Flight of the Raven

by Judith Sterling

  There was still danger. His skin burned, and his head tossed on the pillow as fever gripped his dreams. Intermittently, he mumbled a strange language.

  She bit her lower lip. If only I could heal his nightmares, she thought.

  He moaned and gripped the sheet covering his waist. “Sahar,” he whispered.

  She recognized the word, though its meaning was unclear. He’d said it over and over.

  Three loud thumps sounded on the chamber door, and she started. She hurried to the door and poised her hands over the bolt.

  “Who’s there?” she called.

  “Sir Robert,” was the muffled reply.

  With a sigh, she unbolted the door. Then she swung it open.

  Robert’s gray eyes took in the scene at a glance. “You’re still dressed,” he said.

  “I don’t expect to sleep,” she answered. “Do come in.”

  He crossed the threshold. With hands clasped behind his back, he advanced toward the bed.

  She closed the door and turned back to Robert. He stared down at his brother for a long moment. Then he moved to the fireplace and frowned at the blaze within.

  She hastened toward the hearth. “Please,” she said, gesturing to the high-backed chair before the fire. “Sit.”

  Robert dropped onto the chair, and she pulled up a stool to join him.

  “Thank you for tending William,” he said.

  “He is my husband.”

  He gave her a searching look. “So you don’t want to be rid of him.”

  “Of course not.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “Your brother deserves the best care I can give him. ’Tis for my sake he lies wounded.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve told no one, but the arrow was meant for me.”

  “Then William jumped in front of you.”

  “Without a thought for himself.”

  “That sounds like my brother.”

  “And I’m in his debt.”

  Firelight skipped and swayed in Robert’s eyes. “How very odd,” he said. “’Tis Norman blood that’s prized in these hills.”

  Emma shuddered despite the roaring fire. “I know, but the intent was clear. The attacker wanted me dead.”

  “All the more reason to discover his identity.”

  She nodded. “Gertrude heard Aldred’s men talking before they left. Apparently, there’s a band of ruffians in the area.”

  “Robbers?”

  “’Tis rumored so.”

  “But why would you be a target?”

  “Why not?”

  “No,” he said, rubbing his chin. “There’s more to this.”

  She studied his face. ’Twas so like William’s. Intelligent, hard, yet kinder somehow. “I was told that Wulfstan found nothing,” she said.

  “That’s right.”

  “I wish I’d had a chance to speak with him.”

  “Aye. ’Tis remarkable how fast he flew north after finding ‘nothing.’”

  “Wulfstan isn’t to blame for any of this.”

  “You’re quick to defend him.”

  “I’d defend anyone falsely accused.”

  Robert grunted. “We shall see.”

  “Yes,” she said pointedly. “You shall.”

  He grinned. “It must be your stubbornness that makes you such a gifted healer.”

  “Meg’s far more talented. Wulfstan has a knack for healing too.”

  “I’m sure William prefers your ministrations,” he said wryly. He glanced toward the bed where William still moaned in his sleep, and his smile disappeared. “He will come out of it, won’t he?”

  She refused to voice her fears. “I believe so,” she said. “A weaker man might not have survived. But the wound is clean, and my medicines appear to be working. If he makes it through the night, he should recover within days.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  I have to be, she thought. William saved my life, and I can do no less for him.

  Robert was watching her again. “You’ll not find a stronger man than William,” he said, as if to reassure her.

  “I believe you,” she said.

  “He’s faced horrors you cannot imagine.”

  Her gaze drifted to the bed. “Do you think he dreams of them now?”

  His expression grim, Robert nodded. She could almost feel his sorrow reaching out to her. Perhaps, out of habit, he kept the emotion locked away, and ’twas all the stronger for it.

  “Of what horrors do you speak?” she asked.

  “Besides the endless engine of war and death to which a knight is privy?”

  “Aye.”

  “Try torture.”

  Her mouth went dry. “What?” she croaked.

  Robert glared at the fire. “Surely you’ve noticed William’s hands. How both little fingers are misshapen, with each knuckle twisted.”

  “I’ve seen plenty of broken bones,” she said. “I assumed his hadn’t been set properly.”

  “That much is true, but the bones were broken deliberately.”

  She gasped. “For what? Information?”

  “For pleasure. And that was a mere prelude to other, more imaginative torments.”

  Heat flooded her cheeks. “Who would do such a thing?”

  As if he would answer through his delirium, William mumbled from the bed.

  “Do you know what he’s speaking?” Robert asked.

  “No.”

  “Turkish, one of the Saracen tongues. The language of William’s torturer.”

  “Who was he?”

  “A rich and powerful chief known as Hattin the Horrid. He had many wives and even more lemans. His favorite leman was Sahar.”

  “So that’s what he’s been saying! A name.”

  “One he’ll never forget,” said Robert. “Sahar was renowned for her beauty. Dark hair, dark eyes, and skin the color of bronze. She escaped Hattin’s fortress and found her way to our encampment. Her tales of abuse angered William, and he offered her his protection. With time, affection grew between them. I think William came as close to loving Sahar as he could any woman.”

  “Truly?”

  Robert nodded. “But she’d caught another man’s eye, and he betrayed them. William was captured and thrown into the pit of hell, a torture chamber devised and lovingly operated by Hattin himself.”

  “What happened to Sahar?”

  “She seemed to disappear from the face of the earth.”

  “And the man who betrayed them?”

  “We never learned his identity.”

  “But someone must’ve seen or heard something.”

  “Sadly not. William was alone when it happened. He’d been lured to a spot far from camp where Sahar supposedly awaited him. Later, when William’s men learned of his imprisonment, they were more concerned with freeing him than seeking vengeance.”

  “Was there a ransom?”

  “We tried that road first, but every time we arrived with a payment, Hattin raised the ransom. It became clear he had no interest in gold, only William’s pain.”

  “For what reason? Revenge?”

  “That, and a place in legend as the man who humbled William the Storm.”

  Bile rose in her throat. “The man was a beast!”

  “No argument here,” said Robert. “In the end, we besieged Hattin’s fortress and rescued William.”

  She shook her head. “I had no idea.”

  “How could you? I’ve often wished I didn’t, but there’s no avoiding my brother’s moods.”

  “I’m well aware of them.”

  “He was never quite the same after his capture.”

  “I can understand why.”

  “I was hoping you would.”

  She peered into the depths of his eyes. “Thank you for telling me.”

  He stood. “You earned it, through your actions today.”

  She walked him to the door. “Sleep well tonight. I’ll watch over Lord Ravenwood.”

 
; Warmth—and perhaps newfound trust—softened Robert’s features. “I know you will.” He started down the stairs.

  Emma closed the door and returned to William. With care, she stretched out on the bed beside him. Maybe a part of him would sense her presence, and ’twould comfort him.

  She frowned. His body heat seemed every bit as strong as the flames in the hearth.

  The fever must break soon, she thought.

  Until it did, she could only wait.

  She bit her lip and ran her fingers through his chest hair. ’Twas soft and springy. She stretched out her palm and held it just above his chest, then slowly moved her hand from one side to the other. The hair tickled her palm.

  “Sahar,” William murmured.

  He was dreaming of her. His Saracen temptress. His beloved. Had Sahar touched him in the same way she did now?

  Emma pursed her lips. Why should she care if he’d loved before? Her goal was to keep him out of her bed…and guard her life.

  But William had already saved it. Without regard for himself, he’d leapt in front of her and intercepted the poisoned arrow. Why?

  The shutters at the window shook from the force of the wind outside. Unending rain lashed its fury on wood and stone.

  “Sahar,” William said again.

  She soothed his fevered brow, then leaned forward. “No,” she whispered in his ear. “Emma.”

  ****

  William woke to the high, whistling melody of a bird perched on the windowsill. If the idea weren’t absurd, he might sing himself. ’Twas the first time in three days he’d opened his eyes without triggering an intense headache. His vision had cleared, and the hole in his arm had lost its sting. ’Twas still sore, but that was to be expected.

  Experimentally, he pushed himself into a sitting position. Most of his strength had returned, and he felt remarkably well. ’Twas either a miracle or the result of Emma’s excellent care. Perhaps a bit of both.

  From the moment he’d first regained consciousness, he knew she was there. She hadn’t said much over the last few days, but she’d tended his wound, seen to his comfort, and slept on a pallet beside the bed. She’d seemed determined to ease his pain, to pass on her strength to him. Through the blur of fatigue and confusion, he’d been grateful.

  But where was she now? Her sleeping pallet was gone, and the door was unbolted. The shutters were open to a bright, crisp day.

  A sudden echo of footsteps and conversation rose from the stairwell and grew nearer by the second. He strained to hear and recognized the voices. ’Twas a golden opportunity, and he had to take advantage of it. Rearranging the bedclothes, he lay back down and feigned sleep.

  The door creaked. Then the floor rushes crunched as the women entered the chamber.

  “I still don’t understand,” Gertrude whispered. “Why didn’t you just let him die?”

  “He’s my husband,” Emma said.

  “All of your problems would’ve been solved,” Gertrude persisted. “Instead, you fawn over him and dig yourself into a deeper hole.”

  “I’m in no hole.”

  “Aren’t you? You’d better think again, Emma. And caring for his men is just as bad. Why trouble yourself over the aches and pains of Norman murderers?”

  “’Tis what I do, and I’ll continue to help others whether they be Saxons, Normans, or the ghost of William the Conqueror himself.”

  “Even you cannot heal the dead.”

  “Then I suggest you leave, before my husband hears your insults and kills you.”

  William struggled to keep his mouth slack. Emma had spine; that was certain.

  One of the women—presumably Gertrude—stomped across the floor. The door banged shut. Then a rustle of footsteps approached the bed.

  The mattress shifted as Emma sat beside him. Her scent was sweet, familiar. Intoxicating. He felt her gaze on him, so he lay still and measured each breath.

  Suddenly, her soft, cool hand found his chest. ’Twas a tentative touch, and a telling one.

  Aye, he thought. Feel me, Wife. Know me. I’m not your enemy.

  She slid her fingers through his chest hair and over his ribs. Then, with one finger, she circled a nipple. The flesh hardened in response.

  Control, he thought. I must keep control.

  Her hand was now warm. It had sucked up his body heat as a flower drank from the sun. Her fingers traced his scars, and he remembered their infliction; the how, where, and why of every wound. If Emma’s bane was the Ravenwood curse, his was a perfect memory.

  Abruptly, her actions pulled him back to the present. Her hand slipped lower, down his torso. She tugged at the hair on his belly and poked a playful finger into his navel.

  His entire body hardened. If she shoved the fur coverlet just two inches lower, his arousal would be plain.

  He opened his eyes. “Does my flesh please you?”

  She yanked her hand from his stomach. “No,” she said. “I mean, aye.”

  He grinned. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Her cheeks were beet red. “I meant no disrespect. I thought you were sleeping, and I was…curious.”

  “Well, I’m not stopping you. You’ve a healing touch. Continue.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  “’Twas brazen of me.”

  “But not unwelcome.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I shall feed you instead.”

  He smiled wickedly. “I’ve a much longer fast to break.”

  The color drained from her face. “That may be, but I’ve your health to consider.”

  His hand found her thigh. “What could be healthier?”

  “Medicine for your wound. I’ll fetch it from my workshop.”

  She scooted off of the bed, but he grabbed her arm. “No,” he said. “Stay with me.”

  She hesitated, and her brow crinkled as she stared down at him. In the sunlight, her skin was luminous as a pearl, and her eyes glittered in the softest shade of purple. She’d never looked lovelier.

  Slowly, she sat back down. “I’ll stay, but only for a little while. And only because I want to.”

  He smiled. “You have spirit enough to intoxicate a legion of warriors.”

  “I have no desire to intoxicate anyone.”

  “Too late.”

  Her gaze dropped to her pink tunic. She cleared her throat, then looked up at him again. “You seem greatly improved this morning.”

  “I am, because of you.”

  “’Tis I who should be grateful. The venomous arrow should’ve struck me.”

  “Then ’twas poisoned. Just as I thought. Did my men find anything?”

  “No.”

  “Did Wulfstan?”

  “No again, and he left that afternoon.”

  “Hmm.”

  She cleared her throat. “We’ve done our best to make you comfortable.”

  “We?”

  “I see you’ve little memory of the past three days. Meg and Tilda helped me care for you. Your brother looked in on you, too. Everyone’s been concerned.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Well, not Gertrude.”

  “And you?”

  “I’ve devoted myself to your recovery. That speaks for itself.”

  His gaze dropped to her exquisite hands. “Tell me, why were you so curious about my body this morning? Didn’t you bathe me while I was ill?”

  “Meg did.”

  He frowned. “Did my scarred flesh disgust you? I’m sure many a maid would snivel or shriek at the sight of it.”

  Her eyes flared. “I’m no shallow, lily-livered maid to judge a person by his skin. What do you take me for?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m still trying to work out why you won’t take me.”

  She sobered. “I was hoping you’d forgiven me by now. Our wedding night was not one of my better moments.”

  He grunted. “Nor one of mine.”

  “Yet despite my behavior, you saved my life.”

  “Aye.�
��

  “Why did you?”

  He didn’t know how to answer her. It had been instinct, an inexplicable need to shield her from harm. “I protect what is mine,” he said gruffly.

  She slid off the bed and backed away. “I see,” she said, her voice flat. “’Tis an honor to be so highly prized.”

  With a stiff gait, she walked to the door. Then she paused.

  “You’re obviously well enough to break your own fast,” she said, still facing the door. “I’ll send Tilda up with medicine and fresh bandages. She knows what to do.”

  William sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “Emma,” he said.

  “Good morrow,” she replied as she left the room. Her footfalls patted down the staircase until they disappeared altogether.

  Chapter Eleven

  High on Ravenwood’s stone walls, the castle bees were hard at work inside their straw skeps. Emma stared at the row of hives and willed herself to think of something other than William. It had been hours since the scene in the bedchamber, and like the bees buzzing in front of her, she’d busied herself with daily tasks. She had to keep moving and keep unwanted thoughts at bay.

  She’d climbed to this lofty corner of the keep with a fresh supply of hound’s-tongue lotion for the beekeeper, but the man was nowhere to be seen. Since she hated to leave any errand half-done, she waited for him.

  Barely a minute passed before inevitable reflection crept in.

  I protect what is mine, William’s voice echoed in her mind.

  He thought of her as a possession, like jewels, arms, land, and any other object he could own and control. She’d known that from the beginning. ’Twas ridiculous that it bothered her now. Yet it did.

  “My lady,” said a voice beside her.

  Emma snapped out of her reverie and focused her attention on Roderic, the beekeeper. The thick netting attached to the elderly man’s hat obscured his face, but his gentle voice and hunched shoulders were unmistakable. And like a fully armed knight, a beekeeper’s costume left no doubt as to his profession.

  “Forgive me for startling you,” Roderic said.

  She flashed him a smile as warm as the sun above. “I’m glad you did,” she said. “I brought you more lotion.”

  She held out the bottle to him, and he removed one of his heavy gloves to take it. He dropped it into the pouch at his waist and gave it a gentle pat.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Nothing soothes a bee sting better than one of your ointments.”