Flight of the Raven

by Judith Sterling

  Abruptly, Emma recalled William’s stiff, proud manhood in her hand. Heat rushed into her cheeks.

  “Not that part,” Meg said with a sly grin. “Something less tangible.”

  Emma’s eyes widened. “You read my thoughts with frightening ease.”

  “I sense your frustration, too.”

  “I wonder if my husband does.”

  “You’re probably as much a mystery to him as he is to you.”

  “Well, I hate hovering in limbo, having to guess the workings of his heart. Is there nothing I can do to sway his affections?”

  “In the end, he must love you for yourself.”

  Emma’s gaze dropped to her boots. “Not even my father could do that.”

  “The people love you.”

  Emma regarded Meg. “Not for myself.”

  Meg put her hands on her hips. “For what then?”

  “My skills as a healer.”

  “You’re wrong, Emma.”

  “I think not.” She turned toward the table.

  Meg patted Emma’s arm. “Well, I love you.”

  With a sad smile, Emma turned back to her. “Aye, but you’re different.”

  Meg folded her arms. “Really? Lord Ravenwood’s heart may turn out to be no different from mine.”

  Emma grunted. “Now you speak of miracles.”

  “Not necessarily. Time can soften a man’s memories and teach him to love.”

  “How many moons must I wait for this grand transformation?”

  “As many as it takes.”

  Emma sighed. “You’re right. And in the meantime, I protect my virginity. ’Tis the only way.”

  Meg glanced at the herbs on the worktable. “There may be another,” she said slowly. “I’ve taught you all I know about healing, but there’s preventive medicine, as well.”

  Emma perked up. “Do you know a way to prevent conception?”

  “There’s a little-known drink that contains dittany and rue. It might work. But it must be taken several hours before coupling, and the measurements must be exact.”

  “I’m sure. Too much rue is poisonous.”

  “I know the proper amount, but even so, the medicine could fail.”

  Emma bit her lip and considered the risks involved. They were too great. “I dare not rely on it,” she said. “I must keep Lord Ravenwood’s passion at bay.”

  Gertrude appeared in the doorway. “That won’t be easy.”

  “I don’t suppose it will,” Emma replied. “Why are you here?”

  Gertrude rolled her eyes. “Your husband has sent me on an errand. Apparently, he suffers under the delusion that I’m his servant.”

  “Hate sours your complexion, Gertrude,” Meg said coolly. “There’s no room for delusion in a man of Lord Ravenwood’s mold.”

  Gertrude made a face. “I see he has an advocate.”

  “He has two,” Emma said. “Now, what is your errand?”

  Gertrude turned to Meg. “Lord Ravenwood wishes to speak with you.”

  “Me?” said Meg. “Why?”

  Gertrude shrugged. “I’m not a soothsayer. He awaits you in the solar.”

  Meg laid her hand on Emma’s shoulder. “Can you finish without me?”

  “Of course,” said Emma. “Go.”

  Meg’s smile was warm and reassuring. “Keep faith, Emma.”

  “I’ll try,” Emma replied.

  Meg brushed past Gertrude and marched into the sunlight.

  Emma frowned. Why had William summoned Meg? What could they possibly have to talk about?

  Me, she thought.

  Gertrude stepped into the workshop. “Meg is showing her age.”

  “You must be joking,” Emma said. “We’d be lucky to boast of half her energy.”

  Gertrude approached the table. “You’re probably right. I just said it because I’m in a foul temper.”

  “Why?”

  “I overheard your conversation.”

  “I see.”

  “No, you don’t. I know I’m disagreeable at times, but I do care about you.”

  “I know.”

  Gertrude lowered her gaze. “And I worry for you.”

  “You needn’t. I worry enough for us both.”

  Gertrude looked up again. Her green eyes brimmed with emotion. “But are you thinking clearly?”

  Emma turned to the table and stared at the small, fragrant heaps atop it. “At the moment, I’ve no wish to think about anything but my work.”

  Gertrude stepped closer. “What are you doing, anyway?”

  “Replenishing my stock.”

  “Since Meg’s gone to face your husband, I can help you.”

  Emma turned to her. “I could use the help, but are you sure you want to?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “You’ve never shown an interest in the healing arts.”

  “That may be true, but you need help. And you’d be astonished how much I remember. Any herbs I don’t recognize, you can tell me.”

  “Very well.” Emma grabbed a jar from one of the shelves. “Let’s begin.”

  Gertrude cleared her throat. “Before we do, I’ve one last piece of advice.”

  Emma placed the jar on the worktable and sighed. “Is it brief?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then go ahead.”

  Gertrude glanced toward the door as though wary of being overheard. “Take care, Cousin. Lord Ravenwood has already seized your land. Now he could steal your heart. After that, there’s only one thing left to take.”

  “What is that?” Emma asked, but she already knew the answer.

  Gertrude leaned forward. “Your life.”

  ****

  “You sent for me?”

  The clear, resonant voice startled William. He pulled his gaze from the vibrant tapestry and turned to see Meg standing beside the empty fireplace. Her gray clothing reminded him of a stealthy mist. The old woman certainly moved like one. How she’d entered the solar undetected was a mystery.

  “I did,” he said, folding his arms.

  Meg glanced at the tapestry behind him. “I see you’ve noticed ‘The Forest Dance.’”

  “How could I not?”

  She nodded. “It holds a peculiar fascination for many.”

  “Who made it?”

  “Emma’s grandmother. She was a gifted weaver.”

  “Evidently.”

  A fay twinkle brightened her eyes. “What’s less evident is the tapestry’s true nature.”

  “Which is?”

  “Magic.”

  He snorted. “’Tis but color and thread. Nothing more.”

  Meg was solemn and preternaturally still. “No,” she said. “When you look into the tapestry, it looks into you.”

  He stared at her for a long moment. “Ridiculous,” he said at last.

  She cocked her head to the side as Emma so often did. “Have you seen the tapestry of the boar’s hunt in the storeroom below?”

  He thought back to his first day at Ravenwood, when John, the steward, led him down the hidden stairs. “I have,” he said. “Emma’s grandmother made it too?”

  “She did. At one time, it hung in the hall, but Emma’s father had it moved.”

  “For what reason?”

  “It gave him nightmares.”

  Images from his dream the night before flashed through his mind. “Oh?”

  “As the tapestries are woven, so too they weave.”

  He frowned. “Explain.”

  “They enhance a person’s inner world. Hopes and fears, choices one must make.”

  He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and looked to the hearth. ’Twas dormant, cold. A sense of foreboding crept into his awareness, but he rebuffed it.

  He returned his attention to Meg. “You’ll understand if I remain skeptical,” he said.

  “Of course,” she said calmly, “but the truth remains. The daughters of Ravenwood are blessed with extraordinary gifts.”

  “Emma mentioned
her visions, and you’ve explained her grandmother’s talent. What is yours?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Would I have asked otherwise?”

  She regarded him in silence for several seconds. Then she lifted her chin. “Dreams,” she said.

  He clasped his hands behind his back. “Prophetic ones?”

  “At times, but prophecy is not always what it seems. My dreams have shown me that the past, present, and future are one.”

  “You speak in riddles.”

  “I speak from experience.”

  “Would you care to elaborate?”

  “Not today, but I would ask you a question.”

  “This should be interesting,” he muttered.

  She took a step closer. “Have you ever had a dream that was so real you weren’t sure it was a dream?”

  “When I awoke, you mean?”

  “Whether we wake or merely shift between realities is an old puzzle, but for our purposes, aye. When you awoke.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Once, maybe twice. Why?”

  “My dreams are always real, in one way or another. ’Tis like entering a parallel world that shimmers with secret information.”

  “Such as?”

  “What I dreamt last night. Perhaps you can help me translate it.”

  “How could I help?”

  “I dreamt of you.”

  His fingers twitched behind his back. “What saw you?”

  “You fought a serpent with your sword. The creature was large and powerful, but the most striking thing was its color.”

  “So what color was this serpent?”

  “Blue.”

  A dark memory slithered through his mind, but he said nothing.

  “Why was it blue?” she asked. “Do you know?”

  His hands tightened their grip. “I may.”

  “Pray tell.”

  “No. I’ll not discuss it.”

  Meg studied his face and posture. “Then perhaps you’ll discuss your reason for summoning me.”

  He relaxed his hands and dropped them to his sides. “I have questions about the curse. I know Lady Ravenwood believes in it, but I want a second opinion. And I want the truth.”

  “You’ve already heard the truth from Emma. The curse is real.”

  “I took you for a practical person.”

  “I am practical, but I also leave room for magic. A fruitful life balances both.”

  “The only fruit that interests me is what would grow in Lady Ravenwood’s womb.”

  “Strong words for a man who threw himself in front of a poisoned arrow.”

  “I didn’t know ’twas poisoned.”

  “But you knew ’twould hurt Emma. Which reminds me, have you learned anything more about the attack?”

  He shook his head. “My men found nothing within a day’s ride of Ravenwood, but they’re keeping watch. Why do you ask?”

  She shivered. “’Tis only a feeling I have.”

  “You sense danger.”

  “Aye, and so do you.”

  A silent understanding bridged the space between them. Their bond was a mutual desire to protect Emma.

  Meg grinned. “You see your wife as more than just a breeder.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Do you read minds as well as dreams?”

  She shook her head. “I’m merely observant. What I see between you two is encouraging.”

  “If you observe a growing friendship, then you’re correct.”

  She crossed the room and pressed her palms against the candle-laden table that hugged the wall. “Friendship is a safe word.”

  He stared at her back. “You prefer another?”

  She turned to face him. “Love.”

  His chest tightened. “That word has no meaning for me.”

  “It could.”

  “No, it could not.”

  “You seem very determined, but I wonder if I believe you.”

  “Why wonder if the path is clear when there’s nothing else to travel?”

  Slowly, she walked toward him…with presence and purpose. She halted not two feet away. “Of whose path do you speak? Yours or Emma’s?”

  His gaze locked with hers. “Does it matter? They are one now.”

  “Exactly,” Meg said with a nod. Her violet eyes smoldered. “But know this: if you don’t help her break the curse, no one will.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Emma sighed as she strode across the sunlit bailey. The crisp, fresh air was a welcome change from the thick aromas which clung to her workshop’s walls.

  True to her word, Gertrude had helped restock the herbs and even now finished cleanup. A twinge of guilt seized Emma as she thought of her cousin standing alone, sweeping the floor of the workshop, but the bright sun melted the feeling away.

  Anxious to find William, she hurried up the stairs and into the keep. As she approached the great hall, the sound of his voice arrested her and she peered inside.

  He sat in his large, oak chair and held conference with John, the steward. Tall, thin, and mostly bald, the older man stood before William and nodded.

  “Sizeable crops have been harvested in all of your manors,” John said. “But there’s still the matter of the wine in your cellar at Druid’s Head.”

  “Can you sell it?” William asked.

  “I’m making inquiries,” John replied. “That reminds me, Father Cedric has spoken with the almoner about the food for the poor.”

  “And the cloth?”

  “On its way. One hundred ells, just as you requested.”

  “Good. It must be here by Michaelmas.”

  “Consider it done.”

  William gave John an approving nod. “You’re a competent steward.”

  John bobbed his head. “Thank you, my lord.”

  Emma stepped out of the shadows. “Indeed,” she said in a voice that projected to the corners of the hall. “John is a treasure.”

  The steward turned, and William stood. Emma fought to keep her attention on John as she approached the two men.

  “My lady,” said John. “You are too kind.”

  She shook her head. “Not at all. How is your wife’s cough?”

  John smiled. “Almost gone, thank you.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Emma said. Then she turned to William.

  Her heart fluttered as his dark, hot gaze devoured her. Willing herself to remain calm, she asked, “Have you concluded your business, or shall I return later?”

  William stepped down from the dais and looked at the steward. “Anything else?”

  “Not at the moment,” said John. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting with the butler and pantler.”

  William nodded his assent, and John hastened from the hall. Emma stared at William’s full lips and remembered where they’d been the night before. Her face burned. With a silent curse, she forced her gaze to his black tunic, but she knew what lay beneath it. Visions of his naked body inundated her mind.

  He drew nearer by the second. “Ah,” he said. “You look good in pink.”

  She locked her gaze onto his shining, black eyes. “I’m wearing blue.”

  “I meant your face.”

  She couldn’t help but smile. “Oh. I blush too easily these days.”

  He stopped barely a foot away and grinned. “Am I responsible for that?”

  “You know you are, but I’m not here to discuss my complexion. I want to show you something.”

  His smile now boasted teeth. “You showed me plenty last night, but I’m eager for more.”

  She gave him a pointed look. “I only wondered if you’d seen our bolt-hole.”

  His eyes widened. “I haven’t, and John never mentioned it.”

  “I’m sure he would’ve sooner or later, but if you’d like, I’ll show you now.”

  “Where is it?”

  “In the storeroom below the solar. Surely John gave you my father’s key to the trapdoor.”

  “He did.”

/>   “Do you have it with you?”

  William reached inside the leather pouch that hung from his belt. Then he laid the key in her palm. “Lead on, my lady.”

  They left the hall and passed under the tall, painted arch above the solar’s entrance.

  “If you’ll grab a torch from the stairwell, I’ll get the door,” Emma said, and she hurried to the far side of the chamber. She knelt beside the rush mat which hid the trapdoor and pushed it aside. At the sound of William’s approach, she turned the key in the lock and pulled the door upward.

  “I would’ve opened that for you,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she said, standing, “but I’ve done it hundreds of times.”

  “To count riches or utilize the bolt-hole?”

  She turned to him. “What do you think?”

  “I’d wager you value freedom above wealth.”

  She handed him the key. “’Tis a wager you’d win.”

  He passed her the lighted torch. “You first.”

  Torch in hand, she started down the narrow wooden stairs. William followed and maneuvered the rush mat over the trapdoor.

  “No one will know where we’ve gone,” he said, his tone conspiratorial.

  Her stomach quivered as the door thudded shut. Why was he so keen to cover their tracks?

  Stop it, she scolded herself. All is well.

  The cellar floor felt firm beneath her feet. She sought one of the iron holders in the chill, stone wall and lowered the torch into it. Light washed over the table, chests, and barrels with detachment, but it seemed to caress her grandmother’s tapestry.

  At the foot of the stairs, William paused and stared.

  “You look spellbound,” she said. “Is it the picture or the skill?”

  He moved closer to the wall hanging. “Both, I imagine.”

  “Well, believe it or not, you’re actually staring at the bolt-hole.”

  He looked at her. “What do you mean?”

  She pulled the tapestry away from the wall and slid behind it. The next instant, he was beside her, warm and ever so close.

  Feeling her way in the darkness, she inched along the wall until her fingers touched wood. Then she raised the bolt and opened the small door. Cold, dank air filled her nostrils, but daylight beckoned at the end of the tunnel.

  “You’ll have to duck,” she said, stepping through the doorway.

  “I see what you mean,” he said, following her lead.