Letia no sooner eased in beside her and knelt in prayer than a beautiful, strong voice chanting the liturgy came from the altar. Soft murmurs spread around the chapel. Letia’s Warin leaned toward his wife and whispered, and she in turn inched close to Catalin.
“Warin has heard this done in his travels afore, but always in Rome. It is called plainsong,” Letia whispered.
Catalin peeked above her clasped fingers, searching for its source. Only Father Martin stood there, his head bowed, silent.
“Where is the priest? I see no one but Father Martin,” Catalin whispered back.
Letia shrugged, and she too looked around then nodded toward a screen placed at the left of the altar.
The sound of the deep voice, each melodic word precise, hastened Catalin’s heartbeat. What manner of priest could have such an earthy tone? One that troubadours would envy? She gasped. The priest from the garden. So tightly did she grasp her hands together, her nails dug into her flesh.
Heaven help her. She was truly lost. Never to be saved.
How could God forgive her now? Last night had added more sin to her already burdened soul, for her body had quivered when she drew close to the monk and caught his scent. Moridac’s shirt and this disgraced monk smelled much alike. Now, his voice called to her senses.
“Have you seen Ranald?”
Letia’s whisper barely disturbed the soft hair around Catalin’s ear. She peered through her lashes thinking to see the man she was to wed. No. Nowhere in sight. Then her head sprang upright. Why did Ranald not appear at service? Shameless, her gaze roved over the small chapel. No, she saw only those men she knew or had seen last eve.
“Nay. How can he care so little for his faith that he does not deign to attend?”
Her sharp whisper drew Chief Broccin’s baleful scowl to her. She slammed her head down so fast her chin bumped the wooden railing in front of her. ‘Twas unfortunate her teeth snapped together catching the tip of her tongue. She pressed her lips tight to keep from crying out.
o0o
Ranald stood behind the screen. His hands lifted toward the glinting cross at the rear of the altar as he chanted the words in the eight tones used for plainsong. For the first time since coming to Raptor Castle, peace settled over him.
At the end of the mass, as his last words were fading and Father Martin took over, he slipped away. Few knew of the hidden passage there, and he was grateful for it. He wanted no one to see him, for he had yet to seek out the tanner and don his mask. He hurried down the circular stairwell and out into the open.
The sun spread over the top of the surrounding hills, its rays finding their way to a puddle in his path. He stopped, his muscles jerking, remembering another puddle all those years ago. He looked up, took a deep breath and glanced around. He had come to the very spot where Goliath had thrown him into the mud. The horse trough, a filled bucket perched atop a corner awaiting a stable hand, stood not twenty paces away. The stable doors gaped wide apart. Grooms scurried around inside fetching oats and hay, currying brushes clasped under their armpits.
A violent shudder wracked him. Remembering. His cheek twitched. Stung. He tensed, fancied he heard the whoosh of his father’s whip.
His stomach lurched. Bile came to his throat. Burning.
Wind picked up around him. Tiny waves rippled in the puddle. He stared at the water in the trough, the memory of the terrible pain, the way the water had filled his nose when his mouth opened wide in a gurgling scream as fresh in his mind as if it were last morn.
“Ranald! Ranald!”
A hand touched his shoulder.
He blinked. Wind whistled. His robes whipped around his legs. A young boy stood, his mouth agape looking at the trough where water sloshed over the sides as if something heavy had dropped there. The bucket rocked, tipped, fell to the ground. It rolled and did not stop until it struck the stable’s doorframe.
He gritted his teeth, shook his head.
“I kenned I held my feelings in check. What has happened?”
Raik squeezed his shoulder, giving acceptance.
Ranald took a deep breath, closed his eyes and waited. He had thought he had control over his anger. Had learned to hide the strange things that happened when he lost it.
His heartbeat slowed.
The fury in his mind softened, calmed.
The wind tapered. Fell.
Only then did he dare open his eyes.
“Come away from here. No one but the boy noted, and he didna sense the reason for it.” Raik’s gaze probed the bailey. “Ye have neither slept nor taken sustenance. Eat.” He shoved a hefty chunk of cheese and the end off a loaf of hot bread at Ranald.
“Last eve it was too dark for ye to see anything. I expect bad memories besiege ye. Any man would lose control of his emotions. God knows, ye have much to forgive.”
“Aye. And to forget.” Ranald nodded, took a large bite of cheese, famished now. By the time they entered the tanner’s hut built against the outer curtain wall, he had devoured the last of the bread.
Both the tanner and the armorer waited. The tanner handed him the finished mask, excitement sparkling in his eyes. Questions there, too, in both men’s eyes. ‘Twas eagerness to learn if their efforts were acceptable.
Ranald held the half-mask, turned it from one angle to the other. Examined it. Last eve, the armorer had formed a thin frame of metal used in making helmets, and shaped it to conform to Ranald’s face. The tanner then covered it with black leather, even putting a soft pad on the inside to keep it from irritating his flesh.
The mask fitted from the hairline above his right brow, down through that small space between his eyes, around the edge of his right nostril, over the top of his lip then back across his jaw to end behind his ear. It hid all but the ridged scars trailing down his neck. For added safety, a thin leather strip pierced the mask at the hairline, another at the back of his ear. When tied, it would disappear amongst his black hair, once that hair grew back to normal style.
“Try it on, man,” Raik urged, “though I still dinna see the need of it.”
Ranald felt clumsy handling it, until the armorer held up a polished piece of metal for him to look into. He examined his reflection, at the sharp contrast between the two sides of his face. Truth to tell, from the feel of his scars, he had expected worse. Still, no woman or child should have to look upon such.
He fitted the mask to his face and adjusted it until it felt firmly in place then tied the leather straps. He had feared it would hinder his sight. It did not, for the opening conformed to the shape of his eye. Nor did he feel any discomfort from it. Raik looked at him his eyes alight with approval.
“Forsooth, man. The lasses will be beside themselves, it adds such mystery to yer face.”
“Better that than having them shrieking with fear.” Ranald let out a long sigh. Part of his life was ending, another beginning.
He thanked both men for their hard work, and having no coins of his own yet, was grateful to Raik for providing them. He would set that matter aright when he had more time.
“Come, Ranald. We must find suitable attire amongst Moridac’s things. Ye canna marry wearing a monk’s cassock.” Raik’s eyes crinkled.
“Nay. Broccin’s guests will have enough to shock them without that.”
Out of habit, he pulled up his hood as they walked through the bailey and made their way to the keep. They took the long way around, wanting to see the castle in the light of day. God’s truth, it seemed far more formidable than what he remembered.
They followed the contour of the outer curtain wall and went through into the inner bailey. Walking the terraced gardens paths, his muscles tightened recalling Catalin’s upturned face, the questions in her eyes when she looked at him. What would she think when she saw him in the light of day? Would she run? Would she refuse to repeat her vows? He could not blame her if she did.
Using a back entrance, they entered the keep unnoticed. He still mused over what he would do if Catalin bolt
ed at the altar. Once they entered the bedchamber, his brows raised so fast they near dislodged his new mask, for beside the right wall stood a flowered chest. Surely Catalin’s, for it had not been there before.
It struck him like a cold dousing, this sign that he would no longer sleep alone. That he would share the room this night with his brother’s intended. A strangled sound escaped his lips before he could stop it.
Raik’s head tilted. He peered thoughtfully at him before speaking.
“Ah, Ranald. I can near hear yer thoughts. Ye are troubled about the night to come?”
“Aye.” Raik cleared his throat. “I have not tupped a woman since Moridac’s betrothal. Trying to outdo each other, we had a wild night of it, drinking and bedding every willing lass.” He looked down, frowned then shifted. How could he ask what nagged and bit at the base of his thoughts?
“What if I canna, uh, perform my husbandly duties?” he blurted.
“Huh? What would hinder ye? Ye dinna find Catalin comely?”
“Oh, nay, ‘tis not that. She has grown to a beautiful woman.” His face heated. “Once I healed at Kelso, I was oft troubled with, um, a rampant tarse when I thought of women. ‘Twas the same time I learned my injuries had left me with the strange happenings when my temper roiled.”
“Did ye frighten the monks overmuch? Did they think ye bewitched?”
“Nay. The first time my temper raged was in private with Abbot Aymer. He showed me a missive from father that day in answer to learning I was well enough to return home. I read Father’s answer. He declared I was of no use to him, that I was to become a monk and never to leave the monastery. He sent a pouch of gold coins to ensure it.”
“The man rivals Satan for meanness.” Raik’s jaw jutted, his brows near met in the middle.
“Aye. Every chair in the abbot’s office crashed against the far wall except the ones we used. The missive flew off his desk and landed against the door.”
“Did he think ye a tool of the devil?”
“He put his hands on my head and began to pray. We knelt there long into the night.” Ranald spied a pitcher of ale setting on the table, went over and poured a portion into two black leather goblets. He handed Raik one then sipped from his own as they each took a seat.
“The bells for Vigils at midnight rang. The abbot quieted and looked into my eyes. I thought he meant to tell me I was doomed. Instead, he declared God had spared me when all expected me to die. He believes my injuries and high fevers caused my strange abilities. But I must learn to control my temper so no harm would come because of it. Until Broccin arrived at Kelso, ‘twas easy enough. Life was tranquil there.”
“The abbot was an unusual man. Mayhap he had heard before about the strange “gifts” that sometimes runs through our family? Though ye, Elyne and I are the only ones affected in this generation?”
“Elyne!” Ranald shot to his feet.
“Aye. Though ‘tis strange with her.”
“Is she like me? Does it happen only when she is angered? Or is she like ye, able to charm someone into doing things even against their will? When did she start?”
“I believe it must have been about the time she, uh, started her monthly courses. She often walks in her sleep at night. To see her, one would think her awake. She isna. She confided in me that when she does, ‘tis then she dreams of a future happening.”
“Do these things come to pass?”
Raik chuckled, his face merry. “She hasn’t been right so far. Often what does occur is the opposite of her vision. Yer father has laughed and made sport of her warnings until now she keeps her dreams secret.”
“I have not seen her this day. But then, I have kept away from everyone.”
He startled when a servant called seeking entrance. Opening the door, he found two men carrying a wooden bathing tub, followed by a line of servants with buckets of water. Hearing the drone of people milling about below, he realized it was time he prepared for his wedding.
At first he was surprised at the heated water then remembered only monks denied themselves such pleasure. He looked down at his cassock and strode over to the big clothing chest. Everything there seemed too colorful, too unlike what he was used to wearing. Finally, ignoring Raik’s raised brows, he took out the clothing he would be comfortable donning.
Never had he been so slow to remove his robe. Knowing it was for the last time, he folded it with care. Kneeling before the chest, he placed the monk’s clothing inside.
What would be Catalin’s expression when she saw him in the light of day, a short time hence?
Worse yet, would she fight him when darkness fell and he took her to his bed?
CHAPTER 7
“If you don’t calm yourself and eat something, you’ll not have the strength to walk to the church.” Hannah clucked her tongue and pushed a bowl of gruel in front of Catalin.
It was well past the noon hour when a heavy fist banged on the door of Catalin’s chamber, startling them both. Before Hannah could reach it, Chief Broccin shoved it wide, nearly toppling her and little caring if his son’s bride was with or without her clothing. Fortunately, Catalin had finished dressing.
“If ‘tis not too much to ask for yer appearance, the priest waits at the church to speak the vows.” Broccin near bellowed with impatience.
“Begone, Broccin. ‘Tis a bride’s right to tarry.” Lady Joneta flapped her hands at her brother to shoo him out. “You are quarrelsome because your guts are growling. Quit hollering and get you to the church. We will be down afore you know it.”
Broccin, his mouth gaping down to his chin, turned like a testy lad, his boots ringing on the floor as he stomped away. Seeing Letia and Elyne sitting on the bed, their hands making poor work of containing the giggles that escaped between their fingers uplifted Catalin’s spirits.
His stomping footsteps faded while they checked one last time to assure everything was aright. Catalin’s sky-blue smock peeked between the slits in the sleeves of a peacock blue kirtle that heightened the color of her eyes. Moridac had purchased the rare, dark silk and bade her sew a gown of it. She swallowed. It was to have been for wedding him that she had made it.
A woven circlet of violets and rose buds kept her hair from her eyes, though there was naught they could do about her unruly reddish-blond curls. A gold-plated girdle rode low on her hips, the ends near touching her shoes when she walked. She wished she were as tall and lithe as Letia, or even Elyne’s height. She, too, was slender while Catalin felt plump as a fattened goose bedecked in bright feathers, ready to be the main course at a feast.
Ugh. ‘Twas too apt a description, for Chief Broccin hungered to add Hunter Castle and her bulging coffers to his own. Why would he not wait a sennight? She swallowed, not able to shake the feeling she was marrying a specter, for Ranald had been dead to the world half her life. She shuddered. Her hands began to sweat. Her skin crawled. She rubbed her arms then wrapped them around beneath her breast, hugging herself.
Was Ranald the same height his twin had been? She had not even come as high as Moridac’s nose...she blinked. Why had he not come to see her this day? Worst yet, why did he not come when his twin lay dying? Moridac had called for him. Ranald’s name was the last word from his lips. Had Moridac known his twin was not dead, but hiding away at Kelso, waited upon by the monks there? Anger straightened her shoulders.
The sun kissed her forehead with a warm beam. How came they to be outside the keep? When had they left her room? Here she was at the foot of the stairway into the inner bailey. Baron de Burgh smiled at her and offered his wrist. His skin felt comfortingly warm to her cold fingers.
“Thank you, my lord. You are most kind to act for my father this day.” Thank heavens her voice was firm and without a quaver.
“My old friend would have been most happy for you. And ‘tis my pleasure to escort such a lovely bride to her vows.” His voice held warmth; his smile was gentle.
She glanced behind her. Letia and Elyne followed, with Joneta and Han
nah behind them. She took a deep breath and pasted a smile on her face. Hopefully, no one would note she fought the urge to bolt and escape across the drawbridge.
God help her. Could a man tell when a woman had lain with another man? Why had she not asked Hannah? What would Ranald do when he bedded her and found she was not intact? Would he cast her out, disgraced and shamed? Oh my. She wanted to spew. Trying to swallow bile back, she gurgled.
“Have no fear, Catalin. Ranald will be a kindly husband to you.” De Burgh looked down at her and patted her hand.
Oh, for shame! Was her fear so easy to see?
Two of Broccin’s squires held the church doors wide for them to step through. They would hold the ceremony inside. Not all the guests that had come for her wedding to Moridac three sennights ago had the means to return. When her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she saw rows of people stood, craning their necks to look at her.
All she could spy at the end of the aisle were flowers decorating the railing before the altar and Father Martin who waited there. Raik stood to the right. Was that Ranald between him and Father Martin? The nearer they approached, the better she could see him.
Saints! She moved three steps closer. The guests swarmed around, jostled each other, their murmurs loud. So many eyes inspected her face. What did they hope to see?
She caught glimpses of Ranald again. Why had he dressed in black? His hair was cut short. Why did he not turn to greet her?
Three more steps. That was all that remained. Those standing in the first two rows of benches swayed back, allowing her eyes better access to her husband-to-be.
He must have noted them stirring about, for he started to turn. She took another step. Outside, the clouds shifted from the sun, sending a shaft of light through the window beside him.
Her right foot lifted to step forward then jerked to a halt. The tall man awaiting there, his back to her, had hair as black as Moridac’s, aye, but it surrounded a tonsure! ‘Twas not her groom but the monk from the garden. It had to be. Was he to be part of the ceremony? Did he stand in for Ranald? Was it to be a wedding by proxy?
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