Nessa’s Seduction by Jayne Castel

28

I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE

LAMIA HURRIED ACROSS the inner perimeter toward her tent, clutching her cloak tight against the wind that gusted across the hillside. The boom and rumble of war rolled over the camp, and when she glanced up, she spied le Berefry, the great wooden siege tower, trundling up the hill on runners toward the walls of Stirling Castle. The men had just finished erecting it, and today the siege tower would be put to use. Le Berefry also possessed a heavy timber battering ram that they would be using to weaken the castle defenses.

Lamia’s attention shifted up, to where smoke curled from the fortress’s thick curtain walls. The attack had resumed with the dawn, with even more ferocity than before. Edward was understandably furious at their trouncing and wanted to hit back.

But Lamia’s thoughts weren’t on the siege. Yesterday had merely been a setback, one they would swiftly recover from. Instead, her thoughts were on the witch who sat at Hugh de Burgh’s bedside.

She may be more powerful than you believe.

Those words stung. The queen’s gentle manner sometimes made Lamia forget that she was sharper than most folk gave her credit for. She hadn’t missed the rebuke and challenge in Margaret’s eyes.

And yet, sometimes Lamia felt as if Margaret didn’t know her at all. They’d been best friends since childhood, but Lamia had always hidden her most secret desires from Margaret. Her friend had made the kind of marriage most noblewomen could only dream of—and Lamia wanted the same for herself. She wouldn’t wed a king, yet she wanted lands, a title, wealth and luxury, and a powerful husband.

Lamia had grown up an orphan amongst strangers and had learned early on that, to survive, she had to be cleverer and quicker than others. Her mother had died birthing her, and she barely remembered her feckless father—yet she wouldn’t live and die in obscurity as her parents had.

She would make something of herself. And to do so, she had to be one step ahead of everyone else. She didn’t like that Margaret had picked up on something she had missed.

Ducking into her pavilion, Lamia went straight for her scrying bowl. Fashioned out of obsidian, its surface shone like a black looking-glass.

She set the bowl down on the table at one end of the tent and carefully poured water into it. Fantôme slid forth from her hiding place up Lamia’s sleeve, curling onto the table. Her ivory head peeped up as she observed the witch at work.

“I’ve been a goose,Fantôme,” Lamia muttered. “And I fear that I may have overlooked something important.”

Lamia had always been confident in her witching, and in her ability to assess any potential threats. But had her own hubris gotten the better of her? Had it blinded her?

She’d been standing before her tent when they’d brought Sir Hugh in the day before; she’d seen the way he was bleeding. Although she’d been sore about the fact he hadn’t yet come to her pavilion for bed-sport, the sight of his grave injuries had chilled her blood. As such, she’d tracked the physician down and demanded to know if Sir Hugh would live. The man had given her a blunt answer.

For the first time, Lamia had wished her skills extended to healing. However, she’d always preferred the darker, more exciting arts, and knew little of healing besides a few simple charms.

No, Hugh shouldn’t have survived—and yet he had.

Was his survival down to witching? Lamia hoped the bowl could allay her worries.

“Come here, Fantôme.” She reached out a hand toward the grass snake. “I need your assistance.”

Dutifully, Fantôme slithered across the table toward her before wrapping around Lamia’s wrist. Scrying required the deepest of concentration, and her familiar helped her achieve it. The moment the snake’s scaled body tightened around her wrist, she relaxed.

Breathing deeply, Lamia waited for the water to settle so that it formed a clear skin. And then she bent over it, whispering to the water. Lamia had never had any formal training in the craft, only a hoard of forbidden books she’d discovered in the castle outside Paris where she’d grown up. Those books had opened up an exciting new world, and she still carried some of them with her.

She’d developed some skill at scrying, although it had taken her a while to find the right vessel for it.

As her words died away, Lamia gazed upon the mirrored surface within the bowl, looking for patterns in the shapes and shadows that played across it.

And as she watched, her breathing grew slow and still.

The images were unclear at first, merely formless shapes. But then, as time drew out, and her breathing slowed further still, Lamia began to make sense of them.

Blue-robed figures—women, all of them.

Lamia’s gaze narrowed, and she peered closer still.

A waterfall appeared, spilling over the edge of a lake down a craggy rock face.

Lamia’s frown deepened, and then another image came into focus.

A small woman with a crow perched upon her shoulder. A deep, earthy power emanated from the woman, making the fine hair on the back of Lamia’s neck prickle.

Drawing back from the scrying bowl, she muttered an oath.

Fantôme tightened her grip around her wrist, urging her to reveal what she’d seen.

“Witches,” she whispered. “And they were all dressed in blue … just like Nessa.”

Lamia rose to her feet, her pulse, which had beat so slowly during the scrying, now raced. She’d initially thought Hugh’s lover nothing more than a harmless hedge-witch, yet in reality, the woman was part of a coven. Margaret, curse her, was right. There was far more to Nessa than met the eye.

Spitting out another oath, Lamia turned on her heel and hurried from the tent.

Nessa moved through the inner perimeter, bending her head against the gusting wind. Pushing the hair out of her eyes, she shifted her attention to the castle perched high above her and spied the massive wooden siege tower that now battered the curtain wall.

“Thrice-cursed bastards,” she whispered aloud. “How did they build that so fast?”

Indeed, she hadn’t been out of Hugh’s pavilion in days, except to use the privy, and had little idea of how things were progressing for either side. Still reeling from the revelations of the night before, Nessa had been momentarily distracted from the reason she was here—the reason she hadn’t tried to escape. However, the sight of that monstrous siege weapon brought her sharply into focus.

Surely, Stirling couldn’t withstand it?

Breathing in deeply, Nessa fought to calm her rising panic. The gates still held, and while they did, there was still hope.

Peering up at the siege tower, her gaze narrowed. It was made of wood—surely the defenders could somehow set fire to it?

Pulling her cloak tightly about her, Nessa continued her walk.

It was late morning, and Hugh had fallen asleep. Thomas had gone off to run some errands for the knight, and so Nessa had seized the opportunity to slip outdoors for a spell. Of course, she wasn’t supposed to venture outside without Thomas escorting her, but since she’d saved Hugh de Burgh’s life, the man couldn’t be too harsh with her. Well, not yet, anyway.

Deep in thought, Nessa circuited the space once more. They were well into spring now, and although today was cold and windy, it had rained nearly every day since their arrival in Stirling, and the camp had turned into a swamp. Nessa’s boots squelched through sticky mud.

She circuited the clearing at the heart of the camp, but instead of returning to Hugh’s pavilion, she took the path behind the tents. It felt so good to stretch her cramped muscles that she didn’t want to go back just yet. She walked along the narrow passage between the backs of the pavilions and the wall of supply wagons that made up the inner perimeter.

Nessa was halfway around the loop walk when a dark shape fluttered in from above.

With a flap of wings, a large black crow flew down, settling upon one of the wagon wheels.

Nessa halted, a wide smile creasing her face. “Eclipse!”

The crow cocked its head, glassy, dark eyes fixing upon her.

“I was hoping ye’d pay me a visit.”

Glancing around, to ensure she was alone, Nessa shifted closer to the High Bandruì’s familiar. She had to give her news quickly before anyone saw her.

“Things didn’t go quite as planned,” she told Eclipse, her voice breathless with urgency. “Sir Hugh resisted my attempts to charm him and took me prisoner … however” —Nessa held up her unshackled hands to show that she was free for the moment— “I have learned two things of importance … the first is that The Hammer has a witch traveling with him. Her name is Lamia Delamare, and she’s one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting. She’s strong … for she has a familiar. She may be a threat to our cause.”

Nessa paused then, leaning closer. “They have also erected a massive wooden siege tower, with a battering ram … someone needs to deal to it.” She straightened up, favoring Eclipse with a rueful smile. “That’s it … I wish I had more to reveal, but—”

The crow erupted skyward with a violent flap of wings. Nessa reeled back, and, whirling around, she saw a cloaked figure standing a few yards back. Lamia Delamare had just stepped onto the path. Pale hair, braided and coiled, glinted despite the dull day.

The scent of hot iron and musk enveloped Nessa then.

Pulse quickening, she turned to face the witch squarely.

Lamia was frowning. However, her focus was skyward at where Eclipse was now flying away.

A moment later, the witch lowered her gaze and met Nessa’s eye.

Nessa favored her with a tight smile. “You are too late,” she said in French.

Lamia’s mouth pursed. “So I see.” She took a step forward. “I know what you are, Nessa. It seems you aren’t a lone healer as I’d thought … but part of a powerful coven.”

Nessa arched an eyebrow, even as her pulse started to hammer against her ribs. How had Lamia discovered that?

Warning prickled across her skin. It was best she didn’t linger here to find out.

She was just about to duck into the gap between two pavilions when Lamia’s voice forestalled her. “You’re no infatuated lover … what’s your real purpose here?” Nessa felt the woman’s witch-will emanate from her, like mist wreathing out from the Wailing Widow Falls. She was trying to coax an answer from her. “Are you planning to kill Edward?”

Nessa frowned. “Why, are you planning on running to him?”

Lamia’s jaw tensed, and Nessa watched her with interest. It was then she knew that Edward of England had no idea he had a witch in his midst. She’d suspected as much before, yet Lamia’s reaction now confirmed it.

“Are you a spy then?” Lamia ground out, her pale eyes glittering.

Nessa lifted her chin. She longed to fling her mission in the witch’s face—to tell her she was here for Scotland. The English would never take this land as their own, not while the Guardians of Alba existed. But caution checked the instinct.

Instead, she stared her adversary down. “The reason I’m here matters not,” she replied, her voice turning flinty. “But remember this, Lamia Delamare … I know who you are … and I’ll wager the king does not.”

With that, Nessa left the path, moving between two tents toward the clearing beyond.

When she re-entered Hugh’s pavilion moments later, Nessa’s pulse hammered in her ears. She’d presented a fierce face to Lamia, yet in truth, the encounter had rattled her. Her palms were now damp, her legs shaky.

A few feet away, Hugh still slept deeply, the whisper of his breathing filling the tent. Thomas still hadn’t returned from his errands.

Hands trembling, Nessa dug into one of the pouches at her waist, grabbed a handful of salt, and sprinkled it across the threshold to ward herself against the witch. She then whispered a protection charm.

She wasn’t taking any chances with Lamia Delamare.

Nessa had seen the fear in the woman’s eyes as she’d left her. Her threat would hopefully prevent Lamia from going to the king. However, somehow, the witch had discovered the existence of the Guardians. That knowledge made her dangerous—both to the order and to Scotland.