Forbidden (3 page)

Bright banners hung from every rafter above
the great hall. As each guest arrived, servants placed the man’s
standard on wall brackets, adding to the cheerful colors. In
between, picturesque tapestries done in vivid threads described the
family history. They gave the room a warm effect. Huge iron candle
branches stood every twenty paces, chasing the shadows into the
corners.

Servants had set up long trestle tables and
benches below the high table. Pewter plates, drinking horns and
pitchers of wine waited on white linen cloths. Clay vases of red
roses, lilies and rare white heather decorated the tables.
Everywhere Catalin looked, flowers appeared. She knew it was
Moridac’s doing.

He bent to murmur in her ear, “My lovely
Catalin, mine own sweet flower. The finest rose cannot rival the
beauty of yer lush, red lips. Mmm, or cheeks like the softest of
petals,” he added as his teeth nipped her ear. His tongue lapped
over it before he drew back.

Shivers shot to her core. Saints! Was it
wicked to feel such excitement? Far from being uneasy about her
marriage bed, she looked forward to it. Moridac had found frequent
opportunities to kiss and caress her. To her shame, she had
responded with eagerness.

Catalin felt anxious with everyone watching
her. Did they expect her to act differently because she was from
Northumbria? As they made their way to the high table, she saw no
familiar faces other than Baron de Burgh, Letia, and Moridac’s
family. She was thankful when Elyne, his young sister who had just
turned her seventeenth year, came over to hug her.

“Soon I will have a sister to aid me. These
lumps of clay that call themselves men are more fit for the
stable.” Elyne made a face and dodged Moridac, who reached to pinch
her arm. “None of that, brother. Ye wouldn’t like a horn of wine to
soil yer green tunic, now would ye?”

“Hm. Ye wouldn’t like to be dunked in the
wine vat yerself, would ye?”

Catalin waited uneasily, watching Chief
Broccin stalk over to them. His face wore its usual scowl. He
seemed to dislike laughter or light feelings whenever he was about,
for he never ceased to quell it.

“Take yer seats so we may begin the meal.” He
scraped back his chair and sat.

Moridac placed Catalin to his father’s left
then took the space beside her. She wished Letia was closer, but
she and the baron were to sit on the other side of Catalin’s new
father-by-law.

Her mouth watered when servants placed
steaming platters of roasted lamb basted with a mint sauce, roast
pork, honeyed poultry, roasted filets of whitefish and goose
covered with a sauce made from grapes on the table.

Moridac knew her preferences and grinned when
he placed the choicest morsels of pork in front of her. She
couldn’t help licking her lips. With just a slight motion of her
head toward the carrots flavored with honey, he filled the spaces
between her meats.

He waved a fistful of hot bread beneath her
nose and waggled his brows. She laughed aloud at his silly
expression. Broccin’s cold regard stifled her outburst.

Throughout the meal, her husband-to-be was
ever courtly, seeing she had the best of each serving and keeping
the chalice they shared filled with wine. By the time the sugared
fruits and pastries appeared, Catalin feared her stomach would
burst.

She jerked in surprise when Chief Broccin
blasted a belch worthy of a giant and rubbed his taught belly. As
if it were a signal, servants cleared the tables and the
entertainments began. A succession of performers took over the
center of the room.

Moridac twirled the wine chalice, making
Catalin fear it would upend at any time. He insisted she sip each
time he drank. Had she not eaten like a veritable pig, she feared
she would have been unable to steady herself when she stood to
retire.

As it was, her knees were none too firm when
she started up the stairs with the other women.

o0o

Old Hannah awaited Catalin within her
bedchamber.

“You should be snug abed, not biding your
time in these big, drafty rooms, Hannah.” Catalin spoke slowly, for
her words did not sound right to her. She threw her arms around the
old woman and hugged her.

Hannah clucked her tongue and sniffed. “Too
much wine, lovey.”

She expected a scolding, but instead Hannah
shooed the servant away and helped Catalin prepare for bed. When
she stretched and found they had heated the bed with a warming pan,
she sighed with comfort.

“Thank you, Hannah. You have been like a
mother to me.”

“Then heed me, girl. Strong wine is for men.
It causes them enough trouble. You do not want to find what it
could cause a young lady. Sleep now.”

Hannah tucked the covers around Catalin’s
shoulders then, as she had done so many times before, gently
stroked her hand over the warm, curly hair spilling over the
pillow. She pinched out the candles before leaving to find her own
pallet in the room provided for personal servants.

o0o

“Mmm,” Catalin sighed and snuggled deeper
against the glorious warmth. Had Hannah returned to warm her bed
again with heated stones?

Something tickled her cheek. She wriggled her
head. It stopped. For a moment. Then a warm tongue stroked her ear;
a cheek rubbed against her own. ‘Twas Sport? Had she not left her
father’s dog at Hunter Castle?

“What...?” It was far as she got, for a hand
clamped over her mouth.

“Shhh, love,” Moridac whispered in her
ear.

Of a sudden, she realized what caused the
splendid warmth. She stiffened. Stretched tight against her side
from head to toe was not a down filled coverlet, but hot, solid
man.

Not just a man. A very
naked
man.

“My lord, you should not be here. You will
bring me shame.”

He tapped a finger on her lips and whispered,
“No one will ever know.”

o0o

“You have slept overlong, sweetness. ‘Tis
time to rise.” Old Hannah bustled around the room, selecting
Catalin’s clothing for the day.

Catalin’s lids flew wide. Overlong? What did
she mean. She hadn’t slept late, had she? She sat up, winced, then
hoped Hannah had not seen. Sun glinted through the window. She
blinked, not believing it.

A servant scratched on the door before
entering with a pitcher of warmed water. Hannah placed it on the
corner table beside the basin, then smoothed a drying cloth near
it. Satisfied that all was ready, she came over to the bed and
waited until Catalin stood.

“The men were high in their cups when they
left for the hunt this morn. The scamp you are to marry celebrated
the night through at that lodge in the woods. He was in high
spirits when he came back at dawn. Took a lot of teasing, he did.”
Hannah poured water into the basin for Catalin to splash her face.
“Come along, young one.”

Catalin stiffened. Hannah was staring at her
thighs. She glanced down, horrified to see spots of blood. Now the
servant was looking at the sheets. They, too, had splatters of red
mingled in with some other strange stains. The bed had a musky
smell, too. She gulped.

“My courses must have come. I was not
prepared,” she stammered. Her heart dropped, seeing understanding
in Hannah’s face. She knew better. Catalin’s time never varied.
Hannah well knew what happened, judging from the tightening of her
lips.

“Aye. ‘Twas the same when your father
passed,” Hannah lied. She hurriedly stripped the bed and handed the
bundle of sheets to the servant.

Hannah latched the door behind her.

“Well, girl, let us hurry before anyone else
discovers this.”

“I’m sorry, Hannah. I should have resisted
him.” Catalin’s voice was faint with shame.

“Nay, child. The fault was his. Do not fret
overlong.” She lathered a separate cloth and scrubbed over
Catalin’s legs, while Catalin washed her face. “I do not doubt many
of the women under this castle’s roof were tupped before their
vows. Should he have made a baby, ‘twill not be known for the
wedding is but a day away.”

It was the fastest Catalin had ever dressed
in her life

She hurried down to the great hall. When
offered porridge and scones, she smiled and said she had already
broken her fast. She hoped no one could hear her stomach’s hungry
growl.

The thunder of hooves crossing the drawbridge
and clattering on the cobblestones distracted her from her
worries.

What were the men shouting? She raced to the
window, hoping to get a glimpse of Moridac. She did not see him for
all the men milling about. They jumped off their mounts and ran
toward a group gathered around the entrance.

Chief Broccin had ridden his mount to the
very steps. Why?

Hands reached up to him. Not to help him
dismount. To take something from his arms. She did not have to see
his white, strained face to know.

She gasped. The men carefully handled a
bloodstained body. Her heart slammed against her ribs.

Moridac!

Back at Kelso Abbey

“Chief Broccin may approach, but dinna open
the gate. He will return at once from whence he came.” Ranald’s
lips thinned to a grim line. His dark, smoldering look revealed the
fury, the hatred, kept banked for so many years.

“Hear him out, Ranald.” Raik’s eyes filled
with sympathy for his cousin whose only wish was to be left
alone.

For several heartbeats, Ranald sat his mount
facing the Abbey gate, as still as if both man and horse were
stone. Finally, he shoved the cowl back from his head, for it would
interfere should he need to do battle. He did not mask his feelings
as he eyed Raik. He fought to control his anger, his emotions. For
if he did not, there was no telling what his temper could unleash.
He squared his shoulders, stilled all expression from his face and
watched the advancing army.

What need had they of so many numbers? A
fool’s question. Kelso was on the Scottish Border, and skirmishes
happened more often here. He should know. ‘Twas he who had the
caring of the broken bodies, the dying men.

His father was many things. Careless was not
one of them.

Ranald’s horse sidestepped, nervous, as
riders galloped toward them. They were close enough now that he
scanned the men’s faces, swept past Broccin, picked out his
father’s commander Domnall, the knights Fergus and Dubne.

His eyes continued their quest. A frown
gathered between his brows. Where was Moridac? He had felt his
presence much of late, even coming to him in his dreams. He would
recognize him, for he would be the exact image of himself. He
snorted in disgust. Aye. Like me. But then,
not
like
me.

Sick fear twisted ugly fingers around his
heart, dragging it to the pit of his stomach. He locked his mind
from it. An arrogant voice brought his thoughts back.

“See the gates opened, boy,” Broccin shouted,
his face ruddy with anger.

“Boy?” Ranald looked at each of the men
around him. “I see no boy, Chief Broccin. By yer own lips, that boy
died near ten and five years past. If mayhap ye address me, ye are
mistaken. I am Brother Ranald, Protector and Infirmarian of Kelso
Abbey. If ye wish entrance, ye, Lord Raik’s commander and yer own
may enter. All weapons must remain outside these walls, or else
surrendered upon entering. Armies are not welcome here. Yer
warriors must camp outside the gates.”

Broccin’s mouth dropped. Ranald spied
Domnall, riding beside his father, the corners of his lips
twitching though he pressed them together. No one in many years had
dared to dispute Chief Broccin.

Broccin, his eyes blazing, roared. “Open the
damned gates. I have orders from King David that concern yer sorry
arse.”

Ranald’s throaty snarl and the harsh rasp of
his sword leaving its sheath answered his father. Though all else
was still, wind began to stir and lift dirt and leaves into
ever-increasing circles in front of Ranald as his horse stamped
closer to the gate.

“Brother Ranald.”

Ranald felt Prior Godric’s serene presence
nearby and the soft tug on his frock. He looked down to find he
stood close.

“My son, allow Chief Broccin to enter.” The
prior fingered his cross, his eyes gentle with sympathy when they
looked into Ranald’s.

“Aye, Ranald. ‘Tis best to get it over with.
He’s not about to leave.”

Sweat trickled down Raik’s temple. His jaw
looked tense, too. What had he to fear? Ranald’s stomach churned in
dread.

He slapped his sword back into its scabbard
then nodded at the gatekeeper. The man’s hands shook so badly it
took several tries before he could free the lock and push the door
halfway open. Broccin shoved through and rode to the center of the
courtyard. He did not dismount in one smooth motion as was his
custom, but laboriously climbed from his saddle.

Ranald stayed by the gate until Raik’s two
men and Domnall entered, along with a man attired in the king’s
livery. Ranald nodded and the gate clanged shut again. He rode over
to where Brother Octavius waited and dismounted.

“After ye have secured their weapons, please
see the men outside are given ample water. Ask if anyone needs
aid.” Ranald spoke quietly to the monk who had worked with him for
the past five years. He handed his own sword to the young novice
beside him.

As he strode over to the group waiting in
front of the abbot’s house, he watched the prior greet his father.
His sire had not changed overmuch. Truth, his temples were gray and
bitterness had etched lines beside his lips. His eyes had dimmed
somewhat, no longer as piercing dark as before. He was tall, his
muscles lean...a body much like Ranald would have when age crept up
to meet him.

Raik stood, his posture stiff with
displeasure radiating from every inch of his body as he, too,
stared at Broccin.