Sweet Taste of Love (The FitzRam Family Medieval Romance Series)

by Markland, Anna

  SWEET TASTE OF LOVE

  FitzRam Family~Book II

  by

  Anna Markland

  Kindle Version

  ***Medieval Mead Recipe at the end of the story***

  A note to my readers...

  Sweet Taste of Love is the second book in the series entitled The FitzRam Family. These stories grew out of The Montbryce Legacy Series. If you have read the Legacy books you will be familiar with many of the characters in this book. If not, you will enjoy meeting them for the first time. This is the story of Aidan FitzRam, son of Caedmon and Agneta,(A Man of Value) twin brother to Blythe (Carried Away, FitzRam Family Book I).

  At the end of this book is a helpful Family Tree (but don’t peek yet!) and a glossary of names and places, followed by a lexicon of foreign words and phrases used in my books.

  I hope you come to love my characters as much as I do!

  Cover Art by Steven Novak

  Start Reading

  Dedication

  Other Books by Anna

  Glossary

  Lexicon

  Medieval Mead Recipe

  Family Tree

  Contact Information

  Copyright Information

  My son, eat honey, because it is good,

  and the honeycomb, which is sweet to taste.

  So shall the knowledge of wisdom be to your soul.

  When you have found it, then there shall be a reward.

  ~Proverbs 24:13/14

  For Jane Lockie McIntyre Kincaid

  ~a true Scot

  PROLOGUE

  The Narrow Sea,

  25th day of November, 1120 A.D.

  The doomed vessel splintered on the jagged rocks of Quilleboeuf, tossing screaming revellers into the snarling sea. Caedmon grabbed Agneta when he felt the first shuddering groan of the floundering ship, but she was torn from his arms as they plunged into the dark, frigid depths.

  “Agneta!” he shouted as he surfaced, gasping for air, tasting salt. “Agneta!”

  Heads bobbed, arms flailed, people screamed in the seething darkness, but where was his wife? A cold wave swamped him and something struck the back of his head. He had a fleeting recollection of the bloody battlefield at Alnwick where he’d been severely wounded thirty years before. Agneta had rescued him, nursed him back to health.

  Dazed and panting for breath, he groped for whatever had hit him and clung to it. It was part of the broken ship.

  “Agneta!” he shouted again, shoving his hair off his face, peering into the darkness. She mustn’t die alone.

  He recognised her choking cough. Her illness had robbed her of breath before this. “Agneta!”

  “Caed...!”

  He caught sight of her just before her head disappeared beneath the waves. Clinging to the wreckage, he struck out with one arm. Fewer heads were visible now, many drunken victims claimed by the sea.

  He exclaimed with relief when she struggled back to the surface. Where had she found the strength? Willing his numbed legs to kick, he threw one arm around her ribs and dragged her to the wreckage. The heavy winter cloak twisted around her frail body worked against him. Her hair covered her face and she was shivering uncontrollably.

  She took in great gulps of air. “I want to die with you, Caedmon. I’m—cold!”

  He held her tightly, smoothing back her hair, but every wave forced the now grey strands over her face.

  He tried to keep his fear for her out of his voice as his numbed hands sought to free the ties of her cloak from around her neck. “Hold tightly to me and the wreckage.”

  She clamped a death grip on his shoulders, gasping for breath. “Caedmon—we are going—to die!”

  Another swell hit them. He coughed, the salt stinging his nose. “No, we are not! Hold on to me! I have you. I’ll never—let you go.”

  Cold seeped into his bones. How long could he hold on? With a last desperate surge of strength, he clenched his jaw and forced Agneta against the wreckage. He covered her body, locking his arms around the wood. Lungs afire, his legs would no longer tread water.

  They drifted, clinging to the flimsy piece of splintered wood. The current carried them away from the rock where La Blanche Nef had run aground. Soon there was only silence. He prayed they were being carried to shore, but had no sense of how long they had drifted. The salt water blurred his vision.

  “Agneta! Stay awake. We will—be rescued.”

  “I cannot, Caedmon—I’m freezing. I want to sleep.”

  “No! Talk to me! Stay awake.”

  “I love you—Caedmon—there’s no better place to die—than in your arms. Hold me. Hold me fast. Death has stalked me for many a month.”

  Her words tore at his heart, but she was right. Better to die together. There would be no rescue. He thought of his children and bade them a silent farewell, heartbroken that he would never see them again. He’d done his best to be a good father, to set them on the right path. Agneta had, after six years, finally insisted on making the long journey to Saxony to meet her son-by-marriage and Blythe’s three children. She had seen for herself how happy their daughter was with Dieter. Praise be to God he and Agneta had taken their children’s place on this voyage home.

  His sons and daughter had given up the coveted chance to sail aboard the luxurious White Ship with the other young people, knowing their mother was unwell. It was an uncharacteristic self-sacrifice on the part of his wilful daughter that had saved their lives. Ragna had talked of nothing else but accompanying the Crown Prince and his retinue. Aidan, Edwin and Ragna would not die with the hundreds of other doomed noblemen and women aboard the Aetheling’s famed vessel. They were safely aboard an older, less comfortable longboat. The knowledge brought him peace. He and Agneta had lived long, happy lives. It was fitting they should die instead of their children. He prayed the captain of their ship wasn’t a drunken sot like the White Ship’s commander. He’d had a bad feeling about the voyage from the moment they had embarked.

  Caedmon wondered fleetingly if the heir to the English throne had been lost. Last he’d seen of William, he was frantically trying to haul people into the only lifeboat. Pray God he’d survived. King Henry would be devastated at the loss of his only son. And what of England, if the succession were put in jeopardy?

  That could not be Caedmon’s concern now. He thanked God he and Agneta would die together. He would not have lived long without her. “I love you, Agneta. Thank you for the love and passion we have shared.”

  She pressed her cold lips to his, loosened her grip on his shoulders and put her arms around his neck. “Caedmon.”

  “Agneta,” he rasped in reply, drifting into sleep. When he awoke, his beloved had slipped from life. He kissed her. “Even in death you are beautiful, my Agneta.”

  He tipped his head back to look at the stars, then let go of the debris. He’d come close to drowning twice before, once in the River Dee and again in the Balkans during the Crusade. It was meant to be. Holding Agneta to his body for the last time, he allowed the icy waters to carry them to the resurrection in which they firmly believed.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lindisfarne Abbey, Holy Island, Northumbria

  Two Months Later.

  Ragna pinched her lips together. “Your decision is ridiculous, Aidan. I have no intention of entering a nunnery.”

  Aidan FitzRam inhaled deeply. Arguing with his sister was never easy. She was used to getting her own way. His sullen-faced younger brother leaned against the wall. Neither sibling was happy with his choice. He pulled the rough cowl away from his neck. “No one expects you to. It i
s my decision to enter the monastery. It is my fault mother and father died in the White Ship disaster. I must atone.”

  Ragna stamped her foot. “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 favour 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 at his sister, turned on his heel and left.

  Ragna shook her head vigorously as she paced. “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 stuffed his hands into the sleeves of his robe, digging his fingers into his forearms. “I have every right, and you shouldn’t blaspheme. It’s not ladylike.”

  Ragna snorted.

  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. “You’re four and twenty. You have a lifetime ahead of you. Blythe will never forgive me. 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 her brother’s dormitory. “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’d 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 out, slamming the door.

  Aidan’s shoulders tightened further. He fell to his knees, praying for fortitude to bear the lonely years ahead. He missed his father’s guidance. Caedmon FitzRam had been the rock of the family. Was Ragna right? Was he avoiding his responsibilities by becoming a religious? Or was the devil tempting him away from his vocation? He’d heard the call when he learned the devastating news. He must atone. Their 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. She was distraught and 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 the awful news had come she’d cried a great deal, something she’d done rarely 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 he’d 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. Why can he not see he is leaving me alone with the immense responsibilities of father’s holdings? Edwin is not strong. He 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 and I’m still here, though no longer a young man.”

  Ragna smiled bitterly as she looked sadly at Leofric’s bald head, his skin withered over his missing ear and eye. He 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 true her father’s powerful paternal family would help her, but she’d never felt so alone. Anger at Aidan’s selfishness burned in her heart.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Northumbria, April, 1121 A.D.

  Nolana Kyncade squeezed her eyes tight shut. How long could she hold her breath underwater? Was that the echo of horses’ hooves still crossing the stone bridge above her, or the thudding of her own heart?

  She must evade her stepfather’s men. The dastard intended to marry her to Baron Grouchet, a man two score years her senior. The auld bugger needed an heir, his only son having gone down with the White Ship. Her stepfather wanted the coin the Norman would pay for her, and to be rid of the stepdaughter who chafed under his leash. What had her dead mother seen in the man?

  She’d run, her only plan to escape to a place of sanctuary until—until what? She’d fled without coin, without even a dagger. Her stepfather made sure she never had access to either. He was a man who kept tight control of his purse and his armoury. The future looked bleak. Why did men have the right to make all the decisions for a woman? Perhaps the novitiate would be 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 family and children. She loved children, but not if they were fathered by a decrepit sot.

  Her lungs bursting, she broke the surface and gulped in great breaths of air. Birds chirped. Leaves rustled. Water dripped from her nose and streamed from her hair. No sound of horses. She pressed her elbows into her ribs in an effort to stop the uncontrollable trembling that shook her. She had to move, but her legs seemed frozen in place in the icy water. She was rooted to the spot. She managed to pull off her playd, struggling to wring out the water. Spluttering, she peeled the ringlets back off her face and, after several unsuccessful attempts, scrambled up the bank. She’d already walked for most of the day, leaving Berwick behind once she’d crossed into England. There was no chance of refuge in Scotland. No border clan would challenge her powerful stepfather.

  It would soon be dark. She scanned the seemingly endless expanse of moorland, teeth chattering, looking for any sign of life. She had to stop whimpering and find shelter. Was that a wisp of smoke off in the distance? Perhaps a croft? They might take pity and allow her to stay for a night.

  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. Though she hugged the wet playd to her body, it offered 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 opened her mouth but no sound came out. 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 her voice would return. “I’m not a borderer. I’m soaked to the skin and will surely freeze to death if you don’t 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 ye.”

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

&nbs
p; 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 yer wet clothes, dearie. They’ll dry by the fire. I lack company. Gets lonely up ‘ere on these moors.”

  Nolana peeled off the wet garments and accepted the homespun shift. It was like a shroud, but its enveloping roughness brought warmth to her skin. The woman spread her wet clothing by the hearth.

  Nolana thanked her. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your 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 you, Jennet. I’m Nolana Kyncade.”

  “Y’are a Scot then?”

  There was no point giving her full Gaelic name. Her father, having sired no sons, had named her his champion, but the language had been forbidden her for so long she’d forgotten it. “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, yer mother’s dead, and ye hate yer stepfather?”

  Nolana smiled ruefully. “Aye. He wants to wed me off to an auld man.”

  Why was she confiding in this woman? Perhaps the pleasant odour of the pipe smoke had soothed her.

  Jennet laughed. “Ye dinna 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 year sin’.”