Love’s Sweet Sting

by Markland, Anna

  * * *

  Aidan feared he was going mad. Perhaps the grief of his parents’ death had been too much. No matter what he was doing...praying, reading, chanting, eating, collecting honey, washing clay vessels...no matter where he was...indoors, outdoors...whether on his feet, his knees, his backside or his bed...the memory of those auburn curls wouldn’t leave him. If he thought of aught else, it was the green eyes.

  Why was she afraid of those men? Who was she? She was a Scot, for God’s sake. His family had a long standing mistrust of lowland Scots. His Kirkthwaite grandparents had died at the hands of marauding Scots, along with Aidan’s namesake.

  It was a test—a supreme test he must not fail. He must rid himself of his preoccupation with this woman, whom he would likely never see again. He was certain he would not be permitted to go into Beal for the next market after the dressing down he had received from the abbott—a lengthy tirade about the temptations of the flesh.

  The desire that spiraled through Aidan whenever he conjured an image of the young woman was more torture than temptation. He prayed for guidance. It did no good. She filled his thoughts.

  He wished Ragna and Edwin would come to visit. He would charge one of them with finding the woman, seeing to her safety. But the abbot had forbidden visitors, and the perceptive Ragna would know instantly there was something wrong.

  He worried about his siblings managing the estate without him. His uncle, Baudoin de Montbryce, the Earl of Ellesmere, would take care of any problems at Shelfhoc Hall, situated as it was not far from his own castle in the Welsh Marches. Kirkthwaite Hall, close to the Scottish borderlands, needed a strong hand, and Edwin...well...

  And what of the Sussex manors their grandfather had left to his illegitimate son, Aidan’s father?

  Aidan had been called to serve God. “The Lord will provide,” he kept telling himself. But it was hard not to be concerned.

  * * *

  Nolana fidgeted with her playd. “Nay, Jennet, I canna accompany ye to the market again.”

  Jennet drew heavily on her pipe and blew out the smoke slowly. “The Church is thy only choice now, lass. Thou must speak with the Abbot of Lindisfarne. I’ll put in a good word for thee.”

  Nolana paced, fingers clenched in her hair. “But my stepfather’s men. They may still be there.”

  Jennet blew smoke rings. “Nay, they be long gone. ‘Tis safe now. It saddens me, but ’tis the Church for thee.”

  Nolana chewed her lip. “But there isna a convent at Lindisfarne.”

  Jennet nodded. “True, but the abbey is a cell of Durham Cathedral. The abbot will get thee there safely.”

  Nolana hugged her arms tightly around her breasts. If she had to be a nun, at least there would have been some solace in being close to the young postulant. God would surely punish her for these impure thoughts. This was no time to be dreaming about a man, especially one impossible to attain. Perhaps that was the attraction. He was no threat. She hoped he would not be at the market, though she longed to see him again.

  Face To Face

  Aidan was pleased the abbot had grudgingly allowed him to come to the market a second time. At least he was in the fresh air, among people, and his headaches had eased of late. He had striven to suppress the persistent desire to see the green-eyed girl again, convinced the chances of her being at the market were nonexistent. She was fleeing someone and would be long gone by now. He prayed she had evaded the men who pursued her. He shuddered, hefting the last of the mead from under the canvas in the back of the wagon. He’d been instructed to leave it there until they needed it, to keep it cool.

  He hoisted the cask to his shoulder and turned. Suddenly, the girl who filled his thoughts was there in front of him, breathless, frantic, looking over her shoulder. He gaped, his heart and mind in turmoil. Their eyes met. She stopped dead. Without a second thought, he lowered the mead and gestured for her to climb under the canvas. She lifted the hem of her skirt without hesitation. Blood rushed to his groin when he glimpsed bare ankles. She struggled into the cart and he put his hand to her elbow. A tingling jolt ran up his fingers and into his arm. She turned to him, wild-eyed.

  She felt it too.

  “Quickly,” he rasped, “under the canvas. I’ll distract them.”

  She crawled into the hiding place and he straightened the edges, ensuring she was covered. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. He picked up the cask, poised to hoist it onto his shoulder, when the breathless men appeared. One of them strode to Aidan’s side, sweat pouring from his brow. “Good brother, have ye seen a young lass, red hair?”

  This man was definitely a Scot, a borderer. Aidan assumed the pose of an imbecilic monk. “A lass? Nay, I’ve seen no lass.”

  One of the other men snickered. “Yon mon wouldn’t recognize a lass if he saw one. Let’s away. She canna have gone far.”

  They hastened off. The canvas moved slightly. “Stay where you are. They may come back. I’ll deliver this mead to the abbot then return. Don’t move.”

  He walked away slowly, then turned back. He had to know, in case she decided to flee. “What is your name?”

  “Nolana,” she whispered. “Nolana Kyncade.”

  He mouthed her name. Nolana. It was the most beautiful name he had ever heard. He hurried back to the stall, berating himself for his weakness, and frantically plotting how to get her to safety.

  * * *

  Despite the heat of the day and the stuffy confines of the canvas cover, Nolana shivered. She gaped in disbelief after stumbling upon the monk, the same man she hadn’t stopped dreaming about from the moment she had first seen him. Was the hand of Fate at work? She had been careless, believing the Maknab men would have given up the chase. As soon as she espied them across the field, dread filled her. She would be caught. There was no hope.

  Now, she lay hidden, fear thudding in her throat, but feeling oddly safe. The postulant had not hesitated to aid her. His commanding voice instructing her to hide had been a lifeline rescuing her from drowning. This was no mewling monk without a brain. Here was a decisive man of action. Her body warmed and she felt her face flush at the recollection of the sinful things she had dreamed of doing with him.

  Sounds came to her from the market, but no sign of her trackers. She should flee, but her monk had told her to stay where she was. How would he get her to safety? Strangely, she trusted he would. But he was a monk...a postulant, without authority. One against many if the men reappeared. The abbot would not be on her side if they were challenged.

  Her breathing slowed. Her eyelids grew heavy. She curled up under the canvas and dozed.

  “Nolana.”

  She opened her eyes and squinted when a shaft of late afternoon sunlight crept under the edge of the canvas. Her monk peered at her, his face full of concern. “Are you all right?”

  She yawned and stretched. “I fell asleep.” Then, she remembered where she was and why. “I must go. It should be safe now.”

  He lowered the canvas, then raised it again. “No, they are still about, idling by the market cross, flirting with women from the village. They seem to know them by name. They’ve been here a while, waiting for you.”

  “And I walked right into their trap. I’ll ne’er be free.”

  He looked into her eyes. “I’ll make sure you’re safe from them, Nolana.”

  She frowned. “But I’m a stranger to ye. I dinna ken yer name.”

  Her monk hesitated. “I am Brother Christian.”

  She was strangely disappointed. “Brother Christian,” she whispered.

  “But my real name is Aidan.”

  His name was Aidan. At last, she could call him by name. “I planned to seek sanctuary today, Aidan. I have no choice but to enter a nunnery.”

  * * *

  A wave of revulsion hit Aidan. He knew what it was to be shut away and could not abide the prospect of this beauty enduring the same fate. It had been his choice to leave the world. She would be forced. “No. I won’t permit it.”


  Her mouth fell open and he instantly regretted his outburst. “I mean, no, believe me you don’t want to spend your life locked away in a convent. You’re too beautiful.”

  Hearing the abbot’s voice nearby, he lowered the canvas. “Hush. Be still. We will be loading the empty vessels soon for the return to the abbey. Stay hidden. Don’t make a sound.”

  Nolana protested. “But I canna go there.”

  “It’s your only chance.”

  He turned to face the abbot, his heart beating wildly. What was he doing? How was he to smuggle a maiden into the monastery, and what was he planning to do with her once she got there?

  He had no answer to these questions, but knew he had to help her get away from those men. Great evil would befall her if they caught her. It came to him that if he got her to the abbey, the powers that be would be unable to force her return once the tide came in.

  The abbot’s face was sour as he eyed the cart. “What took you so long, Brother Christian?”

  Aidan took the empty container from his superior. “I apologize, Father Abbot, I was dallying, enjoying the pleasant afternoon sunshine. Let me help you.”

  He carefully placed the cask up against the bundle of canvas, then reached to take a second one from another brother. Little by little, he built a protective wall separating Nolana from the men once they climbed into the cart.

  As they pulled away from the market he caught site of the old woman who had accompanied Nolana. She was obviously searching for her. Their eyes met. He hoped she understood his silent signal.

  There's A Woman In The Oxcart

  Beautiful. Her monk had said she was beautiful, though she didn’t feel like a thing of beauty, curled up under the heavy canvas in a smelly oxcart. The calm that had lulled her to sleep had fled, to be replaced by dread and uncertainty. This was madness. What was Aidan thinking? The abbot would be furious when she was discovered.

  Again, she cursed a world where men made the rules and women were forced into impossible situations. Once more, she was at the mercy of men, and on Holy Island she would be surrounded by them. The odor of unwashed male bodies swept over her, mingling with the smell of mead. Bile rose in her throat. No doubt she didn’t smell too fresh either after the afternoon she had endured. She hoped none of the men in the cart had a good sense of smell. Did monks know the scent of a female? The quandary was at once humorous and terrifying to ponder.

  There was no conversation among the monks. Perhaps they weren’t allowed to speak to each other. If she had to endure a vow of silence, she would die. She prayed she would not be sent to a convent with such a rule.

  A voice startled her. “We’ve almost left it too late thanks to your dawdling, Brother Christian. The tide is coming in already. We’ll barely make it to the island.”

  “Mea culpa, Father Abbot. Again I apologize.”

  Aidan’s voice. How safe it made her feel, despite the note of sarcasm in his words.

  A short while later, she held her breath when the cart rumbled to a halt. It lurched as the men descended. Now she would be discovered.

  His voice was strong, authoritative. “A word, Father Abbot.”

  “What is it, Brother Christian? I’m tired and have yet to see to...”

  “There is a woman in the oxcart.”

  Nolana pressed the back of her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle, imagining the look of confusion and consternation on the old cleric’s face.

  “A woman?” The abbot was choking. She imagined Aidan also biting back the impulse to laugh. Aidan. How right his name sounded. It was as if she had known him forever, like a brother. Nay, the feelings that assailed her in Aidan’s presence had naught to do with brotherly love.

  Her monk cleared his throat. He was trying not to laugh. “Yes. She requested sanctuary. I granted it.”

  Silence. The monk had clearly died of an apoplexy brought on by shock.

  “You...you granted sanctuary?”

  “I did. You may castigate me later, Father, but she is no doubt suffocating under the canvas while we stand here.”

  Nolana squealed when the canvas covering was whipped away. She blinked and struggled slowly to her feet, legs cramped and stiff. Three monks gaped. The abbot’s contorted face glowed red in the rapidly waning light. With a trace of a smile on his face, Aidan offered his hand.

  She walked unsteadily to the edge of the cart.

  He reached up, put his hands at her waist and lifted her down. She took hold of his shoulders. It was the first time she had put her hands on him. She remembered the jolt that had travelled up her arm when he had helped her into the cart in those desperate moments in the field. The warmth of his hands seeped into her ribs and pooled in her breasts. His robe felt rough, but his shoulders were broad and muscular. They belonged to a knight, a warrior. How did he bear the coarse robe against his skin? He grinned, reassuring her, and peculiar sensations spiralled in her most intimate place.

  “I have two sisters, one of them my twin. I am used to helping maidens alight from conveyances.”

  The abbot snorted and waved a dismissive gesture to the other gaping monks. “Be gone, back to your dormitory and prepare for supper. There is naught of interest to you here.”

  They scurried off, heads bowed.

  The monk steepled his hands under his hooked nose and sniffed, as if some distasteful odor had assailed his nostrils. “Now, Brother Christian, who is this woman?”

  How typical, Nolana thought, that he did not address her directly. She took a step forward. “I am Nolana Kyncade, daughter of Laird Ian Kyncade, late of Turaid Kyncade in...”

  The abbot turned his head slowly and looked at her as if examining a maggot. “You’re a Scot.”

  She gathered the playd around her shoulders and stiffened her backbone. “I am a Highlander. I seek sanctuary from the cruelty of my stepfather.”

  He scoffed. “And who might he be?”

  Nolana felt a twinge of fear. “Neyll Maknab.”

  The abbot’s mouth fell open. “Maknab? He’s your stepfather? What is this cruelty you speak of?”

  Her discomfort grew. A man would not understand. “He wishes to marry me to an auld man.”

  The abbot looked scathingly at Aidan and pointed a boney finger at Nolana. “You’ve brought this wench here because she cannot obey her father’s wishes in the matter of marriage?”

  Aidan shifted his weight, looking sheepish. The smile had left his face. “She was fleeing, afraid, she asked for sanctuary. I did not know from what.”

  Oh God. He was of the same mind. She might have known. Aidan too would believe she should have obeyed her stepfather.

  She fell to her knees and grasped the hem of the monk’s robe. “My intended betrothed will beat me. He is a cruel man, as is my stepfather. I wish to become a nun. I beg you for sanctuary.”

  The abbot was clearly uncomfortable. “Go to the refectory, Brother Christian. I’ll deal with you later. I must see Mistress Kyncade to a private cell and ensure she doesn’t come into contact with...”

  She was to be a prisoner.

  Aidan walked away, fists clenched, broad shoulders rigid, his mouth tightly drawn. The forbidding walls of the abbey soon swallowed him up.

  Don’t leave me, she begged silently.

  She had never felt so alone.

  * * *

  Filled with conflicting emotions, Aidan had no idea what he was eating.

  Maknab.

  He should have recognized the devise on the men’s tunics. Nolana was Maknab’s stepdaughter. It was a widely held belief at Kirkthwaite Hall, and in the nearby village of Bolton, that it was Maknabs who had attacked and destroyed the manor long ago. They had slaughtered Aidan’s grandparents and uncles.

  Many young Saxons who fled to Scotland to escape the conquering Normans allied themselves with marauding Scots. Though Aidan’s own father had unwittingly abetted in the destruction, he had never confirmed or denied it was the Maknabs with whom the Saxon refugees had allied themselves. It
was a topic Caedmon FitzRam had wanted left in the past. He had believed at the time the Kirkthwaite holding belonged to Normans, whom he then considered his mortal enemies before he learned he was the illegitimate son of a Norman.

  Aidan swallowed hard, afraid the food might come back up his throat...Nolana Kyncade beaten and forced into a marriage she dreaded. He lay his hands flat on the trestle table, palms down. His fingers still tingled with the memory of holding her body. She was lightness itself, and he had thristed to twirl her around in the air, throw her over his shoulder and carry her off to bed...his bed.

  He must convince the abbot to grant her asylum but could not allow her to become a nun. Religious life would destroy her. She was spirited, brave, warm, a woman born to love a man. The thought filled his lonely heart with unbearable yearning.

  Swarm

  Nolana was convinced the hand of God had stirred up the gale that lashed Holy Island for three days after her arrival. The weather had been unseasonably warm and now it seemed the heavens had unleashed their pent-up fury. Nothing moved on or off the island.

  She was confined to a small cell. Meager meals were brought, but all she saw of the men who delivered them was the top of their tonsured heads. Obviously, they had been given strict instructions to keep their eyes fixed on the tray. It was difficult to be certain, but she believed a different monk came each time. She longed for Aidan to be the bearer of food, but he would never be allowed contact with her. She prayed he had not been too severely punished for his compassion.

  Pacing the few steps the cell allowed, she hugged the playd tightly to her body, trying to keep warm. She was given no books to read. The monks no doubt believed her illiterate...a woman and a Scot. How little these Northumbrians knew of the windswept Fells and the people who dwelled there.