Forbidden

by Sophia Johnson

  His father was many things. Careless was not one of them.

  Ranald’s horse sidestepped, nervous, as riders galloped toward them. They were close enough now that he scanned the men’s faces, swept past Broccin, picked out his father’s commander Domnall, the knights Fergus and Dubne.

  His eyes continued their quest. A frown gathered between his brows. Where was Moridac? He had felt his presence much of late, even coming to him in his dreams. He would recognize him, for he would be the exact image of himself. He snorted in disgust. Aye. Like me. But then, not like me.

  Sick fear twisted ugly fingers around his heart, dragging it to the pit of his stomach. He locked his mind from it. An arrogant voice brought his thoughts back.

  “See the gates opened, boy,” Broccin shouted, his face ruddy with anger.

  “Boy?” Ranald looked at each of the men around him. “I see no boy, Chief Broccin. By yer own lips, that boy died near ten and five years past. If mayhap ye address me, ye are mistaken. I am Brother Ranald, Protector and Infirmarian of Kelso Abbey. If ye wish entrance, ye, Lord Raik’s commander and yer own may enter. All weapons must remain outside these walls, or else surrendered upon entering. Armies are not welcome here. Yer warriors must camp outside the gates.”

  Broccin’s mouth dropped. Ranald spied Domnall, riding beside his father, the corners of his lips twitching though he pressed them together. No one in many years had dared to dispute Chief Broccin.

  Broccin, his eyes blazing, roared. “Open the damned gates. I have orders from King David that concern yer sorry arse.”

  Ranald’s throaty snarl and the harsh rasp of his sword leaving its sheath answered his father. Though all else was still, wind began to stir and lift dirt and leaves into ever-increasing circles in front of Ranald as his horse stamped closer to the gate.

  “Brother Ranald.”

  Ranald felt Prior Godric’s serene presence nearby and the soft tug on his frock. He looked down to find he stood close.

  “My son, allow Chief Broccin to enter.” The prior fingered his cross, his eyes gentle with sympathy when they looked into Ranald’s.

  “Aye, Ranald. ‘Tis best to get it over with. He’s not about to leave.”

  Sweat trickled down Raik’s temple. His jaw looked tense, too. What had he to fear? Ranald’s stomach churned in dread.

  He slapped his sword back into its scabbard then nodded at the gatekeeper. The man’s hands shook so badly it took several tries before he could free the lock and push the door halfway open. Broccin shoved through and rode to the center of the courtyard. He did not dismount in one smooth motion as was his custom, but laboriously climbed from his saddle.

  Ranald stayed by the gate until Raik’s two men and Domnall entered, along with a man attired in the king’s livery. Ranald nodded and the gate clanged shut again. He rode over to where Brother Octavius waited and dismounted.

  “After ye have secured their weapons, please see the men outside are given ample water. Ask if anyone needs aid.” Ranald spoke quietly to the monk who had worked with him for the past five years. He handed his own sword to the young novice beside him.

  As he strode over to the group waiting in front of the abbot’s house, he watched the prior greet his father. His sire had not changed overmuch. Truth, his temples were gray and bitterness had etched lines beside his lips. His eyes had dimmed somewhat, no longer as piercing dark as before. He was tall, his muscles lean...a body much like Ranald would have when age crept up to meet him.

  Raik stood, his posture stiff with displeasure radiating from every inch of his body as he, too, stared at Broccin.

  The prior was a slight man below average height, and he could not see over the warriors around him. When he stood on the third step, his faded blue eyes found Ranald’s. A delicate hand withdrew from the white sleeves to beckon him forward.

  “Come, Abbot Aymer awaits you all.” Prior Godric motioned Chief Broccin, Raik and the king’s messenger to follow him.

  Ranald frowned. The abbot had expected this visit? Why had he not warned him of it?

  Raik strolled beside Ranald. Neither spoke as they followed the prior through the arched doorway, down the south arcade leading around the abbot’s cloister gardens.

  The open bays that faced the cloister were designed to look like huge arched windows with elaborate stonework latticed in the opening. Ranald watched Broccin greedily assessing everything, even gauging the wealth of the vaulted stone ceilings with their intricately carved patterns.

  The men’s boots striking the stone floor were foreign to this soothing place. Ranald grimaced and peered out into the cloister garden. At its center stood a marble fountain. Water flowed from a pitcher held in the hands of a stone monk and collected at the basin below. A bird fluttered to rest on the stone shoulder, its wings spread wide to catch the sun’s rays. Benches surrounded the basin.

  Lush flower gardens decorated the big square. He inhaled, enjoying the mixture of honeysuckle, roses, lavender, sweet violets, hyssop—too many scents for him to separate.

  How many nights had he sat here with Abbot Aymer, his quiet words and prayers soothing Ranald’s soul? He disliked his father seeing any of it.

  Too soon, they reached the abbot’s private offices. Sending a silent prayer for God to help him hold his temper, Ranald steeled himself to relax. Whatever his father wanted, he would have none of it.

  Abbot Aymer waited patiently for everyone to enter his study. Books lined each wall and a heavy carpet covered the floor. Close to a large window stood a massive oak table, cluttered with work. Beside it, a brace of candles sat unlit, for the day was clear.

  Prior Godric waited for everyone to take a seat then motioned to a lay brother who stood in a corner with a pitcher of wine and enough goblets for all. When he had served everyone, he retired. Prior Godric stood beside the door, his hands again thrust inside his sleeves. Ranald remained standing beside the abbot’s chair, seeing to his protection.

  “Mayhap you will tell me of your quest, Chief Broccin,” Abbot Aymer started. He got no further before Broccin interrupted.

  “I have come for my son, nothing more.” Broccin glowered around the room as he downed his wine.

  “Your son is at Raptor Castle. You declared his twin dead to you many years past. ‘Twas printed on the missive attached to his litter when he arrived.” The abbot leaned back in his chair and waited quietly.

  “Dinna be a fool...”

  Ranald was swift. He loomed threateningly over his sire. “Do not speak in such a tone, else ye will find yerself outside the gate.” His tone was quiet. Deadly quiet. Only a fool would not have heeded the threat in it.

  Broccin bolted up. His face turned purple, his eyes bulged in instant anger.

  “Ye dare threaten yer father?” He shoved Ranald hard, thinking to knock him to the stones as he had so many times in the past.

  Raik’s man shot to his feet, ready to intervene should Ranald have need of it. He did not.

  Ranald hadn’t budged; he hadn’t swayed. Broccin may as well have shoved a carved statue. Instead, a force pushed the Chief backward until the backs of his legs brushed his chair. He looked startled, for Ranald had not touched him.

  When Broccin sat, Raik’s man quietly resumed his seat.

  “Please, Brother Ranald. I take no offense. Come. Stand beside me again.”

  Ranald reluctantly did as the abbot asked, though he did not relax his guard.

  “Chief Broccin, be good enough to explain why you wish Brother Ranald to come to Raptor Castle. Is it for some family ceremony ye wish him to officiate?”

  Broccin snorted. “Aye. A ceremony. ‘Tis for a wedding.”

  “And whose wedding would this be?” The abbot tilted his head, curious as to why he would need one of his monks.

  “His own.” Broccin glared at Ranald and sat back in his chair.

  “What? Are ye daft? I canna marry. If ye want heirs for Raptor Castle, Moridac will provide them.” Ranald watched his father like he w
as a strange, talking creature.

  “Moridac is dead.”

  Ranald’s hands fisted, his nails cutting into his palms as he leaned forward and braced himself on the edge of the desk. Pain shot through him hearing the words scream through his head. The doors burst open and slammed shut with a sharp bang while shutters beat against window openings then stilled. He couldn’t control his grief much less rein in the turmoil it created.

  He should have known. ‘Twas why he had felt Moridac’s presence these past weeks. He had thought ‘twas because his twin still mourned for his lost brother. But nay. ‘Twas Moridac trying to tell him he was gone.

  The abbot gripped Ranald’s hand and held tight, sending comfort. Broccin, Domnall and the king’s man looked around them, puzzling what had caused the sudden chaos. Not Raik, the abbot or prior, though. Ranald straightened and locked his body rigid. He refused to show any feelings. His father would feed on it.

  “He died, and ‘tis yer fault.” Broccin’s voice grew to a shout. “Ye should have been there to heal him the way ‘tis rumored ye do here.”

  “How could I have been? Ye are the one who abandoned me here, telling one and all I no longer lived.” Ranald flinched and longed to be alone to grieve.

  “What happened to your son, Chief Broccin? I had heard he was a healthy, strong man. Like his brother.” The abbot strove to quiet the anger sizzling in the air.

  “A hunt. Just a day afore his vows were to be said. He died in my arms three sennights ago.”

  Ranald was shocked to see tears dampen his father’s lashes. Hurt filled him, for his sire had shown neither a look of sadness nor regret when he had lain near death.

  “I am sorrowed by my brother’s death.” A dull, empty ached gnawed at his heart knowing his hopes of one day seeing Moridac walking through the abbey entrance was forever a lost dream. “I will say prayers daily for his soul.”

  “I don’t want yer prayers. I want yer body at Raptor’s church to wed Catalin of Hunter Castle. She was set to marry my son, and my son she will marry, though not the one she lusted after. Ye will return with me.”

  Ranald looked at Raik, and from his apologetic expression, he knew there was more to it. For what reason did King David send Raik as his protector?

  “I canna marry. I am a monk. Dinna ye ken? I have taken vows of celibacy.” Ranald spoke slowly, as if instructing a child.

  “Aye. Ye took vows. They are broken now.” Broccin smirked when he said it.

  “I have broken no vow.”

  “Ye had no need. I must have heirs for Raptor Castle. Ye will provide them. Ye are no longer a monk.” Broccin snorted. “Have not been for the sennight it took the missives to reach me.”

  Ranald’s lip curled with disgust looking at his father. Was the man brainsick? Then he remembered Raik’s mention of King David and turned to him with raised brows.

  “By what means is this?”

  “Since Chief Broccin has no other sons, if he dies, the title devolves to you. Raptor Castle is vital to the safety of Scotland.” Raik cleared his throat. “A castle without a lord is fair prey for a siege. King David does not want it to change hands. He petitioned the Pope. With ample incentive, the Pope granted a special dispensation.”

  Raik nodded to the king’s representative, who laid a sealed parchment at the abbot’s hand.

  Everyone stilled as the abbot broke the seal and unrolled it. He smoothed it out on the desk and leaned forward, as close as he could get his failing eyes to the words.

  Ranald’s stomach churned, hoping there was some flaw the saintly man could find. His hopes dimmed when sad eyes peered up as he thrust the parchment at him.

  His world of peace descended into the chaos of Hell. All in the time it took to read the Latin written there.

  This was his home. His work was here. His peace was here. He wouldn’t leave.

  Slapping his hand atop the parchment, he straightened. “I may no longer be a monk, but I choose to remain here. If King David fears for Raptor Castle, let him appoint another lord. I dinna want it. I willna take it.”

  “Fool,” Chief Broccin shouted. “Whether ye like it or no, ye’ll go. I thought ye’d be stubborn. ‘Tis why an army awaits outside the gates. Return with me, else I’ll raze this abbey to the ground.”

  Raik and his man bounded to their feet, along with the king’s representative. Prior Godric hurried to stand on the other side of the abbot.

  “I will not allow it, Chief Broccin.” Raik ground out the words between clenched teeth.

  “Mayhap ye will try. Do ye forget? We outnumber ye. How much damage, how many lives will bleed their last in trying to thwart me?”

  The abbot stood, his hands upraised.

  “Enough. We will settle this quietly, with the dignity God’s house deserves.” He rang a small gold-plaited bell setting on the corner of his desk. A novice immediately appeared.

  “Please show these men to their quarters for the evening.” He turned to them and smiled. “When it is time, someone will come to direct you to the dining hall. After lauds on the next sunrise, Ranald and I will give you our answer.”

  The prior opened the door wide. He and Raik hung back, making sure Broccin exited without causing any additional problems. Before Raik left the room, he turned to Ranald.

  “I am sorry, cousin. I was to be given time to talk to ye and Abbot Aymer. Chief Broccin was not to arrive until two days hence. I should have known he would do something rash.”

  Ranald, his mind burning with emotions, nodded then turned away. The door quietly closed behind him.

  CHAPTER 5

  Cold seeped through to Ranald’s bones. He ignored it. His body ached; his muscles screamed. Stretched wide like a human cross on the chilly marble, he paid no heed. His forehead pressed hard onto unyielding stone, he prayed into the night. Through each liturgy of the hours, all within Kelso Abbey prayed with him. For him.

  His heart filled with dread of leaving this place. Within Kelso, he could subdue his demons. He did not want to join the secular world. Doing so, how could he keep from becoming a beast like his sire? Or a slave to pleasure like he had learned his brother had become?

  Aye, visitors had carried stories of Moridac. They had not known they spoke of the monk’s brother. He knew of Moridac’s drunken orgies held at a hunting lodge deep in the forest. And of his brutal fighting and cruelty.

  Broccin thought he had stilled the talk, but men spoke of Moridac’s eyes gleaming, his lips spread in a smile when he fought to the death. Over trivial things that meant nothing to him. He seized every chance to prove he was his father’s son.

  Though Ranald knew of these things, he still loved Moridac as his twin had been when last he saw him. Nothing could change that. What could change was himself, given enough time in that outside world with Broccin. It was his greatest fear.

  The abbot and he had talked into the night. He knew he could defy his father, wanted to, even. But Broccin would wreak havoc in a few short hours should Ranald resist. And he must not defy an order from King David.

  He had checked one last time on the Infirmary. Prior Godric, with Ranald’s advice, had assigned the young monk who had worked the longest with him taking care of the sick and injured to become the next Infirmarian. The prior assured Ranald he would send word to him should they at any time need his help.

  Footsteps drew near. It was time to rise.

  He pressed his ruined cheek to the floor’s coldness and tightened his body. It was as if he hugged the stones he had knelt upon too many times in the past to count.

  A soothing hand brushed his temple. “My son, the time draws near for you to ride.” Abbot Aymer waited while Ranald rose to his knees, crossed himself and stood.

  o0o

  When he walked out into the fog-filled courtyard, Broccin, Raik and the others already sat their mounts. Domnall held tight to a magnificent black horse’s bridle. The horse stamped, threw his head about and tried to rear as Domnall led him.

  “Mo
ridac oft said this horse was too much for him. He believed you would have tamed him, had you lived. He didna ken you were here at Kelso,” Domnall said.

  Broccin rode over, a smirk on his face.

  “Meet Satan’s Spawn. Yer brother named him. A fitting mount to make a fool of a man who spent his night sprawled like a dead raven in front of an altar. No doubt ye’ll be splattered on the cobblestones once ye mount.”

  Ranald let the words flow through the air, ignoring them. Brother Octavius handed him the belt, sword and scabbard given to Brother Ranald by a grateful knight. He fastened them around his waist before turning to kneel and kiss Abbot Aymer’s ring. He took one last look around and blinked, seeing all the monks and laymen gathered there to see him off.

  He cleared his throat, took hold of Satan’s bridle and murmured to the horse. The beast jerked and strained. Ranald, his muscles rippling in his arms, kept him still. Again and again, he stroked down the shiny black head and long neck then rubbed between the beast’s eyes, all the time talking and soothing him. Bit by bit, Satan quieted. He danced one last sidestep, shook his head to show he had the last word then stilled.

  Broccin’s jaw went slack when Ranald gained the saddle in a flash. Satan reared. Ranald did not budge. His firm hands and legs let the horse know the man was master, not the beast. Satan again stamped up and down with his forelegs. Ranald ignored him.

  Each maneuver the horse tried, Ranald countered, until it shook and snorted then threw its head up and pranced. Regal. Proud. As if he deemed the black-robed man on his back worthy of him.

  “Cover yer face. ‘Tis as unsightly as the day I sent ye here.”

  “Nay, Broccin. Ye dinna like the design ye created? ‘Tis a shame. Ye worked so hard at it.”

  “Yer fault. In yer drunken state, ye could have ruined a fine stead.”

  “Ah, yes. Yer mount was far more valuable than yer son. There is another problem ye are forgetting.” Ranald’s cold regard made Broccin twitch.