Forbidden

by Sophia Johnson

  Her fingers trembled, too. And he noted her frequent swallows, though no food was in her mouth. She felt his regard, for she snatched her hands down to her lap. Fearing she was ill, he started to lean closer to ask but had no chance.

  Broccin stood, the movement jarring a belch so blaring it startled Catalin. His father beamed and patted his gut.

  “I wager wee Catalin will soon be breeding.” His grating laugh cut through the room. He rolled his eyes and bobbed his head as he added, “Aye. She will.”

  Ranald’s breath halted then quickened with each word from his sire’s lips.

  Broccin wagged a finger at him as if he admonished him.

  “For truth, Ranald’s ballocks should be weighty as a bull’s.” He turned a sly grin on his son, his voice boomed. “Have ye not hoarded yer seed there, hidden beneath yer monk’s skirts, since leaving Raptor Castle?”

  Ranald clenched his hands. One held the chalice. He lowered it back to the table, not daring to lift it, else he would spray what was left within over his father’s face. He fought to control his racing heart. He took a deep breath, held it then eased it out, bit by bit.

  Across from his father, a gust of wind rustled flower petals strewn on the floor. The white linen cloth covering the long table stirred.

  “I expect a grandson ere too long. The bairn will look much like Moridac.” Broccin stopped to chuckle, a drunken, gleeful sound.

  Ranald closed his eyes. Fought for peace. The room hushed. Not for long before Broccin continued.

  “‘Tis thankful I am Ranald canna pass on his unsightly scars...”

  The breeze picked up, whirled in a circle rising from the floor before Chief Broccin, bringing the petals with it. Faster and faster, it grew until it created an eerie whistle.

  The lord’s heaped platter wobbled, lifted and spun in a wild circle, colliding with the petals. Morsels of capon, globs of cherry sauce, red carrots thick with honey, flew off and struck Broccin’s belly. ‘Twas strange. They struck no one else.

  Ranald drew in a deep breath. Fought for quiet control. He groped for the cross that hung around his neck, forgetting for the moment ‘twas no longer there. He opened his eyes.

  Broccin stared at the table. His gaze fixed on his goblet, full to the brim. It rocked back and forth in a crazy way. Wine splashed over the rim, leaving purple splotches on the white cloth. He gaped as the vessel flew toward him. It struck his right shoulder. Wine splattered his chest. The goblet crashed back to the table and rolled to stop against a basket of bread.

  Broccin roared. Slapped at the mess on his best tunic. Startled chatter filled the air.

  “Did ye see?”

  “What goes here?”

  “‘Tis no wind without!”

  “It took to the air like a hand tossed it.”

  Catalin’s startled cry brought Ranald’s thoughts to her. He turned his back to his father and saw her wide-eyed look.

  “Ye have naught to fear, wife.” Ranald reached to take her hand and found his own was none too steady. He slowed his heaving chest, kept his eyes on her lovely face and deliberately studied the pattern across her nose. Since she was a sprite, he had oft thought the sprinkling of freckles there lent such mischief to her face.

  Raik, on her other side, spoke up so the room could overhear.

  “The wind has been much strange of late. Little puffs become strong, sometimes near to shaking leaves from the trees.”

  “Aye.” Angus shouted from the farthest corner of the room. “One of me young stable lads told of a lone breeze that grew strong as a gale. It pushed water from the horse trough, it did.”

  “‘Twas me son Donald. I thought the lad was telling an untruth till he pointed out the soaked ground.” Hearing disbelieving chuckles, the man scowled. “Dinna laugh. I saw it with me own eyes.”

  “Broccin, I ken you need a change of clothing. Mayhap you had best hie yourself above?” Joneta’s nose lifted high in a sniff.

  “Hmpf! Dinna order me about.”

  Though he protested, he held the sticky tunic out from his body and thought better of keeping it on. To Ranald’s disgust, his father cared not to leave the table but pulled the garment over his head and threw it to the floor, baring his hairy, muscled chest.

  Elyne rolled her eyes and pursed her lips. Letia avoided looking in Broccin’s direction. Catalin made a small sound, surprising Ranald, for she had sucked her teeth. Aye, ‘twas in disapproval, though delicately done.

  “Ye there,” Broccin stabbed a finger at the closest squire. “Go above and bring me clean clothing.”

  The squire scampered off not chancing a harsh cuff for lingering.

  Joneta’s slight bob of her head signaled servants to clear the tables. By the time they finished, their lord was again properly clothed. Cheeses, baked apples nestled in custard, grapes, plums and pears arrived, as did dishes of baked tarts, custards, sugared delicacies and wafers.

  Jugglers, acrobats and troubadours took turns filing in to entertain the diners after their heavy meal. Once everyone was enjoying the sweet offerings and kept occupied watching the center of the room where a young man strummed a lap harp and sang of a beautiful maiden, Ranald leaned close to Catalin.

  “Mayhap ye should steal away while all are occupied?” he whispered. He knew not which smelled the sweeter, her silky hair or the violets in the garland of flowers around her forehead.

  He caught Joneta’s and Elyne’s eyes and looked pointedly toward the doorway. Thankfully, they understood. He hoped his bride could leave afore his father embarrassed her further.

  He hoped for naught. Catalin no more than stood, than Broccin’s head lifted. His nose wrinkled, as if scenting game. His eyes gleamed; he rubbed his hands together. Ranald could near hear the thoughts going through the man’s thick skull.

  He didna like them.

  Joneta, Elyne and Letia formed around Catalin. The ever-faithful Hannah stood waiting in the doorway. The first drunken man to stand, no doubt thinking to follow the women, earned her wrathful glare and sat back down.

  Ranald didn’t like his father’s leering regard of Catalin. If he dared to rise, Ranald would not hesitate to stop him. His tense shoulders relaxed when Raik came to take Catalin’s vacated space.

  “Ye ate no more than a morsel of salmon.” He tilted his head, his teasing eyes studying Ranald’s face. “Are ye still hesitant of what faces ye this night?”

  Ranald shifted in his seat, remembering his blood racing each time he caught Catalin’s scent. The mere thought of it tightened his groin.

  “Lucifer is having a good laugh, cousin. Not even a sennight from Kelso and already I forget.”

  “Forget?” Raik, lifted his shoulders, a hand raised, palm up.

  “Aye. On how to turn my mind from lustful thoughts.”

  “Ye are troubled by it?”

  “Should I stand, I will shame myself. I hardened before the words left my mouth for Catalin to go above.”

  Raik’s laughter brought attention to them.

  “‘Tis a good thing, ye know.” He spoke low for no other ears to hear. “How else can ye consummate this union? Limp as a wilted carrot willna work, as well ye ken.”

  “Hmpf. ‘Tis no fear of that.” He rubbed his chin. E’en though he had scraped his face smooth hours earlier, already bristles grew there.

  “Well, then, ye worry for naught. Once abed, all will come natural again.” Raik grinned at him. “I hope the baker’s daughter still favors me. I plan to spend the hours until dawn warming her pallet.”

  “Dinna fill Raptor Castle with yer bastards, cousin. It will be my duty to feed and care for them. From the children I have glimpsed this day, Moridac had oft sown his seed.”

  “Do we not return to my own bedchamber?” Catalin gulped when Lady Joneta passed by it to push open a door a good fifteen footsteps down from the one she had used since coming here.

  “Nay, child. We go to Ranald’s room. ‘Tis the room he shared with his brother since they were youn
g lads.” She smiled at Hannah, who arrived out of breath to close the door behind them. The two had become fast friends over the years.

  Catalin’s steps faltered on entering Ranald’s chamber. She felt lost in it. Her heart fluttered seeing her clothing chest midway along the wall to the right. Though it was large, it looked small as a child’s in this spacious room.

  Hearing the door close, she glanced behind her and noted what must be a man’s clothing chest, for it was large and sturdy, on the wall to the right of the door. Propped beside it was a sword and scabbard. It had not been Moridac’s, for the hilt held no gold plate, nor was it adorned in any way. This sword was used by a man not driven by the trappings of wealth.

  “I am to share my husband’s room?” Her breath caught. She would have no privacy, no way to hide if sickness came early in the morn. Oh, dear saints.

  Her toes curled thinking of her sin in deceiving Ranald.

  Heaven help her. What could she have done? If she carried Moridac’s bairn, she had to protect it. Would Ranald kill her for it?

  Lady Joneta’s voice distracted her as she eased the circlet of flowers from Catalin’s hair.

  “Always have the wives shared their husband’s bed at Raptor Castle.” Her soft voice was kindness itself.

  Noting the bed, Catalin’s stomach flipped. More than twice the size of a normal one. Mayhap ‘twas a good thing? Could she not put distance between them when they lay there?

  A maid hustled to remove a green bedcover the shade of dense leaves as darkness fell, and placed heated stones between the sheets.

  A thought struck. Perchance Ranald would not wish to claim his husbandly rights? Aye. Might he have a dislike for bed sport? Perchance ‘twas why he became a monk? She clung to that hope.

  “Hold your hands high, lovey,” Hannah urged. She and Elyne gripped the hem of the blue kirtle and took care to lift it free of Catalin’s head.

  “Why do ye tremble?” Elyne’s brows drew close together. “Ranald is a gentle man. Always he has been such. Many a lass greeted the sun with a smile following a night spent in his...Ack!”

  A sharp pinch from Lady Joneta had halted her words.

  Catalin was undressed except for the thin, sky blue smock.

  “Come sit whilst I brush your hair.” Letia placed a chair behind her friend. She grinned at Hannah as she filched the brush from her hands. “You have the chance to play with her hair every day. Do you know how much I envy your hair, Catalin?” She patted the shining hair in front of her. “‘Tis a special color, neither red nor golden like the sun, a mixture of each at their finest, all soft and glowing.” She picked up a curly hank and played with it. “The curls spring back when I stretch them out.”

  “For truth you like it? But curls are unruly, forever falling over my face.”

  As if making her point, one elfin curl crept over her forehead. She pushed out her bottom lip and huffed air upward, fluttering it from her eyes.

  Elyne chuckled and bent to take Catalin’s shoes from her feet. She grinned up at her.

  “Ranald always remarked about yer curls after ye returned home from a visit.”

  “No doubt to call them tangled knots like he was used to doing.” Catalin wrinkled her nose.

  “Nay. Bird’s nests.” Elyne laughed so hard she lost her balance and plopped down on the floor.

  Amongst the laughter and giggles, the door creaked opened. Ranald stood framed there, the corners of his lips lifted a bit. Chief Broccin caused the women to scramble, though, for he shoved Ranald aside and stomped halfway across the room.

  Catalin jumped to her feet and edged close to the bed, prepared to grab a pillow to shield herself did he come closer.

  “‘Tis time for a bedding, not for women’s senseless cackles.” Chief Broccin glared at Elyne. His hands rested on his waist, his fingers drummed there, impatient. “Why is she not nakit?”

  “My wife is not for yer eyes, Broccin.” Ranald’s steely words cut through the room. “There will be no bedding ceremony.”

  “No bedding? How am I to know she has no flaws? No marks to mar my grandchild?” He stepped forward, a steely hand reached to grasp the smock from Catalin’s cringing shoulders.

  A strange sound filled the room, a buzz somewhat like angry words falling over themselves. Before Broccin could step closer, the chair Catalin had risen from scrapped forward and fell, blocking his path.

  He scowled, reached to pick it up. His tunic flapped, whipped about his long legs and lifted clean to his shoulders. He snapped upright. Yanked it down in back, only to have the front fly up.

  Catalin stepped back, near gagged. She could not mistake her father-by-law’s member, swollen and upright, straining and near bursting his breeches in lewd excitement. She clamped her eyelids closed.

  Broccin teeth snapped together. He grabbed hold of his tunic, trapping it against his thighs.

  “You disgrace yourself, brother. Get from this room else I’ll take that chair across your nasty head.” Lady Joneta’s anger filled the room.

  Catalin peeked in time to see her hit his shoulders with her fists, driving him toward the door whilst shooing everyone from the opening.

  Broccin stamped through the doorway, yet tried for the last word.

  “Dinna forget, Ranald. I would see the blood-stained sheet come dawn to prove ye are still a man!”

  CHAPTER 9

  Chief Broccin slammed against the doorframe like a hand had pushed him. He caught hold of it and steadied himself, his eyes wide, then trod away, muttering.

  Raik, his arm across Ranald’s shoulders, laughed and playfully slapped his cousin’s head before stepping away.

  “I kenned it would come in handy.”

  Catalin frowned. What had come in handy? He talked in riddles. The strange sound dimmed. Had it been the men on the landing all talking at once?

  “Turn yer backs,” Elyne demanded, “so we may tuck the bride in bed.”

  She waited until Ranald, Raik and Baron de Burgh obediently faced the wall.

  Letia pulled down the covers, Elyne thumped the pillow while Hannah lifted the smock over Catalin’s head. She slid between the sheets. Naked. Vulnerable. Her arms blossomed with chill bumps.

  Elyne bent to hug her and kiss her forehead.

  Letia leaned close to whisper, “He is a good man. He will be gentle with you.”

  Hannah waited until they moved away. She pulled the covers up to Catalin’s chin and bent close.

  “Do not fear, lovey, all will be well,” she whispered, patting the pillow, pretending to smooth it. “I secreted a small vial beneath your pillow. Once Ranald is done, empty it on the sheets without his seeing.”

  Empty what? She questioned Hannah with her eyes, but had no chance to ask, for Baron de Burgh called to them.

  “Come, ladies. We are needed here no longer.” De Burgh smiled and held his hand out to his wife.

  Catalin wished she could protest and ask the women to stay. But what could she ask of them? Would that she could pull her smock back on.

  Her fingers itched to delve beneath the pillow. Perchance by the vial’s shape, she could tell what it contained. While she pondered her problem, they left. She was alone.

  Ack! No, not alone. Ranald stood at the bed’s foot. Why did he not move?

  He did. He straightened; his jaw squared. She noted shadows darkening his cheeks, his upper lip and chin. His raven black eyes glistened in the candlelight as he circled the room and snuffed the candles out, one by one. He left but one aglow, there on the table beside the bed, for it was a moonless night.

  He strode over to the big chest. ‘Twas a good distance from door to bed. She could see only his shadow. Glad of it, too, for he started removing his clothes. He took such care with each piece, seeming unfamiliar with it.

  Of course. How foolish of her. He was unused to the trappings of a lord. Each item he removed, he folded and placed inside the chest. His belt he draped over the peg above it. He looked around, searching for somethi
ng. Ah, his sword. It had fallen when the men had jostled into the room. He stepped over to it.

  She bit her lip. He was naked, for she saw the outline of his body. Why did he bring the sword to the bed?

  “Eep!”

  “Is aught wrong?” He propped the sheathed sword near the head, even with his pillow, then stilled, awaiting her answer.

  “Nay. I caught my hair in my ring. It startled me. Thank you for it.”

  “Ye thank me for the ring pulling yer hair?”

  “Nay, for certes not. For the ring. ‘Tis very beautiful.”

  In a graceful movement, he slid between the sheets whilst he spoke. “My mother would delight to know ye liked it. She was most fond of the blue stone at its center.”

  The bed ropes swayed a bit as he settled on his side, facing her. She grasped the edge of the bed so as not to roll toward him.

  “It brings to mind the color of yer eyes,” he continued.

  She fidgeted. The stone was a beautiful shade of blue. Should she thank him for comparing her eyes to it? Mayhap she should keep him talking, and he would fall asleep? Ack, no chance of that, for his big hand came up to cup her face.

  Ranald saw the whites of Catalin’s eyes in the dim light, her pale face surrounded by sunlit hair on the white pillow. The closer he came to her, the more the faint scent of violets and woman’s flesh quickened his breath. Which was sweeter? His nose brushed her cheek as his lips neared hers.

  Hm, ‘twas the scent of a woman, by far. Her lips were the softest of petals. His tongue traced their fullness, dipped in that small hollow at the corners. She didn’t pull away.

  ‘Twas a good sign.

  His breath hitched. His tongue slid between her lips to brush over her teeth, to feel the softness inside her lips. She opened to him, let his tongue glide over hers, play with it. Hesitant at first, her tongue stirred against his. He took his time, not wanting to force anything from her. His mouth left hers, trailing kisses across her cheek, her jaw, to the hollow beneath her ear.