“What?”
“Are ye not afeared Moridac’s bride will bolt with one look at her new husband-to-be?”
“’Tis yer problem—not mine. Mayhap ye should blindfold her afore ye ram betwixt her legs.” Broccin’s laughter rang out as he rode toward the men waiting in the field beyond.
With Domnall riding beside him, Ranald led Satan through the opened gate and stopped. He twisted around, his hand rising in a farewell gesture to the men who ran behind them, waving.
Chief Broccin waited at the head of the long line of warriors facing them. Raik and the king’s man were behind him.
“Take your place, Ranald.” Domnall motioned with his chin for him to pull alongside the waiting Chief Broccin.
Ranald cantered over, knowing whether he liked it or no, he must show the warriors of Raptor Castle that he took his rightful place as their lord’s heir. He drew in beside the man he despised, expecting to hear more hate spewing from his lips.
Instead, Broccin pulled a folded banner from inside the neck of his tunic and shook it out. Two shiny black eagles flew on a field of yellow; a red bar diagonally divided it. A waiting squire attached it to his pole and bobbed his head at Ranald, before pulling even with the other standard-bearers, their colorful banners cracking in a stiff breeze.
“‘Twas his design,” Broccin muttered. “He said ‘twas for the two of ye separated by death. Should have been yer death. Not his.” Broccin kicked his mount into action, heading for Raptor Castle.
o0o
“I know no more than you, Letia.” At Raptor Castle, Catalin wrung her hands and paced back and forth at the foot of her bed.
“Moridac’s twin Ranald has lived at Kelso Abbey all this time? I cannot understand why Chief Broccin said he died so many years ago.”
Catalin blinked, clearing her eyes of the smoke from candles lit around every corner of the room. Since Moridac’s death, she could not stand the gloom on cloudy days.
“Aye. ‘Tis what he claimed. It does not seem right that a man would declare his son dead if he was not. I fear some terrible secret lies behind it.”
Catalin’s stomach heaved. She forced it back. ‘Twas worry and fear that caused it.
“Letia, did he give any hint about Ranald when he sent notice to you?”
“Nay. His missive bidding our return took us by surprise. He said only that he wanted ample witnesses for a wedding betwixt his long absent son and you.”
Hannah, ever close of late, brought a cold cloth and wiped Catalin’s face. “You should eat more, child.”
“I cannot keep it down. Every time I start to eat, Chief Broccin watches me with a strange look of glee. I fear he is brainsick.”
“More likely too much wine.” Letia grimaced with disgust and ran angry fingers through her dark brown curls.
“Late on the night before last, I heard the grinding of the portcullis rising. Mayhap twenty warriors escorted a messenger from King David.”
Catalin pressed the cold cloth to her face and breathed in the soothing lavender oil Hannah had sprinkled on it.
“Could you make out who led the escort?”
“Nay. It was too dark. But before dawn even lightened the sky, Chief Broccin hammered on my door with his sword hilt.” Catalin moved the cloth to her neck. “Afore I could don my robe, he burst in and announced there was to be a wedding. In three days. He was going to fetch his son. He waggled his finger at me and laughed. I think he had been in his cups all night. A short time later, he rode out with a large company of warriors.”
“When we arrived, Warin was surprised to see he had left behind only men enough to patrol the walls.”
“Aye.” Catalin increased her pacing, worry in each footstep. ”If he rode to fetch his son, why would he need an army?”
Letia shook her head, as puzzled as her friend.
Even as she did so, a bagpipe announced an arrival. Catalin and Letia ran to gape out the window as Chief Broccin’s army approached the castle gates. The barbican guards ordered the drawbridge lowered, the portcullis raised. Their chains screeched in the evening air.
They watched the men thundering into the bailey. As they approached, Catalin’s heart rang in her ears. Which man was Ranald? Surely, she would recognize him. When she last saw him, he was Moridac’s mirror image.
“Moridac’s standard flies. I see it. But where is Ranald?” Catalin rubbed her eyes and leaned further out the window to study the faces milling below.
“It is too dark to make him out,” Letia decided. “They have not lit the torches for the evening.”
“A monk rides alongside Chief Broccin. Do you think he comes to perform the vows?”
Catalin was secretly pleased, for she had much to confess. She did not want to speak of it to the priest here at Raptor Castle. The man seemed much afeared of the castle’s lord. No doubt, should Chief Broccin ask, the priest would tell all.
“Oh, Catalin. Is Ranald the knight riding alongside Sir Domnall? I can see no more than part of his face beneath his helmet. It is most comely.”
“Nay...” She stared and finally made out the face. “’Tis Raik, Ranald’s cousin. We must have missed him.” Catalin shivered and pulled her light robe across her chest.
“Why would his father not give you a day or two to meet each other? To have a wedding the day after he arrives seems hasty.” Letia frowned, but seeing how upset Catalin appeared, went over and hugged her.
“Time enough on the morrow to see your husband.” Hannah urged them away from the window and pulled the shutters closed.
A maid scratched at the door, guarding a candle’s flames when Hannah opened it.
“Baron de Burgh said I was to see ye to yer bed, my lady, and to tell ye he would be late,” she told Letia.
Letia held a dainty hand to cover her mouth and yawned.
“Do not fret, Catalin. After all, the two were twins. I’m sure you will see no difference between them when you meet.” Letia crossed to the open door. “Rest well and do not worry.”
o0o
Catalin sat on the side of the bed, her feet dangling above the floor. She ran a hand through her tousled hair. Her eyes burned for sleep yet it would not come. She slid off the bed. Her toes gripped the rug, enjoying the feel as she walked over to take a cloak off the wall peg. She slid her feet into her shoes then bent over to pull the ties tight.
One hand on the wall steadied her as she crept down the back stairwell. Mayhap if she sat in the gardens for a short time, she could relax her fears and sleep. She eased the door open and slipped out into the night. Rounding the side of the keep, she headed for the terraced gardens.
The sweet perfume of roses drifted with the night air. That Raptor Castle boasted such a lovely display of flowers startled most visitors. Catalin was used to it. The lord’s sister Joneta was responsible. She was so unlike her brother. He was rude. Uncouth, even. Lady Joneta was quiet. Gentle. She oft looked at him as if she puzzled over what he did.
Catalin looked up at the cloud-wrapped sky and took a deep breath. Gravel crunched beneath a heavy foot. Startled, she looked toward the sound. A cloud drifted away from the moon, letting enough light filtering through an apple tree’s leaves for her to see a robed man stood beneath it, his hands clasped something dark close to his chest, yet he seemed in prayer, his head bent.
A tonsure. It was the monk who had ridden beside Chief Broccin. Relief flooded her. Since the night Moridac had come to her bed, she had yearned to confess her sin. God would surely punish such a misdeed. Had that been why he had taken Moridac from her? How could she speak her vows on the morrow with such a weight on her chest?
She hurried down the path, afeared the monk would fade into the darkness before she had chance to speak with him.
Ranald sought peace in the garden, walking beneath the swaying branches of the trees, the rustling leaves giving voice to the slight wind. He had prayed long over his brother’s tomb, had begged God to forgive Moridac of his sins. He prayed to Moridac, too
, told him how he regretted he had no chance to be here with him, to mayhap help him. And if he could not, to ease him from this life. His tears had mingled with his words. His throat still ached with wanting to sob like some weakling of a woman.
His head jerked up. His eyes probed the shadows. A woman’s graceful steps barely disturbed the stones, but it was enough to announce her. He whipped his cowl up to cover his head and hide his face in its shadows.
He moved to stand in the deep gloom where a thin shaft of moonlight split the darkness in front of it. He would see who hurried to him with such purpose in her stride.
“Please, I could not sleep. May I speak with you, Brother?”
He recognized Catalin at once, though she had changed much since last he saw her. Not everything, though. Some things had stayed the same. Curly hair the shade of a fading red sunset was as unruly as when she had skipped and scampered across the bailey, chasing first one piglet then another, trying to catch the squealing babies. Freckles trailed a path across her cheeks, crossing over a dainty nose. Her lips were full, pink, even in this gloom.
What had changed most was her spindly body. She had been all arms and legs beneath her flapping gowns. Now, her face looked pleasingly round, hinting that her body was no longer skinny but plump.
“...talk to a priest...Moridac...confess.” He startled, realizing Catalin had been speaking, though he had heard little other than his brother’s name.
“I am sorry, mistress. What is it ye wish from me?” ‘Twas easy to look down at her, yet keep his face hidden.
“Has Chief Broccin brought you here to speak the vows this next morn?”
“Aye.”
‘Twas the truth, though she thought he would be doing the asking—not the answering.
“Chief Broccin has said I would not have time to talk with a priest before the ceremony, but I cannot marry with such sin on my conscience.”
He heard Catalin take a quavering, deep breath as she stared up at him, her eyes probing the gloom.
“Will you hear my confession?”
CHAPTER 6
Ranald gave thanks the clouds again hid the moon, for could she see, she would note his alarm. That she wanted to confess didn’t surprise him. Most brides did so before they were to wed. What had she said about Moridac? About sin? He shuddered.
“My child, I canna hear your confession. ‘Tis the dead of night.” A lame excuse, but it was all he could think of at the time.
“I do not understand.”
“Confessions should be made in the confessional, not amongst the apple trees.” She would never believe such a thing. Most castle chapels did not have the small enclosed stalls.
“Is it not more fitting? Amongst all God has created, not closed within something built by man?”
Nay, Catalin had not changed overmuch. She was still stubborn and ready to argue, even with a man of God. Ah. But he was no longer a man of God. He had only to tell her the truth.
But not all of it.
“Aye, I believe God would prefer the outdoors as His house. I am sorry, Lady, but I canna help you. Just this last day, I was told by my abbot I could no longer hear confessions.”
Catalin stilled. He could see her mind examine all her knowledge, seeking a reason for such a thing. Her look kept darting to Moridac’s black hunting shirt clasped in his hand. No doubt, she caught his brother’s scent that still lingered there, a scent they had shared. Juniper and spice.
“Oh.”
She shifted from one foot to the next. Her head bobbed up. Her eyes tried to pierce the darkness.
“You have committed a sin? What offense is so great? You did not take a life else Chief Broccin would not bring you here. The next worse is breaking your vow of...” Her voice trailed off.
He had no need of light to see her blush. ‘Twas clear the vow she decided was so forbidden to break was celibacy.
Her head shot back down. A playful breeze bared Ranald’s toes. She tilted her head and stared. His toes bent, gripping the grass. He smoothed his hand down his robes, covering them. ‘Twas foolish of him to feel exposed.
“Mayhap ye should seek yer bed, Lady, afore someone notes ye are gone?
“Aye.” She nodded and halfway turned then twisted back. “‘Tis his shirt,” she blurted.
“Aye.”
“What are you doing with it?”
“I sought to pray for Moridac’s soul. Having his shirt aids me to feel close to him as I pray.”
His hand tightened around it, pressing it to his chest.
Catalin remained silent, mulling his words over while her eyes probed the shadows. Finally, she gave a brief nod.
“I am pleased you are here. And about your vows? Mayhap it is strange, but ‘tis a comfort knowing someone such as you also has a shameful secret.”
When she twirled to leave, sweet violets scented the air. Ah. He breathed deep, surprised. Even as a young child, she had smelled of violets. It had been many long years since he had known a woman’s scent.
Long after she disappeared in the night, one thought chased another through his head. She was an innocent. Wasn’t she? What could she have done that she thought so shameful?
He would know afore too many moons. Catalin had never been able to keep a secret.
Footsteps behind him signaled another visitor to the gardens, but this time, it was an expected footfall. Without turning, he spoke into the night.
“Raik, come walk with me to the tanner’s hut.” He turned, his shoulders set, his back straight. He had made a decision the moment he had spied Catalin.
“What do ye need there? ‘Tis not long afore the dawn. Ye took no rest last eve and have yet to seek yer bed.”
“I would have him fashion a mask to spare Catalin my hideous sight.”
“Hideous? There is naught hideous about yer scars. Harsh, aye. But hideous? Never.” Raik’s fists clenched. “My uncle does not speak truth about it. I would say he has forever envied ye as the boy and man he has never been.”
Ranald shrugged, little caring what his sire thought of him. His own fingertips confirmed the stark contrast from one side of his face to the other.
After waking the tanner, it took a short time for that good man to come up with an idea for a mask. He sent his son to fetch the armorer. Between the two, they formed a metal frame for the mask. Once they fitted it to the contours of Ranald’s face, the tanner would cover it with black leather cut from the ample bottom of Moridac’s hunting shirt. The men promised to have the finished mask ready for him by first light.
Ranald and Raik slipped inside the keep and made their way to Moridac’s room to seek what sleep they could. An overlarge bed stood against the far wall. Wind rattled the shutters of the large window beside it. Ranald strode over to enjoy the first raindrops on his face, before closing the shutters and latching them. The room boasted an ample fireplace with peat stacked ready to light. A table with two chairs stood nearby. Closely woven woolen rugs covered the floor, but fur rugs lay beside the bed and in front of the fireplace.
Ranald turned, a slight frown creasing his brows. Pegs on the walls held two cloaks, one black, the other red. Red? His brow shot up and he looked at Raik.
“Aye, Moridac had a love for the comforts of life. I believe ye will find all manner of garments within the clothing chest.” Raik’s hand lifted to gesture toward a heavy chest at the right of the doorway.
Lifting the lid, Ranald looked down at the many tunics, breeches and shirts folded there. Moridac must have been fonder of formfitting attire than the kilt. To be truthful, what surprised him most was that his brother had seemingly been enamored of comfort and fine cloth.
Ranald’s hand smoothed down the heavy linen of his black monk’s robe. His brother would have been most uncomfortable in such a simple garment.
“Well, now, seeing such an array, ye will have no need to go with a bare arse to yer wedding.” Raik chuckled.
“Nay.” All desire for sleep deserted Ranald. He prowled around
the room, missing the nightly routine of Kelso. “My brother had more clothing in this one chest than I have seen in all these many years.”
“Ye know not what to do with yerself, do ye, my friend?”
Raik’s quiet remark eased the tension in Ranald’s shoulders. His sigh was long and breathy.
“Aye. It will be long afore I learn to sleep as a man, not a monk. I am too used to short bits of slumber between services.” He paced from the window to the door. If he had hair where there was now a tonsure, his fingers would have plowed through it. “Dinna mind me. Seek yer own rest. I will sleep when I find ease.”
Raik nodded understanding and after undressing, settled his big body on the bed they would share for the night. Ranald was grateful that Raik knew he needed time alone.
Soon, soft snores signaled a deep sleep. He opened the shutters and knelt, his thoughts in turmoil. His head bent, his forehead rested on his clasped hands. He silently prayed. Seeing Catalin tonight had brought a long-fought reaction to his body, one ye had tried to conquer over the years.
What manner of man was he, that a woman’s scent could draw him so quickly? Not even a sennight from the monastery, yet he felt himself already changed. He knelt there in the moonlight streaming in from a cleared sky and prayed he would not become like his brutal father, nor as lusty as Moridac.
He finally eased into bed. ‘Twould not be long before dawn. He had promised the castle’s priest Father Martin that he would chant the psalms of Matins when the sun began to rise. The priest’s voice was hoarse, and if overused, chances are he would not be able to speak the wedding service. To Ranald’s shame, he held a glimmer of hope that it would be so.
o0o
Catalin rose before dawn, surprising Hannah when she came to wake her. Dressed in a simple green kirtle and covered with a brown woolen cloak, she hurried up the stairwell to attend mass. The chapel was in the east tower where the sun’s glorious rise greeted it.
Rays of light glinted through gems embedded in the cross hanging before the arched window. Colorful rays danced in every direction, adding to the beauty of an already sumptuous room. Did Broccin think to bribe God by giving prayer in such beauty? She stopped thinking on it, wanting, no needing, time to pray for forgiveness and hopefully bring peace to her mind.
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