* * *
Nolana woke to the aroma of freshly baked bread. It transported her back to her beloved father’s manor house in the Carnsith Fells. She remembered clambering out of bed as a bairn and hastening to the kitchens where Cook always had crusty rolls to break her fast.
It was pointless to dwell on those happy days. They were gone. Her stepfather razed the manor when he wed her mother. “Nay use leaving an old house empty,” he declared. “Ye’ll be living in the Lowlands. Why pay these people to keep up a manor if ye dinna live in it?”
These people, who had taken care of her since her birth, were thrown out, rendered destitute. No amount of protest on her mother’s part would change his mind. She soon gave up the fight, and Nolana watched the only home she had ever known go up in flames. She hated Nyell Maknab from that moment on, and despised the weakness of her mother who was so afraid of being alone she had succumbed to the dictates of this arrogant male monster.
Neyll deemed it his right to beat his wife. The beatings had resulted in her untimely death. Nolana had sworn on her mother’s grave never to allow herself to become any man’s chattel.
Jennet’s voice broke into her reflections. “Ye’re awake. Barm cake?”
Nolana accepted the warm roll and gratefully sank her teeth into the fluffy bread, relishing the yeasty taste. She swallowed and licked her lips. “Good. This is the best bread I ever tasted.”
Jennet chuckled. “That’s because thou’s starving, lass. Try the goat’s milk.”
They ate together in companionable silence. Nolana sensed there was something Jennet wanted to say, but she waited.
“Hast thought on where ye’ll go next?”
Nolana shook her head. “I suppose there’s nothing for it but a nunnery. I’ve heard Lindisfarne Abbey is not far from here.”
Jennet spat into the hearth. “Lindisfarne is good for naught but the mead they make. The convent is no life for a pretty girl such as thee. Thou can stay ‘ere a while. Like I said, I need company.”
Nolana wandered over to see if her garments were dry. “’Tis kind of ye, but I’ll be obliged to make some decisions soon.”
Jennet poured water from a ewer into a bowl. “Abide wi’ me a bit, lassie, while thee decides. Wash off the dust of the journey and get thyself dressed.”
Nolana stayed with Jennet for a sennight. She gathered peat for the fire, tended goats and collected eggs, staying close to the cottage. She loved the wild beauty of the moor, the stunted oaks that clung to life on the windswept horizon, the coarse tufts of cottongrass, the craggy outcroppings of time-blackened rock. The meager dwelling was on the edge of the moor. In the far distance, behind the cottage, away from the sea, lay the forbidding peaks of the Bens. Nolana’s gaze wandered there often when the mists cleared...it reminded her of home.
At night, they talked of Nolana’s dilemma. Jennet did her best to dissuade her from the nunnery, but offered no other solution.
“Perhaps I should live in a lonely cottage up on the moor, tending my goats and hens.”
Jennet spat into the fire, her usual sign of disgust. “Bah. That’s no life for a young lass. Ye should be married, with bonny babes.”
Nolana wiped her runny nose and stared at her hands. She had dreamed of bairns, a loving husband. Now...
“Tell thee what,” Jennet offered, “journey with me to Beal market Tuesday next. The Lindisfarne monks’ll be there selling their mead. They bring honey too. Ye can seek their counsel, though they don’t mix much with folks. Too high and mighty.”
To Market
“Remember, Brother Christian, detachment...at all times detachment,” Father Abbot admonished. “We are venturing into the world, where temptation abounds.”
Aidan resisted the urge to roll his eyes. They were off to the market in the village of Beal. How much temptation lurked there? Did the elderly monk even know what temptation was? How long had he been incarcerated within the abbey? He bowed slightly. “Yes, Father Abbot. I’ll be careful.”
His superior tapped a forefinger against his lips. “Best not to speak to the women there.”
Ah. Such was the temptation the abbot feared. It would not do to lose a young postulant to the sins of the flesh. Aidan was confident there would be no village wench buxom enough to tempt the son of a noble family.
He was charged with loading mead and honey into the oxcart. It was a warm spring day and, by the time he was done, his skin prickled. He longed to strip off the hated habit and plunge into a cool lake for a refreshing swim.
He climbed into the back of the cart, swearing under his breath when a splinter from the rough planking drove into his thumb. He sucked it, wanting to whine like a child.
The abbot and two other brothers climbed into the cart and they set off. He hadn’t slept well since arriving at Lindisfarne and the slow progress lulled him to sleep as the cart lurched over the rutted sands to Beal. The tide swept over the causeway twice a day, cutting Holy Island off from the mainland.
He jolted awake, disoriented when the oxcart came to a halt. This was not the way to impress, falling asleep on the way to market. He stumbled out of the cart, his skin itchy, his thumb throbbing, not looking forward to lifting the first rundlet to his shoulder.
The abbot pointed. “Carry it to the stall over there. Careful now. Not much of last year’s mead left. This is the best. It has aged for a twelvemonth. Don’t want to spill any of our liquid gold.”
That’s all I need.
The abbot scurried over to brush dirt off their allotted stall, leaving Aidan and the other monks to heft the rundlets and flagons. He had explained to Aidan that most of their revenue would come from sales by the tumbler, but wealthier folk might purchase a flagon. Though Aidan had been to markets in Northumbria before, he had never been to Beal. The bustle of activity around them early in the day held the promise of an enjoyable experience. If only he was wearing something other than his ancient robe.
* * *
The afternoon sun was warm, but Nolana kept her face and hair shrouded beneath her playd. She and Jennet had been of the same mind that her stepfather’s men might come to the market. Her flame red hair would draw them like bees to the honey pot.
Despite the heat, she was glad to be out in the open for a while, not caged like a miscreant. She had done nothing wrong, her only fault a longing for respect and happiness. She stayed close to Jennet, enjoying the sights, sounds and smells of the market. It reminded her of home, of the Fells. She felt at home among these simple folk who marketed their wares, trying to make a living, to feed their families.
Jennet pressed something into her palm. “Take these. I’m off to ply our goat cheese yonder.”
Nolana opened her hand to reveal the coins. “I canna, this is too generous. Ye have little...”
Jennet curled Nolana’s fingers around the coins and pushed back her hand. She pointed to a stall where brightly colored ribbons fluttered in the sea breeze. “Nay, happy I am if ye’ll use it to buy theesel’ a bit o’ frippery from yon mon. I’m too owd for such, but thee...”
Nolana swallowed hard. This Englishwoman she barely knew treated her like a daughter. She pecked a kiss on Jennet’s cheek. “I’ll take but a moment.” Tucking the coins away, she wandered over to the haberdashery merchant, her step a little lighter.
* * *
Aidan had never been a lethargic man. His mother had often complained he had too much energy. He and Blythe had often led their parents a merry dance when they were growing up. What he wouldn’t give now for a scolding glance from his mother.
Ready to collapse with fatigue after toting the rundlets in the heat, he raked his fingers through his long hair and leaned back against the wooden frame of the stall, brushing away the horseflies drawn by the honey. He was sinfully proud of his hair, dark like his father’s. The prospect of being tonsured when he took his final vows made him cringe.
Memories of his parents filled his head. A lifetime would not be enough to atone for the manne
r of their deaths. Their bodies had never been recovered. His father’s long-held desire to be interred alongside his father in the crypt at Montbryce Castle would not be fulfilled.
A shuddering breath caught in his throat. He eyed the containers of mead, estimating how much longer they would be obliged to remain in the crowded marketplace. His sandaled feet were caked with dust, his throat bone dry. Idly wondering how he might filch a sip of the precious mead without the abbot noticing, he closed his eyes, absorbing the sounds of commerce around him.
A fly buzzed in his face. He swatted at it and forced one eye open. A young woman was walking to the haberdashery stall across the way. At least, he thought she was a young woman, shrouded as she was by her playd—odd on such a hot day. But her bearing and figure bespoke a young person. He stood up straight to get a better view. Her garb indicated she was a Scot, but not a lowlander, and not a person of low birth. Her léine had been dyed with expensive saffron. She reached out to finger the colored ribbons hanging from the stall’s crossbeam, glancing around furtively, drawing the brown playd further over her head.
She’s afraid.
His gut clenched. When she turned to look directly at him, her obvious nervousness did nothing to detract from her fairness of face. His mouth fell open.
She turned back to the stall, reaching up to point to a particular ribbon. She raised her arms as the merchant handed it to her. The playd fell to her shoulders, revealing the flame red bounty of her hair. Aidan’s breath caught in his throat. For once, he was glad of the shapeless robe when his shaft turned to a rod of iron.
She replaced the shawl quickly and paid for the ribbon just as four or five armed men came into view, sauntering through the market. He did not recognize the devise they bore on their tunics. The woman lowered her head, turned away and hastened in the direction of the stall selling mead.
Jesu. She’s coming this way.
Narrow Escape
There was only one place Nolana might find safety. The tall, young monk she had espied must be from Lindisfarne. He had long hair—a postulant—but that was of no consequence. There were four monks, one of them elderly and seemingly in charge, the abbot perhaps. She would beg for sanctuary if her stepfather’s men pursued her. They were not on sanctified ground but, surely, holy men would not allow her to be dragged off.
The postulant looked nervous. He wiped his hands on his robe, backing away from her. She dared not steal a glance to see what her pursuers were doing, but the young monk was looking beyond her. Without warning, he lurched forward, a tumbler in his hand. “Mead...mistress?” he stammered, his eyes still averted.
Then, he looked at her. A spasm of desire snaked through her for the first time in her life. Those beguiling blue eyes and long black lashes couldn’t belong to a man who had given his life to God. He was handsome too, and tall, though in need of a bath. She tried not to wrinkle her nose. He had realized she was fleeing the men. The question in her eyes asked if they were still there. He smiled and the tingling in her breasts became intense. Heat surged in her body. It was madness. He was a monk. She gripped the edge of the stall, fear and longing a potent mixture in her heart.
He leaned towards her and whispered, “They’re gone.”
Before she could stammer her thanks, the older monk suddenly appeared at the postulant’s side, elbowing him out of the way. “Get thee gone, mistress, if you don’t intend to purchase.”
She experienced a moment of panic. The younger man took up a retaliatory pose. He glared at the older monk, jaw and fists clenched, but then turned and walked away, clearly angry.
She looked back at the monk whose self-important air convinced her he was the Abbot of Lindisfarne. She had hoped to confide in him, seek advice or sanctuary. A cold chill swept over her. Compassion would not be one of this man’s strengths. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
He shook his fist. “Be gone, I say.”
Afraid his raised voice might attract unwanted attention, she turned to leave. Someone grasped her elbow and panic returned, until she heard Jennet’s voice. “Why are ye shouting at my niece, ye scurvy monk? She came to get my honey from thee.”
The abbot spluttered his apology, but his eyes betrayed his annoyance. “A thousand pardons, Jennet. Here is your pot.”
Jennet paid for the honey, linked her arm in Nolana’s and escorted her niece away from the stall. “We’ll walk slowly, so’s not to arouse interest.”
Nolana did not recall much of the long walk back to the cottage and only took a deep breath once she was safely inside its walls.
* * *
From the shadow of the market cross Aidan watched the two women walk away, desperately trying to control his breathing. He had looked into the depths of green eyes and seen fear. An overwhelming desire to protect this unknown young woman swept over him, but the pompous abbot had shoved him out of the way. The idiot was lucky Aidan hadn’t slain him with his sword...but he no longer had a sword, was no longer a man of action.
He sank to the ground, his back sliding down the cool stone of the obelisk. This was another test of his resolve, and there would doubtless be many more thrust before him. His shaft was still uncomfortably hard, and there was no hope of relief here in the crowded market. He had never believed in love at first sight, though his father had often boasted of being smitten the moment he set eyes on Agneta. Aidan recalled how disdainful he had been of Blythe and Dieter and their instant attraction to one another. He grappled with what had transpired. Why did he want to throw his arms around the green-eyed beauty and make her his?
He raked his hands through his hair, fearing he was losing his mind. It was obvious she had been disgusted by the odor of his body. It disgusted him. She likely considered him a stammering imbecile, cast off by his family and hidden away in a monastery.
The abbot’s voice roused him from his stupor. They were loading the cart. Wearily, he came to his feet and trudged back to help. No doubt he would receive a stern lecture once they regained the abbey.
* * *
Nolana fretted for two sennights. Safety lay in the Fells. Her father’s people would take her in, protect her. But such a journey would be impossible alone and there was only a burned-out ruin of a home to return to.
Jennet told her to stay as long as she wished, but there was no future in such a life. She would live in fear of discovery. Her stepfather’s keep was too close.
It seemed the abbey was her only hope, but the elderly monk had put the fear of God in her, in the wrong way. Then there was the young postulant she couldn’t get out of her thoughts.
He was woefully in need of a bath and a shave, but she sensed he was aware and ashamed of it. Inexplicably, she'd wanted to run her hand over the stubble of his beard. She daydreamed of shaving him, something she had never done for any man. The notion filled her thoughts, resulting in a puzzling pool of moisture in her intimate woman's place and an embarrassing new habit of drooling into the mattress.
She was a stranger to him, but he had risked the displeasure of his abbot to assist her, quickly sensing she was in danger.
Despite his unkempt appearance, she had been struck immediately by his male beauty. And those eyes. Why had he shut himself up in a monastery? His bearing bespoke a man made to sire children—virile, strong, capable, a warrior who had spent many an hour in training fields, practising swordplay. He had spoken only four words to her, but his manner of speech indicated he was of noble blood. What was he doing on the Holy Island of Lindisfarne?
Her preoccupation annoyed her. It was of no importance if a handsome young man closed himself off from the world, probably to atone for something. She resolved to stop obsessing about him and decide what action to take to resolve her own problems.
But at night she dreamed of him, of long muscular legs entwined with hers, of strong arms wrapped around her. She felt stirrings of longing she had never felt before in unmentionable places and awoke each morning with her hand where it should not be.
&n
bsp; Weary
“I grow weary of the wait, Maknab,” Grouchet wheezed. “I’m not a young man. Time is of the essence.”
Neyll Maknab resisted the urge to take the baron by the scruff of his scrawny neck and point out he was the one who was weary of the auld man’s constant harping, and thoroughly sick of chasing his wilful stepdaughter. When he finally caught her, she'd rue the day she had led him in this merry dance.
He straightened the cuffs of his doublet. “She is in Northumbria, I am sure of it. We will find her and ye shall have yer bride.”
Grouchet spat. “Bah. Northumbria is vast. She might be anywhere. You haven’t had any success. Perhaps I should look elsewhere. I want an obedient woman.”
It was a threat the fool had made before, and Neyll determined not to rise to the bait. Though he desperately needed the coin, he must not let Grouchet know it. “She will obey ye, if I have to thrash it into her.”
Grouchet spluttered. “Sir, I am capable of disciplining my own wife. Wouldn't be the first time.”
Neyll bowed his head. “Of course. I didna mean to imply...”
The baron waved his hand in dismissal and slumped into a chair. “Think on it no further. I am anxious to have her wedded and bedded. I must have an heir.”
“And ye shall. Nolana has few options open to her. She might think to flee north, but no one will accompany her there. No lowland Scot will risk my wrath by aiding her. She has only the Church to fall back on. I have instructed my men to watch the villages near the Holy Island of Lindisfarne. My gut tells me ’tis where she’ll be found.”
The baron did not reply. To Neyll’s disgust the auld fool had dozed off.
Love’s Sweet Sting Page 4