How to Seduce a Queen: A Medieval Romance Novel

HOW TO SEDUCE A QUEEN

STELLA MARIE ALDEN

SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

New York

HOW TO SEDUCE A QUEEN

Copyright©2016

STELLA MARIE ALDEN

Cover Design by Ramona Lockwood

This book is a work of fiction.  The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Published in the United States of America by

Soul Mate Publishing

P.O. Box 24

Macedon, New York, 14502

ISBN: 978-1-68291-149-5

www.SoulMatePublishing.com

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Acknowledgements

I humbly thank my editor, Cindy Brannam, my husband, my kids, my friends, and all my fans for helping to make all my dreams come true. I love you all!

Prologue

Year of our Lord 1283

The castle at No-Man’s-Land, just north of Carlisle

With arrow buried deep in his shoulder, Nicholas Bruce raced between the thick black pillars of his brother-in-law’s keep while colorful pennants flapped overhead in the parapets. Cold wind off the Scottish moors chilled him to the bone and the loss of blood made him lightheaded.

Pain blinded him as he all but fell off his charger, stumbled into the main hall, and collapsed onto his side. His pool of blood widened, staining the rush mats. All he could do was pant and stare, unbelieving.

She tried to kill him? After all they’d gone through?

The devil grinned, waiting at the gates of hell, until a hard palm smacked Nicholas’s cheek, bringing him back to earth.

“Christ’s blood! Just what’ve you gotten yourself into this time?” Thomas D’Agostine, his Norman features laced with concern, cut away the sodden tunic. His shouts echoed in the great room, “Anon. Awake all. We need more torches! Merry, to me.”

Still in her nightclothes, Nicholas’s twin sister fell to her knees and put a cool hand to his cheek. Merry’s voice shook as she turned to a young maid. “Wake Lady Ann and have her bring medicines and flesh needles.”

Sleepy gawkers arose from their pallets and lit torches, candles, and lamps. Nicholas moaned, shut his eyes once more, and hoped for heavenly clouds instead of the fires of hell.

His face stung once again when Merry smacked a mite too hard. “Don’t you dare die! Not on Christmastide. I won’t have it.”

His heavy eyelids refused to open and to his surprise, angels, instead of the devil, greeted him. He prayed that his grin would stick to his face long after he was gone. It would prove to the Lady Fay that a merciful God existed and had forgiven his many sins.

Chapter 1

Three months prior at Castle Carlisle

“I won’t kidnap her. Even if deposed, Lady Fay’s still royalty.” Nicholas clenched his fists and counted to twelve as he paced the upstairs chambers. Hell’s balls, how he hated Castle Carlisle.

As usual, any time he, his father, and grandsire gathered, Nicholas was the one that paid a heavy price. All shared the same hair, same hazel eyes, and same perfected glower, but only he was bastard-born. To distance himself from the others, Nicholas tied his red hair back, shaved often, and favored a simple brown tunic.

The other two wore red, striped with green, as did the wall pennants and a rug in front of the hearth. Even the bed, hanging by iron chains from the rafters, was covered in Bruce plaid.

Nicholas snorted. What arrogance.

His grandsire, the fifth Earl of Annandale, was in fact a mere steward. The keep, the bed, and the lands all belonged to King Edward, no matter what the colors.

Dear God, if you have any fondness for me, and for England, let the old man drop dead before he can cause more trouble.

Taking a deep breath, Nicholas wandered toward a new hanging. In it, Edward battled the Welsh, surrounded by yellow lions and God’s holy light. His father, the future Earl of Annandale, battled with helm down while an angel guided his sword.

What a farce.

There was no holiness on that day, only the suffocating odors of the dead and dying. He pressed his palms to his eyes and shook his head.

The old Earl, his grandsire, continued, noticing nothing amiss. “If it disturbs your chivalrous nature, woo her as you see fit. What’s so difficult? An overthrown queen’s no queen a ’tall. Steal her away and put your seed in her.”

Using the perfected Bruce scowl, and knowing how much it would infuriate the other two, Nicholas approached the warm hearth. “Just
what
are you two plotting?”

An old knurled finger shot forth, poking Nicholas in the chest repeatedly. “You should be gladdened by my offer. In the Isle of Man, they don’t care so much about low-born bastards.”

“God’s—umph.” Nicholas inhaled, then exhaled out a thanks when his father elbowed his gut. Better a pain in the side than locked up in the dungeon again.

“We’ll not be discussing my son’s birthright. Not here. Not ever.”

Nicholas raised his eyebrows. This was new. His father seldom stood up to the great and almighty Earl of Annandale.

The two glowered, their jaws clenched, and cheeks reddened until they matched the room’s decor.

Good for them.

Hoping to escape the shouting no doubt to ensue, Nicholas slipped toward the door. He cracked it open, peered down the empty hallway, and took a step toward freedom. The oak slammed in his face and his ever-vigilant grandsire tugged him back by his tunic.

“You will obey!”

Wool tightened around Nicholas’s neck, reminding him of a noose.
Damnation, even the dogs in Annandale’s castle get better treatment.

He tried to reason with the old man one last time. “King Alexander intends for Lady Fay to marry a Scot, nay an English.”

With his palms raised to heaven, the old maggot smiled as if saying mass for God Almighty. “We’re all but pawns in the game of kings.”

Nicholas scoffed. Even the fishwife knew that Grandsire plotted only for himself.

There was no way he should even be considering this, but the idea of seducing a queen held some appeal to his basest nature. “Let’s say I were to agree. ’Tis well known that Lady Fay, the
former
queen, shot arrows into her last two suitors. ’Twould be easier to bed a rabid boar.”

“I thought you loved a quest.” Old eyes reflected red from the wall’s hearth fire and thin lips exposed yellowed teeth. His grandfather knew he was winning the war and grinned.

The devil walked over Nicholas’s grave and he shuddered, despite the warmth. Instead of riding straight back to Scarborough, as he should’ve, he said, “Heed me. She lives on an island, surrounded by loyal guards. None of them will allow an English knight onto the Isle of Man. I know. I met some of them last summer.”

The former queen was beautiful, and haughty, and he a lowborn bastard, not even knighted. His heart raced at the audacity. The penalties of such an accomplishment were unimaginable. The rewards, beyond his wildest dreams.

“If you’d married her last summer, as I’d asked, none of this would be necessary.” The old man chuckled. “If you’re worried you’re not man enough, I’ll send you with a dowry.”

God’s Blood, how he loathed the earl. So as not to land back behind iron bars, Nicholas chose his words with care. “Very well, but when I return I expect to be knighted.”

His father laid a hand upon his shoulder and said softly, “Do this one more deed for Edward and for England, and I will see to it, Son.”

A snort of disdain sounded from his grandfather.

Biting his tongue, Nicholas turned to gaze out the window where steel clanged against steel. Holy knights practiced swordplay in the fields just beyond the walls of the keep. How many times had his grandfather promised and then reneged? This would be the last time he whored for clan or country.

“I swear, should you not keep your word, I will search out Edward and we will all hang together.” He shook off his father’s fondness, turned on his heel, and headed for the tavern.

Chapter 2

On the Isle of Man, just off the coast of Wales

Outside the ancient Dane keep, the wind whistled off the ocean. Heavy tapestries swayed over twenty trestle tables that lay folded, long unused, along the wall’s edge. Swirls of smoke from the center hearth curled up and around the darkened hall while shadows danced upon the stained stone walls.

In the center of the near empty room, Lady Fay pushed the inedible meal around and around on her plate. Her cooking was an abysmal failure. How dirt still clung to the over-boiled roots defied reason. When the blackened lamb refused her knife’s edge, she gave up, despite her stomach’s rumblings.

Seated with her at sup, six stone-faced knights attempted to swallow the horrid fare. To her right, dressed in black, Aunt Agatha sat with hands in her lap. The folds of her white linen cap fell forward to hide her ancient features. No doubt, Fay had fallen far short of the old woman’s expectations.

Suddenly, thunder cracked, a flash of yellow lit up the rafters, and Fay bolted up out of her seat. To her right, Sean Ferguson smirked.

She scowled at him. “Och, lay off with the grinnin’ or I’ll poison your next meal.”

“That might improve the mutton.” Blond eyebrows rose over keen blue eyes. He knew her too well. “Seems tonight you’ve inherited your father’s fiery temperament along with his looks. What ails you?”

How dare he? Mimicking the storm’s fury, she pounded the rough table until all glanced up. Best to get this over with. “You all should know, a pigeon just arrived from King Alexander. I’m to wed or hang.”

It pleased her somewhat that she managed to keep her voice from quivering. Knives clattered as they dropped onto the tables by her stunned court.

Sean scratched at his blond beard and broke the silence. “Well, the next canna have an accident like the last two or Alexander will have your head.”

The eldest of her orphans, Aiden, snickered in the silence.

“Quiet.” She shot him a scathing glare, held her pointing finger high, and reminded them of the facts. “The first was English. He matters not.”

She let a second digit meet the first. “The other . . . I dinna like and he refused to leave. So you see, ’tis only one. Surely that’s not unreasonable.”

Around the table, men gazed down at the floor, up at the rafters, anywhere but meet her gaze. Obviously none took her plight seriously. Aunt Agatha, however, was always ready to put up an argument. She put both hands on the trestle table and stood.

Taking her ancient time, she glared sharp gray eyes at one and all. “She needs to marry as the king commands. You men will see to it.”

Fay moaned. Her wide, green sleeve waved in the air as she tried to dismiss the thought of marriage. “I’m perfectly happy as an heir-less, deposed queen.”

Her aunt leaned her small frame forward. “You’re correct in one thing. Deposed. Scotland and Alexander are now your lords. Best you remember that. Best we
all
remember that. It’s more than past time . . .”

God’s blood.
The endless litany began anew.

“. . . and most importantly, a woman is but half until a man makes her whole.”

Outside, the ancient gods sounded their fury with thunder and lightning, no doubt taking sides with her aunt. Old eyes watered vacuously and a crooked finger shook while pointing.

As if from the depth of Niflheim, the mist of death, she said, “Hear me, my child. An arrow from your bow will pierce your heart’s greatest desire.”

A prediction. Mouth dry, Fay slumped on the rough bench, and the walls of the great room closed in upon her, making it hard to breathe. Could this day get any worse? Despairing, she put her head in her hands.

Alec-the-Brave was the first of the knights to recover. Clearing his throat, he stood and strode across the long hall with spurs clanking. He stopped at the brick arch to the kitchen then motioned all should follow.

When the room emptied, Fay rose and rinsed her wooden plate and cup. She lingered by the warmth of the outside ovens. Long shelves, meant to feed hundreds, lined the walls and dwarfed her pitiful pile of vegetable scraps.

Was it her fault her mother had died before teaching her kitchen skills? At the thought of that day, she cursed, spit, and made an ancient sign to ward off evil.

“Marry me.”

She nearly jumped out of her skin, but it was only Sean at the room’s opening who spoke, not a ghost.

“I’m sorry. I canna marry you, nor any man.” She crossed the muddy stone floor and kissed his prickly beard. “But ’tis very kind of you to offer.”

“Then God save us all.” With a frown, he swiveled on his heel.

When the outside door opened, a breeze chilled her already frozen soul. Agatha was never wrong.