Raven’s Rise Page 8

  In the morning, the wagons and carts were packed up again, the chest once more secured, and the cortège made its way out of the village. By midmorning, they were once again on the road, which ran through patches of woodland and then farms and then woodland again. Rafe should have been irritated by the slow progress. No one in the group besides himself—not even Otto’s four men-at-arms—ever served in a real army, and none of them were seasoned travelers. They had little notion of how to pack efficiently or move quickly. The journey to Basingwerke might take longer than he first guessed, especially if they didn’t pick up a little more speed.

  On the other hand, a slower pace meant more time with Angelet. Rafe glanced toward her well-appointed carriage and caught her leaning on the sill of the window, gazing out at the passing scenery. When her gaze crossed his, she averted her eyes, ducked her head, and pulled back within the darker confines of the carriage.

  He chuckled to himself. A shy, embarrassed woman was a woman thinking of things she shouldn’t. And Rafe liked that quite a lot. Then he sighed.

  “Nun,” he muttered to himself. Angelet and he should never have crossed paths. Even though they were now traveling together, he had to remember that in a very short time they’d never see each other again. He never should have mentioned a liaison. He’d revoke the offer the next time he could speak to Angelet privately. He’d apologize. He’d be the better man he told himself he wanted to be.

  “Behave for a week,” he told himself. “Two weeks. You can do that. Anyone can do that.”

  “Sir Rafe?” Simon asked, startling the hell out of him.

  “Gah! What?”

  “Did you need something, sir? You were talking.”

  “Taking to myself,” he said. “It’s nothing.”

  He just had to keep it to nothing. Nothing between him and Angelet. Ever.

  They rode on. The day was sunny and bright, perfect for traveling. Yet Rafe didn’t share the cheerful mood of nearly everyone else around him.

  Rafe turned in his saddle, casting a look backwards at the road they’d traveled so far. There was nothing amiss. Nothing out of the ordinary, just fields of freshly turned soil, with little green seedlings beginning to wake up. Beyond, there were a few copses of trees and a distant farm, the low buildings now just specks in his vision.

  But he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Rafe trusted his gut when it came to such things. He’d be dead a dozen times over if he ignored that familiar creeping sensation along his spine. Something was wrong. Someone was after them.

  He said nothing to the others of his suspicions, largely because he couldn’t prove anything, and also because even if someone was following the group, it could be as much for Rafe as for the chest of gold. He didn’t particularly want to explain to the others why someone had sent men to track him down.

  He looked again, scanning more slowly, taking in the whole landscape. It was a part of the world that was unspectacular, though very pleasant. Rolling hills and scattered woods lay between the farms and villages—the very heart of the country.

  Plenty of places to hide, he thought. In the few years since he’d fled his old home of Cleobury, this had happened more than once. A figure, sometimes two, would edge into his vision and Rafe could tell they were there for a reason.

  Someone wanted to know where he was, and was willing to pay people to find him. Alric. It had to be. Rafe betrayed Alric, nearly killed him, and despite an awkward confrontation and apology on Rafe’s part, it was very likely that Alric wanted a more thorough accounting for Rafe’s actions. Hence the paid henchmen sent to dog Rafe’s trail.

  Sometimes, Rafe got a message from an innkeeper that a man stopped by looking for him, and wanted to talk. Rafe left quickly whenever that happened, not believing that “talk” was all they wanted. Every so often, Rafe had actually seen one of those pursuers at a distance, allowing him plenty of time and space to slip away. He followed the tourney circuit because a wanderer had no home, and no place where he was vulnerable. Rafe could pick up and move on at any moment. He needed nothing other than his sword and his horse, Philon. He could run forever.

  Or could he? Someday, he’d miss the signs. He’d be caught unaware, and whoever was following him would catch him.

  “Not today,” he muttered aloud. He’d keep his eyes and ears open, deal with the pursuer, slip away…

  “Damn.” That was the difference. This time he couldn’t slip away, because he had to see Angelet all the way to her destination.

  He’d have to deal with this particular shadow in another way.

  They halted for a midday meal, drawing off from the line of carriages and carts to a little clearing just off the track. Everyone seemed content to linger, since adjusting to the constant jarring motion of riding a horse or in a wagon was unpleasant.

  Angelet had barely spoken to him all morning, undoubtedly regretting whatever impulse had led her to kiss him. Understandable. Angelet was a lady, and a lady had no business dallying with a mere soldier like Rafe. It had been loneliness and pity that had driven her, and it was Rafe who turned her kiss into something more. No wonder the lady kept Bethany by her side all day.

  At the moment, the two women sat on a green grassy slope, eating the last of their meal, which was largely bread and cheese. Rafe approached, offering a friendly greeting. “Happy to get out of the carriage for a while?”

  “By the saints, a carriage is a weapon,” Bethany moaned.

  “It must be borne,” Angelet said, with more equanimity. “At least we got to rest for a bit.”

  “Are you still hungry?” he asked. “Do you need anything else?”

  “Before we leave, I should refill my flask from the stream,” Angelet said, patting the newly sprouted, long grasses around her. “Where is it? Did I leave it in the carriage?”

  “I’ll fetch it, my lady,” Bethany said, sounding much less cranky than usual. The meal must have soothed her temper.

  “No need,” Rafe said, gesturing for the maid to stay seated. “I’ll make myself useful.”

  He left the women to relax, and walked to Angelet’s carriage. Laurence, who was leaning against the back of it, nodded when Rafe approached. Rafe had insisted that the carriage holding the chest never be unattended.

  Rafe opened the door and saw the flask Angelet used for water. It was made of horn, with a cork stopper and a leather strap, a much finer product than the waterskins most people carried. He was just about to snag it by the strap when he saw something else lying there, half hidden on the cushioned bench. It was a velvet pouch, barely the size of his palm.

  He’d seen it before. Last night, when Angelet had gone into her room, she’d moved directly to her bed and picked up the same tiny pouch, clutching it as though fearing it would be stolen. And now it was still close by, though Angelet tried to hide it from view while she was gone from the carriage.

  Rafe picked it up, curious what Angelet would conceal like this. He opened the drawstring and shook out a tiny silver box. It was etched with a pattern of a curling vine, looping over and over around the box. He thumbed the catch, lifting the lid to reveal the contents.

  Inside was a lock of hair, a curl of light brown about two inches long. One end was carefully stitched together to prevent the hair from scattering. Rafe was puzzled, until he saw the inside of the lid, where an H was inscribed.

  Angelet had mentioned her husband’s name once when they had been talking at Dryton Manor. Hubert.

  Rafe snapped the lid shut and jammed the little box back into the pouch. He yanked the drawstring shut and replaced the pouch where it had been before, then walked away with the flask.

  Lord, he was a churl. Here he’d been flirting with Angelet, even offering to seduce her, while she clung to a memento of her long-deceased husband. She must still be in love with him. And she was going to a nunnery. Whatever her physical response to Rafe, which had been real enough, she still harbored strong feelings for another, keeping a secret token of her lo
ve with her every day. He wanted to curse himself. Even after he’d vowed to try to live better, to be better, he still fell into the trap of his own self-indulgence. He saw Angelet and wanted her, and he didn’t even stop to think how she felt or if she wanted anything from him.

  He filled the flask and gave it to Angelet, keeping his usual flirtatious remarks to himself. She looked at him with curiosity in those big, pale green eyes, but said nothing.

  Chapter 10

  Over the next few days, they continued along the road, the whole cortège inching northward to Angelet’s inevitable fate. So far, they’d been fortunate to reach an inn, or in one case the home of a local lord, before dark. The weather had been dry and mild, too, which meant that travel was safer, faster, and much less muddy than it might be.

  She ought to be praying for thanks, thinking holy, sanctified thoughts, or pleading with the saints to intercede for her when it came to keeping her from sin.

  Instead, she felt more and more drawn to earthly distractions. From the safety of her carriage, she often tracked Rafe’s movements, noting how perfect his body was, how well formed from years of fighting and training. What that body would look like stripped bare…

  Angelet quickly looked down at the ground. Lord, what was wrong with her? She could hardly glance at Rafe without thinking distinctly carnal thoughts. It didn’t help at all that the man was gorgeous. Those blue eyes were so deceptively soulful, so sad and sweet. Then he’d smile and she knew there wasn’t anything sweet about him. Sir Rafe lived for the moment, and he sought only pleasure. Such a man could not be trusted.

  However, though Rafe was still attentive to Angelet, he hadn’t crossed any line since the night she kissed him. Indeed, his flirtatious behavior vanished almost completely. He didn’t seem like the man she’d kissed that first evening. Had she dreamed the whole thing? Was it some devilish departure from her usual visions, where instead of heavenly sights, she experienced a powerful illusion of a more worldly nature?

  One bright morning while the men-at-arms were loading all the supplies and readying the animals, Rafe helped her into her carriage. All he did was offer a hand to steady her as she climbed in, but that contact was enough to make her think of the kiss once again. In fact, every time she looked at Rafe, she thought of the kiss.

  But his expression was neutral. “If you don’t mind my saying, Lady Angelet, you look a little drawn. How did you sleep?”

  The truth was that Bethany tended to snore, and Angelet had a lot on her mind. But neither of those facts was appropriate for casual conversation. “No need to be concerned, Sir Rafe.”

  “I am concerned. You’re my responsibility while we’re traveling.”

  “I will tell you if something serious happens,” she said. “But truly, I slept well enough.”

  “You’d sleep better with me,” he said, his voice low and close to her ear.

  Her heart hammered and she was having trouble breathing. And why did she like how he smelled? She shouldn’t—it was a smell of the road, and oil and leather and iron, and something else. Yet, she wanted to lean right into him and breathe deep.

  But then Rafe said, “Lord. Forget I said that. I meant to apologize for what I said that first night. The…offer. It was inappropriate.” He looked truly taken aback.

  “I thought the inappropriateness of it was the charm,” she said, not quite hiding her disappointment.

  His eyes flicked over her face. She realized that he hadn’t lost interest in her since his offer—she guessed he’d just been worried he offended her.

  “I can’t read you, my lady,” he said, still watching her closely.

  “I’m not a book. How do you read a woman?”

  “Accept my offer and I’ll show you.”

  She took a breath. “So the offer is back on the table? Didn’t you just rescind it?”

  “Oh, it’s back. On the table or wherever else you’d like.” Then he was gone, off about his tasks as if he hadn’t just tried to scandalize her in broad daylight.

  Oddly, she didn’t feel nearly as scandalized as she ought to. She actually felt better, since Rafe shared her memory of the kiss and his subsequent offer. And he still wanted her.

  Warmth spread through her limbs. Being wanted by a man like Rafe was novel for her. It made her feel excited rather than scared, eager rather than wary. Foolishness, she told herself. The man was dangerous, and he didn’t even pretend his intentions toward her were honorable. Not once had he breathed the word marriage, yet even that worked in his favor. At least he didn’t think her stupid enough to fall for an empty promise. She’d spent the last several years with people who considered her either mad or vacant or a holy idiot. Now she’d finally met someone who treated her as a grown woman. Unfortunately, she met him a fortnight before she had to foreswear contact with virtually all men.

  Angelet often wondered if Satan meddled in people’s happiness directly, or if he sent subordinates to carry out the work. Why else would Angelet be tempted into sin at exactly this moment, after so many years of dull, unchallenged widowhood?

  “My lady, are you going to have a fit?”

  Bethany peered at her from the other seat in the carriage. The cortège was rolling along the track by now, and the maid had taken her place in the carriage without Angelet even noticing.

  “What?” she asked. “No. No, I’m quite well. Why?”

  “You were staring at the sky with a look like you were seeing an angel,” Bethany explained. “I half think you’ll collapse in a minute…though in your fits, you never speak.”

  “I’m not about to have a fit,” Angelet said, more crossly. “Anyway, I suffered one less than a week ago.”

  “So?” Bethany retorted. “Good thing that abbot is willing to take you.”

  “The abbot might know of a cure,” Angelet said.

  Bethany’s expression was not one of great confidence for any mortal to cure Angelet, but she just sighed meaningfully and went to work at mending something. There was always mending to be done. This item looked like a shirt from one of the men-at-arms. Angelet took out her own needle and thread from the bag she packed. It would be a long, long day.

  That night, the group once again reached an inn. This one was more run down, and the sleeping rooms were little more than partitioned spaces, with thin walls and doors that closed only most of the way. Angelet and Bethany got the one at the end, with a little window for light. As usual, the chained and locked chest was carried to Angelet’s room, this time by Rafe and Dobson. They placed it near her bed.

  “I’ll take first watch at the door tonight,” Dobson told Rafe. “I’m not sleepy. Tad can take first watch as well.”

  Rafe nodded. “That will do. Wake Laurence and Simon when it’s time.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The whole party ate the evening meal in the tavern room below. The food was better than the accommodations, and Angelet was soon yawning. She rose to her feet and gestured to Bethany. The maid dutifully followed her, after draining her glass of ale.

  There were no bed frames, just narrow straw mattresses. Luckily, Angelet was so tired she doubted even a pokey straw mattress or Bethany’s snores would keep her awake tonight.

  Indeed, she dropped right into sleep, though it was a dream-filled sleep in which a tiny part of her remained alert, listening to the sounds of the inn and the outdoors, weaving every noise into fractured, fantastic dreams. Angelet heard the stomping of footsteps on the stairs, and dreamed she was in a high tower like those of her visions. She heard an owl cry, and saw a gigantic, dusky owl alight on the foot of her bed. Bethany’s snores became the heavy breath of a sleeping dragon, which the owl would hoot at impatiently.

  Lost in her dream, Angelet was certain that the owl knew something of vital importance regarding her family, and she kept asking it over and over to give her news of her parents, or her brother, or her son. But the owl merely asked, “Who?” and the cycle began anew.

  Then Angelet woke up. There had been a
sound—a real one.

  “Who’s there?” she asked as she sat up. “Bethany?”

  But Bethany was still sleeping on her pallet. A different, larger shape loomed near her bed.

  “Who—” was all Angelet managed to get out before a massive hand clamped down on her mouth. She gasped for breath. Whoever was trying to silence her was doing too well. She couldn’t get any air.

  Panic blossomed, and she jerked away from the figure, desperate to free herself. She bit at the hand.

  “Bitch!” Her assailant pulled his hand back.

  Angelet dragged in a huge breath and screamed.

  Another scream echoed hers and she heard the stomp of footsteps.

  But then the hand was back, pushing her head down against the pillow. Angelet struggled, this time with no success. She bit again, and nothing happened. She tried to breathe, and couldn’t. Sparks and flashes of light began to pop at the edges of her vision. Air. She needed air.

  Just as she began to black out, the pressure vanished. The man attacking her wheeled backwards. She could just see another man grab him from behind.

  At that point, light flared. Bethany stood in the doorway with a lit candle.

  Gasping for air, Angelet sat up and slipped off the pallet to get away from the two men locked in a savage fight in the middle of the room. One was fully dressed and armed with a long dagger.

  “Dobson?” Angelet gasped out loud. He’d been guarding her room, and he was one of the Dryton men-at-arms who’d served Otto for years. Angelet never would have suspected he’d go against his lord like this. Trying to kill her, and then to kill…

  “No!” she choked out when she saw him raise his arm to stab his opponent, who was none other than Rafe.

  Rafe must have run in immediately after hearing her scream, for he was only partially dressed, and unarmed. Dobson was going to kill him.

  But just as Dobson’s arm began to arc down, the blade flashing silver, Rafe moved with stunning speed. He somehow stepped to the side, ducked out of the weapon’s path, and then struck Dobson with a sharp blow.