Nessa’s Seduction by Jayne Castel

27

BACK FROM THE BRINK

IT WAS LATE, yet Nessa still sat at Hugh’s side.

Blinking, as a veil of sleep attempted to settle over her, she jerked awake.

Hugh lay there, unmoving. However, his breathing was a trifle deeper and the pallor upon his cheeks had lessened.

The Grim Reaper no longer stood above him, scythe at the ready. Nonetheless, he wasn’t out of the woods.

Nessa straightened up, wincing as she rubbed her aching back. It had taken every last shred of skill she possessed to bring Hugh back from the brink. The moment she’d placed her hands on him, she’d felt death’s shadow.

She’d fought it, pushed it back with softly whispered words.

Thomas had watched her all the while, his gaze wide and frightened.

No doubt, observing her at work, the lad had realized she was employing witching to heal the knight. A witch-wind had gusted through the tent as she drew from the craft—the scent of pine-resin, crushed herbs, and earth—making the banks of candles gutter and the coals in the brazier pulse to life.

At a certain point, Thomas Charlton had murmured a prayer and crossed himself.

Yet to his credit, the lad hadn’t fled, hadn’t run off to fetch guards.

He’d been afraid of the strange practice he’d witnessed, but he’d known that she was trying to save Hugh, and so he’d stayed.

His fortitude had impressed Nessa.

Eventually though, fatigue had claimed the lad. The squire now slept, curled up in his blankets near the brazier, leaving Nessa and Hugh alone.

Wringing out a cloth, she leaned forward, wiping his clammy brow. “Fight, Hugh,” she whispered. “Fight.”

A draft fluttered across the tent then, and Nessa straightened up to see two regal figures enter.

Despite that Nessa had spent days with the English army, she’d yet to set eyes on King Edward of England and his queen consort, Margaret of France. She’d almost forgotten their large pavilion sat just a few yards distant from Hugh’s.

Still dressed in a heavy hauberk, his golden crown gleaming in the candlelight, Edward strode to the bed, his crimson surcoat fluttering. He towered over his queen, a small dark-haired woman wearing a fur-lined mantle. The king stepped around Thomas’s sleeping body; the lad slumbered so deeply, he didn’t even stir.

Nessa’s heart started to pound wildly at the sight of the royal couple. She hadn’t expected to see either of them here, especially not at this late hour.

Swallowing hard, Nessa watched them approach. Then, remembering her manners, she dipped her chin.

Of course, now was her chance. The Hammer, nemesis of the Scots, stood before her. She should lunge for Hugh’s dagger, which sat sheathed on the table next to the bed, and slit Edward Longshanks’s throat.

However, Nessa didn’t. Exhaustion pressed down upon her tonight, and her worry for Hugh obliterated everything else.

“Where’s my physician?” Edward Longshanks’s voice was low yet powerful. He’d spoken to Nessa in French, for he likely didn’t realize that she spoke the English tongue.

“You just missed him,” Nessa replied in French. “He was sure Hugh would die … and can’t believe he’s still with us.”

The English king’s greying brows raised. “How is Hugh?”

“It’s still too early to tell,” she replied. “But … if he is with us at dawn, there may be some hope.”

The Hammer nodded, stepping close to the bed. His gaze, ice-blue, rested upon Hugh’s face.

“I lost one of my guard today,” he murmured. “I don’t wish to lose another.”

At Nessa’s look of confusion, the queen spoke up. “Robert le Breton died defending the king … he was a close friend of Hugh’s.”

Nessa nodded, remembering the two knights who’d been with Hugh the day they’d met at the gates. Was Robert le Breton one of them? Le Breton had apparently been one of a number of English knights and men-at-arms who’d died during the skirmish.

Thomas had told her what had happened, of the Highlanders that had attacked, and how the king’s men had pushed them back before the Scots had fled, leaving them vulnerable to missiles from the wall.

And as Thomas had recounted the tale, she’d known who was responsible.

The Guardians of Alba.

Her sisters had been successful in rousing support from the Highlands. The attack, and the ruse that followed, had been a success for the rebels. The English had suffered a stinging defeat today, one that the defenders of Stirling Castle would use to their advantage.

Once again, conflicting feelings churned through Nessa.

She wanted her countrymen to win, for the English to be driven from these lands. But the last thing she wished for was for Hugh de Burgh to die.

“Hugh has been with me many years,” the king continued, his gaze still upon the knight’s face. “His loyalty has been unquestioning. He fought at my side in the Holy Lands … a young soldier then. Over the years, he’s always been my right-hand … campaign after campaign.”

“He fell defending you, my love,” Margaret murmured, placing a hand upon her husband’s arm. “As did Robert … his loyalty never wavered.”

Edward of England nodded, although his face tightened. He glanced up then, those cool blue eyes spearing Nessa.

“I’ve never seen Hugh de Burgh waver once … not until he met a Scotswoman at Dunfermline … one who had the nerve to follow him on campaign.”

Nessa stared back at him. The challenge in the king’s voice made her hackles rise.

When she didn’t reply, the king’s mouth curved. “And here you remain … at his side.”

Nessa drew in a deep breath before replying. “I’m a healer … and I’ve done my best to aid him.”

Beside the king, his wife smiled. She was pretty with luminous brown eyes. Nessa spied a tell-tale bulge under her gown; she hadn’t realized the queen was with bairn. However, there was a knowing look in the queen’s eyes that made Nessa tense. “You are in love with him, I think,” Margaret murmured.

Nessa’s breathing hitched, heat flushing through her before icy cold followed in its wake. Her lips parted to deny the queen’s comment. She was wrong, a Guardian of Alba couldn’t love one of the enemy. And yet, the words wouldn’t come.

The queen continued to hold Nessa’s gaze, giving her the uncanny sensation that Margaret knew who she really was.

Nervousness fluttered in Nessa’s belly. She hoped that wasn’t the case.

“I’m glad for you both,” Longshanks said then, breaking the weighty silence. “A soldier’s life can be a lonely one.”

Nessa’s eyes widened. This was the infamous Edward Longshanks of England, the warrior king, the ‘Hammer of the Scots’. The man’s blistering temper and thirst for conquering and glory were legendary. He’d killed countless Scots, and most likely would kill many more.

And yet he’d just revealed an unexpectedly soft side. One that left her speechless.

The shock must have shown on her face, for the king issued a soft laugh as he linked his arm through his wife’s and stepped back from the bed. “Aye, I’ve lived my life by the sword,” he said, still smiling ruefully. “But over the years, I’ve discovered that it is love that truly makes life worth living.”

And with those parting words, the king and queen turned and left the pavilion.

Nessa stared after the couple, unsure what to make of either of them. Life of late had shown her that when one scratched beneath the surface, nothing was as she’d believed it to be.

In truth, she was still reeling from Queen Margaret’s comment.

She wasn’t in love with Hugh de Burgh. Her attention shifted to the knight’s pale, sleeping face. Was she?

Nessa’s shoulders slumped then, exhaustion settling over her as if a heavy pair of hands pressed down upon her. She glanced over at Thomas. Still huddled within his nest of blankets, the lad slept on, oblivious to the fact the king and queen had just visited them.

Placing a hand upon Hugh’s chest, she felt the slow yet steady thud of his heart and the reassuring warmth of his skin. There was no sign of fever as he wasn’t hot to touch.

Nessa’s throat thickened then, and she bowed her head, closing her eyes. “How I wish we were different people, Hugh,” she whispered, “and that we’d met in peaceful times.” She paused there, sudden tears scalding the back of her eyelids. “How happy we might have been together.” Her chest now ached. “But even though we aren’t to be … promise me ye shall fight … that ye shall live.” Her voice hitched then. “May yer future be filled with happiness, mo ghràdh … and may The Three watch over ye for the rest of yer years.”

Nessa trailed off there; she literally couldn’t continue.

Queen Margaret’s words had hit her like a mallet to the chest. And at that moment, she realized that, somehow, she’d had fallen for Hugh de Burgh. Like a thief, it had crept up on her.

The ache in her chest was so strong now that she reached up with her free hand and rubbed at her breastbone. For the first time, she felt the true weight of what she could never have, and the loss of it was a yawning abyss within her. But she’d weather it if the goddesses spared him.

Blinking rapidly as her eyelids burned with unshed tears, Nessa was about to move back from the bed, and to find her own upon the sheepskins in the corner of the tent, when a warm, strong hand covered hers.

Hugh was awake and looking up at her. His expression was tired, yet his hazel eyes were soft.

Nessa’s breathing hitched, mortification flooding through her. Crone’s tears, had he heard her? His fingers closed tighter over hers, and she knew then that, indeed, he’d heard every word she’d spoken. He’d heard, and he understood.

“Sir Hugh lives!” Lady Philippa burst into the tent where the queen and Lamia had just settled down at their looms. “I’ve just heard it from his squire.”

Queen Margaret picked up the basket of wool she was about to weave and smiled at Philippa. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”

Seated opposite, Lamia cut her mistress a startled look. “Whatever do you mean, Margaret?” she asked. “Last night the physician told me Sir Hugh wouldn’t survive the night.”

“Well, he has!” Lady Philippa moved over to one of the large stuffed cushions decorating the tent where the queen and her ladies spent rainy afternoons and sank into it. “It appears that Hugh’s Scottish lover is a healer. She saved his life.”

Lamia fought the urge to scowl at the lady-in-waiting. Lady Philippa was one of the most goose-witted young women she’d ever met; she couldn’t understand why Margaret suffered her.

However, the queen merely bestowed the court lady with another knowing smile. “I must discuss something in private with Lady Lamia,” she said after a pause. “Please leave us for a spell.”

Lady Philippa’s pretty face tightened just a fraction, her gaze snapping to Lamia. Like the other ladies-in-waiting who’d accompanied them on campaign, she resented Lamia her close relationship with the queen. Margaret often preferred to spend time alone with Lamia instead of gossiping with the others. Nonetheless, Philippa wasn’t foolish enough to argue with the Margaret about it. She rose gracefully to her feet and left the pavilion.

When she’d departed, Lamia turned her attention to Margaret, quirking an eyebrow. “You know something I do not, I’d wager?”

Margaret gave a soft laugh before she wound wool around her shuttle and started to loop it through her loom. “Hardly … but Edward and I visited Sir Hugh late last night. We were sure to find him breathing his last … but, instead, we discovered color in his cheeks and his lover at his side.” The queen paused there. “She must be a skilled healer indeed to have saved him.”

Lamia stiffened. Lover. She didn’t need to be reminded of her own failure to entice Hugh into her bed. The rejection still stung.

She was still nursing the bitter bite, when Margaret glanced over at her, a groove appearing between her eyebrows. “Why is she here?”

Lamia paused at this question. Sensing her disquiet, Fantôme moved against her arm. “I told you … the woman is clearly besotted with Sir Hugh.”

Margaret fixed her with a level look then, one that made Lamia shift uncomfortably upon her stool. “I think there’s more to it than that.”

Lamia frowned. “You do?” She knew her tone verged on patronizing, yet she couldn’t help it. Margaret didn’t possess the slightest amount of witching ability.

“Perhaps all these years in your company has made me sensitive to such things … but I ‘smelt’ witch-craft in that tent and felt the same power I sometimes sense in you.” Margaret paused, her gaze fusing with Lamia’s. Her eyes glinted then. “You can be prone to overconfidence, my dearest Lamia,” she said softly. “If Nessa can bring a man back from the brink of death … she may be more powerful than you believe.”