Connie Mason (4 page)

“Raven, wait!”

Raven stopped to allow her maid to catch up to her.

“Are you not excited? I cannot wait to see what the Black Knight looks like.”

“I saw him when he rode in, Thelma,” Raven confided. “He is just another man aspiring to greatness.”

“Oh, but he
is
great,” Thelma gushed. “They say he was knighted on the battlefield by King Edward himself for saving the life of the Black Prince. When he saved the prince a second time, the king gave him a title and an estate.”

“So I have heard. He is now Earl of Windhurst. I heard his estate is a crumbling fortress built on a bleak cliff overlooking the southern coast many leagues away in Wessex. It has been unoccupied far longer than I have been alive. I doubt the impoverished knight can afford to repair the crumbling hulk, much less hire men to defend it.”

“How do you know he is impoverished?” Thelma asked.

“I do not, really; ’tis just a guess.”

“Oh, here comes Lord Waldo. He probably wishes a private word with you before the banquet tonight,” Thelma said, scurrying off to join a group of servants at the well.

Raven’s distaste was obvious as she waited for Waldo to reach her. He was a hulking bear of a man with a barrel chest
and short, sturdy legs. He was not overly tall, or excessively fat, but his square frame exuded strength and authority.

“Did you wish to speak with me, my lord?”

“Aye,” Waldo said. “There has been little time for us to talk since I returned to Chirk for the tourney and wedding ceremony. Soon you will be mine, Raven of Chirk. I have waited a long time for you. I married Daria to please your father, and for her dowry, but ’tis you I wanted, you I desired. I was pleased when Aric of Flint died and freed you to marry me. I persuaded Duff not to betroth you to another during the years the pope considered my petition asking for permission to wed you. You have to admit I was more patient than most, Raven.”

Raven stiffened. “You know this marriage is not to my liking. ’Tis not right. ’Tis incest to marry your dead wife’s sister.”

“I waited many years for a dispensation from the pope,” Waldo said harshly. “You are well past the age when most girls marry, but I still find you desirable. I will not be denied, Raven of Chirk.”

Raven flinched as he lifted a bright tendril of chestnut-colored hair from her shoulder and let it trail through his fingers. “ ’Tis like living fire, just like you, Raven. Not pallid and lifeless like Daria. You would not lie beneath me like a log, with a long-suffering look on your face. Even if you do not like me, you will be more animated than Daria.” He leered at her. “Mayhap it is good that you do not like me. A little spirit in a woman is not a bad thing.”

Raven bristled angrily. “How dare you speak of Daria in such an insulting manner! My sister is dead; she deserved better than you.”

“Mayhap you would prefer a man like the Black Knight.”

“Mayhap I would,” Raven responded angrily. “Anyone would be better than you.”

Waldo grinned. “Your fire, your spirit—’tis what I like best
about you, Raven. Taming you will give me great pleasure. As for the Black Knight, forget him. He devours women. ’Tis said he discards women quickly after he has taken his pleasure of them.”

Raven’s interest was immediately piqued. “How do you know?”

“We both fought at Crécy, though we never had occasion to meet. He was the Black Prince’s champion and protected his back. Duff and I were merely knights fighting in the king’s army. But tales of his prowess with the ladies are legendary throughout France and England.”

“Have you ever seen him without his helm?”

“Nay, though I have known damsels who have and vow he is quite handsome, in a dangerous sort of way.” He gave her a narrow-eyed look. “Why do you ask? ’Tis not seemly for a bride to think of any man except her betrothed.”

“All the servants are talking about the Black Knight, and I was curious. Has he no name?”

“None that I know of.” His face hardened, making him almost ugly. “Forget about the Black Knight. Should he un-seat all his opponents during the course of the tourney, he will still have to defeat me to win the purse Duff has promised to the champion. No one has ever unseated me,” Waldo boasted. “The purse will be mine.”

Raven said naught as she took her leave. But deep in her heart she prayed that the Black Knight thoroughly trounced Earl Waldo of Eyre.

The Black Knight had ridden confidently into the inner bailey until something made him glance up at the tower window. Then he’d seen a flash of rich chestnut hair and knew she was watching him. Beneath his black helm his face had hardened and his lips had curled in contempt.

Raven of Chirk.

Just the thought of her elicited painful memories that years
of war and competing in tournaments to earn his livelihood had failed to diminish. He had not known until he arrived that the tourney was part of the festivities celebrating the marriage of Raven of Chirk and Earl Waldo of Eyre, his half brother. Only the reportedly large purse Duff offered to the winner had drawn him back to Chirk, where memories of his lost love still pulled at the place where his heart once dwelled.

Raven of Chirk.

He hated her still, after all these years. Her betrayal had made him what he was today. He had changed overnight from a chivalrous youth who dreamed of becoming a knight and protecting his lady’s honor to a hardened knight who had earned his reputation with his sword. After he had been banished from Chirk, the king must have seen promise in him, for he took Drake into his service as a squire. Drake’s selfless act of bravery on behalf of the Black Prince had been incredibly foolish but well worth the reward.

Shortly after being knighted he had followed the prince’s example and donned black armor. Thus the Black Knight came into existence. It was a far better name than Drake No Name, or Sir Bastard.

As the fighting in France grew increasingly fierce, the Black Knight distinguished himself time and again on the battlefield. Incredibly, he had saved the prince’s life a second time and had been given an earldom. Windhurst and its extensive lands were his to claim. After the victory at Crécy, the Black Knight returned to England and earned further glory competing in tourneys and handily defeating every opponent pitted against him. He had earned wealth and prestige, but he intended the tourney at Chirk to be his last. With the promised purse, he would have enough money to restore and defend Windhurst.

Had Drake known that encountering Raven after all these years would arouse feelings he thought he had banished
years ago, he would not have come. He knew Daria was dead. He had heard about her death shortly after it occurred and it had been a terrible blow. The life of a tender rose had been plucked before it had reached full bloom. Had not Raven betrayed him, Drake liked to believe that he and Daria would be happily married now, and that she would be alive today. He could not help thinking, though there was no tangible proof, that Waldo had somehow hastened Daria’s death.

Something had died within Drake the day he learned of his beloved’s death. Ambition had replaced unrequited love. Earning wealth and glory had become the code by which he lived. Ruthlessness and arrogance were his to claim. Where once he cherished womanhood, he now saw women as vessels of pleasure put on earth to ease men’s lust. But one thing had not changed: his consuming hatred for Waldo of Eyre and Raven of Chirk.

The Black Knight tore his thoughts away from the past to greet Sir Melvin, Chirk’s steward.

“Good morrow, sir. I am Sir Melvin, Lord Duff’s steward. Welcome to Castle Chirk.”

The Black Knight acknowledged Sir Melvin with a nod and waited for him to continue.

“The knights who have come to compete in the tournaments are camped beyond the walls with their servants and men-at-arms. Tents have been provided for your use and all are invited to dine in the great hall. Does that meet with your approval, my lord?”

“Your hospitality is greatly appreciated. My men and I will most happily share your table.”

Formalities dispensed with, Sir Melvin turned away to greet another group of knights who had just entered the bailey. After the steward left, a knight in Drake’s service rode up to join him. Sir John of Marlow pushed back his visor and
looked at Drake askance. “Are we to set up camp beyond the gates, Drake?”

“Aye, John. Tents are being provided for us. Choose a likely site beside water, if possible. I will join you and the men directly. There is something I must do first.”

A worried frown marred Sir John’s handsome young features. “I know you do not like your half brother but do not, I beseech you, do anything foolish.” Then he wheeled his destrier and left Drake to his morose thoughts.

Drake raised his visor and stared at the keep from which he had been banished twelve years before. Little had changed during the intervening years. He had not seen Waldo since he’d left and even now felt no compulsion to look upon his brother’s face. The only reason he intended to seek out Waldo was to let him know the identity of the man who would un-seat him in the tournament and win the purse.

Drake’s destrier danced beneath him and he soothed him with soft words. “Be easy, Zeus; tomorrow you will see plenty of action.” He removed his helm and dismounted. A lad ran up to take the reins and Drake ruffled his hair. Everything was just as he remembered. People were everywhere—women with bundles under their arms; children herding pigs; carpenters haranguing their apprentices; servants, grooms, and squires going about their duties. Several men-at-arms taking their ease in front of the barracks eyed a comely maidservant drawing water from the well. A dozen buildings nestled against the curtain wall. Stables, smithy, shops for the castle craftsmen, barracks, pantries, and supply sheds. Drake saw Waldo wending his way around an ox cart laden with barrels of wine and lengthened his stride to intercept him.

Waldo gave Drake a passing glance, then took a second, more thorough look. Drake smiled grimly as he watched the color leach from Waldo’s face.

“God’s blood! ’Tis
you!
I thought . . . we all thought you were dead.”

Drake’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you think that?”

“I . . . you . . .” Sweat popped out on Waldo’s forehead. “We heard naught from you in years.”

“Mayhap you never wanted to hear from me. As you can see,” Drake said dryly, “I am very much alive.”

Waldo made a slow perusal of Drake’s distinctive black armor, coming to rest on the black helm he carried under his arm.

He staggered backward. “Nay! It cannot be! Not you! You cannot be the celebrated Black Knight, the man whose praises are sung throughout the kingdom. Why did I not know?”

“Perhaps because I did not want you to know.”

“But how can it be? How did you accomplish such a feat?”

“Did you not listen to the jongleurs and storytellers?”

Waldo glared at him. “You left here with naught but the clothes on your back. And now you are . . .”

“An earl with lands of my own and knights in my service.”

“Windhurst,” Waldo said dismissively. “ ’Tis naught but a pile of rocks perched atop a barren, windswept cliff.”

“Nevertheless, ’tis mine, and so is the title.”

“Why are you here? Daria is dead. You have no reason to return to Chirk.”

Drake’s silver eyes glinted dangerously. “How did Daria die? You were married but a few short months.”

“ ’Tis water under the bridge, Sir Bastard,” Waldo taunted. “Daria is dead and I am to wed Raven.”

Drake took a menacing step forward, “What did you call me?”

“You will always be a bastard, no matter how many titles Edward bestows upon you.”

“I am no longer a chivalrous lad with stars in my eyes,”
Drake warned. “My name and reputation have been hard won. I am the Black Knight, Earl of Windhurst by order of the king. If you ever call me Sir Bastard again, or Drake No Name, you will be sorry. I fear no man, Waldo of Eyre. Especially not you.”

“Have you come to disrupt the wedding?”

Drake smiled without humor. “Nay. Raven is as treacherous as you are. I wish you joy of her. The two of you deserve one another. My reason for being here is quite simple. I intend to win the tourney and the purse.”

Waldo’s pale eyes narrowed. “Over my dead body.”

Drake shrugged. “That can be arranged easily enough.”

Waldo was more dismayed to see his older half brother alive than he let on. Waldo had done things, terrible things, to secure the earldom for himself, and he prayed Drake would never learn of them.

Raven had just left the kitchen when she saw the Black Knight talking to Waldo. He had removed his helm and had his back to her. She craned her neck to get a better look, but all she could see of him was thick black hair shorn to shoulder length, the favored fashion. More than a little curious about the mysterious Black Knight, she maneuvered around the wine cart to get a peek at his face.

A gasp was torn from her throat and she felt as if her lungs were on fire. She had seen that face a hundred, nay, a thousand times in her dreams. And each time his silver eyes spewed hatred at her.

Drake.

She could not begin to count the times she had wished for him to appear so she could explain to him that it had been Daria herself who had made sure her father knew about the elopement so he could stop it. Raven had learned that Daria had told her maid, fully aware that the girl would run straight to Lord Nyle with the tale.

Now he was here. Yet he was not the Drake she remembered from her youth. He was the Black Knight, the man renowned for his courage and strength, for his prowess with women, for his ruthless skill in combat.

The man who hated her.

She knew the moment Drake saw her, for he stiffened. Their gazes locked, held. The dancing silver eyes she remembered were now as cold and hard as the flagstones upon which she stood. She wanted to look away but couldn’t. He held her suspended with the potent force of his enmity.

“Drake.” Her voice trembled. “Are you truly the Black Knight?”

“Is that so difficult to believe?” Drake asked harshly.

“Aye . . . nay . . . I do not know. You have changed.”