Forbidden (21 page)

Tonight he had near gone crazed with lust.
Was this how Moridac, how his father lived? With a constant turmoil
of wanting? Of craving female flesh? Of strong drink? He had
changed much. How long would it be afore he, too, became battle
crazed and drunk with killing?

He bolted up, grabbed his woolen tartan from
the floor and his belt in one hand, his sword in the other. He was
still belting the tartan around his waist when he burst out into
the front bailey and the cold, wet night. His long strides carried
him silently across the ground and into the empty church.

Would that he could scourge himself as his
father had punished him those many years gone by. At Kelso, when
his body cried out for the pleasures of the flesh, he had made use
of the flagellum to distract himself with pain. Until the night
when Prior Godric had fetched the abbot who had talked sense into
him. Would that they were with him now.

He knelt in front of the altar, his arms
uplifted, his eyes focused on the cross hanging before the arched
window.

His voice rose softly in plainsong, singing
the words of the Psalms, becoming stronger with each verse until
his deep baritone filled the small chapel and drifted on the still
night.

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!”

“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 following
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.