Nolana inhaled the scented smoke. “What’s in your pipe, Jennet? It smells good.”
Jennet pursed her lips and blew out more smoke, wafting it towards Nolana, mischief in her eyes. “Aye. ‘Tis me own blend. Mostly red clover, rose hips and a touch of a secret ingredient.”
Nolana smiled, but could barely keep her eyes open. “Secret ingredient?”
Jennet put a fingertip to her lips, looked around furtively and whispered, “Honey.”
Nolana arched her brows, but had to stifle a yawn. “I’m sorry. I walked a long way today.”
Jennet pointed to a pallet by the hearth. “Sleep now. I’ll wake ye in the morn.”
“But where will you sleep?”
Jennet tapped her pipe on the stones of the hearth and curled a finger inside the bowl as she blew into it. “I’ve a pallet in the loft. Heat rises. You need the hearth more than I do. I bid ye goodnight.”
Nolana accepted the pallet and drew the meagre blanket over her. “Goodnight, Jennet.”
She drifted into sleep, picturing a life behind convent walls.
CHAPTER THREE
Nolana woke to the aroma of fresh baking. For a moment she was back in her father’s manor house in the Carnsith Fells. She remembered clambering out of bed as a child and hastening to the kitchens where Cook had crusty rolls to break her fast.
It was pointless to dwell on those days. They were gone. Her stepfather had razed the manor when he’d wed her mother. “No use leaving an old house empty,” he’d declared. “You’ll be living in the lowlands. Why pay these people to keep up a manor if you don’t live in it?”
These people, who’d 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’d ever known go up in flames. She hated men, and the weakness of her mother who so feared being alone she’d succumbed to the dictates of this arrogant male monster.
He’d driven her to an early grave after the birth of their son, Nolana’s half brother, Ingram. Nolana had no doubt he’d beaten her mother. He deemed it his right. She swore never to be subject to the commands of a man.
Jennet’s voice broke into her reflections. “Yer awake. Barm cake?”
Nolana accepted the warm roll and gratefully sank her teeth into the fluffy bread, relishing the barmy taste. She swallowed and licked her lips. “Good, Jennet. This is the best bread I’ve ever tasted.”
Jennet chuckled. “That’s because yer 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.
“Have ye 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. Ye can stay ‘ere a while. Like I said, I need company.”
Nolana wandered over to see if her garments were dry. “It’s kind of you, Jennet, but I’ll be forced to make some decisions soon.”
Jennet poured water from a ewer into a bowl. “Abide wi’ me a bit, lassie, while ye decide. 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. Here they were 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. You should be married, with bairns.”
Nolana wiped her runny nose and stared at her hands. She’d wanted children, a fine husband. Now—
“Tell thee what,” Jennet offered, “ye’ll journey with me into Beal market Tuesday next. The monks’ll be there selling their mead. They’ll bring honey too. Ye can mayhap ask their advice, though they don’t mix much with folks. Too high and mighty.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The monotony of monastic life grated on Aidan. The same thing happened at the same time every endless day. He’d grown up in a noisy household full of love, laughter and argument. In the Abbey he was drowning in silence.
The rough wool habit irritated his sensitive skin. Had it ever been washed? He wasn’t the first monk to wear the odious garment. Decay lingered in its folds.
His mother’s table had provided rich and satisfying victuals. Abbey food was tasteless and there wasn’t enough to satisfy a bird, let alone his robust appetite.
He chafed at the pettiness of those superior to him who demanded his obedience in everything. While Aidan had never been the hellion his sister was, he was the eldest son of a proud man, a hero of the First Crusade. He was heir to wealthy properties, descendent of a noble Norman family. He wasn’t used to obeying imbeciles. He’d clenched his fists so often his palms bore the imprint of his fingernails.
The FitzRams prized cleanliness, but here he was forced to wait a sennight between baths. The stench of his body disgusted him. Bathing for the postulants consisted of standing naked while older monks tossed icy cold water at them, taking what he considered perverse pleasure in the act. It reminded him of the treatment his uncle Robert de Montbryce had received in Duke Curthose’s cells. He longed for a good tub soak.
They had denied him his name. Now he was Brother Christian. It seemed a slight to the murdered uncle for whom he’d been named. He had protested, citing the dedication of Lindisfarne to St. Aidan, only to be rebuked for the sin of pride for comparing himself to a saint.
Though no longer a virgin, he’d never been a man to pursue women. He wanted someday to find a woman to love as his father had loved his Agneta—as Dieter loved Blythe. Thoughts of his twin sister brought to mind the journey home from her wedding in Cologne six years before. What a green lad he’d been then. It seemed to suddenly occur to Sir Caedmon FitzRam that he had not passed on to his son his knowledge of how to please a woman in bed. Aidan had been astonished and somewhat embarrassed by the apparent sexual prowess of his father—something he’d never given any mind to before. He had a new respect for his sire after that—and for his mother!
Once they were back in England it was as if women were aware Aidan had this new knowledge. He became the object of constant female attention. Was it something a man exuded?
The reality of never again making love to a woman saddened him. When he thought on it, his shaft responded, despite his best efforts to quell his arousal. He prayed for strength not to succumb to the needs of the flesh, but he was weak. Judging by the muffled gasps and groans in the dormitory at night he’d wager he wasn’t the only monk seeking solace by his own hand. He’d been at Lindisfarne four months; how was he to survive a lifetime? Ragna had been right. Sometimes he thought he might have fallen ill. His chest felt tight and his head ached constantly.
He recalled his mother’s tales of her time as a novice in Alnwick Abbey—she had hated the repetition. He was his mother’s son.
Memories of her brought a lump to his throat. He had to be stronger. He was being tempted from his calling. God expected him to atone. He would do it. He would put aside thoughts of returning to Kirkthwaite. Ragna would manage without him. She had Leofric Deacon to help her, and their Montbryce uncles and cousins would do what was necessary. He readily admitte
d Edwin would be of little help to his sister. He was too shy, too other-worldly.
My brother would make a better monk.
The one thing Aidan did enjoy was his involvement in the making of mead. At least he was doing something, not praying and chanting all day and all night.
He had not been allowed access to the recipe, though he had caught a glimpse of the vellum embossed with brown ink. Some of the monks who’d been at Lindisfarne for years had not been trusted with the full knowledge. But he had been shown how to gather the honey, and how to separate it from the wax. He had been limited to the hives in the hollowed out tree trunks the monks had devised, but soon the task would begin in earnest when the skeps were destroyed and opened. He’d spent many hours making new conical beehives to replace the ones they would tear apart. His hands bore deep scratches from the blackberry briars used to bind together the coiled straw. Removing bramble thorns and splicing the briars was a newly acquired skill. He had learned how to fasten the ekes to the bottom of the skeps to give the bees more room to make honey. Brother Tristan, the Cellarer, had even whispered the secret name of the barm. “We call it godisgood, Brother Christian, godisgood, because without its God-given properties, we would have no mead.”
He was confident he was being groomed. Perhaps if he worked hard to earn the Abbot’s trust, he might become a mead maker and hold on to his sanity. He would embark on this goal when he accompanied the Abbot and two other monks to Beal market Tuesday next. At least he would be outside these oppressive walls for a short time. Perhaps then his headache would ease.
***
“Remember, Brother Christian, detachment—at all times detachment. 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 Abbot know what temptation was? How long had he been incarcerated within the abbey? “Yes, Father Abbot. I’ll be careful.”
The Abbot tapped his forefinger against his lips. “Best not to speak to the young 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.
He climbed into the back of the cart, swearing under his breath when a spile 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. The slow progress lulled Aidan to sleep as the cart lurched over the rutted sands to Beal. The tide swept over the causeway twice a day, cutting the island off from the mainland.
He awoke disoriented when the Abbot reined the ox to a halt. This wasn’t the way to impress, falling asleep on the way to market. He stumbled out of the cart, his skin itchy, his thumb throbbing. He lifted 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 off the surface of their allotted stall, leaving Aidan and the other monks to heft the rundlets and flagons. He’d 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’d never been to Beal. Judging by the bustle of activity around them early in the day it promised to be an enjoyable experience. If only he was wearing something other than his 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. No doubt they sought her still. 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’d 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. These were simple folk, plying 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 cannot, this is too generous. You have little—”
Jennet curled Nolana’s fingers around the coins and pushed back her hand. She pointed to a stall where brightly coloured ribbons fluttered in the sea breeze. “Nay, happy I am if ye’ll use it to buy thesel’ a bit o’ frippery from yon mon. I’m too owd for such, but thee—”
Nolana swallowed hard. This auld 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.
CHAPTER FIVE
Aidan was ready to collapse with fatigue. He’d never been a lethargic man. His mother had often complained he had too much energy. He and Blythe had on occasion led their parents a merry dance when they were growing up. What he wouldn’t give now for a scolding glance from his mother.
He raked his fingers through his hair and leaned back against the wooden frame of the stall, brushing away the horseflies drawn by the honey. What would it be like to be tonsured? His hair had always been long, dark like his father’s.
Memories of his parents filled his head. A lifetime would not be enough to atone for the manner 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 would not be fulfilled.
A shuddering breath caught in his throat. He eyed the jars of mead, estimating how much longer they would 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 making her way to the haberdashery stall. At least, he thought she was a young woman. How odd to be shrouded by a playd on such a warm 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 saffron. She reached out to finger the coloured ribbons hanging from the crossbeam, glancing around furtively, drawing the brown playd further over her head.
She’s afraid of something—or someone.
His gut clenched—and then she turned and seemed to look directly at him. Her obvious nervousness did nothing to detract from her loveliness. His mouth fell open. She turned back to the stall, reaching up to point to a particular ribbon. The merchant handed it to her. She raised her arms. 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—his erection was a rod of iron.
She replaced the shawl quickly and paid for the ribbon. 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!
***
There was only one place Nolana might find safety. The tall young monk she’d 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 sanctuary if the
men pursued her. Though they were not on sanctified ground, 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. Suddenly he lurched forward, a tumbler in his hand. “Mead—mistress?” he stammered, his eyes still on the men.
Then he looked at her. A spasm of desire snaked through her for the first time in her life. How could those beguiling blue eyes and long black lashes belong to a man who’d 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’d sensed she wished to evade 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. What was she thinking? This man was a monk. She gripped the edge of the stall.
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 was poised to retaliate. He glared at the older monk, his jaw and fists clenched, but then turned and fled into the crowd.
She looked back at the monk whose self-important air convinced her he was the Abbot of Lindisfarne. She’d 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.”
Sweet Taste of Love (The FitzRam Family Medieval Romance Series) Page 2