Forbidden

by Sophia Johnson

  If it was so, Ranald could easily denounce his wife and gain his freedom. Freedom to marry a woman whose babe was truly his and would inherit Raptor Castle and all its lands. Sticky liquid dripped from her fingernails mangling the succulent fruit.

  Muriele’s soft voice finally caught her attention.

  “...speedily as possible.” Lady Muriele looked concerned as she watched Catalin’s face.

  “Mmm. Sorry. I could not hear. The fools are so rowdy I can barely hear mine own thinking.”

  Catalin did not feel it was truly a lie, for the men were playing Hot Cockles in the far corner. The rough game would surely do someone a serious injury one of these nights.

  “Nay, I spoke too softly. Sir Ranald had to leave before he could talk to you. He wished me to tell you not to worry about him. He needed to correct a wrong at Baron Rupert’s castle. He wanted to assure you he will return as speedily as possible.” Muriele shifted her feet and clasped her hands behind her back.

  “He wished me not to worry?” Catalin’s heart lifted. Her fingers around the pear lightened their strangle hold.

  “Aye. And he was concerned for you. He added that you were to take care around window openings, for fear you might do yourself or the babe some harm.” Lady Muriele cleared her throat and looked about to move away.

  “Ranald said all of that?”

  He had not seemed concerned for her safety when he berated her about gawking at men.

  “Mayhap not in those exact words. He was in such a hurry to ride out that he may have said more than I can recollect.” Lady Muriele gave a shy smile.

  “It was most kind of you to tell me.”

  Advancing footsteps behind them made Muriele glance over her shoulder. Chief Broccin was charging around the table, a determined look on his face.

  “Good eve,” Lady Muriele whispered.

  She slipped around Catalin and Elyne. Her hasty strides took her across the room and out the doorway into the shadows of the stairwell. He hurried in pursuit until Lady Joneta stepped out of the shadows of the stairwell. Lips pressed together, she stared him dead in the eye before she turned to follow the young woman.

  Curious, Catalin watched the laird. He halted in his tracks and scowled at where they disappeared. He muttered under his breath and whirled on his heels to join the rowdy men across the room.

  “Hmm. It was nice of her to relay his words. I didna ken Ranald talked long enough to say so much.” Elyne tapped her finger on her chin.

  “Oh.” Catalin’s shoulders slumped. She dumped the mangled pear on the nearest tabletop and stared at her gooey hands. She looked around for something to wipe them dry. The ewer and basins for washing before the meal had long since gone. Naught remained but her own clothing. She sighed and used her skirts.

  ‘Twas foolish of her to have been pleased on hearing Lady Muriele’s words. What was the matter with her? Why should she care if Ranald thought to send words of comfort? It wasn’t as if he loved her, or if she loved him. If she lost her heart to him, he would break it again by not loving her back. A deep sigh slipped out before she had sense enough to stop it.

  Elyne hugged Catalin’s shoulders.

  “I’m sure she relayed his message correctly, Catalin, now I think of it. We could not see his lips clearly. He likely talked fast being he was so pressed for time.”

  “It does not matter. Our marriage was not forged in love. He had no choice. I am happy enough to be away from Uncle Hamon, so I have no need for silly words of love or gestures of affection.”

  “It’s a good thing. I doubt Ranald learned either one while living amongst monks and traveling knights.” Elyne chuckled and squeezed Catalin’s hand. “Saints. What soap did ye use when ye washed last?” She sniffed the palm of her hand and laughed.

  Catalin nodded at the table where she had dumped the pear.

  “I will know Ranald’s feelings by the way he treats me, not by words easily said and not meant.” She stood straighter, her head held higher. She did not pine for love. As long as her bairn was safe, ‘twas all she asked. If Ranald thought to take her babe from her, he would have to fight her for it.

  Elyne tugged Catalin’s hand. “Come. Aunt Joneta had the laundress color a length of linen as a surprise for ye. It’s a soft yellow made from boiled Comfrey leaves. What think ye of making a sleeping garment from it for the babe?”

  “A fitting color, whether it is a girl or boy.”

  Catalin welcomed the hours spent away from the laird’s watchful eyes, though plying a needle was not her favorite thing.

  o0o

  The muffled sound of pounding hooves on the damp leaves carpeting the forest broke the stillness of the night. Harnesses jingled and clanked, and leather saddles creaked as warriors shifted their tired bodies. Now and again, a horse snorted or huffed.

  Ranald rode, his teeth clamped tight behind lips that held back bile.

  What kind of man was he becoming? Had become, was more like it. Cold chills made his shoulders twitch. He ignored it and squared them again. What bothered him most about what had happened this night was that he didn’t regret it.

  He had not struck at Rupert in the heat of anger. It was not the type of anger that unleashed the power to stir the wind or radiate heat. It was far deeper than that, a cold anger that chilled his soul.

  They rode in silence, broken now and again by grunted curses and muffled moans coming from men who had the misfortune to be in an arrow’s path when fleeing Baron Rupert’s castle. The curses were most alike, all aimed at the baron. More often than not, orders to God to allow the man to die an agonizing death accompanied them.

  Ranald held up his hand and slowed Satan to a trot. Beyond the next curve was an area where they could rest until dawn.

  “We will stop here. If I remember rightly, a stream lies beyond the willow trees.” Ranald stared up at the sky, thankful that clouds covered the sliver of a moon.

  “Aye. The trees will make an ample blanket for a small fire. Ye will need a bit of light to tend injuries,” Raik murmured.

  Ranald glanced sideways at him, for his cousin was usually one with his mount. Not so now. He looked awkward.

  “Did ye take an injury, Raik?”

  “Too small to worry with until the men are treated.”

  “Oh? And where would this small injury be?”

  For a bit, Raik did not speak. Then a husky growl rumbled from his throat.

  “I am sitting on it.”

  “I thought as much. Left nether cheek, eh?” Ranald could not keep the amusement from his voice.

  “How did ye know? I kenned I rode as hard as the next man.”

  “Ha. Never have I seen ye sit a saddle so far to the side ye were likely to spill from it.” Ranald wiped a hand over his mouth, erasing the grin spreading there. It was not kind of him to tease Raik about an injury.

  “Not likely. My foot is firmly in the stirrup. I wanted no weight on the tip, else it would dig deeper.” Raik sighed with relief when they pulled to a halt.

  Ranald near jumped off Satan’s back and was beside Raik, ready to lend a hand if he needed it.

  Raik shook his head, stood upright in the stirrups and released his right foot. When he slung his leg over his mounts rear, he grasped the pommel and back of the saddle. With straight arms, he lifted his body enough to kick his left foot free before jolting to the ground. His left leg buckled, protesting the weight put on his hip.

  Ranald braced him, one arm around his waist, and called to his squire.

  “Finn, gather tinder and build a fire.” Ranald turned and pointed his chin to the ground where he wanted Finn to start the fire and led Raik over to it.

  “Sit.”

  “Huh! That’s easy for ye to say,” Raik grumbled.

  Ranald watched as he lowered himself to the ground and stretched out on his right side. He braced his arm on the carpet of leaves, his head on his hand, so he could keep an eye on their surroundings.

  “Dubne, check the men. I would kn
ow what injuries need tending,” Ranald said as he untied a leather pouch from his saddle and placed it beside Raik.

  As Ranald washed his hands and arms at the stream, he spied a good-sized flat stone an arm’s length from the shore. He stepped into the rushing water and hefted the stone, then sloshed it around making sure it was clean. He carried it over and set it on the ground near Raik.

  It was ample enough to hold the herbs and supplies he had brought with him. Truth be told, he begrudged the care he had given Rupert’s injuries to keep them from festering. He hoped his men would not suffer for what Rupert now lacked betwixt his legs.

  “Dinna think to touch me until ye tend the men.” Raik scowled at Ranald and scooted a bit away.

  “Huh! I dinna yearn to touch yer sorry rump, cousin. Since ye are not yelling and screaming, I figure yer injury can bide a while.”

  Ranald eyed the few men Dubne brought over. All had wounds that needed binding, but none serious enough for stitches. When they noted Ranald’s equipment spread out on the rock, they straightened and declared they had no need of tending. When they started to sidle away, one flex of Dubne’s shoulders stilled them.

  “I had expected a heartier defense than the baron’s men offered.” Ranald checked an arrow’s injury on Cormac’s right arm that had near stopped bleeding on its own.

  “Aye. I dinna think their hearts were in it.” Cormac watched Ranald smear ointment on it and bind it with clean linen.

  “He has been most lax in his training. Never have I seen such poor aim from archers.” Ranald glanced sideways at Raik. “Of course, Raik’s broad arse made a target hard to miss.”

  Raik snorted and raised up to rake his fingers through the leaves at his elbow until he found a stone and tossed it aside. He sighed and leaned back again, resting his cheek on his palm.

  “Many a lass has admired the same arse ye are talking about.”

  Ranald finished with the men and bent over the stream to cleanse his hands. He returned to kneel beside Raik and slit his breeches from the waist down in a vertical line to the broken arrow shaft, then made a horizontal cut across on either side so he could peel aside the black cloth. He probed Raik’s flesh, seeing how far the arrow had entered.

  “It’s good ye didna try to pull it out yerself. The head would have angled and caught yer flesh, ripping it further. Do ye need a biting stick before I remove it?” Ranald looked around for something Raik could clamp between his teeth.

  “Nay. This will do.” Raik pulled his dirk from the sheath strapped to his leg and bit down on the dagger’s hilt.

  Ranald gripped the wood shaft and rocked the arrow gently back and forth, each time reaching his smallest finger inside the wound to force the flesh away from the top as he tugged. He stopped when Raik took the dirk from between his teeth and spat on the ground.

  “Lucifer’s warty balls! It tastes like dog shite. Wrench the arrow out and be done with it.” Raik clamped his teeth back on the dirk’s handle.

  “I aim to please.” Ranald grasped the arrow, and before Raik could take the next breath, yanked it free.

  “If I didn’t know better, I would think ye took yer time just to bedevil me.” Raik’s eyes lit when he saw Ranald reach for a flask and remove the stopper.

  “Ye can have it after I cleanse yer wound.”

  Ranald grasped Raik’s flesh at the widest part of the wound and pressed them gently toward the center, making a small well. Raik jerked and near came off the ground when Ranald poured the fiery liquid into the wound.

  “Ye can have that drink now.” He handed the flask to Raik. Ranald prepared a needle and began to sew. “Hm. ‘Tis most interesting.”

  “My arse?” Raik took another swallow of the potent Scottish brew.

  “Not yer arse. The birthmark on it. I thought it would fade with age, but it hasna.”

  “It’s the same as it always was.” Raik closed his eyes and rolled the liquid around in his mouth.

  “Nay. Now it is not.” Ranald’s brow furrowed as he stitched. “Remember how I used to tease ye and say it looked like a plump bird staring at yer crack?”

  Raik grunted. “Ye were a fool then and an even bigger one now. ‘Tis a brown blotch, nay a bird.”

  “Ye canna see it. Dougald agreed that day we swam in the loch together.” Ranald placed the last stitch. Taking a large glob of herbs mixed into a salve on his finger, he smeared it over the stitches.

  “It was Moridac’s idea to swim that day. That loch was almost frozen.” Raik offered the flask to Ranald, and seeing his shrug, took another large swallow.

  “Aye. It was a good thing no lass was near to see yer proud tarse looking more like a limp worm.”

  “Ha.” Raik waved the flask at him. “Yer ballocks shriveled to near disappear before our eyes.”

  Ranald frowned down at his handiwork. He could see no way to bind it.

  “Hm. It will leave an unusual scar. Yer brown bird now sits on a perch.”

  “Ye are seeing things.” Raik twisted his head to look, to no avail.

  “Dinna take my word for it.” Ranald glanced around, saw the men had wrapped themselves in tartans and were fast asleep. All but Dubne and Fergus who were standing watch. He beckoned Fergus over and pointed at his handiwork. “What does this look like to ye?”

  “A blood-stained arse with stitches, what else?”

  “Told ye.” Raik crowed.

  “Nay, above the stitches.” Ranald pointed directly at the brown birthmark.

  Fergus stared. He tilted his head back and forth to judge it from different angles.

  “Ah! It’s a fat quail walking on a path.” He grinned and went back to standing watch.

  “Close enough.” Ranald packed away his medicines and banked the fire. “Sleep. We leave before first light.”

  He made his way through the snoring men and lowered himself to his knees beside the blanket-wrapped body of young Egan. The banter with Raik had eased his mind for a bit, but the nights happenings flooded back, filling his soul with black thoughts.

  Ranald prayed into the night, stopping only when the darkness eased and told of a dawn soon to come.

  CHAPTER 23

  “The Black Raptor! The Black Raptor!”

  Ranald’s lips set in a grim line as the shouts followed him through village after village. He did not mind the name so much as men crossing themselves and women snatching their young ones and scurrying to hide in their huts.

  “Dinna scowl so, cousin. It’s good to be feared.” Raik rode beside him, not quite sitting squarely on his saddle. He tilted his head and studied Ranald’s profile. “Hm. I ken the name suits.”

  Ranald swung his head to stare at him. “Suits? Mayhap the black garb. It was all I wore for so many years I would feel like a gawky flower in the bright colors ye favor.”

  “Aye. And raptor fits ye as well.”

  Ranald snorted and shook his head.

  “What raptor have ye seen with half a face?”

  “It’s not that. Ye canna see yerself in that Norman helmet.”

  “What bird of prey have ye seen with a helm?”

  “Naught. It’s the nose guard. It makes an apt beak. Even the color suits.”

  “Huh!”

  “Aye, it does. Like now. Yer eyes flashing fire on either side causes a man to feel trapped.”

  Ranald shook his head. His cousin surprised him with such fanciful imaginings. His shoulders and neck ached. His bowed head through all last night’s prayer vigil was likely the cause. He turned his head side to side, stretching his stiff neck.

  “Aha!” Raik pointed at him and grinned.

  “What now,” Ranald grumbled.

  “The way ye did yer head. I have seen many a bird do such. Most times, they were seeking for worms. Ye are hungry, Ranald?”

  “Addlepated fool.”

  Ranald kicked Satan into a gallop, the horse’s hooves slinging clods of wet earth behind them. Raik’s rumbling laughter mingled with the pounding of Storm’s hoo
ves as he raced to join him.

  They rode hard for near half a league, until Ranald spied a grimace of pain on Raik’s face. He slowed Satan to a smoother gait. How could he have been so thoughtless? It was hard enough for his cousin to sit his horse in any comfort, but the drubbing his wound received now must be sheer torture.

  He caught his breath at the thought. For the time they had been talking, Ranald’s mind had turned from agonizing over what he had done last eve. As he had prayed over Egan, he knew he had to seek out Abbot Aymer.

  It was as he had feared. Never had he heard of Moridac doing any deed as harsh as what he had done. He drew in a ragged breath at the thought. And his sire? Mayhap he had. He had talked much of how the Seljuk Turks were less than men. That to subdue a crafty animal, ye had to use more than physical force. Ye had to spread fear of the Crusaders.

  He knew what that fear was. What he had done to Rupert was far less than what his father bragged of doing in the name of God.

  “I said ye were the image of a bird of prey. Did ye think to fly home to prove ye were one?” Raik forced a grin with taught lips pinched white with pain.

  “Forgive me. ‘Twas brainless to push such a fast pace.”

  “Ye look troubled. Want to talk?”

  “Dinna worry yerself. ‘Tis my problem, not yers.”

  “Me worry? I have not the patience for it.” Raik glanced at Ranald’s face. “But I am curious.”

  “Of?”

  “Yer anger. I felt no heat coming from ye. No winds blew. No fires lit. No things flying’ through the air.” He shook his head. “Naught but cold surrounded ye.”

  Ranald clenched his teeth together, trying to find the words.

  “Why?” Raik prodded.

  “Why the cold?” Ranald saw Raik nod from the corner of his eye. “Anger is like passion. Hot. Sometimes violent. I was beyond anger. I steeled my mind to what I needed to do. Rupert had to pay for all the torment he caused his victims and all the grieving families of the men he mutilated. It was payment to them. Had I merely fought with him...,” he hesitated, trying to explain. “I could have killed him. But it would have been an honorable death.”