Forbidden

by Sophia Johnson

  Catalin, clutching a blanket around her body, stared down at the church bathed in moonlight.

  Listening.

  Hearing the pain in her husband’s beautiful voice, tears blurred her vision.

  Before the midnight hour of Vigils, Ranald’s voice faded. For a space, not a sound drifted from the church, and then his voice rang out in a plea.

  “Jesu!”

  CHAPTER 17

  “Why do ye torture yerself so?” Raik’s big hand squeezed Ranald’s shoulder, giving comfort.

  “Why?”

  Ranald blinked. He rose slowly, stiff from kneeling on the cold stones. He started to think of some tale he could tell his cousin but did not, needing someone to voice his worries to. He sorely missed having midnight talks with Abbot Aymer. He released a long, unsteady sigh.

  “Soon all will know Catalin is increasing.”

  “That is reason for giving thanks, not grieving. Why would it cause the pain in yer voice?” Raik’s blue gaze bored into Ranald eyes, like he would read his soul.

  “Because I,” Ranald struck himself in the chest, “a man who was once pious, am forced to live a lie for the rest of my life.”

  “Why would ye…? Ye canna mean…?” Raik’s jaw clamped. He shook his head, understanding now what plagued his cousin and hoping to hear it was not so.

  “Aye. My sire rid himself of me, paid the Abbot to take me, hoping I would die. I made peace with my life and became a monk. But that wasna enough penance for surviving. My father. King David. King Stephen. The Pope. All thrust me from Kelso to make haste and marry my brother’s intended.”

  Ranald jerked off his mask and roughed his hands over his unshaven face, the black stubbles making a rasping sound.

  “I have sinned against the church’s laws of marriage.”

  “Ye suggest the laws of consanguinity?”

  Ranald dipped his head a mite, acknowledging it.

  “But Catalin and Moridac were not yet wed.”

  Ranald’s lips tightened; Raik’s jaw dropped.

  “Jesu! She was breeding. She did not tell ye before ye consummated the union?”

  “Nay.”

  “Ah! That’s why Broccin was so intent on a hasty ceremony, why he threatened to raze the abbey if ye did not agree. He guessed, aye?”

  “Aye. Never speak of this, or so help me, I will slit yer throat for saying of it.”

  “Do ye think me dafty? How will ye protect the babe from being a bastard? Like me?”

  “The babe will come afore it’s time, but who can say me nay, if I say it is mine? Thank the blessed Lord we were twins alike, not with different color hair or eyes.”

  “It is a fine thing ye are doing for the bairn, Ranald. Knowing all yer life ye are a bastard does not lie easy on a man’s soul.”

  “Never have I thought of ye as such.” Ranald’s anger cooled as he put his hand on Raik’s back and urged him toward the church doorway. “Let us leave. I would be gone before Vigils. It’s time for me to check on Gille.”

  Their boots rang out on the stone steps leading from the church. Brisk, cold air hit their faces. The grass was beginning to grow again after the hard winter. Ranald glanced at the sky and hoped it would clear. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought it looked suspiciously like a storm threatened. He breathed deep and pulled the end of the woolen tartan from beneath his belt to spread it across his back and shoulders.

  “I have always known ye as our cousin. Is not yer mother a distant relative of father’s? Have ye learned who yer sire was?” Ranald asked as they made their way across the courtyard.

  “Ye didna ken my mother?” Raik’s brows rose in surprise when he glanced at Ranald.

  “Do ye forget I was a youth when I left Raptor Castle? Ye were still fostered at Castle Douglas and spent only short fortnights here with us.”

  “Ah, true.” Raik nodded and yawned, then scratched behind his ear, much like a hound did on awakening. “Soon after ye left, a squire called me bastard one time too many at Castle Douglas. I broke his nose and near choked the life from him. Laird Douglas pulled me to my feet and asked how the fight started. I told him the squire claimed my mother was a slut who followed Laird Douglas’ army. The laird thrashed me, not because I beat the boy, but because I near throttled him into the next life. He was fair, though. He also thrashed the fool.”

  “Seems no more than yer right to pummel the mouthy squire. I would have done the same.”

  “Aye, but the laird said I should have ceased when I broke his nose, then come to him and asked who my parents were.”

  “Did ye ask?”

  “Aye. He told me what he knew. Which was not all of it. Far from a camp slut, my mother was the youngest daughter of a nearby laird. She was in love with a Saxon across the border. Laird Douglas would not tell me who, only that her father threatened to kill the man, as did her brother.”

  “A nearby laird? But Raptor Castle is nearest Douglas’...” Ranald stopped in his tracks. “She was no distant relative. It was Aunt Joneta? Do ye tell me ye are Aunt Joneta’s bairn?”

  “Aye. Dinna ever speak of it. She has gone to great lengths to hide her shame. Most likely at Broccin’s orders.”

  “Always was she watching ye when ye stayed with us. She made yer shirts and breeches. Why did we not sense it? Remember? She had cook bake yer favorite pies, the meals ye favored. Never did we have plum pudding when ye were not about!”

  “It has been hard to pretend I kenned nothing. One day, when the time is right, I will speak to her of it.”

  “As much as ye have suffered being called bastard, she must have grieved not having her son. It’s no wonder she never wed.”

  Raik nodded. “Aye. She is comely still. I had oft wondered why she never married.”

  “Likely she feared being wed to someone far from Castle Douglas. She would never see ye.”

  “Living with yer sire has made her strong.” Raik grinned at Ranald. “Have ye noted she does not take any shite from him?”

  “I think mayhap he has some small bruises on his back where she shoved him last.” Ranald chuckled, remembering her feisty anger.

  “One day, I will have my own keep where I can take her from yer father’s care and ease her life.” Raik’s jaw set.

  Ranald did not doubt that he would make it happen, no matter how impossible the task sounded.

  Aunt Joneta was spooning water into the injured man’s mouth when they entered the solar. Why had he not noted before the look in her eyes when she spied Raik? It was so easy to read the love there now that he knew her secret. And his cousin was especially gentle when he helped her rise from the stool and insisted he walk with her to her chambers.

  Ranald held his hands over a brazier while he studied the flushed face of his wounded warrior. It would not be a kindness to put cold hands on him, for if it caused him to flinch, it would disturb his raw injuries. Ranald smoothed the back of his warmed fingers over the man’s cheeks. On reaching his neck, he stopped there to feel his heartbeat. It was weak but steady.

  He jostled a young warrior sleeping on a pallet, ready to fetch whatever they needed.

  “Bring red wine from the kitchen and a small pot of honey. If anyone asks, tell them I have sent ye.”

  “Aye, sir.” He sprang up and raced out of the solar, making enough noise to wake all in his path.

  Ranald studied the rows of stopper vials and earthenware pots on the nearby table. Selecting the ones he wanted, he pinched small amounts of powdered cloves and cinnamon into a small bowl. He took careful measures of Feverfew and Borage from tightly stoppered, dark bottles and mixed them with the spices. Careful to avoid waste, he emptied the mixture into a pewter tankard. The lad raced back into the room and handed him the wine.

  “Thank you. You may return to sleep now.”

  “Do ye mind me asking, sir?” His brown eyes were watching Ranald as he poured wine into the tankard. “Can he hear us?” He glanced uneasily at the man, whose eyes were followin
g their every movement.

  “Aye. His inner ears are unharmed. His hearing is softened by the bandages, but if we speak loudly enough, he can hear us.”

  The boy leaned close to whisper, “Why did they not kill him as well as hack off his ears?”

  Ranald bent over to pick up a latticework of small iron strips leaning against a leg of the brazier and placed it over the coals.

  “They thought they had.” He raised his voice to normal, so Gille could hear him. “No doubt, the churls believed, because of his height, he would not have the heart of such a brave warrior. One day, he will have the comfort of seeing them breathe their last.”

  From the corner of his eye, he watched Gille’s lips lift in a small, hopeful smile. He poured a portion of wine into the mixture and stirred it with a wooden spoon, then placed the cup on the grid and watched carefully until it was the right heat. He carried it back to the table, added a dollop of honey and pulled a stool close.

  “‘Tis normal to burn with heat when a wound is fresh,” he murmured, then smiled and added, “This will warm yer belly and bring yer fever down. It will ease ye back to sleep if ye drink it all.”

  Ranald talked soft and low to the man as he coaxed the warm potion past his lips. When he glanced to see the squire had returned to his pallet and was snoring with the blanket over his head, he began questioning his patient.

  What he learned was enough to help plan several forays a month or more before they started the siege of Hunter Castle.

  o0o

  Catalin watched Raik’s dark form cross the courtyard to the door of the church. He stood, listening, before he entered. Would Ranald be angered that his cousin intruded on his sanctuary? She nibbled at her lips and waited. It seemed a long while before they both emerged and appeared deep in conversation as they strode back to the keep. She latched the shutters and kept the blanket grasped around her shoulders while she crawled back between the sheets. Even so, it seemed to take forever before she stopped shivering.

  Ranald was like another man when he made love to her, a man who was earthier than she would ever have imagined. He fought his need, but once he gave in to it, she could not imagine that he had ever been a man of the cloth. Mayhap those years of physical denial was why he made love with such ravenous hunger.

  And he hated her for it.

  He could barely stand to be in her presence outside their chamber. He could have rejected her that first morn, but did not. He had taken pains to make it appear she was untouched before he came to her. But why had he protected her person, yet rejected her emotionally?

  Both times they were intimate had been powerful, heart-stopping experiences she had never expected to have in her life. How could she protect herself? Her heart? She could not be with Ranald and remain unaffected by all he did. She found herself conscious of his every movement when he was in sight, would hold her breath when he approached, and her skin tingled waiting for his slightest touch. Just thinking of his hands on her flesh earlier made her heart thump and pound like a war drum.

  With excitement came guilt, too. It was her fault Chief Broccin had forced him from the peace and solitude he preferred. Now, not only was a wife thrust upon him, but fatherhood too. Saints! For certes, she had earned his hatred.

  Would his anger build until he turned on her? Her bairn? Cold chills washed over her from her thoughts.

  Catalin’s dreams were violent when she finally slept. She walked down a dark passageway and heard booted feet ringing on the stones behind her. It was Broccin, looking wild and lethal. She ran, screaming, but he cornered her when she came to a massive door at the end of the passage. No matter how hard she jerked at it, it would not open. His big fists slammed her against the wall. Spittle flew from his mouth as he bellowed it was her fault Moridac died. His beloved son had been giddy and careless, thinking on bedding her instead of watching for danger. Then a huge, dark shape jerked her away, back against a hard body.

  She had screamed and struggled around to find a horrid face looming over her. From the glittering eyes, she knew it was Ranald, his mask gone. That ruined side was all she could see. The skin was missing from under his right eye, and the white cheekbone gleamed. His right nostril was near cut away, his cheek thick with shocking, inflamed scars.

  His twisted lips grinned. “Is this what ye wanted to see? Are ye happy now, wife?” His mouth lowered until he was a breath away. Catalin flinched. He jerked back and thrust her from him.

  “Nay. I dinna want ye. Another does not scorn my wounds.”

  He crooked his finger. A woman flew from the shadows to lock her arms around his neck. Lady Muriele looked back over her shoulder, triumph gleaming from her eyes. She whispered a word Catalin read on her lips.

  “Mine.”

  o0o

  One balmy May afternoon, Ranald settled back on his heels beneath a gnarled oak far to the rear of the training field. Gille, now healed as best as he would ever be, crouched by his side. While Ranald stripped the leaves from a small branch, he listened to his sire, Raik and Domnall discussing the men best suited for quick forays. After the last leaf fell to the ground, he began to sketch a map in the dirt.

  “I have no doubt now. Our second listener must have made a fatal mistake, for he has not returned. It is turning summer and we canna wait longer. We must send men to each village Gille spoke of. Some to Hunter Castle, others to neighboring barons.”

  Satisfied when he had a reasonable outline of Northumbria south of the border, he began placing large rocks where special castles were located.

  “Hunter Castle lies here.” He settled the largest rock east of Raptor across the border. “De Burgh’s Seton Castle,” he said as he placed the next rock south of Hunter. He picked up and palmed the last of the rocks. “Ridley Castle northeast of Hunter belongs to relatives of the Morgan’s of Blackthorn. No one is to touch even a fallow field of these two estates.” He eyed each man as he spoke.

  “The targets we seek are here, here, here, here, and here.” Ranald identified and placed stones at five different locations until the ground had pebbles in all directions. “These smaller stones mark castles where we plan to rouse trouble for Hamon.”

  “Ye marked a castle north of the border to Hunter.” Broccin grinned and rubbed his hands. “Hm, right sneaky of ye to include a Scot’s holdings. They will ken it is more proof of discontent from King Stephen’s reign.”

  Ranald tilted his head and studied his father. Was that a glint of approval in his sire’s eyes?

  “There is a fallow field there filled with overgrowth. We will set it alight. They will rant about the burnt ground, but no harm will come to the families there. They will blame Hamon, of course, as will the others.” He stuck a twig in the ground next to the stone.

  “South and southwest of Hunter are neglected fields that could do with a good burning.” Ranald positioned two more twigs. “Their lords are so busy causing Stephen strife, that they neglected them. The southwest holding also has two huts that naught but rats and curious pigs enter.”

  “What of this land southwest of Hunter?” Domnall rubbed his chin, where a busy ant scampered amongst the bristles there. “Gille, ye didna venture there, did ye?”

  “Nay, ‘tis said to be an evil place,” Gille replied, his eyes wide in his gaunt face.

  Ranald nodded. “Aye, it is. Baron Rupert holds it. Send three men within the west curtain wall. Ye will find a thatched hut set apart from everything else. Check to see no one is within, then burn it, the fields and whatever else ye can get to.”

  “And if someone is there?” Domnall asked.

  “Take care to bring them to safety. They will likely need help.” Ranald frowned down at the dirt. He lifted his eyes to study each man’s face. “Baron Rupert is known for his cruelty. I tended three men in as many years who had fallen from his special favor. He tortured them all. After he used dull knives to cut off their ballocks, he left them in the woods to fend for themselves. Two died, for by the time their family or friends
found and brought them to Kelso, it was too late.”

  “Better they died than live as half-men,” Broccin muttered.

  “How fared the third?” Raik’s raised brows helped ask the question.

  “His cousin followed Baron Rupert’s men when they took him deep into the forest. Once they left, he slung the injured man over an old nag and made haste to bring him to me. Ye met him, cousin, as did ye all.”

  “I saw no ill man,” Broccin said.

  “None but men of the cloth,” Domnall added.

  “It was the young novice, Clement, who took charge of yer weapons.” Ranald’s lips thinned, his lids near closed over his eyes. “One day, I will take pleasure in maiming Baron Rupert in the same way. And I will see to it he survives.”

  Broccin’s laughter caused warriors to pause and glance their way. One in particular had been watching Ranald closely all morn.

  “So, ye are more man than yer pious manners show,” Broccin said when he stopped laughing.

  “If cruelty makes me a man, than ye have little to worry of.”

  Ranald nodded toward two of the men who lingered overlong returning to battle practice. They talked together, motioning and snickering when they glanced at Ranald.

  “Who are those two?” he asked Domnall.

  “Giric and Kerr. Both enjoyed hunting with Moridac. Yer brother was right fond of them both.”

  Domnall’s face did not give Ranald any clue to what he was thinking, but Broccin frowned.

  Ranald turned back to the dirt map and, using his hand, roughed up the ground so it left no trace. One of the watching men laughed, then spoke with a sneer in his voice.

  “Huh, Giric. What knows a monk of battle plans and fighting? Most likely, he will piss his breeches and run at the first sight of blood. Mayhap he should have been a lass.”

  “It is unlikely, Kerr. He is Moridac’s twin, without doubt.”

  Ranald’s lips twitched and bared his teeth. The man Kerr had called him monk several times before, always when he was with other men. For truth, he wanted Ranald to hear for he did not say it quietly. Kerr turned and started to walk away.