Flight of the Raven

by Judith Sterling

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Flight of the Raven

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  His grin was sensual by nature

  and mischievous by design. “Have you no enthusiasm for the coming festivities?”

  She stifled a grimace. “Festivities,” she said. “Is that what you call them? If you want a festive night, you’d do better to invite jugglers and mummers to prance about the chamber.”

  His black eyes smoldered. “No, my bride. You and I will devise our own entertainment.”

  The power of speech deserted her. Yet she kept her composure during the toasts and as the people cheered the bride and groom for the last time. Then William rose to his feet.

  The dreaded moment had come. In a daze, she stood. Her eyes sought Meg, but the older woman was deep in conversation with Wulfstan and didn’t notice.

  William guided Emma away from the table and out of the boisterous, oblivious hall. Once they were beyond observation, she pulled her hand from his arm and used her veil as an excuse to occupy her hands elsewhere.

  She climbed the spiral, stone stairs as slowly as she dared, delaying the moment when the bedchamber door would close behind them. The stairwell torches were ablaze with flames that eagerly licked the shafts of wood. Behind her, William’s footsteps were as loud as thunder.

  At the top of the stairs, the large, oak door stood wide open. There was no one inside the bedchamber, not a single soul to grant her one last pardon. Tilda had turned down the bed, and it loomed in the shadows, waiting.

  Flight of the Raven

  by

  Judith Sterling

  The Novels of Ravenwood, Book One

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Flight of the Raven

  COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Judith Sterling

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Tea Rose Edition, 2016

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-0946-0

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0947-7

  The Novels of Ravenwood, Book One

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my parents,

  who have always believed in me,

  and to my husband,

  whose love and support are unconditional.

  Chapter One

  Northern England, September 1101

  “I wonder how eager my bridegroom would be if he knew he could never bed me,” remarked Lady Emma of Ravenwood Keep.

  Her cousin, Gertrude, exchanged glances with Emma’s handmaiden, Tilda, whose normally deft fingers fumbled their attempt to plait Emma’s hip-length black hair. An uneasy silence stretched between the three young women, then spiraled out toward the bedchamber walls like a restless spirit.

  Gertrude examined her thick braid of chestnut hair, then threw it over her shoulder. “You’re making a big mistake,” she said.

  Emma’s violet eyes glowed with resolve. “I’m making the best of an impossible situation.”

  Gertrude groaned. “The curse. I would expect the cottars and villeins to believe such hogwash, but why do you?”

  Emma’s gaze fell to the herb-strewn rushes on the floor, and she pressed a hand to her chest. “You know why.”

  “Your fate is not your mother’s. Or your grandmother’s, for that matter. Grow up, Emma.”

  “You wouldn’t make so light of the curse if you were in my place.”

  “Nor would I give my hand in marriage to a thieving, Norman bastard. But as you say, I’m not in your place.”

  “Done,” Tilda said, securing Emma’s braid. Then she cleared her throat. “Begging your pardon, but he’s not a bastard.”

  “He might as well be,” said Gertrude, her green eyes ablaze. “He’s a second son, so he couldn’t inherit. But for reasons that pass understanding, he gained Ravenwood.”

  “The king rewards his best,” Emma said. “Sir William is a great warrior.”

  Gertrude snorted. “Great indeed! He’s a ruthless Norman knight, like any other. His supposed valor is doubtless as embroidered as the Ravenwood curse.”

  Emma’s thoughts reeled. William l’Orage. William the Storm. Could a man who inspires such terror on the battlefield show compassion?

  “You’re trembling, my lady,” Tilda said. “Shall I stoke the fire?”

  Emma attempted a smile, then abandoned the effort. “Only if you are cold,” she said, standing. She moved to the window, opened the oak shutters, and peered out at a day that would shape the rest of her life.

  Dense fog swirled through the cold morning air. She could scarcely see the bailey below, much less the fertile fields beyond.

  “Have you had another vision?” Gertrude asked.

  Emma turned her back on the window. “Aye, the same one I’ve had since my father’s death.”

  “I wondered why you missed supper last night,” Gertrude said, “though I should’ve guessed. When Woden’s Circle beckons, you invariably disappear. I cannot understand it.”

  Tilda’s hands found her hips. “’Tis a sacred place.”

  “’Tis a heathen ring of stones,” Gertrude retorted. She turned to Emma. “So you saw the young woman again. Are you certain ’twas your mother? You never knew her.”

  “I’m positive,” said Emma. “She’s warning me of danger.”

  Gertrude frowned. “Yet she says naught and shows you naught.”

  Emma shrugged. “I cannot force the messages any more than I can control when they come.”

  “Perhaps she disapproves of your marriage,” Gertrude said. “If only you’d been able to wed Aldred. Ravenwood could’ve stayed a Saxon stronghold, and Aldred would’ve killed any Norman beast that dared enter our lands.”

  Emma gave her a pointed look. “That’s exactly what I wish to avoid. I’ve had a bellyful of the hatred between Saxons and Normans. Aldred the Merciless has no place here. My people deserve peace.”

  Gertrude crossed her arms and stared at Emma. “How do you know Sir William brings peace?”

  I don’t, Emma thought. I hope.

  “King Henry wants
harmony in the north,” she said aloud. “If he trusts Sir William with that task, who are we to doubt? I will do my duty.”

  Gertrude scowled. “Is it duty or dissent to spurn your husband’s right to the marriage bed?”

  Emma glanced at the large, oak bed which seemed to swallow a third of the chamber. “I’ll be a faithful wife in all other respects,” she said. “Better to face a husband’s wrath than die in childbirth.”

  Tilda’s brown eyes widened. “Sir William is no ordinary husband. Is it wise to refuse him?”

  “Wise or no, my decision is final,” Emma said.

  She tugged at the long sleeves of her pink, floor-length inner tunic while scrutinizing her gray overtunic’s embroidered hem. Though she preferred close-fitting garments, today’s attire seemed too tight. Even the air felt close, bound by stone walls which now rang with the slam of the door.

  Gertrude was gone. Finally.

  Emma paced, filling the bedchamber with the scents of lavender and thyme and the rhythmic crunch of rushes underfoot.

  “My head aches,” Tilda said.

  Emma halted. “A strong dose of woundwort will set it right. Shall I fetch some?”

  “Thank you, my lady, but no. ’Twill pass now that we’re alone.”

  Emma sighed. “Gertrude means well.”

  Tilda pushed a wayward strand of fiery red hair from her face. “Does she? She may be a year older than you, but that doesn’t make her smarter. Must she always poke her nose into your affairs?”

  “She has nowhere else to poke it. Are you sure you need no medicine?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Emma started to pace anew. “In sooth, I’d prefer the errand to brooding in here, waiting an eternity for Sir William’s arrival.”

  Tilda cleared her throat, and the sound carried a feeling of dread. “My lady?” she said.

  Emma paused mid-step and turned to her. “What is it?”

  Slowly, Tilda dragged her gaze from the massive bed back to Emma. “When will you tell him?”

  Emma swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. “The wedding night.”

  “Not before?”

  “I dare not. What if he refused my hand? The last thing we need is Aldred sniffing at the gate again.”

  Tilda nodded. “I understand, though I could never be so brave.”

  Emma slouched. “Is that what I am?” She returned to the window and sighed as the frigid wind brushed her cheeks. The weather had changed little.

  Mist. Endless fog. A future hidden.

  All at once, she felt the pull, a familiar stirring in the pit of her stomach and in the secret, timeless dimension of her soul. It reached out, yearned to answer the call of Woden’s Circle. Another vision awaited her. Maybe this time, its message would be clear.

  Emma closed and bolted the shutters, then whirled around. She marched across the chamber and dropped onto a stool.

  “What are you doing?” Tilda asked.

  “I’m going to the circle.” Emma quickly replaced her slippers with low, leather boots.

  Tilda stared. “Now?”

  “Now.”

  Emma stood and snatched her gray, woolen mantle from a wooden peg on the wall.

  “But you can’t,” Tilda said, wringing her hands. “What if Sir William arrives while you’re gone?”

  Emma knelt before a large, intricately carved chest and lifted the lid. She slid her hand past a profusion of soft linen and clasped the cool, hard shape of a key. “With any luck, he won’t.”

  “And if he does?”

  “I’ll explain when I return.”

  “You mean you’ll tell him of your visions?”

  The heavy lid of the chest plunked closed as Emma stood. “Mayhap I’ll lie.”

  Tilda raised her eyebrows. “He could arrive at any moment. What if he sees you leaving the gatehouse?”

  Emma dangled the key from her fingers. “That’s what bolt-holes are for.”

  Tilda’s mouth fell open.

  “Only you will know I’m gone,” said Emma, “and where I’ve gone. Now, come! We haven’t a moment to lose.”

  Emma threw open the chamber door and descended the long, spiral staircase with the quick, sure-footedness of one who’d memorized each stone step. Her conscience whispered that she was taking an unnecessary risk. Custom and courtesy agreed: Sir William would expect and deserve to be greeted by Ravenwood’s mistress. She had no wish to offend him and no idea how he’d react if she did.

  But she’d never denied Woden’s Circle. Its pull was too strong.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Emma grabbed a torch from the wall. She could hear the servants bustling about the great hall, completing last minute preparations for Sir William’s arrival. Muttering a quick prayer for invisibility, she slipped past the hall’s arched entrance and hurried into the solar. She crossed the room with Tilda close at her heels.

  Emma passed the torch to her handmaiden. “Hold this.” She dropped to her knees and shoved aside a large rush mat, revealing a trapdoor in the planked floor.

  “I don’t suppose you’d change your mind?” Tilda asked.

  Emma thrust the key into the trapdoor’s lock.

  “I guess not,” Tilda said.

  Emma swung the door upward and reclaimed the torch. “Replace the mat,” she ordered. “Then put a new torch at the base of the stairs.”

  Wide-eyed, Tilda nodded. “I’ll say a prayer for you, my lady.”

  “Thank you. I may need it.”

  Emma descended the narrow, wooden steps to the dark basement below. Once her feet touched ground, she looked up and caught a final glimpse of Tilda’s worried face. Then the trapdoor thudded shut.

  Well, Emma thought, squaring her shoulders, that’s that.

  She held the torch in front of her, thankful for its heat and light. This small chamber had always seemed a cold, lonely place. Stone more than a yard thick separated it from the rest of the basement. Only the trapdoor above and the secret bolt-hole offered access.

  Barrels of spices and chests full of coins, jewels, plate, and cloth crowded the room, but she ignored them. Instead, she moved toward a large tapestry which dominated the opposite wall, ceiling to floor. Heavy and exquisite, its faded threads depicted a wild boar hunt. She pulled the tapestry away from the wall, then slid between fabric and stone until she reached a small, battened door.

  She raised the bolt and opened the door. Her torch flickered as a rush of dank, musty air whistled along the narrow passageway beyond. Wrinkling her nose at the smell, she stooped and entered the tunnel. She closed the door behind her and made a mental note to rebolt it later. Then she started toward the small circle of light up ahead.

  The tunnel was alive with the squeaks and rustlings of creatures scurrying along the damp stone walls. But while the animals sought shelter from the moaning wind, Emma longed to be a part of it. Outside was freedom, nature’s savage dance, and the magic of Woden’s Circle.

  Finally, she emerged into the thicket. The air was crisp and clean. She plunged the torch into the moist earth and tossed it back into the tunnel. Then she made her way through the tangle of shrubbery which opened onto the vast orchard outside the curtain wall.

  Fog still blanketed the land, but it didn’t matter. She would’ve known the way blindfolded. Smiling, she skittered past fruit-heavy trees to the open meadow beyond.

  She had made it!

  She glided over the grass as though carried on the singing wind. Before, the mist was a barrier. Now it seemed an extension of her body and her innermost self.

  A cloak of reverence settled over her shoulders as she climbed and crested the low hill to Woden’s Circle. Nine weathered, evenly spaced stones, twice her height, formed a perfect ring. At its center, three larger stones created the appearance of a gateway.

  Emma entered the circle and approached the ancient threshold. She stepped in and stretched her arms to touch the slick, cool stones on either side. Then she stilled.

  The fog thinned
, and she looked to the forest that bordered most of the circle. The Long Wood was a kingdom unto itself with towering sentinels of pine, beech, and the sacred oak. A rustle sounded within. A moment later, a raven emerged. It landed on one of the ring-stones just as two more ravens appeared. Each bird settled onto a different stone.

  My little guardians, Emma thought with a smile.

  She closed her eyes and inhaled fresh air laced with the scent of pine needles. As she exhaled, the morning’s tension coursed downward, out of her body and into the earth. She cleared her mind and slowed her breathing. Each breath brought a deeper peace, a sense of belonging.

  At last, her hands tingled with the familiar energy that seemed to flow directly from stone to flesh. Warmth cascaded through her arms and down the length of her body. A primordial power vibrated beneath her feet. The world outside melted away as Woden’s Circle wove its magic.

  ****

  Sir William l’Orage rode toward his future like the dark tempest his name implied. Defying custom, he had dressed for battle. Over his chain mail hauberk, he wore a flowing mantle as black as the powerful, aggressive stallion beneath him. Knight and warhorse moved in unison, pushing through the enveloping fog with strength of purpose that brooked no refusal. They had come to conquer.

  Beside William rode a second mail-clad knight, his younger brother, Robert. Their squires and William’s numerous retainers followed, leading destriers, palfreys, and packhorses laden with weaponry and the tangible wealth of Ravenwood’s new lord.

  Robert grinned sidewise at his brother. “Always the tactician,” he said.

  William nodded. “In an enemy land, a strong first impression is crucial.”

  “Are you certain this is an enemy land?”

  “’Tis Saxon.”

  Robert gestured toward William’s savage destrier. “One look at Thunder would impress any rebel, Saxon or Saracen.”

  Hearing his name, Thunder pricked up his ears. The warhorse reared, lashing out with his great hooves, but William casually curbed the animal.

  “As would the ease with which you control him,” Robert added.

  A sudden gust whipped William’s black hair from his face and revealed a fierce smile. “Intimidation is a powerful deterrent.”