Forbidden

by Sophia Johnson

  Fearful he would feel her gaze on him, she squeezed her eyes shut and sought sleep. Ha. As if that were possible. Her racing mind went back over their time in bed. With that one night with Moridac, she had not the experience to tell, but she had not expected a monk-turned-man to relish bed sport.

  Ranald had not hesitated to touch her, had seemed to delight in it. Her body flushed, remembering. Moridac had not savored each touch like his brother had but had lingered only long enough to prepare her for him. Soon as he attained his release, he had moved away. She remembered wanting something more, but not knowing what it was.

  She knew now.

  Ranald had pleasured her until all strength had drained from her, so tumultuous had been her release. Judging from the fervor of his thrusts, his own explosive release, he had enjoyed their joining as much as she.

  If not for his tonsure, never would she have believed he had lived as a monk. Her eyelids flew wide again. Could he have remembered how to make bed-sport from when he was a young man? Had he practiced? Mayhap he had not been celibate. Were there women housed in the abbey? By chance, a comely cook? How could she ask him?

  “Go to sleep!”

  Ranald had not thought a lass could startle so much she would near fall off the bed. Catalin clutched the sheet to her forehead and went so still he feared she had stopped breathing.

  In his mind’s eye, he could see his father sleeping with a grin spread wide on his face. No doubt gleefully anticipating telling one and all that the sheets had been snowflake white. No stains of lovemaking. No telltale red proving the bride had been untried. Knowing him, he would demand to see Ranald’s arms, his legs, to spy evidence of a cut.

  He would wear naught but a kilt when he rose, baring his arms. Would let the kilt ride up his thighs when he mounted Satin’s Spawn. When he came into the bailey after a bout of sword practice with Raik, he would strip and rinse at the well. Naught would show that he was misleading them, for he had chosen his areas well. For them to be visible, he would have to balance on his head, his legs widespread to the sky.

  Ah, to deceive Broccin! He burned knowing how his father had deceived him. He had given no hint Moridac had sampled his betrothed. His remark of the babe favoring his brother was dafty, since they were identical twins—except for the unsightly scars. Likely, Moridac had been the fool and bragged to his sire.

  He clutched the vial tight in his fist. Once Catalin slept, he would conceal Hannah’s token at the bottom of his scabbard. ‘Twas enough room there for the sword to share. While with Raik, he would empty the vial, crush it and spread dirt over it. An uneasy thought struck. Had Raik known? He would find out. If he knew and had not warned him, he would pay for it.

  Finally, the black sky gave way to the faintest hint of gray. He eased from the bed, and it took him but a blink in time to hide the vial. He padded over to the open window and knelt, letting cold air flow over his naked body as he prayed throughout what was left of the night.

  ‘Twas near a penance.

  He too had practiced deception.

  All the years at Kelso he fought his body’s craving for a woman’s flesh. Had prayed and believed he was a pious monk. Until anger would shake him when someone sought to prey on his defenseless brethren. He had relished the fight. Guilt afterward had made him seek penance.

  That first time after the killing was over, he had gone to the chapel in the dead of night. He had shrugged from his black robes, his rope belt holding them bunched around his waist. He gritted his teeth, took the monks’ flagellum and scourged his back. He used all his force to strike the whip over his shoulders, down to his hips. Blood ran hot down his flesh.

  Prior Godric came into the chapel to pray. The prior tried to stop him, but could not. Not until Abbot Aymer arrived, breathless from running with the prior, did he listen. The abbot’s calm voice convinced him that though Ranald thought to deliver his own punishment in God’s name, it was not what God demanded of him.

  Nay. He was man. Not a monk. Had been all the time. His piety had been a lie. Else, how could his pleasure tonight have been so intense, so ecstatic?

  His head sprang up, hearing a strange sound from across the room. Catalin sat upright, her eyes scrunched tight, holding both hands over her mouth. He didna puzzle overlong on it.

  “Ye are ill?”

  Her eyelids flung open. Distress and fear warred with each other there. Distress won. She scrambled from the bed and yanked forth a light wooden bucket from beneath, one most likely whose normal use was for collecting duck eggs. Her arms went around it. Hugged it.

  “Ohhh.” He heard a splash, a muffled, “I’m sorrryyy,” quavered from her lips.

  He couldna use the bloodstained water in the basin. He grabbed the half-full pitcher and cloth, grateful the water had chilled even more during the night. He went over to kneel on the cold floor by his bride. He slipped his arm around her for support, dipped the cloth in the water, then held it to her forehead, her eyes, while she wretched. Once done, he wiped her face. Shamed eyes asked his forgiveness.

  “Ye are better now?”

  A slight nod was answer. He pried her arms from the bucket and set it aside, then rose. Not until her face flushed did he remember they were both naked as babes. ‘Twas a wonder his squatting beside her did not send her into a swoon.

  “Come. Back into bed with ye.”

  He lifted her in his arms and placed her on the sheet, covered her, then folded the cold cloth over her eyes. It would help soothe her and shield her gaze from his body.

  He poured water into the bucket, sloshed it around and flung the contents out the window. Too late, he looked to assure himself no one walked below. ‘Twould not have been a pleasant way to start the day.

  “Stay abed this morn. No one expects a bride to rise till well into the day.”

  “I am so sorry, Ranald.”

  The words made him stiffen.

  “Did ye not know how babes are made when ye allowed Moridac into yer bed?”

  “Aye. I knew. But I did not know but one time could make a babe. Letia has been a wife for years, and she is not breeding.”

  “Baron de Burgh isna a young, lusty man. Were he such, she would have a bairn at her breast afore now.”

  Seeing her cringe, he realized he had scowled at her all the while they talked. He went over to yank a wool tartan off a peg, slung it over his left shoulder, then bunched the rest around his waist and secured it with his belt. Instead of belting his long sword on as usual, he slung the belt over his head and drew his left arm through it. The sword rode on his back, the hilt available to his right hand.

  He stilled. Listening. Someone crept outside their door.

  “Pretend ye are sound asleep, wife,” he hissed in Catalin’s ear. He shoved her to her side and arranged the sheet to look like she had tossed it around in dreaming. He tilted his sword so as to enable him to sit on the edge of the bed, and took his slow time putting on his boots. The door eased open, footsteps neared. He sprang to his feet, his sword halfway out of its scabbard. He pretended surprise on seeing his sire, and let the weapon slide back into place.

  “What do ye here?” he whispered.

  Ha. As if he didn’t know. His father’s gaze devoured the bed. His eyes squinted to mere slits when he spied the rumpled sheets, for a bit of red showed there. Ranald, pretending to be helpful, slipped the top sheet over further to reveal them.

  His sire examined the sheets, then Ranald’s face. Ranald could near see his father’s mind tumbling over all he had learned. Broccin’s lips thinned. His brow furrowed. He stared again at his son, spun on his heels and left the room.

  Ranald nodded, his own face formed a grim smile. He grunted, satisfied. He left the room and was about to ease the door shut when Hannah stepped out of the shadows. Worry etched lines beside her lips, her eyes, as she strained to study his face in the dim light. He gave one sharp nod and left the door ajar.

  His long strides took him below and through the great hall.

/>   “Ranald!

  He ignored his father’s sharp voice.

  “Dinna walk away when I call to ye,” Broccin shouted.

  He stopped and turned with measured movements. He ignored the men who were breaking their fast.

  “Dinna think to order what I do. I am not yers to command. If ye want words with me, ye will have to shout, for I aim to hone my fighting skills this morn.”

  Before Broccin could take his next breath, Raik came through the huge door leading down to the bailey.

  “Ho, Ranald. Ye kept me awake much of the night. Ye need to change yer bed ropes, else I must sleep further from yer chamber.”

  He slapped Ranald on the back and winked broadly. The men eating nearby hooted and grinned at them.

  “Come on, man. Let us see what skills ye acquired at Kelso. I should be able to take ye this day, seeing as how ye spent most of the night, uh, practicing with yer other weapon.”

  “Huh! Dinna count on it.”

  They were out and down in the bailey in short order, both eager to work up a sweat. Ranald sought mental relief and exhaustion, for with a broadsword in hand, he would not think on the way his ordered life had changed to one of chaos.

  Raik sought pleasure. Wielding a sword and having a good fight to use it in was all he required of life. For most of the morn, they stamped and swung, each testing the other’s skill, until they were running with sweat. Finally, Ranald was silent no longer and asked what he burned to know.

  “What knew ye of Catalin and Moridac?”

  He struck out at Raik.

  “Knew?”

  Raik’s shield deflected Ranald’s strike.

  “Aye. Of he and Catalin.”

  Ranald raised his sword high, horizontal. Clang! Raik’s return vibrated through Ranald’s muscled arm.

  “Naught.”

  “Did he not confide in ye?”

  Ranald twisted to the side, out of range. His mask was shifting, sliding from the sweat streaming down his face.

  “Nay.”

  Raik stamped back, pointed his sword downward to parry Ranald’s swing.

  “Only that he burned for her.”

  Ranald swiped his arm across his forehead, repositioning the leather to clear his eye.

  “Did he change in any way in the days afore he was to wed?”

  Ranald struck his sword on his shield, signaling a halt. They both bent over and took great gasps of air. Raik spied the leather thong that had slipped from his hair. ‘Twas beneath Ranald’s boot. He flapped his fingers upward, and Ranald rocked his foot back on his heel, releasing the thong. After combing his fingers through his hair, Raik secured it back again.

  “What mean ye by change? He said he planned to keep his tarse inside his breeches when Catalin arrived. Said he didna want his bride to stumble over him if she walked in her sleep as Elyne oft does.”

  “Did he seem different after she came to the keep? Confide anything to ye?”

  Raik frowned, thinking, his unseeing eyes showing his mind searching over the hours he had been with Moridac. He finally shrugged his shoulders, held his palms out and frowned.

  “Ask me plain out, man. I am no good at guessing.”

  “The morning of the hunt.”

  Hearing that, Raik looked up, his brows lifted in thought before speaking.

  “He didna look like he had slept much. Looked right mindless he grinned so much. Never afore did he look the fool. I thought he had downed more than his usual cups before hunting. His chest was puffed. He looked about to burst with the need to gloat. I even asked what pleased him so.”

  “Did he tell ye?”

  “Naught but that Catalin pleased him mightily.”

  “How?”

  “I asked, but he only laughed and spurred his mount.”

  “Good. I dreaded killing ye for keeping silent.”

  Raik’s face went still. He opened his mouth to speak then snapped it closed it. Shook his head. And burst out in anger.

  “Cursed Satan! The fool. What would have happened to her had ye not been here? Her uncle would have killed her for sure.”

  “That fat old man Hamon who smelled of dung?”

  “Aye. He beat her when she refused to wed right after her father died. Moridac threatened to kill him for it.”

  “Best he never again comes to Raptor. He will leave head down across his mount, his eyes wide but seeing naught.”

  “Ah. Strong words for a monk-turned-man.”

  “Aye.” Ranald’s muscles bunched, his sword lashed out to clang against Raik’s shield.

  Raik returned the blow. Ranald nearly didn’t block it in time.

  “By heaven, man, take yer mask off when ye fight, else ye will take a serious injury. It has slipped over half yer eye. A man could take advantage and come at ye from that side.” Raik shook his head when Ranald hesitated. “Never did I think ye vain, cousin.”

  “‘Nay, not that. I dinna want to frighten the bairns or women who may be about.”

  “Whilst we train? We are far from the keep. No one can see.”

  Ranald grunted and slid it up over his face, for the leather ties were loose. When Raik tilted his head, studying his face from all angles, Ranald scowled at him.

  “‘Twill be an added weapon. Ye near scare the piss out of me when ye scowl. Put it back on, cousin.” He burst into laughter when Ranald took a swing at him.

  Hearing the sharp clang of weapons nearby, Ranald glanced around and noted his father training a young knight. Though he despised the man, he had to admire his finely honed body and skills. He was as taut and trim as when he returned from the Crusades. Not far from him, he spied Domnall and beckoned him over.

  “Domnall, I have need of a squire. Which youth would be best suited?”

  “Ah, I wish all requests were so easily filled. ‘Tis Finn.” He raised his voice and called to the youth he had been wrestling with. Finn sprang forward, an eager grin on his face.

  “Aye, sir?”

  Ranald watched him. The young man did not flinch on meeting his eyes, did not stare at his ruined cheek. And mayhap his fiery red hair lent him added temper for a good fighter. Ranald nodded approval. He circled around him, taking in his strong arms, his tall stature and well-muscled body. The lad was about fifteen summers old. He would do.

  “Fin, locate Lord Raik’s squire and tell him to bring his mount, then saddle Satan and bring him to me.”

  Finn took off in a run.

  “If he can handle Satan, he will do nicely.”

  The three warriors watched sturdy archers training with longbows in the field alongside theirs. Finn returned, Satan under control with the young man’s firm hold. Raik’s squire followed with his mount. Ranald leaned close to Finn’s ear and gave him an order. The squire trotted off, his eyes wide, his mouth pursed like he was about to whistle.

  Ranald took his time mounting, even flipped his tartan up and away from his thighs. He felt his father’s eyes studying him, inching over his arms, his legs. Ranald near smiled, for his sire looked like he had bitten a cherry so unripe it shriveled his lips.

  “What sight pleases ye, Ranald?”

  “The look of a man thwarted.” Ranald guided Satan to a far corner where he and Raik could hone their fighting skills while ahorse. What else did his father have spewing through his sick mind? In a short while, Finn would return, and he would bedevil his sire further.

  o0o

  Catalin was still awake when Hannah slipped into the bedchamber. She went straight to Catalin and, seeing her eyes open staring at the ceiling, sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Oh, Hannah. I was so shamed,” Catalin wrapped her arms around her old nurse and rested her head on her shoulder.

  “Why, lovey? Was Ranald not able to perform his husbandly duties?”

  “Oh, nay! Had I not known, I would never have guessed he had been a man of God.” Her face heated until she wondered if Hannah could feel it through her tunic.

  “What, then? Did he suspect, e
ven with the chicken blood?”

  “Is that what it was? I never got to use it. He knew. Lit a candle and looked at the bed...at me.”

  “Then where did the blood stains come from?” She went quiet. Lifted Catalin’s head so she could see her face. “Are you hurt?”

  “Nay. ‘Tis Ranald’s.” Shame filled her.

  “It will not work. Chief Broccin will note any slashes on his arms, his legs.”

  “Not where he placed them. They’ll not be visible.” Seeing Hannah’s raised brows, she whispered where they were.

  “Clever man.” Hannah fell back on the bed, cackling. “I would give much to have witnessed what you described. If you knew little of a man’s sex afore, you know it well now.”

  “I fear the cuts will fester.” Catalin flushed again and rolled her eyes. She flopped back on the bed. “But I cannot ask Ranald to spread his legs to look at them.”

  “Oh, aye, you can. But you had best be ready to lie beneath him right after.” Hannah uncovered the dry bread she had brought. “I though your stomach might be a little stressed this morn. Eat afore you sit up again.”

  “Before dawn, I was sick. I tried to swallow it back, but it came too fast. His face was so hard, though his words were gentle. He will never forgive me for not telling him.”

  “You did not trick Ranald. Broccin would not have let you get away. He wants your lands, your filled coffers.” She eyed Catalin and frowned, looked at the sheets and nodded her head. “I think Moridac told his father what he had done.”

  “What?”

  “I thought it strange when he insisted his own servant tend your laundry. ‘Tis likely she is the one sent here to spy on you. She must have told him about the sheets that day. Ah. And told him that you had no bloody cloths, no woman’s time after Moridac’s passing.”

  Catalin gagged and grasped her mouth. A cold cloth on her neck soon calmed her.

  “Hateful man. That is the reason he goaded Ranald. He came sneaking into the room afore dawn, but Ranald expected him.”

  They both hushed hearing a light scratch on the door. Hannah opened it a crack and whispered to someone, then closed it.