FORBIDDEN
Book 1 of the Raptor Castle Series
SOPHIA JOHNSON
“Highly emotional and beautifully descriptive. An enchanting love story.”
— Jessica Trapp
HIS FORBIDDEN DESIRE
His head jerked up. His eyes probed the shadows. A woman’s graceful steps barely disturbed the stones, but it was enough to announce her. He whipped his cowl up to cover his head and hide his face in its shadows.
He moved to stand in the deep gloom where a thin shaft of moonlight split the darkness in front of it. He would see who hurried to him with such purpose in her stride.
HER SHAMEFUL SECRET
“Has Chief Broccin brought you here to speak the vows this next morn?”
“Aye.” ‘Twas the truth, though she thought he would be doing the asking—not the answering.
“Chief Broccin has said I would not have time to talk with a priest before the ceremony, but I cannot marry with such sin on my conscience.”
He heard Catalin take a quavering, deep breath as she stared up at him, her eyes probing the gloom.
“Will you hear my confession?”
Copyright 2011 by June J. Ulrich
Smashwords Edition
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The book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, localities, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Cover design by Delle Jacobs
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Visit the author’s website at www.sophiajohnson.net
CHAPTER 1
Raptor Castle, Scotland’s Border, 1128
“Make haste, Ranald, afore someone discovers us.” Moridac staggered and near dropped the reins of his father’s destrier when the great horse stamped and huffed. Blinking rapidly, he wrapped the leather around his fist and held fast.
“All are sleeping off the feast, Moridac. ‘Tis a wonder they didna drown in the wine vats while celebrating yer betrothal to Catalin.”
The massive double doors to the stables near reached the ceiling, allowing room for a knight to ride through and dismount inside. Only one door stood open. This morn’s sun was still hiding behind the mountains to the east. The young men had barely enough light to see the courtyard remained empty.
“Aye, but dinna tarry.”
Moridac, the elder of the twins by twenty heartbeats, gave an explosive belch, staggered and near fell. The startled horse jerked its head so high it lifted the young man off his feet. Clutching its mane, he tried to steady himself.
“Do ye ken I canna fly through the air, brother? Dinna let him move. I’ll make it next time.”
Moridac snorted in disbelief.
Ranald’s head was as heavy as if he wore a helmet forged for a giant. He blinked, clearing his wavering vision. Mayhap standing atop an upended barrel was not so wise? Huh, mayhap it was. He couldn’t mount using stirrups, for his unsteady legs refused to stop wobbling. The steed sidestepped close. Seizing his chance, he leapt. His ballocks hit the saddle, shooting pain clean up to his chest.
Humph! “Satan’s spawn!”
With one hand clutching his throbbing sex, he fumbled for the reins his twin tossed at him. Triumphant laughter burst from his throat.
He had achieved the forbidden: he would ride Goliath, their father’s prized warhorse.
A loud groan signaled the second door opening. Two dreaded shapes framed by the dim light outside, appeared in the doorway. Blessed saints! Ranald had no need to see who stood there. Angry shouting near shook the rafters.
“What means this? Ye drunken fool!” Chief Broccin of Raptor Castle charged toward his sons, his right hand uplifted clutching a whip.
Goliath snorted and threw his head about, jerking the reins from Ranald’s hand. The horse’s angry stamp bounced him around in the saddle near unseating him. He grabbed the heavy black mane and clamped his long legs around the heaving sides.
The horse had a mind of its own. Chief Broccin barely jumped aside before Goliath made a leap through the doorway. Angus, the stable master, slammed against the doorframe then righted himself and ran after the beast.
He had no need, for Broccin’s whistle split the air. Goliath skidded to a halt. Ranald flew over the horse’s head to land in deep, wet mud left from last eve’s downpour.
The thud took his breath. The surprise near sobered him.
His nose wrinkled with the rancid odor. The mud tasted as rank as it smelled. He gagged and spat it from his mouth. Had every bone in his body cracked like last morn’s eggs? He giggled, picturing himself as a huge yellow-yoked egg, floating atop the mud. Trying to get up on his knees, he slipped. Feeling his father’s presence, his gaze traveled from naked toes planted firmly in the mud, and up hairy, muscled calves’ sturdy as a block of wood. He got no farther.
The whip whistled. Pain streaked Ranald’s back.
“Ye drunken fool. Ye dared defy me and sat my mount?”
Ranald gasped and tried to stand. His father’s foot slammed him back into the mud. The whip whistled again then struck. He barely had time to draw the next breath before more blows landed. Chief Broccin cursed and ranted like a brainsick man.
How many times had the whip struck? He clamped his teeth tight and struggled to get a firm grip on the land to fight his way out of the mud. A foot crashed into his hips, knocking him to his left side, his back to his father.
“Nay, Father!”
From the sounds of it, Moridac’s shouted protest earned him a forceful backhand.
The next lash caught Ranald’s right shoulder, his forehead and cheek. To his shame, he screamed. Blows continued to rain down on him. The agony in his face was worse than his back, for the cold mud soothed it. Desperate, he tried to catch the whip, to cover his face. His sire was too swift for him.
“My lord, ye’ll kill him,” Angus shouted.
“Broccin. Enough!”
‘Twas Domnall’s bellow. Footsteps thudded across the ground. Sounds of scuffling followed and the beating stopped.
Had he passed out for a short time? The next thing he knew, he heard others talking.
“Dunk him in the horse trough afore ye carry him to his room. I canna tend the poor lad’s wounds if they be hidden by filth,” a woman’s shaky voice demanded.
Ranald could not bite back cries as brawny arms grasped his legs and under his arms then lifted him. Each step jarred his torn flesh. Soon icy water surrounded him.
“Hold yer breath, lad,” Domnall muttered.
It was enough warning before his head slid beneath the water. He near drowned when unbelievable pain tore at his face. He screamed again.
o0o
“Dinna lie to me, Domnall. He is near death and burns with fever. It has been days, yet he hasna spoken.”
Why was Moridac’s voice strange? Like he choked on a sob? His twin was too much a man to cry. He hadn’t since the fevers took their sweet mother five years before.
Ranald strained to hear Domnall’s answer but couldn’t. Longing to be free of the pain and heat ravaging him, he hoped his father’s commander said aye. Death would be a blessing.
Heavy boots striking the floor announced his sire’s baleful presence approaching the bed.
“He doesna even resemble a man. Turns my stomach to look at him.”
“Through no fault of his own! ‘Tis your handiwork.” Domnall’s
footsteps came closer, as if to force Broccin to move back from the bed.
“The fool deserved it. He should have protected his face.”
“How? When you kicked him over? Gave him no chance?”
His father snorted. Uncaring. His voice sharpened.
“He fares no better. Joneta canna always stay at his side. I grow tired of foul meals since my sister hasna had time to instruct the cook. Put him in a cart and take him to Kelso Abbey.”
“To move him now may well kill him!”
A muffled sound followed Domnall’s words. Like his fisted hand striking his thigh in anger.
“‘Tis close enough. Monks from Selkirk have settled there. I have heard talk of a healer skilled at treating wounds. He is far more learned than Joneta.”
Did his father seek to rid himself of an unwanted burden? Ranald sensed he leaned close again, perusing him.
“Hmpf. He is of no use to me now. I know no man desperate enough he would wed his daughter to such a horror. Leave him at Kelso and return.”
Chief Broccin’s footsteps faded. The door banged shut.
Ranald tried to find voice, but his body would not respond. For all the power he had over it, he may as well have been stone.
Ranald thought his suffering couldn’t be worse.
He couldn’t be more wrong.
CHAPTER 2
Kelso Abbey, 1143
“Ho, there, Brother Ranald. ‘Tis good the sun is hiding else yer pate would rival a lush apple. Why did yer sword not greet me when the bell rang?”
Smiling, Raik of Castle Douglas strode toward the monk kneeling in the dirt amongst medicinal herbs in the Infirmary’s garden.
“What need have I of a sword, cousin? Ye know full well I can lay ye flat without its use.” Ranald kept his head bowed as he grasped the edge of his black cowl and pulled it to shield his head. He leapt to his feet. “Besides, all know yer pretty face and remember ye couldn’t knock over a wee kitten.”
“Aye, mayhap when last ye saw me. Take a look, my friend.”
Raik wore naught but a kilt gathered around his slender waist. Leather boots covered his feet. He stretched strong arms out to the sides, his muscles bunching at his shoulders, and turned slowly. The sun highlighted shining hair so deep a brown it looked near black. Startling blue eyes that could hold a person in a trance when they stared into them, laughed back at Ranald when he completed his turn. His skin, browned from the sun, was taut over a broad, muscled chest that tapered to a flat, hard belly.
Ranald studied him, glad to find he looked strong and healthy, though he didn’t like the dark circles under troubled eyes that watched him in turn.
“Ye dinna look to need my care. Have ye been plagued with the fevers again?”
“Nay.” Something flashed in Raik’s dark eyes as he answered.
Uneasiness? Hesitation?
Raik huffed and reached out a big hand to grasp the monk’s hood and toss it backward, revealing Ranald’s ravaged face.
“What need have ye to hide from me?”
Ranald shrugged for answer. “Come, I must check on Brother Mathias. He fell down the dormitory stairs when coming to Matins this last night.” He strode through the garden outside the Infirmary cloister. His long legs ate up the distance, but Raik was not outpaced.
“Ah. So that is why pain lingers on yer face. ‘Tis that ye tried to hide.” Raik clasped him on the shoulder and gave it a little shake. “How do ye stand it, Ranald? All the anguish ye see when ye aid their healing? How do ye control yer feelings?”
“Hsst. There are those here who know not of my “problem.” I wouldna have them affrighted for naught.”
“I was not affrighted when ye tended me.”
“Hmpf. Ye say that now. Do ye not remember? Ye didn’t know me. Ye seized my throat and held yer knife to it whilst asking if I was the Angel of Death?”
Ranald had been careless that night they had brought Raik to him so badly injured. In the struggle to save his life, and needing light to see to the man’s wounds, he had merely crooked his finger at the brace of candles, and they appeared at his side. One hard look from his eyes and the unlit candles flamed. He had not noticed his cowl had slipped, revealing the scarred face of a man Raik believed dead years ago. ‘Twas no wonder he thought Death had come for him.
Not wanting his cousin to know how very tired he was, he squared his shoulders. He had not slept well of late. Anguish had filled his soul for the past three sennights. He knew not the cause of it, but he couldn’t shake it off.
“I dislike remembering what a fool I was.” Raik sighed and looked away, ashamed.
“Come, I must wash before I go in.” Ranald shrugged and led him to the lavatorium across the courtyard. They stepped inside the long, vaulted room. Water fed by a nearby stream ran in a raised smooth wooden trough down the length of the room; a wide groove in the floor led outside to release water sloshed from rinsing.
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 be
d, 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.”
Forbidden Page 1