Forbidden

by Sophia Johnson

  She tugged on the baron’s sleeve until he leaned close enough she could whisper in his ear.

  “My lord, why is Ranald not here?”

  “Catalin, Ranald stands afore you.” De Burgh nodded and patted her shoulder.

  Her eyes felt near to bursting from their sockets. God in heaven! They could not mean it. The man standing there was a monk. Were they daft? She caught her breath as he stated to turn. She jerked hard on de Burgh’s tunic. He leaned down again.

  “That is not Ranald. Can you not see a monk stands there? Though he looks like Moridac, he cannot be. This is a man of the cloth. I saw him last eve, and he wore the cassock of the brotherhood.” Catalin forgot to whisper.

  Snickers filled the air, floated clean to the rafters. Catalin turned to scowl around her. Were they in her shoes, she’d like to see how they would react!

  “‘Tis all right, my dear. Truly, Ranald stands there. Though he has been a monk, he is one no longer.”

  “Nay, nay.” She shook her head. This was not Ranald, but the monk she had spoken to not many hours before. “I talked to him. They would not toss him from the abbey because he committed a sin against,” she rose high on tiptoes, her lips near brushing de Burgh’s ear as she gulped and whispered, “celibacy.”

  “Nay, Catalin. He committed no sin. The Pope has forgiven him his vows. ‘Tis why he is free to come here to wed you.”

  The man in black had turned to face her. Her first full sight of him held her speechless. How could this happen? He had to be Ranald, for the left side was the same as Moridac. A black mask covered the right.

  She swallowed, remembering last eve. As she had approached him, graceful, long fingers had tugged his hood low to cover his face.

  Saints! It was Ranald.

  What secret lay beneath the black leather? A terrible one, of course. Else, why would he need to hide it? Oh my. Was she going to faint like some spineless ninny? She feared so. Spots swam in front of her eyes. The floor shifted. Her knees started to buckle. De Burgh slipped an arm around her waist. Kept her from splattering to the unyielding oak floor like an overripe pear.

  “Give her to me.”

  A deep voice, the tone rich and dark. Strong arms closed around her. A warm, large hand pressed her head against a solid chest. How strange. She felt safe. His chin brushed across the top of her head, his cheek came to rest against hers. She took a deep breath. His was a remembered scent.

  “Catalin, ye have naught to fear by wedding me,” he whispered. “I am no longer a monk. I will explain all when we have privacy.”

  She gurgled. Ha. Little did he know of what she had to fear from him.

  “Get hold of yerself, lass. Speak yer vows so we can get on with the feast.”

  Broccin’s booming voice nearby brought her attention back to the man whose arms surrounded her. His head jerked up.

  “Enough!”

  She felt as much as she heard it, for the word vibrated from the firm muscled chest beneath her cheek.

  “Dinna dare order...” Broccin began.

  “Hold…yer…tongue.” Each word slowly and coldly given. A sharp, inflexible order.

  Anger churned in Ranald as he spat out the words, for his body tightened against her. Chief Broccin remained silent.

  “Are ye all right, Catalin?” Ranald held her shoulders, supported her as he moved back.

  She peered up at the face leaning toward her. Her breath hitched like she had cried for a lengthy time. ‘Twas strange to view the eyes of a man behind a mask, though it did not hinder seeing that eye it surrounded. Compassion looked back at her.

  She blinked then nodded, too surprised to speak more.

  “Come.” Ranald took her elbow and led her to stand before Father Martin. “‘Twould be best to start the ceremony now, Father.”

  Fearing his frightened bride needed bracing, Ranald kept a firm hand on her elbow, aiding her as they knelt before the priest. He couldna blame Catalin’s reaction. She had met a monk only to learn he was the man she was to marry. A man she believed dead for many years. A disfigured man, at that. Even a woman past her prime would be frightened, much less a lass of ten and eight.

  From the corner of his eye, he watched her pale face, the freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose prominent. He noted her small, white teeth biting her lower lip till he feared she would injure herself. She clasped her trembling hands so tight her knuckles gleamed white. He brought his hand to cover hers, his fingers patting her hand, as a mother would comfort a small babe’s back.

  Bit by bit, her trembling eased. He darted a glance and was glad to see color returning to her face. He squeezed her hands one last time, before helping her to rise as they repeated their vows. Her voice was so soft, Broccin objected.

  “Speak up, girl. We must hear if we are to bear witness yer vows were said.”

  Catalin huffed, her brows creased, her jaw firmed. He would venture a guess she was getting the measure of his father and didn’t like what she learned. She had shown spirit as a child. Mayhap it wouldn’t be too long before she stood up to Broccin.

  He took his mother’s wedding ring off the little finger of his right hand, grateful Aunt Joneta had searched him out after his bath to place it in his palm. “Your mother gave it into my keeping when she was ill with the fever. She asked that I keep it safe for the day one of her sons would pass it to his bride,” she had said.

  As he held it before each of Catalin’s fingers and said the proper words, he watched her face.

  He held the ring at her index finger. “With this ring, I wed thee.” He moved the ring to touch the tip of her middle finger. “With my heart, I honor thee.” As he slid it to rest firmly on her third finger, he intoned, “With this body, I worship thee.”

  Her face grew ashen. She watched his hands on hers with fascinated horror, as if they were some unknown form of life that she must closely observe to see they meant no harm.

  Did Catalin fear how they would touch her this night? Had no one told her what passed between a man and woman in the marriage bed? Or, mayhap they had?

  After they repeated the vows, Father Martin kept the mass brief. No doubt at Broccin’s orders. His sire had never entered the small church unless it was of such import that he must do so, preferring short visits to the chapel within the tower.

  “Well now, man, are ye not going to kiss yer bride so we may have a turn?”

  Raik’s chuckle behind him was a reminder he had not yet given his bride the expected kiss. His lips had not caressed a woman’s for so long a time. Did he remember how? He grasped her shoulders. He hesitated. Would she pull away? Turn her face from him?

  He worried for naught. He glanced down to see Catalin, her chin lifted high, eyes tightly shut and lovely lips pursed, awaiting him. Mayhap he was too hesitant, for one eyelid fluttered open enough for a curious eye to peer through gold-tipped lashes at him.

  He couldn’t stifle a chuckle as he lowered his head. As his lips met hers, a long-held burst of air passed through her lips into his mouth. Nay, he had not forgotten how to kiss. But he had forgotten how soft, how sweet a woman’s lips were. His loins stirred in the way that had plagued his memory, his dreams, that had caused him to seek penance more times than he could count.

  “Hmpf! Devour the girl later. ‘Tis hot in here.”

  Feeling Catalin startle, Ranald raised his head to glare at his father.

  Raik felt static air coming from Ranald, and knew he fought to keep his temper leashed. He shouldered Broccin aside to step between them.

  “We are kissin’ cousins now, Catalin.” With a smile for Ranald, he bent to place a loud, smacking kiss on her pale cheeks. She blinked. A small smile tilted her lips.

  Ranald stood back as men took this one opportunity to place a kiss on the bride’s face. Most were content to kiss her forehead, her cheek, but one brazen young knight stole a quick kiss on her lips. He pulled a long face and hurried away when Ranald glared at him.

  Feeling eyes boring into
him, the hair on Raik’s neck prickled. He moved back a pace and surveyed those standing nearby. Ah. It was the man who had walked with Catalin. Their eyes met. His eyes were the same blue as Raik’s own. He frowned. Why did this man watch him so closely? What had Catalin called him? Warin?

  Was the woman beside him his daughter? Hm, a beauty. She had felt his thoughts, for she pressed against this Warin. Not a daughter then, but a wife half his age? Now he remembered!

  It was Warin de Burgh of Seton Castle. They had met when Raik crossed the border to retrieve cows taken from Douglas lands and ran into a patrol. He had given de Burgh that scar on his jaw. Aye. And the baron had returned the favor when he rode to take them back. The wound on his thigh had putrefied, had been the reason his men had taken him to Ranald for healing. He should thank him for it else he never would have known his cousin lived.

  He nodded at de Burgh then bowed to the man’s wife. While at Castle Raven, they would act as strangers. No doubt, they would meet again in the dead of night.

  “Enough kissin’ the bride,” Broccin ordered. “Cook has prepared a feast. ‘Tis well past time for the evening meal.” He gave a pointed look to Catalin, blaming her for the delay that day.

  Catalin stuck her chin out and refused the guilt her father-by-law tried to force on her. The man was hateful. She had seen the looks he cast at Ranald. Like he resented him. Hated him, even. Did he wish Ranald was the son lying in the tomb beneath the castle?

  The sun shone bright, bathing her in warmth as they walked toward the keep. She glanced up at Ranald, at his beautiful profile. Such a strong, masculine jaw, bronzed like he was often out of doors. Did monks spend so much time in the open? She peeked again and near stopped in her tracks. She had not noted it before, but when he looked to the right, the top of his black shirt moved and revealed a ridged, white scar, a scar that had not healed easily. Saints! Were there more? She hesitated for a heartbeat.

  “What is it, Catalin? Did ye see someone ye wished to have words with?” Ranald’s voice was soft, polite, his eyes questioning her.

  Catalin swallowed. “Oh, aye. Hannah. She is quite aged. I feared she would be left behind.”

  He patted her hand. “She has not changed overmuch. I spied her in the crowd outside the church door. She is likely within the keep by now.”

  Catalin nodded. She tried to smile at all the well-wishers lining the path, throwing flower petals. How she wished the day was done. She caught her breath. Empty-headed fool! What was she thinking? Were it nightfall, she would be in Ranald’s bed. Within his arms.

  Of a sudden, she was cold. Chill bumps formed on her arms. Yet her hands sweated. It was fear, plain and simple. What a coward she was. She who thought herself so strong. Why, she had bossed Moridac and Ranald around as if they were her servants when she was but a child. And all they had done was tease her about it. Huh! Oh, to be that sprite again.

  The great hall teemed with people, though there were fewer than when she was to wed Moridac. But today, they sounded more boisterous, everyone asking questions. She heard them. So did Ranald, by the feel of the rigid muscles in his arm.

  “At Kelso?” A sultry-eyed woman panting so fast her bosoms heaved, poked her friend as they passed. “A monk? And such a lusty lad he was. What a waste.”

  “Aye. Me daughter said he ne’er tired. She be giddy he is back.”

  ‘Twas a sharp-nosed woman Catalin had seen working in the weaver’s hut. Never tired? Was that possible? That night with her, Moridac had panted as if he had run up a steep hill. She jumped when another spoke. No doubt, the woman was hard of hearing, by the volume of her voice.

  “Psst, Maud! Did ye see that great bulge?” ‘Twas one of the serving women whose back was to them. Her head was down, and she did not see her friend flapping her hands at her. “His rod be eager to poke...” Her words cut off when she looked up and saw her friend. She squeaked and left in such a hurry that she disturbed the air.

  Thankfully, they reached the high table. Ranald stood behind her chair until she sat.

  “Ranald!” Elyne shoved people aside and jumped up at her brother, depending on him to catch her. “Why did ye not let us know ye lived? Now that’s stupid, is it not? ‘Tis our adoring sire that hid ye away.” She rained kisses over his left cheek, drew back and frowned at the black leather. “I have missed ye. I oft thought ye would be the only one who wouldna laugh at my mistakes.”

  Ranald’s arms folded around his sister. “Still the imp, eh? Are ye not yet wed?”

  “Huh! Ye wouldna ask if ye saw the pitiful suitors father parades through here. All scrawny lads. Not a true man amongst them. Put me down. Ye’re squashing me.”

  Ranald laughed. Such a rich sound. He lowered Elyne till her feet touched the floor. “Well, now, mayhap he doesna want ye to wed as yet?”

  Elyne smoothed her skirts. “More likely he canna find a man with enough wealth to make it worth his while, is more like it.”

  “Sit!” Broccin’s voice cut through the big room.

  People chattered and scrambled for their seats like chickens avoiding a raging rooster.

  Pairs of servants carrying empty basins, drying cloths and pitchers of warm, scented water afloat with rose petals, streamed in to approach the high table. They washed and dried the newly wedded couple’s hands before anyone else.

  Ranald’s father barely allowed them to cleanse his hands before he waved off the drying cloth. He grasped a goblet of wine and drank it down without taking a breath. His hand flapped at the page behind his chair until the lad replenished his wine then brought it to his lips again.

  The Chief stood and banged his empty vessel on the table. He waited, scowling, until the page again filled it.

  “We drink to my son, who has long been in hiding beneath a monk’s skirts! He fulfilled his duty as a man today by wedding the beautiful Catalin.” He leered and waved his goblet in the air at her. “I am hopeful he isna so saintly he forgot how to swive!”

  CHAPTER 8

  Catalin ground her teeth. Did Chief Broccin have to be so crude? Nervous laughter rustled among the guests.

  One man stood and shouted, “A man’s brain may fergit but his rod remembers!”

  “Aye! Aye!” echoed above the din of stamping feet.

  The ribald humor assailed Catalin’s ears. Neither she nor Ranald took a sip of wine or acknowledged the toast in any way. Tension prickled the air around her new husband. The hair on her arms felt much like when lightning struck close-by.

  Baron de Burgh cleared his throat and stood. One had only to look upon his lordly face to sense his dignity. The room quieted.

  “I speak for Catalin’s father, my dear friend Lord Harold, God rest his soul. Catalin has been most fortunate. She has pledged her life to a man who will deal with her tenderly, will protect and cherish her.” He smiled at Ranald. “May you both be blessed.”

  Ranald nodded, and without hesitation offered the silver wedding chalice to Catalin before sipping from it himself. She watched his long, slender thumb rub over the eagles etched into the tall cup made large enough for two. Moridac had told her of it, how it had served at his parent’s wedding feast, his grandparents, even beyond them so many years no one remembered when first it came into use.

  Soon, there had been toasts aplenty. How could her father-by-law quaff such a great quantity of wine without slipping to the floor to snore the day away? Huh. Mayhap fighting in the early crusades had so hardened his body that the wine’s effects could not make its way to his brain. Her tension eased on seeing servants laden with platters and bowls of steaming food approach.

  The mouth-watering aroma stirred Catalin’s appetite. Platters of roasted pork covered with crushed wild garlic, capons bedecked with a wild cherry sauce, venison, beef, salmon and trout, all arrived at the table. Not as many vegetable choices followed, but she welcomed the peas with chunks of onions mixed in, beans with mushrooms floating amidst them, baked onions and small purplish red carrots sweetened with honey.


  Ranald, his left brow quirked, waited for her preference.

  “Husband, might I have a sliver of pork? ‘Tis my favorite.” Applying that title to the man beside her sent a shiver creeping down her back.

  Ranald blinked. Stirred. ‘Twas strange hearing the term husband coming from her lips. He leaned toward her.

  “Ye prefer pork?” He tilted his head and studied her. “Ye who were forever chasing and grabbing piglets to hide them in the woods?”

  Catalin’s cheeks turned a delightful pink.

  “‘Tis a shame when grown they taste so good.” She raised guilty eyes to him. “But, would it not also be a shame if their great sacrifice was for naught?”

  “Aye. There is that to consider.” His lips twitched when he speared a succulent morsel. They did not use trenchers this day, but pewter plates engraved with flowering thistles around their rims. Most likely it was Aunt Joneta’s doing, as was the festive flowers decorating the room.

  He motioned a server to fetch a platter near so he could select a plump capon. He spooned extra cherry sauce over it, for if he remembered rightly, his bride also was fond of the fruit properly sweetened with honey.

  Both picked at their food, and after a small space opened on the plate they shared, she nodded toward the bowls of vegetables.

  “Peas and carrots, if you please.”

  He had not remembered her voice being so melodic. Nor so soft. Truth to tell, when she was a sprite, he had thought it shrill and demanding. More oft than not, she was running around the baileys behind him and Moridac, ordering them about.

  He filled the empty space, tore off a chunk of hot bread and placed a small, warmed pitcher of honey beside the plate. Unused to such a bountiful array to select from, he chose salmon and a portion of bread.

  Catalin made the motions of eating, but when he watched closely, he kenned she moved food around on the plate more than she placed it in her mouth. What portions she did eat were so scant it would not fill a child.