Forbidden Kisses

by Laurel O'Donnell

  She tried to move, but her legs seemed frozen in place in the icy water. Rooted to the spot, she managed to pull off her playd, struggling to wring out the water. Spluttering, she peeled the ringlets back off her face and, after several unsuccessful attempts, scrambled up the bank. She had already walked for most of the day, leaving Berwick behind once she crossed into England. There was no chance of refuge in Scotland. No border clan would challenge her powerful stepfather.

  Twilight loomed. Whimpering, she scanned the seemingly endless expanse of moorland, teeth chattering, desperately looking for any sign of shelter. Was that a wisp of smoke off in the distance? It might be a croft where she’d be allowed to stay for a night.

  The hem of her sodden léine felt like it was weighted with lead as she slogged over the moor to the tiny cottage she now spied. Though she hugged the wet playd to her body, it offered little warmth. The smell of wet wool assailed her nostrils as she clutched it beneath her chin. Darkness had fallen by the time she balled her fist to pound on the door, frozen to the bone. “Shelter, for the love of God, I beg shelter.”

  The door scraped open a crack and Nolana had to cling to the frame to avoid collapsing into the cottage. She tried to speak but no sound emerged. The wizened face of an auld woman appeared, a long-stemmed wooden pipe clenched in her teeth. “Be gone. Want no borderers ‘ere.”

  Nolana took a deep breath, hoping her voice would return. “I’m not a borderer. I’m soaked to the skin and will surely freeze to death if you don’t take pity.”

  The old woman hesitated, chewing the stem of the pipe, then dragged the door open and motioned Nolana inside. “They was ‘ere looking for ye.”

  Nolana tensed and hesitated on the threshold. “For me?”

  The woman grabbed her arm and pulled her inside. “Aye. Don’t play the innocent wi’ me. Armed men they were, asking after a young lass.”

  Nolana decided it was best not to lie. She was close to succumbing to exhaustion and needed this woman’s help. “They are my stepfather’s men. I’ve run away. I eluded them by ducking in the burn.”

  The old woman looked her up and down. “Takes a brave lass to do such a thing. I’ve a spare shift. Take off yer wet clothes, dearie. They’ll dry by the fire. I lack company. Gets lonely up ‘ere on these moors.”

  Nolana peeled off the wet garments and accepted the homespun shift. Its shrouding roughness brought warmth to her skin. The woman spread her wet clothing by the hearth.

  Nolana thanked her. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

  The crone sucked on her pipe once more then took it from her mouth. “Folks call me Jennet.”

  Nolana hugged the shift to her breasts, and rubbed her arms, chasing away the chill. “Thank you, Jennet. I’m Nolana Kyncade.”

  “Y’are a Scot.”

  “My stepfather’s lands are in the Scottish lowlands. I’m from further north, closer to the Highlands. I came south with my mother when she wed my stepfather.”

  Jennet shrugged and took another draw on her pipe. “Now, yer mother’s dead, and ye hate yer stepfather.”

  Nolana smiled ruefully. “Aye. He wants to wed me off to an auld man.”

  Perhaps the soothing aroma of the pipe smoke had encouraged her to confide in this woman.

  Jennet laughed. “Ye dinna want to wed an auld man. ‘Twas my fate for many a year. Thank God the bugger’s dead now, nigh on five and ten winters ago.”

  Nolana inhaled the scented smoke. “What’s in your pipe? It smells good.”

  Jennet pursed her lips and blew out more smoke, wafting it towards Nolana, mischief in her eyes. “Aye. ‘Tis me own blend. Mostly red clover, rose hips and a touch of a secret ingredient.”

  Nolana smiled, but could barely keep her eyes open. “Secret ingredient?”

  Jennet put a fingertip to her lips, looked around furtively and whispered, “Honey.”

  Nolana arched her brows, but had to stifle a yawn. “I’m sorry. I walked a long way today.”

  Jennet pointed to a pallet by the hearth. “Sleep now. I’ll wake ye in the morn.”

  “But where will you sleep?”

  Jennet tapped her pipe on the stones of the hearth and curled a finger inside the bowl as she blew into it. “I’ve a pallet in the loft. Heat rises. You need the hearth more than I do. I bid ye goodnight.”

  Nolana accepted the pallet and drew the meager blanket over her. “Goodnight, Jennet.”

  She drifted into a fitful sleep haunted by visions of a life behind convent walls.

  THE MOOR

  Nolana woke to the aroma of freshly baked bread. For a moment she was back in her father’s manor house in the Carnsith Fells. She remembered clambering out of bed as a child and hastening to the kitchens where Cook always had crusty rolls to break her fast.

  It was pointless to dwell on those days. They were gone. Her stepfather razed the manor when he wed her mother. “No use leaving an old house empty,” he declared. “You’ll be living in the lowlands. Why pay these people to keep up a manor if you don’t live in it?”

  These people who had taken care of her since her birth were thrown out, rendered destitute. No amount of protest on her mother’s part would change his mind. She soon gave up the fight, and Nolana watched the only home she had ever known go up in flames. She hated men, and the weakness of her mother who so feared being alone she had succumbed to the dictates of this arrogant male monster.

  He had driven her to an early grave after the birth of their son, Nolana’s half brother, Ingram. Neyll deemed it his right to beat his wife. Nolan swore never to be subject to the commands of a man.

  Jennet’s voice broke into her reflections. “Yer awake. Barm cake?”

  Nolana accepted the warm roll and gratefully sank her teeth into the fluffy bread, relishing the barmy taste. She swallowed and licked her lips. “Good. This is the best bread I ever tasted.”

  Jennet chuckled. “That’s because ye’re starving, lass. Try the goat’s milk.”

  They ate together in companionable silence. Nolana sensed there was something Jennet wanted to say, but she waited.

  “Have ye thought on where ye’ll go next?”

  Nolana shook her head. “I suppose there’s nothing for it but a nunnery. I’ve heard Lindisfarne Abbey is not far from here.”

  Jennet spat into the hearth. “Lindisfarne is good for naught but the mead they make. The convent is no life for a pretty girl such as thee. Ye can stay ‘ere a while. Like I said, I need company.”

  Nolana wandered over to see if her garments were dry. “It’s kind of you, but I’ll be forced to make some decisions soon.”

  Jennet poured water from a ewer into a bowl. “Abide wi’ me a bit, lassie, while ye decide. Wash off the dust of the journey and get thyself dressed.”

  Nolana stayed with Jennet for a sennight. She gathered peat for the fire, tended goats and collected eggs, staying close to the cottage. She loved the wild beauty of the moor, the stunted oaks that clung to life on the windswept horizon, the coarse tufts of cottongrass, the craggy outcroppings of time-blackened rock. Here they were on the edge of the moor. In the far distance, behind the cottage, away from the sea, lay the forbidding peaks of the Bens. Nolana’s gaze wandered there often when the mists cleared...it reminded her of home.

  At night they talked of Nolana’s dilemma. Jennet did her best to dissuade her from the nunnery, but offered no other solution.

  “Perhaps I should live in a lonely cottage up on the moor, tending my goats and hens.”

  Jennet spat into the fire, her usual sign of disgust. “Bah. That’s no life for a young lass. You should be married, with bairns.”

  Nolana wiped her runny nose and stared at her hands. She had wanted children, a fine husband. Now...

  “Tell thee what,” Jennet offered, “journey with me to Beal market Tuesday next. The monks’ll be there selling their mead. They bring honey too. Ye can ask their advice, though they don’t mix much with folks. Too high and mighty.”

&n
bsp; TO MARKET

  The monotony of monastic life grated on Aidan. The same thing happened at the same time every endless day. He had grown up in a noisy household full of love, laughter and argument. In the abbey he was drowning in silence.

  The coarse wool habit irritated his sensitive skin. Judging by the decay lingering in its folds, he was not the first monk to wear the odious garment.

  His mother’s table had provided rich and satisfying victuals. Abbey food was tasteless and there wasn’t enough to satisfy a bird, let alone his robust appetite.

  He chafed at the pettiness of those superior to him who demanded his obedience in everything. While Aidan had never been the hellion his sister was, he was the eldest son of a proud man, a hero of the First Crusade. He was heir to wealthy properties, descendent of a noble Norman family. He was not used to obeying imbeciles. He had clenched his fists so often his palms bore the imprint of his fingernails.

  The FitzRams prized cleanliness, but here he was forced to wait a sennight between baths. The stench of his body disgusted him. Bathing for the postulants consisted of standing naked while older monks tossed icy cold water at them, taking what he considered perverse pleasure in the act. It reminded him of the treatment his uncle Robert de Montbryce had received in Duke Curthose’s cells. He longed for a good tub soak.

  They had denied him his name. Now he was Brother Christian. It seemed a slight to the murdered uncle for whom he had been named. He had protested, citing the dedication of Lindisfarne to St. Aidan, only to be rebuked for the sin of pride for comparing himself to a saint.

  Though no longer a virgin, he had never been a man to pursue women. He'd thought someday to find a woman to love as his father had loved his Agneta, as Dieter loved Blythe. Thoughts of his twin sister brought to mind the journey home from her wedding in Cologne six years before. What a green lad he had been then. It seemed to suddenly occur to Sir Caedmon FitzRam that he had not passed on to his son his knowledge of how to please a woman in bed. Aidan had been astonished and somewhat embarrassed by the apparent sexual prowess of his father...something he had never given any mind to before. He had a new respect for his sire after that...and for his mother.

  Once they were back in England it was as if women were aware Aidan had this new knowledge. He became the object of constant female attention.

  The reality of never again making love to a woman saddened him. When he thought on it, his shaft responded, despite his best efforts to quell his arousal. He prayed for strength not to succumb to the needs of the flesh, but he was weak.

  The muffled gasps and groans in the dormitory at night assured him he was not the only monk seeking solace at his own hand. He had been at Lindisfarne four months; it seemed like a lifetime. Ragna was right. Often, he thought he might have fallen ill. His chest felt tight and his head ached constantly.

  He recalled his mother’s tales of her time as a novice in Alnwick Abbey. She had hated the repetition. He was his mother’s son.

  Memories of her brought a lump to his throat. He had to be stronger. He was being tempted from his calling. God expected him to atone. He would do it. He would put aside thoughts of returning to Kirkthwaite. Ragna would manage without him. She had Leofric Deacon to help her, and their Montbryce uncles and cousins would do what was necessary. He readily admitted Edwin would be of little help to his sister. He was too shy, too other-worldly.

  My brother would make a better monk.

  The one thing Aidan did enjoy was his involvement in the making of mead. At least he was doing something, not praying and chanting all day and all night.

  He had not been allowed access to the recipe, though he had caught a glimpse of the aged vellum scroll embossed with brown ink. Even some of the monks who’d been at Lindisfarne for years weren’t trusted with the full knowledge. But he was shown how to gather the honey, and how to separate it from the wax. He was limited to the hives in the hollowed out tree trunks the monks had devised, but soon the task would begin in earnest when the skeps were destroyed and opened.

  He spent many hours making new conical beehives to replace the ones they would tear apart. His hands bore deep scratches from the blackberry briars used to bind together the coiled straw. Removing bramble thorns and splicing the briars was a newly acquired skill. He learned how to fasten the ekes to the bottom of the skeps to give the bees more room to make honey. Brother Tristan, the Cellarer, even whispered the secret name of the barm. “We call it godisgood, Brother Christian, godisgood, because without its God-given properties, we would have no mead.”

  He was confident he was being groomed. If he worked hard to earn the abbot’s trust, he might become a mead maker and hold on to his sanity. He would embark on this goal when he accompanied the abbot and two other monks to Beal market Tuesday next. At least he would be outside these oppressive walls for a short time. Perhaps then his headache would ease.

  ~~~

  “Remember, Brother Christian, detachment...at all times detachment. We are venturing into the world, where temptation abounds.”

  Aidan resisted the urge to roll his eyes. They were off to the market in the village of Beal. How much temptation lurked there? Did the elderly monk know what temptation was? How long had he been incarcerated within the abbey? “Yes, Father Abbot. I’ll be careful.”

  His superior tapped a forefinger against his lips. “Best not to speak to the young women there.”

  Ah. Such was the temptation the abbot feared. It would not do to lose a young postulant to the sins of the flesh. Aidan was confident there would be no village wench buxom enough to tempt the son of a noble family.

  He was charged with loading mead and honey into the oxcart. It was a warm spring day and by the time he was done, his skin prickled. He longed to strip off the hated habit and plunge into a cool lake.

  He climbed into the back of the cart, swearing under his breath when a splinter from the rough planking drove into his thumb. He sucked it, wanting to whine like a child.

  The abbot and two other brothers climbed into the cart and they set off. The slow progress lulled Aidan to sleep as the cart lurched over the rutted sands to Beal. The tide swept over the causeway twice a day, cutting Holy Island off from the mainland.

  He awoke disoriented when the oxcart came to a halt. This was not the way to impress, falling asleep on the way to market. He stumbled out of the cart, his skin itchy, his thumb throbbing, reluctant to lift the first rundlet to his shoulder.

  The abbot pointed. “Carry it to the stall over there. Careful now. Not much of last year’s mead left. This is the best. It has aged for a twelvemonth. Don’t want to spill any of our liquid gold.”

  That’s all I need.

  The abbot scurried over to brush dirt off their allotted stall, leaving Aidan and the other monks to heft the rundlets and flagons. He had explained to Aidan that most of their revenue would come from sales by the tumbler, but wealthier folk might purchase a flagon. Though Aidan had been to markets in Northumbria before, he had never been to Beal. The bustle of activity around them early in the day held the promise of an enjoyable experience. If only he was wearing something other than his robe.

  ~~~

  The afternoon sun was warm, but Nolana kept her face and hair shrouded beneath her playd. She and Jennet had been of the same mind that her stepfather’s men might come to the market. Her flame red hair would draw them like bees to the honey pot.

  Despite the heat, she was glad to be out in the open for a while, not caged like a miscreant. She had done nothing wrong, her only fault a longing for respect and happiness. She stayed close to Jennet, enjoying the sights, sounds and smells of the market. It reminded her of home, of the Fells. These were simple folk, plying their wares, trying to make a living, to feed their families.

  Jennet pressed something into her palm. “Take these. I’m off to ply our goat cheese yonder.”

  Nolana opened her hand to reveal the coins. “I cannot, this is too generous. You have little...”

  Jennet cu
rled Nolana’s fingers around the coins and pushed back her hand. She pointed to a stall where brightly colored ribbons fluttered in the sea breeze. “Nay, happy I am if ye’ll use it to buy theesel’ a bit o’ frippery from yon mon. I’m too owd for such, but thee...”

  Nolana swallowed hard. An Englishwoman she barely knew treated her like a daughter. She pecked a kiss on Jennet’s cheek. “I’ll take but a moment.” Tucking the coins away, she wandered over to the haberdashery merchant, her step a little lighter.

  NARROW ESCAPE

  Aidan had never been a lethargic man. His mother had often complained he had too much energy. He and Blythe had on occasion led their parents a merry dance when they were growing up. What he wouldn’t give now for a scolding glance from his mother.

  Ready to collapse with fatigue, he raked his fingers through his long hair and leaned back against the wooden frame of the stall, brushing away the horseflies drawn by the honey. He was sinfully proud of his hair, dark like his father’s. The prospect of being tonsured made him cringe.

  Memories of his parents filled his head. A lifetime would not be enough to atone for the manner of their deaths. Their bodies had never been recovered. His father’s long-held desire to be interred alongside his father in the crypt at Montbryce would not be fulfilled.

  A shuddering breath caught in his throat. He eyed the containers of mead, estimating how much longer they would remain in the crowded marketplace. His sandaled feet were caked with dust, his throat bone dry. Idly wondering how he might filch a sip of the precious mead without the abbot noticing, he closed his eyes, absorbing the sounds of commerce around him.

  A fly buzzed in his face. He swatted at it and forced one eye open. A young woman was walking to the haberdashery stall across the way. At least, he thought she was a young woman. How odd to be shrouded by a playd on such a warm day. But her bearing and figure bespoke a young person. He stood up straight to get a better view. Her garb indicated she was a Scot, but not a lowlander, and not a person of low birth. Her léine had been dyed with expensive saffron. She reached out to finger the colored ribbons hanging from the crossbeam, glancing around furtively, drawing the brown playd further over her head.