My Lord Raven (Knights of the Royal Household)

Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

“Remove my helm, Rhys!” Sir Bran ap Madog shouted to his sergeant-at-arms as he approached his encampment. He’d taken a blow to the head during the second mêlée of the afternoon. Now his great helm was stuck, molded to his head by the glancing blow of an opponent.

Rhys scowled at the King’s Champion and pointed to a spot of hard ground before an anvil. Uttering a guttural sound, Bran lowered himself on one knee and turned his head, feeling the firm hands of his sergeant shoving his great helm onto the iron block.

Accustomed to the smaller man’s familiar manner, for they had been companions for over ten years, Bran didn’t mind his sergeant’s brusqueness. He simply wanted the constricting headpiece removed. ’Twas hot and his breath stale. He tasted the salt of his own sweat.

With the first strike of the hammer ringing in his ears, Bran steeled himself against the further shock of more blows. He much preferred the freer Celtic way of fighting, unimpeded by mail and helm. True death came swifter and surer, but there were always trade-offs in life. That’s what made it interesting.

Strangely, he was no longer afraid to die. Too many battles fought and too much death seen had taught him not to fear.

Of late, however, he regretted his dissipated lifestyle. For he wanted more out of life. His own land. A helpmate. A son to rightfully carry his name.

Sadly, his name was all he owned.

On the sands of the Holy Lands, King Edward had knighted him and then dubbed him the “King’s Raven.”

“Cultivate a ruthless reputation,” the king had ordered. “Go out and spy for the crown.”

The hammer crashed once again upon metal. The muscles in Bran’s jaws locked his mouth into a grimace but his thoughts focused elsewhere.

Over the years, Bran had won much by living the life of a knight-errant and serving the king. But he had paid a heavy price. Now, weariness settled like bad mead into the pit of his stomach. He was tired of the deception he fostered in the king’s name. He was tired of fighting.

“Try it now.” The sergeant’s voice sounded far away.

Bran raised his head and put his hands on both sides of the pitted helm. How many times had Rhys beaten out such dents? Hundreds perchance? How many times had Bran faced an imposing challenger and come away the victor?

Turning his neck, Bran lifted the helm and freed himself from its burden. A rush of brisk air greeted him. He could breathe again. Rhys took the headpiece, and Bran slowly stood, inhaling deeply.

Trreeck! The deep, throaty call sound of a raven pierced the air. Bran spied his bird Mair perched outside his tent .

His mood lifted. “Hush, you greedy bird. Rhys will feed you soon enough.”

The sleek, stately raven, slightly larger than a peregrine falcon, cocked her head and fixed a bright eye on her master. Where other knights kept hawks or hunting birds, according to their station, Bran kept a raven. He and the creature shared a certain kinship. Not only did his own name mean “crow” or “raven,” but like the raven, he made his living feeding off the spoils of war.

These rapacious black birds held a certain nobility that appealed to Bran. Further, these creatures were social and family-oriented. They picked a mate for life. Because of this, a raven possessed something Bran had never had—a family, a sense of belonging, and a rightful place in the scope of society, unlike Bran ap Madog, bastard by birth and traitor to his Welsh countrymen by choice.

“Sir?”

Bran turned toward Rhys. He allowed the smaller man to unbuckle and unwrap the ventail from his chin and loosen his mail coif. Bran pulled the skullcap from his head, and Rhys took it.

“She was a beautiful lady,” Rhys murmured, as if reading what was on his master’s mind.

Bran smiled. Always with an eye for the ladies, Rhys had not forgotten the noblewoman on the path and neither had his master. As he unknotted the sword belt around his waist and handed it to his sergeant, Bran smiled. The lady represented everything he desired in a wife.

Swathed in a gown the color of a green apple, the lady’s elaborate headdress banded her chin and a silver net crespine confined her hair. Her garments concealed her from head to foot—all, that is, but for her gracefully slim hands and the fair oval of her face. She had a straight nose, rosy lips, and sapphire eyes that had glared at him with anger.

What a comely visage.

The woman symbolized what he needed in order to gain wealth, position, and acceptance. Yet too many women of high birth were put off by his landlessness and afraid of him because of his reputation for cruelty. He remained a bachelor, much to his chagrin.

“I envy the noblewoman’s true love,” he said to Rhys, unafraid to sigh in front of his trusted servant. “When I stopped her, she was on her way to bestow her favor on her lover.”

The other man grunted and rolled his eyes.

Bran laughed at his man’s response then glanced at his sleeve. The piece of torn red silk was gone. “Have you seen the favor the lady gave me?”

“The one you took, you mean?” Rhys motioned and Bran raised his arm. The sergeant grunted again and unlaced the sides of his master’s dark surcoat. “You must have lost it during the last mêlée.”

Bran nodded. “A shame.”

As Rhys removed the surcoat, Bran pondered his image of the noblewoman. Her faithfulness intrigued him. He had never inspired such love from another, let alone a beautiful and noble lady.

“My guess is she’ll not welcome your attention,” Rhys volunteered. “She is much above your station. The favor bore the Rothmore crest.”

“Rothmore.” Bran tasted the name of the great Marcher earldom on his lips. The challenge now made sense. The new earl, just a boy, had fought him believing the vicious rumors told by Lord Leighton. Fie on Guy de Hastings, his enemy from days when they had competed against each other in tourneys and marched with Edward to the Holy Land.

“Edward will pardon young Rothmore for fighting unfairly,” Bran predicted. “The king will take the lad’s youth into account.”

“Considering no harm was done,” Rhys agreed.

Bran turned from his sergeant’s ministrations. He pushed his heavy padded hacketon from his head. A cool wind stirred a lock of his black hair, lifting it from his gritty forehead. He wanted a bath and food.

He wanted a measure of peace.

Bran evaluated the scene around him with the indifference of one who had compromised much in his life. Ranks of colorful tents stood warrior-like in rows, their banners of red and yellow, stark contrast against the cool blue sky. They belonged to knights who, like him, had gathered in the field for the victory celebration.

Of a sudden, shouts carried among the rows of tents like the discordant screeches of angry fishwives. Bran jerked up his head as the frantic words reached his ears and drew a harsh breath.

“Murder most foul! The young Earl Rothmore is dead!”

Catrin knelt at the head of her fallen brother, her open palm on the still pulse point of his neck. Her brother’s breastbone had been severed, ripped apart by a slayer’s sword. Blood seeped from the ragged gash and soaked the fabric of his scarlet surcoat as well as the hem of Catrin’s skirt. She trembled at the ghastly sight, breathing in the stench of fresh blood.

Touching her brother’s clean sword, the mighty sword of the Rothmore earldom, Catrin slowly lifted her eyes to search the faces of the yeomen and squires gathering around Gilbert’s body. He had fallen where he had been struck down outside the family’s pavilion.

Her mind reeled from shock and grief. “Did no one witness this deed?” she cried out.

Waves of heat washed across her skin and face, followed by slices of icy cold. Dropping her gaze, Catrin fought the tears choking her throat and burning her eyes. She gritted her teeth, refusing to succumb to her anguish.

“What happened?” a shrill voice hollered.

“The King’s man killed him,” another said. “Just as he killed the boy’s father.”

Nay! Catrin reeled at the accusation. The black knight had shown Gilbert mercy on the tourney field. Why would he slay her brother after the fact and in such a dishonorable way?

“Fie on the young earl,” an old woman camp follower spat. “He disgraced himself today.”

“And brought shame to his family.”

“’Tis fitting vengeance for defaming his family on the field,” a man muttered.

What were these people saying? Catrin longed to cover her ears. Instead, sitting back on her heels, she loosened the red scarf on her brother’s arm. Her hands were clammy and her fingers refused to work quickly. She removed the silk, holding it to her breast, clutching it as if the tiny piece of rent fabric continued to bind her to her beloved brother.

“My lady.” Gilbert’s squire extended his hand proffering a scrap of red cloth. “I found this near my lord’s helm.” He lowered his eyes as if embarrassed that he’d failed to protect his master. He was but a boy himself—so much like Gilbert.

With shaky hands, Catrin accepted the other half of the silk scarf with the Rothmore arms, knowing well from whence it came.

The King’s Raven!

So the allegations were true. The black knight, who’d taken her favor, had also taken her brother’s life. This fragment of red scarf proved it. She curled her fingers around both pieces of silk. Her nails bit into the palm of her hand, pricking her flesh and mixing her blood with that on the silk.

Who would give her justice? The king had pardoned his favorite when Lord Leighton had spoken against him. Would the sovereign believe these new charges?

Would her proof be enough? Who’d believe a mere woman? Treachery oft occurred during a tournament. Not after. And this time her beloved brother bore the brunt of such treachery.

Catrin opened her fingers and stared at the pieces of fabric. Shards of ice sealed her heart. In that moment, a steady determination gripped her.

Somehow. Some way. She would avenge her brother’s death.