Forbidden (28 page)

“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 know 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.

“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 hooves 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.