Forbidden

by Sophia Johnson

  “You can’t let Uncle Hamon rule Hunter. He is cruel. If they do not cater to his every whim, the Lord only knows how many people he will beat and maim.”

  “I am not a mercenary. I dinna fight other people’s battles. Only my own.”

  “You were the Protector of Kelso. That did not belong to you.”

  “Kelso was my home, was meant to be for the rest of my life. Of course, I defended it. Go to sleep and stop yammering.”

  Catalin turned away at his cold tone. She yanked the covers up to her chin, determined not to sidle close to seek his warmth. Mayhap she should have thought longer on trying to assert herself. Who would have thought a monk-turned-man would have such selfish, male beliefs? Would the day ever come when a woman wed that the man did not seize everything she owned? Surely not while the earth lasted.

  Her mind flitted from one idea to the next. No matter how she looked at it, she could not allow her uncle to hold Hunter. When her father lived, he treated all the families there with kindness. He had been a just baron, was never cruel or starved out his peasants. Dratted Uncle Harmon! He would not care if they all died. Her eyes blurred from staring at the ceiling. Ranald had snored for what seemed a very long time. Was the midnight darkness showing between the shutters turning to gray?

  Ranald was not stirring. Chief Broccin and the castle knights would expect to meet with him before dawn. Could he have been serious about staying abed this day? Mayhap she should awake him.

  She tapped Ranald’s shoulder and waited. Nothing. She tried again. His snores halted a slight bit then changed tone. Expecting him to awaken, she pretended sleep. She breathed deep and counted each breath. Got all the way to twenty. Crud! He did not move.

  She drummed her heels on the bed. Nothing. Sitting upright, she glared down at the sleeping man beside her.

  “Have it your way. I yield! Hunter Castle is yours.”

  CHAPTER 14

  “Whack!”

  Catalin emphasized her surrender with a thump on Ranald’s back. Of a sudden, dizziness struck her.

  “Ohhh, saints.” She tried to keep from spewing. She gurgled and slapped a hand over her mouth.

  Ranald’s big hand darted out and grabbed the bread from the bedside table. He turned and shoved it at her, then took her shoulders to ease her down on the bed.

  “Lie back. Take small bites. Have ye not learned to sit up slowly?”

  She glared at him then clamped her eyes tight and took deep breaths before she brought the bread to her lips.

  The way Catalin’s small, white teeth nibbled the crust, searching out the driest parts, reminded him of a curious mouse.

  He rose and rounded the foot of the bed, fully expecting what came next. Her eyes flew wide. Her hands clamped over her mouth. He leaped forward and drew forth the small bucket, just as her head stretched over the side.

  Ranald wiped her face when she was done, and did as he had the morning afore. But this time, he checked to assure himself no one was doused with an unpleasant shower from the window.

  “Could ye not try to greet yer husband in a more pleasant way?”

  Catalin peeled the cold cloth back to glare at him with one eye.

  “The gift of Hunter Castle is not a pleasant greeting?”

  “Gift? Huh. It was mine when ye said yer vows. And I’m pleased ye finally saw the error of yer thinking.” Ranald shrugged and dressed in quick movements. He left without again looking at his wife.

  Sometime before the next dawn, he would seek out Aunt Joneta to find what herbs she had stored and what grew in the castle gardens. ‘Twould be simple enough to make a potion to ease Catalin’s sickness each morn.

  He picked his way around people still sleeping on pallets in the great hall. Going out into the dark bailey, he made his way to the warriors’ quarters. He had much to do before Father Martin rang the bells for Matins at dawn.

  He gazed over the snoring warriors to select those he wanted. Satisfied, he walked amongst them to nudge them awake.

  “Rise. We leave early this day.”

  Ranald selected each man he had noted leaving on yester morn’s patrol. From this time hence, he would ride out with them. No lord with any pride left his castle’s security wholly to others. Some men looked at him, reluctance flashing in their eyes. It was easy to see they doubted what skills a former monk would have.

  His steely-eyed stare was enough to make them hustle. His barked orders sent them scrambling into their clothing and reaching for their weapons.

  “Meet me at the stable, and be quick about it, else ye’ll find yerself mucking out stalls.”

  He intended to know whether man or beast roamed the castle’s perimeters each night. Marauding bands studied an area before they plundered it. Spotting anything unusual could mean the difference between a village thriving and one that burned to the ground.

  This day, they would leave earlier than usual, for on his return, he must meet with his sire, Domnall and Raik to plan on how best to wrest Hunter back.

  Ranald, hearing running footsteps behind him, fingered his sword hilt as he turned to see Finn, still belting on his short sword.

  “I will saddle Satan’s Spawn at once,” he said as he dashed by him.

  “Saddle yer own mount, also. I would have ye learn what I expect of ye each day.”

  Ranald was pleased with the lad. His body was more muscled than most at his age, and he had sprung from his pallet ready to ride afore the seasoned warriors.

  On gathering in the bailey, Ranald eyed the leader of the patrol. He had oft trained with Dougald afore going to the abbey. He beckoned him forward to ride beside him.

  “I would have ye show me what ye look for each day and what ye believe are our weakest areas.”

  Ranald set the pace, riding slowly until they cleared the drawbridge. Once they were far enough away they would not awaken all in the keep, he quickened their pace. Dougald outlined the route and the places where he thought Raptor Castle the most vulnerable. All the while, Ranald’s gaze pierced the darkness, perusing everything in sight. On entering the woodland paths, he watched the trees ahead, seeking any signs of rustling amongst the branches that was more than normal for small critters and birds.

  “I noted the villages looked in poor shape when we entered Raptor Castle lands a few days past. How long since the serfs had new thatching and time to redo their roofs?” His brows near met in a scowl. “I dinna like the looks of them. One spark and all here would be destroyed,” he remarked as they rode through a village.

  “By my reckoning, it has been a good many years,” Dougald said. “Chief Broccin says he canna spare them time from working in the fields to take care of, what he calls, their petty repairs.”

  “Should the village burn, many lives could be lost. He’ll not have enough workers to tend the fields, the cows or anything else.”

  On hearing hooves pounding outside their huts, startled men poked their heads out their doorways, oft with a shovel or rusty scythe clutched in one hand. On seeing it was naught but the castle patrol riding earlier than usual, they stared at the horsemen and scratched their nether parts.

  The men eyed Ranald from head to feet. He wore naught but a tartan slung over his left shoulder and belted at his waist, his broadsword across his back. Some looked aside, no doubt afeared of his mask. Others stared more boldly as they studied his shoulders and arms before they nodded. What did their faces show when he rode past and they spied his back?

  Ranald learned much on this early patrol. First of which was his sire did not take care of the cottagers as he should. ‘Twas not enough to give protection in exchange for labor. Near every hut needed repair. The vegetables in their gardens looked in need of water, only a scrawny goat or two appeared to give milk, and they had but a handful of chickens for eggs. Every village was alike in need.

  Not so when he approached the curtain walls, completing their search of the perimeter. Sheep dotted the far fields while fat, healthy cows grazed in pastures closer-by. Insid
e the curtain walls, the dovecotes near swayed with plump birds and chickens cackled while roosters crowed, though it was barely dawn.

  “Squawk! Squawk!”

  A large white hen launched itself off a fence post as they rode past and perched on Finn’s shoulder.

  “Jesu!” Finn sputtered and flailed his arms. “Get ye gone, ye brainsick bird!” The hen danced and squabbled, its wings striking the young man in the face as it fought for balance.

  Finn finally leaned over the side of his horse to shoo the feathered attacker away.

  “Yer head be crowned with feathers,” one of the men yelled. “Best be wary. The rooster’s eyeing ye.”

  “Best the rooster be careful, else his feathers will be stuffing for a new pillow. I dinna doubt a little boiling, some carrots and onions, and he’ll make a tasty soup,” Dougald said with a laugh in his voice.

  Fat pigs grunted and poked their heads between the fence slats, followed by squealing piglets. The goose girls surely had their hands filled tending the large number of geese they spotted.

  Ranald would start setting things aright in his own lands while he made plans for reclaiming Hunter Castle.

  o0o

  Catalin stood on the walkway of the gatehouse barbican, with Elyne beside her. The damp wind tousled her hair about her face, and she swiped it away from her eyes. She raised her arm and waved, for Letia had looked back and waved again. My, how she would miss her friend.

  “Dinna fret, Catalin. Once Ranald wrests yer castle from smelly Hamon, ye’ll spend more time at Hunter.” Elyne looked down at Catalin and flashed a sunny grin. “Letia will be so close ye could travel there in a day.”

  “If there is a keep left at Hunter.” Catalin frowned and rubbed her arms.

  “Ranald will not destroy anything he is not forced to.”

  “I fear to think what damage fire and catapults pounding with every bolder from leagues around, will do to Hunter Castle,” Catalin muttered. “They are my people, my friends that will suffer.”

  “Ye know Ranald isna like Father. Did yer husband not hand select twelve of our finest warriors to escort the de Burgh’s?”

  Elyne’s unexpected peel of laughter startled Catalin.

  “What do you laugh over? I see nothing to be merry about.”

  “Did ye not see Father’s face? When he argued with Ranald that we couldna spare the men?” Elyne giggled again. “He was near to bursting when that egg splattered on his forehead.”

  “That was most strange. Never have I seen a chicken start laying an egg and suddenly fly through the air like a hand pushed it!” Catalin started laughing with Elyne.

  “Raik said, ‘Ye get better every day,’ when he threw his arm around Ranald’s shoulder. Know ye what he meant?”

  “Nay. It is a puzzle.” Catalin nibbled on her lower lip. “I was pleased Ranald left off his planning to bid Letia and Warin Godspeed. He seems to like them both.”

  “Father does not, though.”

  “I doubt a man who cannot love his own son would like many people.”

  Catalin winced on remembering the hateful glares Chief Broccin foisted on Ranald. No wonder bitterness filled her husband’s eyes.

  She had always known her father loved her. Though he may not have kissed or hugged her like he had her mother, he found ways without saying so in words.

  Mayhap it would be in summoning her to the stable where the mouser had birthed a new litter, and asking if she would like one of the kits when the mother cat weaned them. Or, taking her to a fair and noting if her eyes lingered on any special thing. If so, it would appear on her bed when Hannah took her above for the night.

  Never once did she feel her sire regretted her birth, not even on his deathbed knowing his only heir was one very small woman. He had put his frail hand on her cheek, his voice barely strong enough to be heard when he spoke. “God blessed me with you, Catalin. You were the sun in my life.”

  o0o

  Ranald stood and stretched. He glanced around the solar, noting the change in the room since his father had thrown open the door and ordered the women sewing and gossiping there to hie themselves elsewhere. Catalin and Elyne were not amongst them. When last he looked, he had seen their silhouettes atop the barbican long after Letia and Baron de Burgh had left.

  The day had waned. Aunt Joneta had seen the men supplied with their evening meal, and servants had cleared everything away when the men finished.

  “Then ‘tis agreed.” Ranald paced around the solar. “We send men to the countryside surrounding Hunter Castle, one to every nearby castle to start rumors afloat. They will burn a field, then pretend they are a traveler who happened by and hid in the woods when they spied men from the nearest neighboring castle torch the crop.”

  “Aye.” Raik nodded, satisfied. “A word here, a word there. Soon all will think their neighbor plots against them. They will be so busy fighting each other, they willna have time to interfere with us when we lay siege to Hunter.”

  Broccin snorted. “Did the monks teach ye to be devious, Ranald?”

  “Nay. I learned from a master of trickery afore going to Kelso,” Ranald said.

  They sat around a table, a parchment weighted down on the corners filling much of the space. On it, Raik had drawn simple pictures of streams and hills, villages, forests and castles. Ranald pulled a stool close and straddled it.

  He bent over, took crude wooden spoons and placed them in a pattern in front of the gatehouse.

  “We set up our siege engines within striking distance of the gatehouse. Ye say we have men well-trained to accurately gauge the range?”

  Domnall grinned. “During summer months, we move a trebuchet inside the curtain wall then mark targets outside on the open fields. The men are most adept at sliding the counterpoise along the beam to adjust the range. Ye’ll see.”

  “Down to as small a target as an ailing rooster,” Raik added.

  Ranald raised his brows at that. “Ye have tried?”

  “Nay. Domnall did the deed. He murdered the little crower.” Raik’s tsk sounded like he thought Domnall a beast.

  A scratch at the door caused them to halt. They wanted no one to leak what they were planning.

  “Enter.” Ranald did not disguise the impatience in his voice.

  Lady Muriele swung the door wide. A servant entered carrying a tray laden with a large decanter and goblets.

  “Cruddy Lucifer,” Ranald muttered. He flinched for his mask lay on a small table beside the doorway far from his grasp. He stalked over to a window, his ruined cheek toward it.

  “It is late in the eve. Ye have closeted yerselves away all this day. Lady Joneta thought ye might like cold ale for refreshment.”

  Muriele’s voice was as soft and melodic as birds greeting the sun’s rise. She lowered her eyes, appearing shy in a room solely of men. When she served everyone at the table, she filled another goblet. He watched her glide toward him with feline grace. His raised hand halted her when she was a step away. He spoke without turning to face her.

  “Thank ye.” He reached for the goblet, but noticed from the corner of his eye that she edged to her left to better spy his face. “Halt. Ye are close enough.” He snatched the cup from her hand and turned his back to her.

  “Ye are as handsome as Moridac,” she whispered.

  “Go.”

  He stiffened and did not turn until he heard the whisper of her shoes leaving, and a few heartbeats later, the door closing.

  Raik let out a great whoosh of air before saying, “Would that the lady showed as much interest in me.”

  “It is only morbid interest.” Ranald grimaced.

  “Ye’ll not take her to yer bed.” Broccin’s voice was cold, angry even.

  “Best not think of her warming yers, sire,” Ranald said as he approached the table. “She has placed her trust in us to protect her. I’ll not see her soiled.”

  “Ye’ll not? I am chief here. Till my death, ye have no say in what goes on at Raptor.”

/>   Ranald’s eyelids narrowed. “Dinna tempt me.”

  On seeing his sire’s mouth drop to his chin, he had some small satisfaction. He turned back to the table.

  “Domnall, send two men inside Hunter Castle’s curtain walls. If they listen under the eaves of the huts there, they might glean some bit of knowledge the people wouldn’t freely speak of.”

  “Aye. I know the best men for the job. They can hear a feather drop on the training ground and are smaller than most. They can weave their way around in the dark shadows of night and escape notice.” Domnall nodded and swallowed down his ale.

  “What extra training should we have the men doing?” Raik leaned forward and studied Ranald’s face.

  “All warriors should be building their skills with bow, sword, mace, axe and pick. Double the patrols, Domnall. That will keep them busy when not working in the training fields. To build better muscles, they will work repairing the village huts still in reasonable shape, re-thatch where needed and build new ones. If that is not enough to make them sweat and build muscles, they can clear and plant a new field for herbs and vegetables within the curtain walls.”

  “Do ye think to spark a revolt?” Raik tilted back on his stool and laughed.

  “Nay.” Ranald shook his head, his face serious. “At Kelso, we didna have a minute when we were not doing something with our bodies. Ye saw the beauty there. We built it ourselves. Our only rest was during prayers. The work at the abbey honed my body. Why should our warriors do less?”

  The plans they made that day was the start of all the days to follow for the next two months.

  o0o

  “Elyne, are the freckles across my nose unseemly? Is my face so plain it does not stir interest?”

  Catalin stopped nibbling on her finger to look over at Elyne. It was a warm day, and they sat on a woolen blanket spread beneath the apple trees. “Moridac oft told me I was comely. Mayhap he did not speak the truth,” she muttered.

  “He spoke true, silly. Yer freckles make ye look like a faerie about to spring into some mischief.” Her gaze roved over Catalin’s face, searching. “I see naught unseemly about ye. Yer hair is an unusual shade that brings summer to mind, yer nose small, yer mouth just right, and yer blue eyes sparkle. What can ye find wrong about all that?”