Flight of the Raven

by Judith Sterling

  Too soon, the servants left the chamber, and the door shut behind them with a clunk. William bolted it, then crossed to the tub with long, leisurely steps.

  Emma wiped her sweaty palms on her tunic and cleared her throat. “Aren’t you hungry?”

  He ran his fingers over the white cloth that lined the tub’s edge. “I will be,” he answered. “Later.”

  “Later,” she echoed.

  He smiled. “Will you undress your husband, or shall I do it myself?”

  Her heart fluttered. “You can do it.”

  He nodded and reached to undo his leather belt. Promptly, she looked away, focusing instead on the window’s closed shutters. Her eyes followed the curving design carved into the oak boards.

  “Shall I open the window?” she asked.

  “’Tis cold out,” he replied. “Would you have me ill and in bed again?”

  “Not ill,” she said, still looking away.

  “But in your bed?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I see your humor has returned.”

  “How can you see anything with your back turned?” he countered.

  “I’m waiting for you to get into the tub.”

  “Ah, you dare not look the dragon in the eye.”

  Despite her nerves, she giggled. “You call it a dragon?”

  “When common names fail, one looks to legend.”

  She snorted. “I suppose it breathes fire.”

  “It will,” he said, his tone suddenly potent, “if you want it to.”

  An awkward silence followed. She rolled up her sleeves with studied care. Behind her, the swish and rustle of clothing seemed ridiculously loud. At last, she heard the swash of bathwater.

  “’Tis safe to turn around,” he said.

  She turned…and stared.

  Framed by the writhing fire and the water lapping at his ribs, he looked at once fiendish and unbearably handsome. She meant to walk forward, but her legs seemed to have lost their mobility.

  William grinned. “Does your silence indicate approval or disfavor?”

  She blinked and found her voice. “Neither.”

  “What then?”

  “Alarm.”

  His dark eyes glittered. “Fear not. I promise to behave.”

  “Behave? I’m afraid to ask your definition of the word.”

  “’Tis similar to yours, I assure you.”

  She forced herself to move forward. Her gaze locked onto his and refused to let go, even as she circled the tub.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” he said.

  She made a face and knelt on the pillow beside him. The fire warmed her right side and invaded her cheek.

  William leaned back and rested his long arms on the edge of the tub. The bandage on his bicep caught her attention, and she was grateful. It allowed her to assume the familiar role of healer.

  “We’ll leave this on,” she said, ensuring the dressing was tight. “I’ll wash around it.”

  “As you wish.”

  “By morning, the wound should be ready for cleansing and a new bandage.”

  His grin deepened. “I’m in your hands.”

  She pursed her lips, and he raised an eyebrow.

  “Wouldn’t you like that?” he asked.

  She averted her gaze. “Shall I start at the bottom?”

  “To which bottom do you refer?”

  The fire’s heat hounded her, and she began to sweat. “Your feet.”

  “Oh well. ’Tis a beginning.”

  She mumbled a string of Saxon oaths and dipped a clean rag into the water. With her other hand, she scooped soft, lavender-scented soap from a jar on the floor. She spread it over the wet cloth, then began to wash his toes.

  “You use a different soap,” he remarked.

  She paused. “I’m surprised you noticed.”

  “I notice everything.”

  “Well, I thought you’d rather smell of lavender than of roses.”

  “Right you are.”

  She scrubbed the ball of his left foot. “You have big feet.”

  He chuckled. “True.”

  She switched to the other foot. “My father had big feet…but a small heart.”

  “And no sense, if he preferred Gertrude to you.”

  “Gertrude can be harsh. I doubt she’d bathe you so gently.”

  “I’d never give her the chance.”

  Emma slid the washcloth along his left calf. “A wise decision.”

  He closed his eyes and sighed as she moved to his knee. “My wisest was to have you bathe me.”

  Her eyes on his face, her brow beaded with sweat, she felt her way to his thigh. His leg tensed, and she faltered.

  His eyes shot open. “Why do you stop?”

  She licked the salty sweat from her upper lip and stared into his dark eyes. “Your thigh hardened,” she said.

  He glanced down. “Among other things. Look.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “You can.”

  “Why must I?”

  “Do it, Emma.”

  She wrenched her gaze from his and lowered it to his full, sensual lips, then to the mat of black hair covering his chest and stomach. At that point, there was no ignoring his proud, engorged manhood.

  ’Twas larger than she’d expected and almost purple. Even more amazing, it continued to grow.

  “Your bath may take longer than anticipated,” she said finally.

  “Why is that?”

  “Every minute there’s more of you to clean.”

  He burst out laughing. “Indeed.”

  She willed her attention back to his face. “I didn’t mean to be funny.”

  “That’s why you were.”

  She returned his smile. “When you compared yourself to the Long Wood, I thought you were joking.”

  “When you mentioned horses, I thought you were clever.”

  “I think ‘brave’ is the proper word.”

  “Are you brave enough to face the dragon?” he murmured. He guided her hand up his thigh, but she pulled it away.

  Swiftly, she scooted around the tub and knelt behind him. “Your word was better. I’m clever enough to wash a different part of you.”

  “Which part?”

  “Your back, of course. Sit up.”

  He leaned forward, and her breath caught in her throat. For the first time, she had a clear view of his bare back and the angry scars tangled upon it. Hattin’s whip hadn’t skimmed William’s flesh; it had torn it apart.

  Tears stung her eyes. She bent over and kissed one of the scars. Then a second, and a third.

  “Emma?” he said.

  Blinking back tears, she dropped the rag and placed her hands on his shoulders. “He should burn in Hell.”

  “Who?”

  “The monster that did this to you.”

  William jerked away from her touch. Slowly, he turned to her. “Of what monster do you speak?”

  “Hattin the Horrid.”

  William’s face transformed into a cold, hard mask. “How do you know that name?”

  She trembled. “’Twas mentioned once.”

  “By whom?”

  “Your brother.”

  A muscle worked in his jaw. “How much did he tell you?”

  “Enough.”

  He closed his eyes. “I see.”

  “He meant well.”

  “It matters not.”

  “But it does, William.” She swallowed hard. “Maybe if you talked—”

  His eyes shot open. “I will not discuss it! Not with you, not with anyone.”

  “I want to help.”

  He looked beyond her to the blazing hearth, and his eyes reflected the flames. “Then leave my presence immediately.”

  She felt rooted to the floor. “What?”

  “You heard me.” His gaze was riveted on the fireplace, as though the demons that tormented him danced within.

  “But—”

  “Go!”

  Emma jumped to h
er feet and rushed to the door. Without a backward glance, she left the chamber.

  ****

  William stormed into the solar where Robert stood warming his hands before the fire. In the far corner of the room, Geoffrey and Guy looked up from their game of chess and froze.

  “Leave us,” William said to the squires.

  Robert flinched, then turned to his brother as Geoffrey and Guy scuttled from the room.

  “What did you tell her?” William demanded.

  “Whom?”

  “My wife.”

  “In Heaven’s name, what are you talking about?”

  “Heaven has naught to do with it. I’m talking about Hattin.”

  Robert looked at his leather boots. “Oh.”

  Heat coursed through William. “Apparently, you’ve been telling tales.”

  Robert lifted his gaze in a bold stare. “Only one.”

  William clenched his fists. “You had no business blurting my history to her.”

  Robert’s expression softened. “Perhaps not, but ’twas innocently done.”

  “There’s nothing innocent about betrayal.”

  “Just listen, William. You were feverish from the arrow’s poison and kept babbling Turkish in your sleep. Naturally, she wondered what language you were speaking.”

  “So you treated her to a bedtime story of treachery and torture.”

  “She deserved to know. If you’d seen the way she cared for you, you’d agree.”

  “I’d never agree to sharing my darkest memories.”

  “You shared them with me.”

  “Not all of them. I only told you what I could bear to relive.”

  “Fair enough, but at least you shared something.”

  “With you, not her.”

  “How is she any different?”

  William crossed his arms. “For one thing, she has a far more appealing shape.”

  Robert gave him a soulful look. “She’s family now.”

  “She’s my wife, and she’ll be the mother of my sons. But that is all.”

  Robert crossed the chamber and dropped onto one of the chairs. “You’re as stubborn as she is.”

  Through narrowed eyes, William studied his brother. “If you were any other man, you’d pay for that comment.”

  “But I’m not another man, and Lady Ravenwood isn’t just another woman. She’s got courage, wit, and spirit. Not unlike our mother, in many ways.”

  William frowned but claimed the chair next to Robert. “But does it follow that she holds the key to my soul?”

  Robert shrugged. “In due time, why not?”

  “I trod that path long ago. I shall not do so again.”

  “You speak of Sahar?”

  “I do.”

  “You lost her, aye. But we never learned what really happened.”

  William glared at him. “I won’t discuss it,” he hissed through his teeth.

  “Too late, Brother. I’m not the only one who knows.”

  The awful truth dawned. “No,” said William. “What possessed you to tell her?”

  “You said Sahar’s name at least a hundred times while you slept.”

  “Is nothing of my life sacred to you?”

  “Lady Ravenwood was curious.”

  “Curiosity be damned. You should not have told her.”

  “What should I have done? Locked her out, as you do?”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “But I do, more than you know. We both left a part of ourselves behind in the Holy Land. I lost my faith in God; you lost yours in humanity. Now your wife suffers for it.”

  William shifted his focus to the blazing hearth. Then he sighed heavily.

  He’d hurt Emma by pushing her away. Out of habit, he’d raised the old barriers, the ones so crucial to his sanity and survival in Hattin’s dungeon. But he dared not lower them. He couldn’t let anyone in. His pain and despair were too bitter, too black. Even for one as strong as Emma.

  He looked up from the fire and turned to Robert, who watched him in silence. The next instant, Robert grabbed a pitcher from the table beside him. He poured wine into two cups and handed one to his brother.

  “I suppose you stormed out of the bedchamber,” Robert said.

  William sipped the warm, spiced wine. “Something like that,” he muttered.

  “Will she let you back in?”

  “She can have the chamber to herself. I need space.”

  “For how long?”

  “A few days.”

  “Where will you sleep?”

  “With you.”

  “Charming, but what of your plans to seduce your wife?”

  “They can wait.”

  “The longer they do, the harder they’ll be to achieve.”

  “I know that.”

  Robert shrugged and sipped his wine. “Then I guess you know best.”

  “Always,” William replied.

  He lifted his gaze to the largest tapestry in the room. Its silken threads depicted lords and ladies dancing around a fire at the edge of a dark wood. William supposed the tapestry paid homage to some sort of pagan ritual. The detail was extraordinary, and the artist who created it had managed to infuse the scene with an unusual sense of movement.

  The longer he stared at it, the more the tapestry came to life. It seemed to whisper and entice. It bade him join in the merriment so vividly portrayed.

  But that was foolish, impossible. Magic didn’t exist. Even if it did, it could never draw hope from the pit of Hell.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Ouch!” Emma glared at the needle that stabbed her and lifted her bleeding thumb to her lips.

  Her attempt at embroidery was a miserable failure. All concentration had abandoned her.

  Gertrude, however, had not. Unusually quiet, she sat beside Emma on the solar’s window seat and stitched her latest masterpiece. Gertrude had a way with needle and thread, much like Emma’s grandmother had.

  Emma lowered her embroidery hoop to her lap and looked up at the tapestry Meg called “The Forest Dance.” ’Twas one of her grandmother’s most beautiful creations. As a young girl, Emma had imagined the wall hanging was a whole world of enchantment. For hours, she’d stared at the lively dancers and forest shadows, longing for a spell that could weave her into its magical threads.

  Now, as she gazed at the tapestry, the childhood wish returned. Her present reality held no charm. Two days had passed since she argued with William. That meant two sleepless nights during which she’d watched and waited for him to pound on the bedchamber door. He hadn’t even knocked.

  She glanced out the window at the waning light of day. I wonder if he’ll come knocking tonight, she thought.

  They hadn’t spoken or shared the same space since he ordered her from his bath. She took her meals in the great hall; he dined elsewhere. Even her handmaiden saw more of him, for he’d ordered Tilda to tend his arm until further notice. The arrangement made Emma feel like a leper. She’d stooped to skulking around the castle, spying on him from afar as he bellowed orders to men-at-arms on the battlements and instructed squires practicing combat in the bailey.

  ’Twas shameful. Ridiculous. And not nearly enough.

  At the sound of footsteps, Emma flinched. But ’twas only servants who’d come to light the candles. They went about their work with quick hands and respectful silence. Soon the solar’s glow rivaled that of the setting sun, and the servants left the chamber.

  The instant they were gone, Gertrude’s head snapped up. “You haven’t had much luck with your needle.” Her green eyes focused on Emma’s sore thumb.

  “And you haven’t had much to say,” Emma remarked.

  “Oh, I could’ve said plenty,” Gertrude replied. “I didn’t think you’d want to hear it.”

  Emma sighed. “I might as well.”

  Gertrude planted her needle in her embroidery and set it aside. “There’s been talk.”

  Emma shifted on the hard window seat. “About?”


  “Your husband’s sleeping arrangements.”

  Here we go, Emma thought. “Pray continue,” she said.

  Gertrude folded her arms into a tight bodice. “All of Ravenwood knows you’ve slept apart the past two nights. The people are worried.”

  “How does it concern them?”

  “They care for you because you care for their ill and broken bodies, though your reasons for doing so are a mystery to me.”

  Emma frowned. “You sound like my father.”

  Gertrude sat a little straighter. “He was a good man and a shrewd one.”

  “So you’ve said, often.”

  “He disapproved of your attempts to teach me the healing arts.”

  “He disapproved of most everything I did.”

  “Meg wasn’t keen on my learning medicine either,” Gertrude said, relaxing her arms so her hands fell into her lap “She must’ve seen how it bored me.”

  “No doubt.”

  Gertrude’s eyes shone like emeralds. “But I’ve learned a thing or two about life.”

  “Such as?”

  “The love act is all about pain.”

  Emma went rigid. “What?”

  “I’m not without experience.”

  “But…when? With whom?”

  “It matters not. What does matter is whether or not you’ve gained experience.”

  Emma’s gaze dropped to her needlework. The mangled stitches were just as embarrassing as the memories that surfaced in her mind. She could almost feel William’s fingers combing the hair between her legs.

  “You’re blushing,” Gertrude observed.

  Emma kept her eyes glued to her muddled embroidery. “What if I am?”

  “Has he bedded you?”

  “No.” Emma glowered at her tender thumb.

  Gertrude grunted. “You think your thumb hurts? Just wait until Lord Ravenwood pricks you.”

  Emma stared at her cousin. “Must you be so crude?”

  “I’m only trying to warn you,” Gertrude said.

  Emma pursed her lips but said nothing. William’s caresses were gentle and exciting. But were they worth whatever pain followed?

  “Women bear so much discomfort,” Gertrude mused. “First, there’s the monthly flux, and then our maidenheads are shattered. And how are we rewarded for these trials? The agony of childbirth. Eve must’ve been wicked indeed for God to invent such torture.”