Forbidden (2 page)

He threw off his black robe and bent over to
splash water on himself, before taking a gob of soap from a wooden
bowl. After scrubbing his hands and nails, he lathered his face and
torso then took a wooden bucket and upended the water over his
head.

o0o

Raik scrutinized the man before him. Naked,
no one would have believed him a monk. He viewed a man in his prime
at thirty years. His undamaged left profile was toward Raik and
showed the same beauty as Moridac’s face. Not so the right
side.

Broccin’s whip had done much damage there,
for thick scars streaked it. One rose from his hairline down across
his right temple to his ear. Another from temple to jaw. A third
crossed them, slanting from his forehead, across his eye to the
side of his nostril. His brow forever looked as if he arched it in
question. The last mark was between his brows, across the bridge of
his nose, ending at the right corner of his lips.

Thick, black hair cut short in the monks’
way, rimmed his tonsure. A bold forehead with black brows rode
above eyes as dark as damson plums, that fruit that holds a hint of
some deep color other than true black. The pain in his soul
reflected in his eyes was made more startling by a proud nose
jutting above full, sensual lips and a dominating jaw.

Ranald was about Raik’s own height of
eighteen hands, and weighed mayhap thirteen stone. The man was
naught but hard muscle.

Nay, no monk’s body but one of a hardened
warrior. Raik shook his head. When would he get the courage to
speak on why he had sought Ranald out?

“How do ye do it, man? The water is cold as
melted snow. Even in the dead of summer, ‘tis icy in here.” Raik
handed Ranald a large drying cloth from those folded on a nearby
table.

“We dinna have the comforts of a heated bath.
Ye grow used to the cold.” Ranald reached for a clean robe hanging
nearby. The abbey Chamberlain had placed it there earlier, knowing
Ranald would have need of it. He rolled his soiled clothing and
drying cloth together and tossed it in a large bin.

“We are Tyronesian monks, not soft by any
means. We rotate hours of devotions and manual labor. Many are
skillful farmers, expert carpenters and smiths.” He nodded to Raik.
“Ye were too ill on yer last visit to observe anything but the
Infirmatorium. Several brothers are skillful in architecture and
drawing. Tis they who planned the beautiful lines of the buildings,
the openness of the Infirmary. Other than a few sturdy laborers, we
had no need of outside help to build the Abbey.”

He halted then corrected himself, “And King
David’s gold for supplies.”

He lengthened his stride, heading for the
Infirmary kitchen to order food prepared for his patients. Once
done, they entered the Infirmary Hall.

Windows aplenty brought in fresh air and
sunshine on cloudless days. Beds lined the walls, each standing
beside a window. At one end, men hale enough to take their meals
did so at a long table with chairs. A chapel at the east end
allowed them to have their devotions.

The sick and aged lived in comfort here. All
but one sat in the cloister outside to enjoy the sun and flowers.
His patient from last eve slept peacefully in the third bed, his
color normal, his breathing calm. Ranald’s palm cupped the aged
forehead, his fingers stroked over the lined cheeks, feeling for
heat. Finding none, tension eased in his neck.

Breaking the serenity of the quiet Infirmary,
a bell clanged in the distance, warning that someone sought
entrance. He listened for the pattern. Two rings spaced apart meant
a known and trusted visitor. Two bells with but an interval before
the next two indicated an unknown. The steady striking without
pause he heard now signaled urgency.

Ranald broke into a run, heading toward the
main gate. Raik’s boots striking the cobblestones behind him was a
welcome sound. He could use his cousin’s strong sword arm, should
he need it, for the knights who had lodged at the abbey last eve
had resumed their journey once they broke their fast at
sunrise.

He dodged the steady stream of workers and
monks, wood for scaffolding, barrows of stone, all needed in the
steady building of Kelso Abbey. Men dropped what they were doing to
look toward the iron gate.

Prior Godric stood framed in the arched stone
doorway of the newly finished Abbot House. Worry creased his
forehead, his hands stole inside the flowing sleeves of his
robe.

Brother Octavius, in charge of all weapons
brought within the abbey walls, waited with Ranald’s broadsword.
The young novice beside him grasped the reins of a prancing horse.
Ranald nodded, strapped on his weapon then vaulted onto the horse’s
back. A stout man, who had sought sanctuary at the abbey, ran
across the crowded courtyard to bring Raik’s mount and weapons. He
sported a flaming red beard that accented his frightened face. Once
he handed the weapons and reins to Raik, he scurried to hide
himself from sight.

As he watched Ranald, Raik raised his brows
and smiled.

“So, ‘tis true then? I should have known yer
muscle and brawn didn’t come from pulling weeds or working as a
carpenter. Ye are the Protector as well as the Infirmarian, as I
have heard?”

“Who else could? As ye saw from yer lengthy
stay before, we dinna lack for visiting warriors. They kept up my
knightly training after Father discarded me. Someone must protect
the meek and godly.”

“Brother Ranald! An army rides from the
forests beyond the village,” a portly monk shouted as he ran from
the bell tower.

“Could ye spy their crest?”

Ranald frowned. Who would approach the abbey
with so many men? Did they seek lodging? Nay, it was too early in
the day. And if they brought an injured man, they had no need of
such a force.

The monk’s eyes bulged, and he gulped before
speaking.

“A black banner with a centered yellow eagle.
Its talons are spread for the kill.”

Ranald stiffened. His father’s standard.

“Another standard bearer rides aside it.” The
monk glanced uneasily at Raik.

“Shite! The fools.” Raik growled the words
through tense jaws.

“Well?” Ranald’s eyes narrowed to mere slits.
Cold dread swept through him as he studied Raik’s face.

“A yellow gryphon upon a field of red, its
beak stretched wide in a screech,” the monk continued.

Ranald’s saddle creaked as he shifted to
contemplate Raik with hot speculation while waves of rage crashed
through him and threatened his tight control.

“Why has my father come with an army when he
has never set foot in this valley since sending me here? And why do
yer own men ride with him?”

“I am sorry, Ranald. Much has happened that
ye do not know of. They were to wait until I had time to apprise ye
of it. King David requested I bring my men. To assure no harm comes
to ye.” Raik’s fist struck his thigh, his lips tightened afore he
spoke again.

“Come. Ye must allow yer father entrance. He
will explain all.”

Raptor Castle, three sennights earlier.

“Is not Moridac the most comely man in all of
Scotland?” Catalin wore a bright smile as she paced the carpeted
floor of her sleeping chamber. She glanced at her friend Letia, but
she could not keep the worry from her voice.

“Without doubt. Women on both sides of the
borders would sigh for a word from him,” Letia responded. She
looked hesitant to say more.

Catalin stopped to arrange items on her
dressing table, things already neatly placed there. She sighed and
chewed at her lower lip.

“Ye need not bide your tongue. Before I came
here, I heard the servants whispering of Moridac’s, uh, hunt
parties.”

She glanced at Letia before walking over to
smooth the bright green bed covers and pat the plump pillow.
Turning, she rubbed her arms and looked down at the tips of her
shoes peeping from beneath her blue kirtle. Thinking, she rocked
back and forth on her feet. They were no parties but a place where
young men gathered to drink in excess while tupping women carted
from nearby villages.

Letia, sitting beside the small hearth,
wrinkled her nose. “Aye. ‘Tis shameful, though it is hard to tell
how much truth there are to the tales.”

“I fear they are too true.” She cleared her
throat. “Two morns past, I was below in the orchard. An angry
villager was in the bailey yelling, claiming Moridac had ruined his
daughter.” She stopped, near fearful of repeating what she had
heard. “Chief Broccin laughed and threw him some coins. While the
man picked them up, Moridac’s father said something strange.”

“What was it?” Letia’s brows rose.

Catalin knotted her fingers together. Her
voice was so low Letia leaned forward. “He said the girl served as
a lusty filling between his son and him.”

Letia’s eyes widened. “I spoke to Warin of
these loathsome, um, excesses. He believes they will cease once you
are wed.” She looked down at her lap then up, her eyes filled with
sympathy. “If they do not, mayhap you can prevail on Raik to put an
end to them?”

“Aye. Moridac is always different around him.
Calm, even. And he does not drink overmuch when he’s here.”

“Good. Seek him out if there is a need.” She
rolled her brown eyes at Catalin. “Has Old Hannah spoken of the
marriage bed?”

Catalin blushed and tugged her right
earlobe.

“Uh-huh.” She darted a look at Letia then
buried her nose in pink gillyflowers amongst the floral arrangement
on the bedside table. Her voice floated out, muffled from the
petals. “At first, I didn’t believe what she told me. Until I
arrived here.”

“Why here? What changed your mind?”

Catalin plunked down in a chair next to
Letia.

“Moridac thrust me into a dark alcove last
eve.” Her face burned as if she sat too close to a flame. “When he
pressed me against the wall, I felt a hard bulge beneath his kilt.”
She squirmed in her seat. “He drew my hand to cover it.”

She cleared her throat, remembering how her
heart had thumped. “He whispered what he wanted to do. ‘Twas the
same as Old Hannah told me.”

Letia chuckled. “I am surprised a woman so
ancient would remember.”

Catalin giggled. “Her eyes near popped from
her head. Later that day, I saw her watching the castle steward’s
fine arse as he passed by her.”

Letia laughed aloud. “One is never too old to
enjoy thinking of bed sport.”

“Uh, Letia? Your Warin is a lordly man. He is
still comely even in his advanced years. But are you happy in your
marriage?”

“He is a gentle, loving man. I shudder to
think of living with some cruel man who would not hesitate to beat
me.”

“I love Moridac. Though, when I was but seven
years of age, ‘twas Ranald I pined for. Never will I forget hearing
a tumult in the bailey. It was the day after my betrothal to
Moridac. I stood on a chair to peer out the window opening.” She
shook in a violent shudder. “I saw Chief Broccin beating what I
believed was a dog on the muddy ground. Not until two men pulled
him away did I see it was a young man.”

“That was a terrible thing for a child to
witness.” Letia’s lips thinned. Eyes the color of dark earth wet
from a summer’s rain, frowned with displeasure.

“Worse yet was learning Ranald was that
bloody body they picked up and sloshed in the horse trough. When I
asked about him, no one would speak of it. Soon after, Chief
Broccin said he had died.”

“I have heard the same.” Letia watched
Catalin’s face. “Are you afeared of your new father-by-law?”

Catalin nodded. Her pulse pounded,
remembering how a year past he had glared at her and fisted his
hands in anger. He looked about to snap her head from her neck. All
because she had asked for a delay of her wedding vows as her father
lay dying.

“I would not care to cross him. I think his
fingers yearn to add my father’s riches to his coffers.”

They had no more chance to talk, for a heavy
fist rapped on the door.

“Come out, come out, sweet bride to be,”
Moridac’s deep, rich voice called, “else I must break down the door
and steal ye away.”

Her betrothed’s speech, usually crisp and
clear, was slurred. She glanced at Letia and noted a slight crease
between her brows.

“I am coming.” Catalin’s teeth worried her
lower lip. She ran her hand over her light blue kirtle, smoothing
any wrinkles from it. She had chosen the color to please Moridac,
because he oft claimed her eyes were the color of a clear summer
sky.

Before she could reach it, the door burst
open and Moridac swept her into his arms. His lips were about to
take hers when Letia cleared her throat. He took his time letting
Catalin free.

“Ah, not one but two lovely lasses.” Moridac
swept low in a dramatic bow. His rich, black hair brushed his
cheeks. “Such sweetness to the eye is like honey to the
tongue.”

Catalin rolled her eyes at him.

“Ye dinna believe me?” He grasped her hand
and brought it to his lips. His hot, wet tongue licked over the
palm. She yelped and snatched her hand back.

“Aye. Warm, sweet honey.”

Her body heated when his gaze probed the
cloth over her breasts. His eyes flashed with hunger and he wet his
lips when her nipples hardened and thrust shamefully against her
gown.

“Time enough for tasting after you say your
vows, Moridac.” Warin de Burgh stepped through the doorway and
smiled gently at his wife. “You must be hungered, love. You have
not eaten since last eve.”

“That I am. Come. Let us go below before Cook
sends someone to hunt us down.”

The baron smiled at his wife and motioned
Moridac to precede them with Catalin.

Guests had started arriving for the wedding.
After her father’s death, Chief Broccin had insisted they hold the
ceremony at Raptor Castle. As they descended the stairs, the din of
people milling about increased in volume.