomas, I must work fast if I am to save his life. And I’m going to need your help. You need to make a decision.”

The squire stared back at her, conflict playing across his young face. He was clearly divided.

Frustration welled within Nessa. They didn’t have time for this. “Thomas?”

“Aye,” he said roughly, his gaze darting to Hugh’s deathly pale face. “I’ll get that water.”

She nodded. “Hurry.”

The squire raced from the tent.

Alone with Hugh, Nessa drew in a deep, steadying breath. She reached down, placing her hand upon his brow. It was damp and clammy. His breathing was shallow and fast, and his pallor worried her.

Indeed, she needed to work fast.

She poured dried herbs into her mortar before adding a few pinches of other ingredients she had in pouches upon her belt. She then began to pound the items into a powder.

The Egg Moon was still in its first quarter—a time for decision-making, for resolve.

“Ye won’t die, ye stubborn English bastard,” she muttered, casting the unconscious man a stern look. “I refuse to let ye.”

Moments later, Thomas burst back into the tent carrying a pot of steaming water. “Is this what you need?” he asked, his eyes pleading.

“Aye.” Nessa motioned for him to bring the water to her. She needed it for the poultices she’d make for Hugh’s injuries—and for the witching that went with it. Water had life-giving properties, especially when used with the craft. “Let’s get to work.”