Love’s Sweet Sting

by Markland, Anna

  A tour of the chapel provided further contradiction of the abbey’s poverty. He chased away the unchristian thought that the sale of one of the myriad solid gold candlesticks would bring in more coin that Aidan could hope to contribute.

  Upon his return to Kirkthwaite, he prayed day and night for the courage to cope with Lindisfarne’s rigors—and the abbot’s obsequiousness. He had little time for small-minded men.

  However, the monastic life would soon be his new reality, so he’d best accept it.

  Atonement

  Lindisfarne Abbey, Holy Island, Northumbria

  * * *

  Pacing the cloister, Ragna pouted. “I still say your decision is ridiculous, Aidan. I have no intention of entering a nunnery.”

  Aidan inhaled deeply. Arguing with his sister was always a losing proposition. She was used to getting her own way. The sullen-faced Edwin leaned against a pillar. Neither sibling was happy with his choice. “No one expects you to. It is my decision to enter the monastery. It is my fault mother and father died in the White Ship disaster. I must atone.”

  Ragna snorted. “But you will chafe at the monastic life.”

  Aidan rolled his eyes. “That’s why it’s an atonement. Lindisfarne Abbey is dedicated to St. Aidan. I was meant to live my life on Holy Island.”

  His sister threw her hands in the air, then pointed an accusing finger. “Mother would be devastated by this, Aidan. It was not your fault nor mine nor Edwin’s that our parents drowned with Prince William and the flower of English nobility. Don’t you see their deaths gave us a chance to live? Our parents never intended you to be a monk. You’re the heir to Kirkthwaite Manor and Shelfhoc Hall, not to mention the Sussex estates. You must sire sons.”

  Aidan chewed his bottom lip. “I am responsible for their deaths. It was I who suggested they take our places. Edwin can have whichever hall he wants. I’ll cede my right to the remaining property in favor of your husband, or Blythe’s husband or their sons.”

  Edwin raked his fingers through his hair, then rubbed the back of his neck. He drew a breath, looked pleadingly at his sister, turned on his heel and stalked away.

  Ragna shook her head vigorously as she resumed her pacing. “I’m not married, nor do I intend to wed. Dieter won’t want either English property. You have no right. You can see how Edwin feels. Godemite.”

  Aidan raked both hands through his hair. “I have every right, and you shouldn’t blaspheme. It’s not becoming of a lady.”

  Ragna sniggered.

  Aidan sighed. “You can live at Kirkthwaite or Shelfhoc, married or not. I intend to remain here and devote my life to God. Now, go.”

  A tear trickled down Ragna’s cheek as she stood nose to nose with him. “You’re four and twenty. You have a lifetime ahead of you. Blythe will never forgive me for allowing her twin to take this step. I cannot leave you here, Aidan.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her forehead. “You have no choice.”

  She tore away from him and rested her forehead against the stone wall of the cloister. “If you will not take up your rightful place for me, then do it for England. Your country needs strong barons now the succession is in jeopardy. You were born to follow in Father’s footsteps.”

  Aidan shook his head and held out his arms, wondering what he had eaten earlier to make his belly churn. “Try to understand, Ragna. I must do this. Please leave now. Kiss me before you go. Give me your blessing.”

  She whirled around, gritted her teeth and stormed away.

  Aidan’s shoulders tightened further. He leaned heavily against one of the pillars, praying for fortitude to bear the lonely years ahead. He missed his father’s guidance. Caedmon FitzRam had been the rock of the family. Perhaps Ragna was right. He was avoiding his responsibilities by becoming a religious. Or was the devil tempting him away from his vocation? He had felt the need to atone when he learned the devastating news. His parents’ deaths were his fault. He should have died instead.

  * * *

  Ragna was forced to pause in her flight from the confines of Lindisfarne. Edwin had ridden off alone in the direction of Kirkthwaite. Distraught and blinded by tears, she feared she might fall from her horse. She instructed the captain of her guard to halt his men. “I cannot leave Aidan there, Leofric.”

  Leofric Deacon took hold of her steed’s reins with his good hand. “Caedmon and I endured many difficulties together, Ragna. I mourn his loss. Aidan is seeking his way, as your father did when he joined Peter the Hermit’s Crusade before you were born. You must have faith he will find it.”

  She blinked away tears and accepted the kerchief he offered, covering her face. Since hearing the awful news of the shipwreck, she had cried a great deal, something she had rarely done before. Where was the courage that had earned her the nickname Wild Viking Princess?

  This lifelong friend of her father’s was always positive, despite the cruel disfigurements suffered in the Battle of Alnwick long ago.

  She blew her nose. “We must cling to the hope he will come to his senses, Leofric. I need him. Blythe is far away in Germany. I feel bereft. He does not care that he is leaving me alone with the immense responsibilities of father’s holdings. Edwin is not strong and would make a better monk.”

  “Aidan sees nothing now but his own grieving guilt. Never fear, Ragna. You’re not alone. The Montbryces will help you. I’m no longer a young man, but I’m still here.”

  Ragna smiled bitterly as she looked sadly at Leofric’s bald head, his skin withered over his missing ear and eye, the useless black-gloved hand. Her father’s life-long comrade and best friend was alone now, Coventina having died two years before, devoted to her beloved Leofric to the last. Ragna would miss his steadfast support when he too was gone.

  It was of some consolation her father’s powerful paternal family would indeed come to her aid, but she had never felt so alone. Anger at Aidan’s selfishness burned in her heart.

  * * *

  Left alone in the cloister, Aidan inhaled deeply, willing his frantic heartbeat to slow. He closed his eyes, welcoming the utter silence of the place where he stood. Gradually, he became aware of the distant roar of the sea, of birds chirping. He lifted his face to the weak sun, enjoying the caress of the wind. Perhaps, he would find peace in this holy place.

  He opened his eyes upon hearing footsteps.

  “Come along, Brother,” the abbot commanded. “Time to shed those fine clothes.”

  Prideful sinner that he was, Aidan already mourned the loss of his own clothes, and he couldn’t fail to detect the sarcasm in the abbot’s voice.

  “Yes, Father,” he replied, swallowing the knot of resentment in his throat.

  Sopping Wet

  The prickly sensation on her nape caused Nolana to stop halfway across a bridge spanning a deep river. Turning to look back the way she’d come, she espied riders on the distant horizon. She knew instinctively they were Neyll’s thugs.

  Outrunning men on horseback was impossible, so she hesitated only a moment before jumping off the bridge. The icy water robbed her of breath, but she filled her lungs and slid into the mirky depths when the sound of hoofbeats drew near.

  Time crawled by. She squeezed her eyes tight shut, frantically afraid she couldn’t hold her breath underwater much longer. Was that the echo of horses’ hooves crossing the stone bridge above her, or the thudding of her own heart?

  It was vital she evade her stepfather’s men who evidently hadn’t hesitated to follow her trail into Northumbria. She had run from Berwick, her only plan to escape to a place of sanctuary until...until what?

  She had fled without coin, without even a dagger. The future looked bleak. Men made all the decisions for women. Perhaps the novitiate was a solution. Then she wouldn’t worry about men ruling her life ever again.

  A religious life would also mean abandoning her dreams of a husband and children.

  Lungs bursting, she broke the surface and gulped in great breaths.

  Birds chirpe
d. Leaves rustled. Water dripped from her nose and streamed from her hair. No sound of horses. She pressed her elbows against her ribs in an effort to stop the uncontrollable trembling.

  She tried to move, but her legs seemed frozen in place in the icy water. Rooted to the spot, she managed to pull off her playd, struggling to wring out the water. Teeth chattering, she peeled the ringlets back off her face and, after several unsuccessful attempts, managed to scramble up the bank. She had already walked for most of the day, leaving Horncliffe behind once she crossed into England. There was no chance of refuge in Scotland. No border clan would challenge her powerful stepfather.

  Twilight loomed. Whimpering, she scanned the seemingly endless expanse of moorland, desperately looking for any sign of shelter. She caught sight of what might be a wisp of smoke off in the distance. Perhaps a croft where she could beg a night’s lodging.

  The hem of her sodden léine felt like it was weighted with lead as she slogged over the moor to the tiny cottage she now spied. She hugged the wet playd to her body, but it provided little warmth. The smell of wet wool assailed her nostrils as she clutched it beneath her chin. Darkness had fallen by the time she balled her fist to pound on the door, frozen to the bone. “Shelter, for the love of God, I beg shelter.”

  The door scraped open a crack and Nolana had to cling to the frame to avoid collapsing into the cottage. She tried to speak but no sound emerged. The wizened face of an auld woman appeared, a long-stemmed wooden pipe clenched in her teeth. “Be gone. Want no borderers ‘ere.”

  Nolana took a deep breath, hoping sound would emerge. “I’m nay a borderer. I’m soaked to the skin and will surely freeze to death if ye dinna take pity.”

  The old woman hesitated, chewing the stem of the pipe, then dragged the door open and motioned Nolana inside. “They was ‘ere looking for thee.”

  Nolana tensed and hesitated on the threshold. “For me?”

  The woman grabbed her arm and pulled her inside. “Aye. Don’t play the innocent wi’ me. Armed men they were, asking after a young lass.”

  Nolana decided it was best not to lie. She was close to succumbing to exhaustion and needed this woman’s help. “They are my stepfather’s men. I’ve run away. I eluded them by ducking in the burn.”

  The old woman looked her up and down. “Takes a brave lass to do such a thing. I’ve a spare shift. Take off thy wet clothes, dearie. They’ll dry by the fire. I lack company. Gets lonely up ‘ere on these moors.”

  Willing her teeth to stop chattering, Nolana peeled off the wet garments and accepted the homespun shift. The rough shroud warmed her. The woman spread her wet clothing by the hearth.

  Nolana thanked her. “I’m sorry, I dinna ken yer name.”

  The crone sucked on her pipe once more then took it from her mouth. “Folks call me Jennet.”

  Nolana hugged the shift to her breasts, and rubbed her arms, chasing away the chill. “Thank ye, Jennet. I’m Nolana Kyncade.”

  “Thou art a Scot.”

  “My stepfather’s lands are in the Scottish lowlands. I’m from further north, closer to the Highlands. I came south with my mother when she wed my stepfather.”

  Jennet shrugged and took another draw on her pipe. “Now, thy mother’s dead, and thee hates yer stepfather.”

  Nolana smiled ruefully. Perhaps the soothing aroma of the pipe smoke had encouraged her to confide in this woman. “Aye. He wants to wed me off to an auld man.”

  Jennet laughed. “Thee doesn’t want to wed an auld man. ‘Twas my fate for many a year. Thank God the bugger’s dead now, nigh on five and ten winters ago.”

  Nolana inhaled the scented smoke. “What’s in yer pipe? It smells good.”

  Jennet pursed her lips and blew out more smoke, wafting it towards Nolana, mischief in her eyes. “Aye. ‘Tis me own blend. Mostly red clover, rose hips and a touch of a secret ingredient.”

  Nolana smiled, though she could barely keep her eyes open. “Secret ingredient?”

  Jennet put a fingertip to her lips, looked around furtively and whispered, “Honey.”

  Nolana arched her brows, but had to stifle a yawn. “I’m sorry. I walked a long way today.”

  Jennet pointed to a pallet by the hearth. “Sleep now. I’ll wake thee in the morn.”

  “But where will ye sleep?”

  Jennet tapped her pipe on the stones of the hearth and curled a finger inside the bowl as she blew into it. “I’ve a pallet in the loft. Heat rises. Thou’s in need of the hearth more than me. I bid thee goodnight.”

  Nolana accepted the pallet and drew the meager blanket over her. “Goodnight, Jennet.”

  She drifted into a fitful sleep haunted by visions of a life behind convent walls.

  Memories Of Happier Days

  The monotony of monastic life grated on Aidan. The same thing happened at the same time every endless day. He had grown up in a noisy household full of love, laughter and argument. In the abbey he was drowning in silence.

  The coarse wool habit irritated his sensitive skin. Judging by the decay lingering in its folds, he was not the first monk to wear the odious garment.

  His mother’s table had provided rich and satisfying victuals. Abbey food was tasteless and there wasn’t enough to satisfy a bird, let alone his robust appetite.

  He chafed at the pettiness of those superior to him who demanded his obedience in everything. While Aidan had never been the hellion his sister was, he was the eldest son of a proud man, a hero of the First Crusade. He was heir to wealthy properties, descendent of a noble Norman family. He was not used to obeying imbeciles. He had clenched his fists so often his palms bore the imprint of his fingernails. He feared he might grind his teeth to nothing.

  The FitzRams prized cleanliness, but here he was forced to wait a sennight between baths. The reek of his body disgusted him. Bathing for the postulants consisted of standing naked while older monks threw icy cold water over them, taking what he considered perverse pleasure in the act. It reminded him of the treatment his uncle, Robert de Montbryce had received in Duke Curthose’s cells. He longed for a good tub soak.

  They had denied him his name. Now, he was Brother Christian. It seemed a slight to the murdered uncle for whom he had been named. He had protested, citing the dedication of Lindisfarne to St. Aidan, only to be rebuked for the sin of pride for comparing himself to a saint.

  Though no longer a virgin, he had never been a man to pursue women. He'd thought someday to find a woman to love as his father had loved his Agneta, as Dieter loved Blythe. Thoughts of his twin sister brought to mind the journey home from her wedding in Cologne six years before. What a green lad he had been then. It suddenly occurred to Sir Caedmon FitzRam that he had not passed on to his son his knowledge of how to please a woman in bed. Aidan had been astonished and somewhat embarrassed by the apparent sexual prowess of his father...something he had never given any mind to before. He had a new respect for his sire after that...and for his mother.

  Once they were back in England, it was as if women were aware Aidan had this new knowledge. He became the object of constant female attention.

  The reality of never again making love to a woman saddened him. When he thought on it, his shaft stirred, despite his best efforts to quell his arousal. He prayed for strength not to succumb to the needs of the flesh, but he was weak.

  The muffled gasps and groans in the dormitory at night assured him he was not the only monk seeking relief at his own hand. He had been at Lindisfarne four months; it seemed like a lifetime. Ragna was right. Often, he thought he might have fallen ill. His chest felt tight and his head ached constantly.

  He recalled his mother’s tales of her time as a novice in Alnwick Abbey. She had hated the repetition. He was his mother’s son.

  Memories of her brought a lump to his throat. He had to be stronger. He was being tempted from his calling. God expected him to atone. He would do it. He would put aside thoughts of returning to Kirkthwaite. Ragna would manage without him. She had Leofric Deacon to hel
p her, and their Montbryce uncles and cousins would do what was necessary. He readily admitted Edwin would be of little help to his sister. He was too shy, too other-worldly.

  My brother would make a better monk.

  The one thing Aidan did enjoy was his involvement in the making of mead. At least he was doing something, not praying and chanting all day and all night.

  He had not been allowed access to the recipe, though he caught a brief glimpse of the aged vellum scroll embossed with brown ink. Even some of the monks who’d been at Lindisfarne for years weren’t trusted with the full knowledge. But he was shown how to gather the honey and how to separate it from the wax. He was limited to the hives in the hollowed out tree trunks the monks had devised, but soon the task would begin in earnest when the skeps were destroyed and opened.

  He spent many hours making new conical beehives to replace the ones they would tear apart. His hands bore deep scratches from the blackberry briars used to bind together the coiled straw. Removing bramble thorns and splicing the briars was a newly acquired skill. He learned how to fasten the ekes to the bottom of the skeps to give the bees more room to make honey. Brother Tristan, the Cellarer, even whispered the secret name of the barm. “We call it godisgood, Brother Christian, godisgood, because without its God-given properties, we would have no mead.”

  He was confident he was being groomed. If he worked hard to earn the abbot’s trust, he might become a mead maker and hold on to his sanity. He would embark on this goal when he accompanied the abbot and two other monks to Beal market Tuesday next. At least he would be outside these oppressive walls for a short time. Perhaps then his headache would ease.