Nessa’s Seduction by Jayne Castel

3

A COLD NIGHT

THE CROW WAS waiting for Nessa upon her return home.

Perched on the doorstep, feathers fluffed up with cold, and its head hunched into its neck, the bird watched her with gleaming coal-black eyes as she approached.

The sight of the crow made a smile stretch across Nessa’s face. The snow was falling thick and fast, and the wind dug its claws through her clothing. She longed to get inside, yet her visitor was a welcome sight indeed.

It was almost as if Colina had known today was special—for she’d sent her familiar south in search of news.

“Poor weather for travel, Eclipse,” Nessa greeted the bird. “Ye shall be staying the night, I take it?”

The crow merely shuffled to one side, allowing her to open the door.

The High Bandruì was the only one who could actually share thoughts with the crow. Nonetheless, the bird could understand the other members of the order.

Nessa threw open the door, and Eclipse flapped indoors. Following the bird in, she pushed the door shut behind her and barred it. She lived alone in a cottage that sat apart from other houses. Despite the foul weather that would keep most folk huddled by their hearths, she was always careful.

Nessa had ways of keeping men with ill-intentions away, yet none of her methods were infallible.

Blinking, as her eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior of her cottage, Nessa swung her gaze to where Eclipse now perched upon the wooden window-sill.

The bird fixed her with a penetrating, demanding stare that she knew well: Colina wished for an update.

“Ye timed yer visit well,” Nessa informed the familiar, crossing to the hearth and peering into the pot of bubbling stew she’d put on earlier in the day. The strong aroma of mutton filled the small space. “I have finally met someone who should be able to reveal The Hammer’s secrets to us.”

Eclipse sat silently, waiting for Nessa to elaborate.

“His name is Hugh de Burgh,” she continued, shedding her damp cloak and hanging it up behind the door. “He’s the king’s right-hand. Now that I’ve established contact … I can begin my seduction.” She flashed Eclipse a grin. “Worry not, I’ll have the details we need soon enough.”

Nervousness fluttered in Nessa’s belly then. Despite her confident manner, she was a little on edge after meeting the knight. Colina had chosen her for this mission, for she was comely and self-assured and had already proven herself extremely capable in the past. However, she’d never deliberately ‘seduced’ a man before to get him to spill his secrets. She’d need nerves of steel for what was to come.

“At least he’s handsome,” she murmured, voicing her thoughts aloud. “That should make it a little easier.”

The crow merely cocked its head, inviting her to continue.

“Hugh de Burgh is gruff and a bit ill-mannered,” she said, sorting through her impressions of the knight. “Not one to trust or to take others into his confidence easily.”

She didn’t add that de Burgh’s attitude toward her had been frosty. It mattered not, for she’d noted the way he’d held her eye far longer than was necessary.

He hid it well, but she’d sensed his interest.

Slinging a woolen shawl across her shoulders, Nessa crossed to the low table near the window—which was piled high with a jumble of baskets of herbs, clay bottles, and leather pouches—and cut herself a slab of bread from the loaf she’d made that morning.

Feeling the crow’s beady gaze upon her, she glanced over at it. “I will ensure our paths cross again,” she assured the bird. “And soon.”

Studying the bird’s unnervingly bright eyes, she felt a tightening in her chest, a pang of envy. Only the most powerful of druidesses drew a familiar to them—and Colina was the only current member of their order who’d done so.

Life could get lonely sometimes, moving from place to place—always the outsider. She could have done with a familiar to keep her company. An owl perhaps, or a cat.

But Nessa’s witching didn’t burn as bright as the High Bandruì’s. Hers was rooted in the earth, her skills in the healing arts. And as such, she’d gotten used to her own company—she’d had no choice.

Helping herself to a bowl of stew, Nessa perched on a stool before the glowing hearth and ate her supper. The stew was scalding, and she had to consume it slowly or risk burning her tongue. All the while, she felt Eclipse’s stare upon her.

Of course, Colina wanted to know what else she’d learned of late.

“The English keep largely to themselves,” she admitted after a pause. “Edward’s army is well defended, and there have been no rumors of where he will move onto in the spring.” She paused there, swallowing a spoonful of hot mutton stew. “I go daily to the market in town and make sure I listen to every rumor … every whisper.” She shook her head then, frustration bubbling up within her. “But The Hammer has gone silent of late.”

Nessa stirred the remnants of the stew with a spoon, her lips pursing. Impatience simmered within her. “The English king is getting old,” she murmured. “Perhaps his ambition wanes.”

The crow gave a soft, disbelieving caw in reply, and Nessa huffed a wry laugh. “Ye don’t believe that either, do ye?” Her jaw tensed then. “War-mongering, pox-ridden cur … I can’t wait for the day we send him and his lackeys back across the border with their tails between their legs!”

Eclipse gave another caw, although this one sounded like a resounding agreement.

For nearly a decade now, the English had launched campaigns north of Hadrian’s Wall. Edward Longshanks, ‘The Hammer of the Scots’, was relentless.

He had to be stopped.

Finishing her stew and bread, Nessa then poured herself a cup of apple wine. She huddled close to the fire, poking the brick of peat that burned there, with a stick.

The cold drilled into one’s bones tonight, as if the Crone herself walked abroad, leaving the world frozen and silent behind her.

Nessa shivered, pulling her shawl closer. She might not be as old as The Hammer, as her order named him, yet she felt every one of her thirty winters this evening. Even her dedication to the Guardians of Alba, which smoldered like a glowing coal in her belly, couldn’t warm her.

I’ve lingered in Dunfermline long enough. It was time to complete her task and move on.

Hugh braced himself for the chill as he stooped to exit the king’s tent. But even though he’d prepared himself for it, the icy wind cut straight to the marrow. He was bone-tired tonight, his shoulder and back muscles aching from the harsh training he’d gone through that morning, and from the cold that still managed to drill into him, despite his thick layers of clothing.

Muttering a curse, Hugh pulled his cloak tight about him before casting a look at the two shivering guards flanking the tent entrance. Guttering torches outlined their pale, taut faces.

“Go and get yourselves cups of mulled ale,” he instructed brusquely. “Before you drop from cold.”

“Aye, Sir Hugh,” one of them mumbled through frozen lips. “Thank you.”

Hugh nodded before striding away from the king’s pavilion. His own tent sat just a few yards away, although the journey seemed endless on a night like this.

A blizzard swirled about them, blocking out the darkness. Hugh’s mouth thinned. No one was likely to make an attempt on the king’s life in weather like this. Even so, the men would need to return to their posts shortly.

Entering his tent, Hugh found his squire diligently polishing his master’s armor. The lad sat upon a stool, Hugh’s plate armor and greaves spread out around him. His face was screwed up in concentration as he worked a shine onto Hugh’s helmet.

“Leave that, Thomas,” Hugh instructed. “I don’t need to see my face in my helm.”

Thomas Charlton, a lanky lad of fifteen, and the eldest son of the Earl of Apley, glanced up. “I like to keep them looking nice, Sir Hugh.”

“Aye,” Hugh huffed, shrugging off his cloak. “But such tasks can wait till tomorrow.”

Moving to the center of the tent, and passing the glowing brazier that warmed the space, Hugh took in the comfortable surroundings. Indeed, despite the fingers of icy air that still managed to force their way in through the gaps in the awning, this pavilion was as comfortable as his bed-chamber back at Grosmont Castle. Furs covered the ground, and guttering candles illuminated the billowing tent walls; the wind had picked up. A large bed dominated the center of the space, and a rectangular table sat a few feet to its right. Hugh usually took his meals in here, and generally preferred it.

Dining with the king put him in an ill-temper of late.

Thomas set about putting away the armor while Hugh undressed. He undid the sword belt about his waist and placed his longsword upon a low table. A leather scabbard encased it, decorated with the de Burgh crest and motto: a gauntlet with the words Lux vitœ—the light of life.

Removing his surcoat, Hugh then pulled the heavy hauberk under it up around his waist. He leaned forward and touched his toes, shrugging off the heavy chain mail shirt so it slid over his head and rattled onto the furs. He’d learned years ago that trying to remove it like one did a tunic merely resulted in a lot of struggling, sweating, and swearing.

An instant later, Thomas retrieved the surcoat and hauberk, hanging them up next to the knight’s gleaming armor.

“Do you need anything else, Sir Hugh?”

Hugh shook his head. “No … get to bed, lad.”

Not needing further encouragement, the squire dug out the sheepskin he slept on and rolled it out a few feet back from the brazier—not too close to the fire lest it spat out embers during the night, yet far enough away from the door to avoid drafts. He then made a nest for himself under a pile of coarse blankets.

Hugh’s mouth quirked as he watched the squire’s ritual. Thomas had been with him for the past three years. The lad was quiet, hardworking, and he slumbered like a hibernating hedgehog. These days, Hugh’s own sleep had grown restless. He went to bed tired, yet often found himself staring up at the darkness for hours before exhaustion finally dragged him down into its clutches.

A lukewarm bowl of water sat next to the bed. Thomas, the good lad that he was, had retrieved it for him.

Stripping off the gambeson—a heavy, quilted tunic—he wore under his hauberk, Hugh crossed to the wash bowl. Picking up a hard cake of lye, he quickly bathed. Robert, who boasted that he washed once a month, often delighted in making fun of his friend’s evening rituals. Hugh rarely missed his nightly wash—a habit his father had instilled in him. However, he didn’t linger over it this evening. Jaw clenched against the cold, he stripped off his chausses and hose, leaving on his loose linen braies, before he doused the candles upon the bedside table and climbed under the covers.

Lying there in the half-darkness, for only the glow of the brazier now lit the interior of the tent, Hugh listened to the howling wind, the creak of the tent, and the crackle of embers. Moments later, the rumble of Thomas’s snoring joined the other noises.

Hugh sighed. The lad’s snoring had grown wearisome over the past years, especially since sleep often eluded him these days.

He was aware then of the dull, throbbing ache in his right hand. The cold had distracted him, yet now he was warm under the covers, he noted it once more. Placing his other hand over the tightly wrapped bandage, Hugh winced. It was becoming increasingly tender, and he could feel the heat of the wound even through the thick layer of linen wadding.

You could pay that healer a visit?

The thought made his lips thin. Aye, he could. Or perhaps the harassed camp physician needed to take another look at the wound instead.