Her anger over her fate intensified at the sound of the windblown surf hurtling itself at the ancient stone walls. She had been shut away in this tiny hole because she was a woman who had dared challenge her fate. She was not informed of what the abbot intended to do with her. Whatever it was, it would not be good. Either he would ship her off to a nunnery, or summon her stepfather. She was helpless, like the midges struggling to free themselves from the spider web above her pallet.
On the third day of her imprisonment, late in the day, the abbot rapped on the door, cleared his throat and shouted, “The storm has abated and I have sent a message to the Bishop in Durham. He will send an escort to take you to the convent. In the meantime, you must earn your keep. The monthly laundry takes place on the morrow...you will assist with the bucking. Someone will come to collect you at dawn.”
Nolana slept fitfully that night. It was more than she had hoped for, and she was to be allowed a reprieve from this box, albeit that she would be steeping linens in lye. Pray God she might at least catch a glimpse of Aidan.
* * *
Aidan was relieved he’d been allowed to continue his work with the bees. He had assumed it a lost cause during the hour-long lecture in the misericord on the subject of the sins of the flesh and the follies of rash decisions.
The diatribe had included the abbot’s utter disbelief that any woman might question the edicts of a man. She should be soundly beaten in that event. Aidan deemed it fortunate Ragna was not present.
He thought of his father and the respect he had always shown their mother. No one had judged him less of a man for it. Nor would anyone have dared suggest that Caedmon FitzRam was not master in his own house, but he didn’t have to be a tyrant to be respected. The same had been true of Aidan’s grandfather, Ram de Montbryce, though he was a powerful Norman earl, a hero of the Battle of Hastings.
It seemed to Aidan that women responded better to kind words and love than to threats and brutality.
He served his penance...five hours on his knees in the chapel, five hours spent with his thoughts on Nolana Kyncade.
Prevented from tending the outdoor hives during the storm, he looked forward to visiting them. There had not been much activity in the manmade skeps sheltered in the recessed bee boles in the south wall. They were covered with protective straw hackles, but the bees would be out and about again today.
Their industry inspired him. Free to fly abroad, they never failed to return to their hive. It saddened him that by the time the skeps were broken open the bees would be dead, killed by sulphur smoke. Fervent prayers would waft heavenward on clouds of incense for the repopulation of the new skeps by new colonies. Then, the process would begin again.
Aidan sensed great excitement among the monks. The first day of breaking open the skeps signaled a new beginning, a harbinger of summer that followed the late spring ritual. Taking honey in the spring allowed the bees a chance to replenish over the summer.
Honey would be jarred, new beeswax candles and writing tablets made and, best of all, fresh mead fermented. There would be projects to keep him busy, a respite from the monotony of winter.
The band of brothers selected for the task helped each other don the masks that would protect them from bee stings. Aidan’s round wooden mask didn’t feel particularly secure after another brother fastened the ties behind his head. Hopefully, his cowl would help deter the bees. Brother Tristan, who seemed to have taken a liking to Aidan, told him they would make two kinds of mead with the fresh honey...ordinary meth for the common folk and metheglin for the nobility. Aidan suspected some of the latter would find its way into the hands of the abbot and his cronies.
“What’s the difference?”
Brother Tristan put a finger to his chapped lips and looked around. “Lavender, and sometimes rosemary,” he whispered with a conspiratorial wink.
They made their way to the hives in the tree trunk hollows. Brother Tristan declared it a safer place for the postulants to start. They already had some experience collecting small amounts of honey. These bees would not be killed, but the smoke from smoldering cow dung heaped in a clay shell would lull them into gorging on honey.
Aidan was glad of two things. Firstly, he had not been assigned the task of collecting the dung. What’s more, he was to scoop out the honey and not hold the hot shell from whence the obnoxious odor emerged. Tall though he was, Aidan would be obliged to stand on tiptoe in order to reach inside the hives since the trees were cut at a height out of reach of animals.
Everything progressed as planned. They collected honey and wax from a dozen hives. Thankfully, no one got stung, and the masks stayed in place. The smoke worked its magic. The thick linen bindings protecting Aidan’s hands were saturated with honey.
But his back ached. He had been too long on his knees on the stone floor of the chapel. Bending in an unnatural position to scoop out the liquid gold, poised to react if things went awry, had also taken its toll. He prized fitness and worked hard at keeping in good fettle, now it seemed his body was weak. Sweat poured down the back of his neck and trickled into his eyes as he labored in the sun, the cowl over his head. The mask prevented him wiping his brow.
Only one hive left.
“Keep the smoke going,” Brother Tristan urged the postulant holding the clay shell. Aidan suspected the young man was in an even worse state, contending as he was with the acrid reek of the cow dung under his nose and the heat of the clay shell in his hands. He took one hand off the shell to fan the dwindling smoke towards Aidan. His intention was probably to blow on the dung. He inhaled deeply, but his breath caught and he coughed...and coughed...then hacked and hacked. Aidan was afraid the youth might choke. In his panic, he dropped the clay shell to grasp at his mask.
Aidan reached out to grab his hand. “Don’t take it off. You’ll get stung.”
His voice echoed inside his mask, and the warning came too late. The young monk wrenched off his mask and was stung instantly. As he screamed and lashed out, his hand caught the edge of Aidan’s mask. It slipped askew on his wet face. Aidan reached up to right it with his honey-soaked hands. The bees had become agitated with the commotion. Without the smoke to subdue them, they swarmed Aidan’s hands.
He reflected later that the unexpected intensity of the stings must have been what caused him to panic. How else to explain why he had ripped off his mask and rubbed his eyes? If the stings on his hands were painful, they were pinpricks compared to the unbearable fire consuming his face. He fell to his knees, hearing only a deafening roar, and the calm voice of Brother Tristan warning the others not to run.
Within minutes, he was being carried inside the walls of the abbey. A few bees still buzzed around him, but they disappeared quickly. His eyes were sealed shut, his hands on fire.
Brother Tristan remained in calm control. “Take him to the infirmary.”
Trembling uncontrollably and gasping for air, Aidan vomited. Choking was the last thing he remembered before darkness engulfed him.
Beestung
Nolana spent most of the day stirring the cauldron Brother Thomas used to steep the linens in lye. The laundry was set off the kitchens, since fires weren’t permitted anywhere else in the abbey.
She felt like a limp rag. The steam had dampened her clothing and she had long ago discarded the playd. Her léine clung to her body and sweat trickled between her breasts and down her back.
To her dismay, several monks passing in and out of the kitchens gave her more than a cursory glance, then cast their eyes down and scurried off, faces red. No matter the clothing, her ample breasts were difficult to conceal. Maknab’s table had offered meagre sustenance, yet her breasts continued to grow.
Her thick hair was heavy with moisture. Ironically, her throat was bone dry. She had been offered nothing to eat or drink and longed for a tumbler of mead and a spoonful of honey. She was a slave, longing for the blessed coolness of her hateful little cell.
After interminable stirring, she was expected to heave
the sodden cloth out of the vat and transfer it to another cauldron of cold water to rinse. Fortunately, two burly monks came to haul the rinsed linens to the drying racks after they had wrung as much water as possible from them.
Another monk was responsible for keeping the fire going but, when the new wood was added, billowing smoke brought tears to her eyes. Crackling sparks flew, sometimes stinging her raw hands.
Late in the afternoon, Brother Thomas waddled over, laden with another pile of linens, though these were neatly folded. “Surely not more?” she rasped.
He dropped the pile next to her. “No, they are clean. Take them to the infirmary.”
Escape.
The abbot would disapprove of her wandering the passageways, but she had no intention of raising the fact to Brother Thomas. Taking a deep breath, she reached for her playd and stooped to pick up the heavy pile. “I don’t know where...”
He strode away, muttering directions. “Stay there and make yourself useful. We’re done here.”
She stepped out of the laundry, relishing the fresh air of the cloister. It was a warm afternoon, but the breeze felt cool on her damp hair and clothing. She was grateful for the thick weave of the playd.
Her footsteps echoed off the stones of deserted corridors and hallways until she paused before a large wooden door which she assumed was the infirmary since she had followed Brother Thomas’s instructions exactly. The linen pile was getting heavy. She leaned her back against the door and pushed. It creaked open and she peered inside.
There were six raised pallets in the room, two of which had shapeless mounds atop them, covered with linens. Another monk, standing next to one of the pallets, pressed a finger to his lips and beckoned her. “I’ll show you where to place them,” he whispered. Since he exhibited no surprise at the presence of a woman, she surmised everyone in the abbey must by now know of her existence.
She followed, straining to keep the pile from falling as he reached for each linen in turn and placed them into an armoire. Her knees were ready to buckle and exhaustion swept over her. She gathered up the courage to ask for a salve for her hands.
A noisy gaggle of agitated monks burst through the door, startling her. Some swatted bees that followed them in. They were carrying another monk who appeared to be in a stupor, his hands wrapped in something. The shapeless mounds craned curious necks. The monk assisting her rushed to investigate the commotion, barking instructions. They lay the unfortunate on one of the pallets and she caught sight of his bee-stung face. Her heart stopped. She dropped the linens. “Aidan.”
She was sure she had screamed his name, but no one paid attention to her as she cowered by the huge armoire. His face was destroyed, beautiful eyes swollen shut. They took a dagger to his hands and sliced off the wrappings. She bit her knuckles and choked back a sob. His elegant hands resembled the ham hocks that hung in her stepfather’s smokehouse.
“We must remove the stings first,” a monk said calmly.
She gulped air, filled with an urge to flee, but rooted to the spot. If she remained silent, perhaps they would not notice her presence. Aidan needed her. She couldn’t leave him in this state.
Another monk had been stung, though not as badly as Aidan. They were tending him. He was sobbing, taking blame for what had happened. A choking desire to kill him rose up in her throat. The stench of burnt dung hung in the air. She was going to be sick.
“Off with his robe,” the Infirmarian ordered. “Fetch the ointment.”
She leaned on the armoire, transfixed, while they stripped Aidan. She ought to leave, but might be seen. She retreated further into the shadows, eyes fixed on her monk.
His pale body was a sharp contrast to the redness of his hands and face. But he was beautifully made...not what one would expect for a monk. She had never seen a naked man before. His body was different from hers. Where she was round and soft, he was hard and well muscled. Where she was small, he was big and broad. Her arms and legs were short and shapely, his long and corded. He had hair on his body, as she did, but in different places, and he had something nestled at the top of his thighs she didn’t have. A decent woman would look away.
Aidan moaned, jolting her back to reality. They draped linens over him, obscuring his body from her view. She was relieved and disappointed. She wanted to run her hands over him, feel the planes and angles of his body, soothe him, bring him comfort. He had done much for her, she was powerless do anything in return.
“The garlic in the ointment will ease the pain,” one of the monks said.
“Aye. Works every time,” another agreed. “Lucky for Brother Christian this happened here at Lindisfarne where we know how to treat bee stings.”
Lucky? Again the urge to strike out rose in her breast. Aidan felt no pain now, but he surely would when he recovered his wits.
“But this is bad.” The monk spoke in a barely audible whisper. “He might lose his sight. We’ll pray diligently for him, and for the wretch who caused the accident. He feels responsible.”
As he should.
Unable to stand any longer, Nolana slipped to the floor beside the armoire. Gradually, everyone but the Infirmarian left. Darkness fell, plunging the room into deep shadow. A lone candle flickered beside Aidan’s pallet, casting him in a strange glow. The mounds snored. She huddled in the playd, mouthing a mantra learned at her mother’s knee.
Let all be well, let all be well, let all be well.
Her eyelids drooped.
“Water.”
Nolana’s head jerked up and she strained to listen.
“Water.”
Aidan.
A snake coiled in her belly. She peered around the side of the armoire. All was in darkness. The candle by Aidan’s palette had burned out but, in a shaft of moonlight, she discerned the outline of the Infirmarian slumped in a chair in a far corner. She crept soundlessly to Aidan’s side and looked at him. His eyes were still swollen shut.
He licked his lips. “Water.”
Espying a pitcher next to one of the sleeping mounds, she tiptoed to it and inhaled. Ale would have to suffice. Returning to Aidan’s side, she helped him raise his head and held the pitcher to his lips. He gagged at first then slurped greedily, his head falling back to the palette when he had slaked his thirst. She carefully put her chapped hand on his bee-stung forehead.
He inhaled sharply. “Nolana?”
She withdrew her hand as if she had been burned. How did he know she was there? She hadn’t uttered a word.
“Nolana?”
Something had lodged in her throat. “Aye, Aidan. I’m here.”
“Bees,” he whispered hoarsely. “The bees. Wasn’t their fault.”
She touched his forehead again, tears streaming. “I ken. Drink another sip.”
He held up his hands. “I cannot hold anything. My hands...”
“I’ll hold it for ye.”
He accepted more ale, drinking greedily. She spied the salve they had used to soothe his pain. Scooping out a dollop, she carefully dabbed it on his swollen face. It smelled of garlic, and something else...urine? “I am afraid to hurt ye. My hands are rough.”
He moved his head, his lips a tight line. “You have the touch of an angel. You cannot hurt me.”
She smoothed ointment across his eyebrows, but was afraid to apply it to his eyes.
“I wish I could see you,” he rasped. “The sight of you would heal me instantly. I see you often in my dreams. My neck pains me, am I stung there?”
She put both hands on his neck and smoothed them down the length of it, pressing her thumbs to the soft place below his Adam’s apple. “I canna feel anything.”
“I feel something.”
She raked her gaze over his body, wondering where else he felt pain, confused by a peculiar tenting of the linens near the top of his legs. She withdrew her hands.
“Don’t stop. Your touch soothes me.”
She stole a glance at the still sleeping Infirmarian and put her hands back on Aidan, ge
ntly pressing her fingers into his neck and shoulders. She kissed his forehead. He raised his head to press his lips against her breast, inhaling deeply. Driven by a need she had never felt before, she let her hands wander over the muscles of his chest, savoring the silkiness of the faint dusting of black hair.
“Climb into bed with me,” he urged.
She pulled back, alarmed. “Ye’re delirious, Aidan. Ye dinna ken what ye’re saying. Ye’re lying on a pallet in the infirmary.”
“Nay, my sweet love, we’re at Kirkthwaite, in the lord’s chamber. On the morrow we’ll sleep late.”
Kirkthwaite? This man was the Lord of Kirkthwaite? How often she had listened in disgust to the auld men of the Maknab clan boast of their murderous rampage at Kirkthwaite thirty years before. They claimed to have destroyed the manor. If this man was lord there, what was he doing in a monastery?
She had to get away, but didn’t want to alarm him. She lay his arms down gently, careful not to touch his hands. “Hush, Aidan. Rest now. I must go. If they catch me here...”
She pecked a kiss on his fevered forehead.
“Don’t leave me,” he whispered faintly. “I need you.” A deep breath shuddered through him and soon he was snoring softly.
Sniffing away tears, she pulled the still damp playd over her head and crept from the infirmary. She had longed to be more than a chattel in a man’s eyes. But Aidan was a monk. She swallowed the bitter irony.
Help Her
“Godemite, Aidan.”
Aidan forced his eyes open a crack. The swelling had lessened and shapes were discernible without much pain if he peered through his lashes. Relief washed over him. “Ragna,” he rasped.
“Edwin is here too.”
Edwin’s face floated into his field of vision. “Edwin, thank God you’ve come.”
He closed his eyes.
“Look what they’ve done to you, brother. You are coming home to Kirkthwaite now.”
Love’s Sweet Sting Page 6