Forbidden
by Sophia Johnson
09/30/2011
ISBN: 978-1-4661-5534-3
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"Highly emotional and beautifully descriptive. An enchanting love story." - Jessica Trap
CHAPTER 1
Raptor Castle, Scotland's Border, 1128
"Make haste, Ranald, afore someone discovers us." Moridac staggered and near dropped the reins of his father's destrier when the great horse stamped and huffed. Blinking rapidly, he wrapped the leather around his fist and held fast.
"All are sleeping off the feast, Moridac. 'Tis a wonder they didna drown in the wine vats while celebrating yer betrothal to Catalin."
The massive double doors to the stables near reached the ceiling, allowing room for a knight to ride through and dismount inside. Only one door stood open. This morn's sun was still hiding behind the mountains to the east. The young men had barely enough light to see the courtyard remained empty.
"Aye, but dinna tarry."
Moridac, the elder of the twins by twenty heartbeats, gave an explosive belch, staggered and near fell. The startled horse jerked its head so high it lifted the young man off his feet. Clutching its mane, he tried to steady himself.
"Do ye ken I canna fly through the air, brother? Dinna let him move. I'll make it next time."
Moridac snorted in disbelief.
Ranald's head was as heavy as if he wore a helmet forged for a giant. He blinked, clearing his wavering vision. Mayhap standing atop an upended barrel was not so wise? Huh, mayhap it was. He couldn't mount using stirrups, for his unsteady legs refused to stop wobbling. The steed sidestepped close. Seizing his chance, he leapt. His ballocks hit the saddle, shooting pain clean up to his chest.
Humph! "Satan's spawn!"
With one hand clutching his throbbing sex, he fumbled for the reins his twin tossed at him. Triumphant laughter burst from his throat.
He had achieved the forbidden: he would ride Goliath, their father's prized warhorse.
A loud groan signaled the second door opening. Two dreaded shapes framed by the dim light outside, appeared in the doorway. Blessed saints! Ranald had no need to see who stood there. Angry shouting near shook the rafters.
"What means this? Ye drunken fool!" Chief Broccin of Raptor Castle charged toward his sons, his right hand uplifted clutching a whip.
Goliath snorted and threw his head about, jerking the reins from Ranald's hand. The horse's angry stamp bounced him around in the saddle near unseating him. He grabbed the heavy black mane and clamped his long legs around the heaving sides.
The horse had a mind of its own. Chief Broccin barely jumped aside before Goliath made a leap through the doorway. Angus, the stable master, slammed against the doorframe then righted himself and ran after the beast.
He had no need, for Broccin's whistle split the air. Goliath skidded to a halt. Ranald flew over the horse's head to land in deep, wet mud left from last eve's downpour.
The thud took his breath. The surprise near sobered him.
His nose wrinkled with the rancid odor. The mud tasted as rank as it smelled. He gagged and spat it from his mouth. Had every bone in his body cracked like last morn's eggs? He giggled, picturing himself as a huge yellow-yoked egg, floating atop the mud. Trying to get up on his knees, he slipped. Feeling his father's presence, his gaze traveled from naked toes planted firmly in the mud, and up hairy, muscled calves' sturdy as a block of wood. He got no farther.
The whip whistled. Pain streaked Ranald's back.
"Ye drunken fool. Ye dared defy me and sat my mount?"
Ranald gasped and tried to stand. His father's foot slammed him back into the mud. The whip whistled again then struck. He barely had time to draw the next breath before more blows landed. Chief Broccin cursed and ranted like a brainsick man.
How many times had the whip struck? He clamped his teeth tight and struggled to get a firm grip on the land to fight his way out of the mud. A foot crashed into his hips, knocking him to his left side, his back to his father.
"Nay, Father!"
From the sounds of it, Moridac's shouted protest earned him a forceful backhand.
The next lash caught Ranald's right shoulder, his forehead and cheek. To his shame, he screamed. Blows continued to rain down on him. The agony in his face was worse than his back, for the cold mud soothed it. Desperate, he tried to catch the whip, to cover his face. His sire was too swift for him.
"My lord, ye'll kill him," Angus shouted.
"Broccin. Enough!"
'Twas Domnall's bellow. Footsteps thudded across the ground. Sounds of scuffling followed and the beating stopped.
Had he passed out for a short time? The next thing he knew, he heard others talking.
"Dunk him in the horse trough afore ye carry him to his room. I canna tend the poor lad's wounds if they be hidden by filth," a woman's shaky voice demanded.
Ranald could not bite back cries as brawny arms grasped his legs and under his arms then lifted him. Each step jarred his torn flesh. Soon icy water surrounded him.
"Hold yer breath, lad," Domnall muttered.
It was enough warning before his head slid beneath the water. He near drowned when unbelievable pain tore at his face. He screamed again.
***
"Dinna lie to me, Domnall. He is near death and burns with fever. It has been days, yet he hasna spoken."
Why was Moridac's voice strange? Like he choked on a sob? His twin was too much a man to cry. He hadn't since the fevers took their sweet mother five years before.
Ranald strained to hear Domnall's answer but couldn't. Longing to be free of the pain and heat ravaging him, he hoped his father's commander said aye. Death would be a blessing.
Heavy boots striking the floor announced his sire's baleful presence approaching the bed.
"He doesna even resemble a man. Turns my stomach to look at him."
"Through no fault of his own! 'Tis your handiwork." Domnall's footsteps came closer, as if to force Broccin to move back from the bed.
"The fool deserved it. He should have protected his face."
"How? When you kicked him over? Gave him no chance?"
His father snorted. Uncaring. His voice sharpened.
"He fares no better. Joneta canna always stay at his side. I grow tired of foul meals since my sister hasna had time to instruct the cook. Put him in a cart and take him to Kelso Abbey."
"To move him now may well kill him!"
A muffled sound followed Domnall's words. Like his fisted hand striking his thigh in anger.
"'Tis close enough. Monks from Selkirk have settled there. I have heard talk of a healer skilled at treating wounds. He is far more learned than Joneta."
Did his father seek to rid himself of an unwanted burden? Ranald sensed he leaned close again, perusing him.
"Hmpf. He is of no use to me now. I know no man desperate enough he would wed his daughter to such a horror. Leave him at Kelso and return."
Chief Broccin's footsteps faded. The door banged shut.
Ranald tried to find voice, but his body would not respond. For all the power he had over it, he may as well have been stone.
Ranald thought his suffering couldn't be worse.
He couldn't be more wrong.
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