Forbidden

by Sophia Johnson

  Raik nodded. “No doubt today he wishes ye had.”

  “Aye. To do battle would have been easier for me, too, even had I suffered a serious injury.” Ranald blinked and cleared his voice.

  “He is not worth risking yer life.”

  “Nay? Instead, I risked my soul!” Ranald pressed his lips together. His shoulders slumped for but a heartbeat before he consciously squared them.

  “Ye think sparing his life was worse than slicing yer sword through his heart?” Raik’s brows rose.

  “For me, aye. What I dreaded most when I left Kelso is steadily coming true.”

  “Ah. Ye fear being like Broccin. Even Moridac?”

  Ranald’s lips hardened. He had certainly been like his father this past day. Heedless of the suffering he caused. And he thought of Moridac and his hunting lodge. The lust his brother fed there. Ranald could not deny Lady Muriele had heated his loins. Every time her gaze explored down his body, he had felt it as potent as warm lips sliding down his flesh. He could not deny the desire to experience them on his body had been strong. He finally nodded.

  “Living at Kelso kept ye from the world, Ranald. It is as it always was. Men fight and hold on with tooth and nail else another will steal all from under him. If that means risking yer soul, then all in Scotland, England and Normandy have likely lost theirs.” He flashed a grin at Ranald.

  “I fear I will never be the same.” Ranald straightened in the saddle.

  Mayhap being ruthless was the only way he could survive. He no longer lived in a peaceful community, though there were times he had to be the warrior there. Aye. He had killed. But always Abbot Aymer had been there to listen as Ranald emptied his mind to him.

  He nodded, coming to a decision. Once he assured himself all was as it should be at Raptor, he would go to Kelso.

  o0o

  Catalin watched, curious, when a peasant came running across the drawbridge. He looked excited, yet fearful, for his movements were tense.

  “Elyne, why is that man waving his arms around and gesturing toward the south?”

  “He is yelling something. A crowd is gathering around him. Come! Let us see what he has to say.”

  Elyne jumped to her feet as sprightly as a young doe. When she glanced at Catalin, she held out her hand to help her rise.

  Catalin grasped it and carefully pushed to her feet, for she was not as agile as she had been before her belly had become her central point.

  “I expect he saw someone coming. It canna be foe, for the guards have not dropped the portcullis or raised the drawbridge.”

  “It is most curious. Do you think mayhap your brother is returning from tending to Baron Rupert?”

  “Aye. I feel him near.” She turned puzzled eyes on Catalin. “Why is it always yer brother when ye speak to me of Ranald, and never husband?”

  Catalin felt heat flush her face. “Calling him husband feels far too intimate. I do not feel like I thought a wife would when we are together. I fear he is pretending to be a husband to me, nothing more.”

  “Hm. Have ye not learned how to entice him to yer bed as yet?”

  “Of late, he pushes himself way into the night and rises afore dawn. If I stay awake until he comes into the room, the next eve he comes even later. He avoids me still.” She looked down at the toe of her shoes peeking beneath her skirts as they walked, before glancing at Elyne.

  “Always? How does a man go so long without satisfying his male urges?” Elyne’s eyes flashed with curiosity.

  “Sometimes during that darkest time of night, he will roll toward me. When his flesh touches mine, he groans in his sleep and reaches out.”

  Catalin would not speak more of those times when Ranald’s arms surrounded her, his body hot as any warming brick could be. Each time, it was mostly the same.

  His lips would claim hers so rough and eager their teeth clashed together, his tongue stabbed through her lips until she opened for him. He would comb his fingers through her hair and closed them into fists that held her head so tightly she could not move the slightest bit. When he finally lifted his lips to gasp in a breath, she would call his name.

  It was at this point he awakened enough to know what he was doing. He hesitated before he began to part from her. As their flesh separated and the cold air slid between them, a deep groan rumbled from his throat. His arms returned to pull her so close she feared he would crush her breasts against her ribs.

  Her slightest gasp brought gentleness. His lips caressed hers, a feathered touch. He devoured their softness, waiting until she parted her own before his velvet tongue entered.

  Gentle hands searched for a breast to cup, his calloused thumb teasing her nipple till it thrust for more attention. Always, when his lips claimed her breast to suckle, it was with tantalizing possession. Such deep pleasure shot through her body down to where she longed for his touch that she began to thrash beneath him.

  She ached to touch him. He let her hold his head, to clutch him tighter to her breast. The hair atop his head where it filled in at his tonsure felt warm and silky. His hair had grown long enough he tied a leather strip around it to keep it from hindering his sight.

  If she dared slide her fingers onto his cheek, he was quick to grasp her wrists in warning.

  She longed to cup his face, to feel his lips with her thumbs the way he smoothed over hers. Her body responded to his slightest touch, leaving her skin burning with fire. His impatience built until his hands and lips moved so demandingly over hers she caught fire from his heat.

  She opened, inviting him. When he entered, she clasped her legs around his waist and met him thrust for thrust as they fought each other to end that impossible tension which near threatened to shatter her into little pieces. His head would nestle there at the joining of her neck and left shoulder, his undamaged cheek against hers. She loved his scent, the feel of his skin against her face. She caressed him with her cheek, feeling the light stubble of hair there.

  In loving, Ranald was two people.

  One, a fierce man who hungered so deeply he could not wait.

  The other, a gentle man who thought only of pleasuring her before taking his own.

  The sounds of people gathering brought Catalin from her musings. She glanced aside at Elyne, fearing to see that she had known what occupied Catalin’s thoughts. Thankfully, she stood high on her toes, peering over shoulders while gripping Catalin’s hand.

  Elyne tugged Catalin along as she used her elbow to part the last two people in front of them. No sooner did they have a clear view to the cobblestone path leading in from the drawbridge than they heard the approaching thunder of hooves coming from the forest.

  Catalin’s stomach tripped with fear of what she would see when the men came bursting through the barbican. Would Ranald’s body be slung over Satan’s back, broken and bloody? Cold icy fear coursed through her veins. Though she might fear Ranald and what he would do once the babe was born, she feared even more being alone under Chief Broccin’s care.

  “The standard bearer comes first. Sir Dubne is at his side!” The guard shouted from above the barbican. His next words were subdued. “He carries a body across his lap.”

  Suddenly, the crowd gathered there quieted. Tension filled the air, making the hairs on Catalin’s arm stand.

  She felt that airy sensation when her stomach slowly forced bitter fluid up through her chest to her throat. She swallowed, and swallowed again, forcing it back. She clutched Elyne’s hand. Something was terribly wrong.

  Was it Ranald’s body carried home in the position of honor, the first to enter the castle after the standard-bearer? She flattened her hand over her mouth to suppress any sounds of horror.

  “Wait! Satan’s Spawn has burst from the woods. Light flashed off Sir Ranald’s nose piece.”

  Catalin’s held in breath tore loose with a whoosh. The ground rumbled with the force of the returning men, accompanied by sounds of thunder in the distance. It seemed to take forever before the first horses’ hooves clatte
red over the wooden drawbridge. Once they came close, she could barely hear herself think.

  Young Finn carried Ranald’s banner high, his back stiff, his face solemn. Anguished cries broke from women not knowing whose body Dubne carried so carefully across his lap.

  Sounds of “The Black Raptor, The Black Raptor” whispered over the crowd, floated with the wind. It got stronger when Ranald’s black horse burst through the long corridor of the barbican after Dubne. Storm, with Raik seated awkwardly on his back, danced across the cobblestones.

  Catalin’s eyes widened as she watched Satan advance. Ranald’s black clothing bore large blotches of a color near as dark as the material beside them. Her gaze flashed back to Dubne, then Raik. Their tunics bore witness that they had spent a night where blood flowed freely. Her stomach tumbled. Ranald looked to have near bathed in blood. She almost gagged.

  Hearing a burst of pleased laughter, she followed the sound to see Chief Broccin, arms on his hips and legs spread wide, watching Ranald from atop a wooden mounting block placed in the middle of the path.

  Satan’s hooves clopped over the cobblestones, near opposite Catalin and Elyne, when Broccin spoke.

  “If yer pious friends could see ye now, they would scurry to the altar to give prayers of thanks that ye are no longer their brother.” His hard eyes combed over his son. “Ye have never looked more the man than ye do now!”

  A cloud moved in the sky as if a hand had reached up to clear a spot, sending light to bathe Ranald’s face. The sun glinted off his helmet, his nosepiece.

  It drew Catalin’s gaze to his face. He looked straight ahead at his father atop the mounting block. All she could see of her husband was the ruined right side of his face. She could smell the blood on his clothing. She gasped. Held her breath. Impressions flashed quickly at her. Blood splattered his face. Not Ranald’s blood. Another’s. He had attempted to wipe it off, but telltale marks lingered in the creases of his scars.

  Broccin laughed again. “Yer lady wife looks sickened by yer bloody clothing. Or is it that ye returned in one piece?” Broccin looked pointedly at Catalin.

  Ranald’s eyes followed his father’s gaze to look down on her. His black eyes pinned her. Blinding light bathed his face.

  Every scar stood out. Bold. Telling.

  Catalin couldn’t breathe; she couldn’t tear her gaze away.

  Looking at him straight on, to the left of the nosepiece, that half that was as Moridac, showed the dominant, handsome man she married. To the right was a man she did not know.

  She knew the eyes, though. They were the same. Their deep purple-black gaze pinned hers. They bored into her thoughts, her mind. He must have found his answer, though it was the wrong one. His scarred lip lifted on the right, baring gleaming teeth.

  All Ranald lacked was the growl of a wolf.

  o0o

  Ranald’s hold on his wife broke when crackling thunder crashed overhead and lightning struck outside the curtain wall. Satan reared, pawing the air. Ranald clamped his legs tight to the horse’s flanks, refusing to come unseated. All his muscles bunched as sheer strength controlled the frightened warhorse. Finally, he forced Satan’s head down, and his hooves came jarring back to earth.

  He wanted to bolt from this place as surely as Satan’s Spawn wanted to race back out the barbican and into the open fields beyond. He would not. It was the coward’s way to run, to hide from Catalin’s startled look. He heard a strangled cry and looked to the left to see young Finn, tears of remorse welling as he felt inside the neck of his tunic where he had secured Ranald’s mask.

  ‘Twas not the lad’s fault, but Ranald’s own. He was the one who had insisted on shielding women from his ravaged face. He scattered a glance around the crowd that had quieted after no added outbursts from the sky accompanied the first.

  His stare scraped over Catalin, not deigning to linger. He’d had his answer there. Elyne’s clear eyes never flickered. Many women looked away. Some did not. Ah, the Lady Muriele. Her regard held steadfast, understanding shining from their depths.

  He ignored all as he dismounted and walked over to stand beside Dubne while the big man handed down Egan’s body to two waiting men. Egan’s young widow stood alongside the stairs leading into the keep, an infant clutched tight in her arms. Tears rolled down her face. Knowing all hope faded that they had rescued her husband in time, a high keening rose from her lips. Soon, sympathetic wails from other women joined her.

  His heart twisted. He blamed himself for having accepted the lad’s wish to join the men at Rupert’s castle. He had said he was the most agile of the lot and could make his way over any wall or through any maze of hazards. And he had. The least Ranald could do was to look after his widow and child. He would find a way.

  The first thing he could do would be a kindness to the widow. He did not want her to see her beloved as he was now. He turned to Raik at his elbow, and drew him aside but a few paces.

  “Seek Elyne and Catalin. Have them take Egan’s wife to her dwelling.”

  “She will want to prepare her husband’s body for burial.” Raik raised a brow, hesitating.

  “No loving wife should see her husband in such a state of horror. I have tended many a man for burial. Go through Moridac’s finest garments and bring clothing for a fitting tribute. Her last sight of him willna be the terrible thing she would see now.”

  Ranald watched as Raik went over to Catalin and Elyne and whispered to them. Both women sprang forward, and in speedy fashion, they whisked the woman and child off, leading her to the men’s barracks, where a corner tower housed the men who had families. Raik turned and bounded up the stairs to the keep, intent on carrying out Ranald’s second request.

  It took but a short time for the men to carry the body to the solar and to ask Aunt Joneta to assist him. By the time she fell in step with him, he had heard her order adequate warm water, soap kept for esteemed guests and drying cloths.

  “Ye prefer no other eyes see the lad?” She nodded as she asked, not expecting an answer.

  They entered the solar, and before they uncovered the body, he sent everyone but his father and Aunt Joneta from the room. Once the supplies and Raik returned with the clothing, they bathed the body. Before Ranald and Aunt Joneta set to stitching and closing all gaping wounds, they cleansed all traces of blood away. Never had he worked so hard to make a man presentable for burial.

  His sire surprised him by remaining silent. When Ranald repaired the gap in Egan’s side, his sire turned on his heels and fled. Ranald glanced up, and seeing Raik nod, knew the wound reminded Broccin of Moridac’s injury.

  As they were clothing the lad in Moridac’s finery, he acknowledged a voice filling the room that had been there from his first touch on the battered body. The voice hesitated for a beat, then resumed. Ranald had unconsciously been singing the prayers for the dead.

  They clothed the body in a pale blue shirt, beneath a long, two-toned suede tunic, one side a brilliant blue, the other as light as the sky in spring. A seamstress had decorated the tunic with crosses done in colorful threads in opposite color of blue on either side. Soft stockings covered his feet. Raik had gone to the lad’s home and brought his shoes, for they were smaller than most.

  Clean black hair crowned the pale, peaceful face. All the wounds were sealed. Ranald’s work on his face was so skilful no one would have known Egan had been sightless before death.

  “We can do no more,” Ranald said as he stood back. “Have them bring in the carrier.”

  Raik opened the door to allow men to carry in a flat board with three wooden rods protruding from either side. They transferred the body to it, and at Ranald’s nod, carefully made their way to the church.

  Ranald gazed at Raik, then down at his own clothing. “Am I as unsightly as ye?”

  “Hm, now, if that which ye call unsightly was ten times more, then I would say aye. Ye need a good bath, cousin.” Raik rolled his eyes. “Come to think on it, ye may need more than one.”

  Heari
ng someone approach behind him, Ranald turned.

  “Ahem.” Finn cleared his throat, fidgeting from one foot to the other, his hands behind his back. “Lady Catalin has already ordered a hot bath for ye.” He brought his hands forward and handed Ranald his mask. He had freshly cleaned it. “If ye no longer wish me to be yer squire, I ken it would be no more than right.”

  “Nay. ‘Twas not yer fault I did not remove my helm before we came to the drawbridge. I canna wear them both.” He reached over and took the mask. “Go join the lasses. I noted cook’s daughter with a special look in her eye on seeing ye. Be gentle.”

  Ranald strode from the room and climbed the stairs. Outside his bedchamber, he took a deep breath and stiffened before he thrust the door wide.

  “Would you like me to stand betwixt ye and my brother? He looked to be in a sour mood.” Elyne glanced sideways at Catalin as they returned across the bailey after tending the new widow until her family arrived from the village.

  “Sour mood? It is not me who needs protecting. If you stand between us, it will be to protect your prideful brother.” Catalin kicked a stone for added emphasis.

  “Truly? Prideful? In what way?” Elyne laughed at Catalin’s scowling face.

  “That fool mask he has worn since returning home.”

  “Ye dinna think he has need of it?”

  “Need? It’s naught but vanity. All these months I thought he must be frightful beyond thinking.” She kicked out again, thinking it was but a small stick in her path. “Ow! Lucifer’s ba...” She hopped up and down. Her words cut off. She near repeated a curse Ranald muttered afore dawn one day when he rammed his bare foot into the edge of his clothing chest.

  “Ye were not affrighted? I heard ye gasp when ye saw him.”

  “Hmpf. The smell of blood was so strong I thought he had sustained an injury.”