Forbidden (6 page)

When she twirled to leave, sweet violets
scented the air. Ah. He breathed deep, surprised. Even as a young
child, she had smelled of violets. It had been many long years
since he had known a woman’s scent.

Long after she disappeared in the night, one
thought chased another through his head. She was an innocent.
Wasn’t she? What could she have done that she thought so
shameful?

He would know afore too many moons. Catalin
had never been able to keep a secret.

Footsteps behind him signaled another visitor
to the gardens, but this time, it was an expected footfall. Without
turning, he spoke into the night.

“Raik, come walk with me to the tanner’s
hut.” He turned, his shoulders set, his back straight. He had made
a decision the moment he had spied Catalin.

“What do ye need there? ‘Tis not long afore
the dawn. Ye took no rest last eve and have yet to seek yer
bed.”

“I would have him fashion a mask to spare
Catalin my hideous sight.”

“Hideous? There is naught hideous about yer
scars. Harsh, aye. But hideous? Never.” Raik’s fists clenched. “My
uncle does not speak truth about it. I would say he has forever
envied ye as the boy and man he has never been.”

Ranald shrugged, little caring what his sire
thought of him. His own fingertips confirmed the stark contrast
from one side of his face to the other.

After waking the tanner, it took a short time
for that good man to come up with an idea for a mask. He sent his
son to fetch the armorer. Between the two, they formed a metal
frame for the mask. Once they fitted it to the contours of Ranald’s
face, the tanner would cover it with black leather cut from the
ample bottom of Moridac’s hunting shirt. The men promised to have
the finished mask ready for him by first light.

Ranald and Raik slipped inside the keep and
made their way to Moridac’s room to seek what sleep they could. An
overlarge bed stood against the far wall. Wind rattled the shutters
of the large window beside it. Ranald strode over to enjoy the
first raindrops on his face, before closing the shutters and
latching them. The room boasted an ample fireplace with peat
stacked ready to light. A table with two chairs stood nearby.
Closely woven woolen rugs covered the floor, but fur rugs lay
beside the bed and in front of the fireplace.

Ranald turned, a slight frown creasing his
brows. Pegs on the walls held two cloaks, one black, the other red.
Red? His brow shot up and he looked at Raik.

“Aye, Moridac had a love for the comforts of
life. I believe ye will find all manner of garments within the
clothing chest.” Raik’s hand lifted to gesture toward a heavy chest
at the right of the doorway.

Lifting the lid, Ranald looked down at the
many tunics, breeches and shirts folded there. Moridac must have
been fonder of formfitting attire than the kilt. To be truthful,
what surprised him most was that his brother had seemingly been
enamored of comfort and fine cloth.

Ranald’s hand smoothed down the heavy linen
of his black monk’s robe. His brother would have been most
uncomfortable in such a simple garment.

“Well, now, seeing such an array, ye will
have no need to go with a bare arse to yer wedding.” Raik
chuckled.

“Nay.” All desire for sleep deserted Ranald.
He prowled around the room, missing the nightly routine of Kelso.
“My brother had more clothing in this one chest than I have seen in
all these many years.”

“Ye know not what to do with yerself, do ye,
my friend?”

Raik’s quiet remark eased the tension in
Ranald’s shoulders. His sigh was long and breathy.

“Aye. It will be long afore I learn to sleep
as a man, not a monk. I am too used to short bits of slumber
between services.” He paced from the window to the door. If he had
hair where there was now a tonsure, his fingers would have plowed
through it. “Dinna mind me. Seek yer own rest. I will sleep when I
find ease.”

Raik nodded understanding and after
undressing, settled his big body on the bed they would share for
the night. Ranald was grateful that Raik knew he needed time
alone.

Soon, soft snores signaled a deep sleep. He
opened the shutters and knelt, his thoughts in turmoil. His head
bent, his forehead rested on his clasped hands. He silently prayed.
Seeing Catalin tonight had brought a long-fought reaction to his
body, one ye had tried to conquer over the years.

What manner of man was he, that a woman’s
scent could draw him so quickly? Not even a sennight from the
monastery, yet he felt himself already changed. He knelt there in
the moonlight streaming in from a cleared sky and prayed he would
not become like his brutal father, nor as lusty as Moridac.

He finally eased into bed. ‘Twould not be
long before dawn. He had promised the castle’s priest Father Martin
that he would chant the psalms of Matins when the sun began to
rise. The priest’s voice was hoarse, and if overused, chances are
he would not be able to speak the wedding service. To Ranald’s
shame, he held a glimmer of hope that it would be so.

o0o

Catalin rose before dawn, surprising Hannah
when she came to wake her. Dressed in a simple green kirtle and
covered with a brown woolen cloak, she hurried up the stairwell to
attend mass. The chapel was in the east tower where the sun’s
glorious rise greeted it.

Rays of light glinted through gems embedded
in the cross hanging before the arched window. Colorful rays danced
in every direction, adding to the beauty of an already sumptuous
room. Did Broccin think to bribe God by giving prayer in such
beauty? She stopped thinking on it, wanting, no needing, time to
pray for forgiveness and hopefully bring peace to her mind.

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.