Page 26 of Raven's Rise
Even before her unexpected kiss, she had affected him in some strange way. He told her about his parentage—or lack thereof—which was something he hated to think about. He certainly never chatted about it, not to anybody. And there he was, offering up his history without the slightest reservation. He was worried by how much he’d already revealed, not thinking of the consequences. Something in Angelet’s fey eyes made him forget all his defenses. He couldn’t risk anyone in this party learning of his past transgressions.
The bitter truth was that Rafe hadn’t merely left his lord’s service to pursue fame and glory on the tourney circuit. He’d violated an oath, nearly killed one of his only true friends, and betrayed the blood of the one man who’d offered him a home.
As a very young boy, Rafe knew that he owed everything he had to Rainald de Vere. Rafe was a bastard, a child of no importance or distinction. He didn’t even know how he’d come to Rainald’s attention, in fact, but once it became clear that he had an aptitude for fighting, Rainald allowed him to join the small group of boys who were at his manor for training.
They were sons of the gentry, and in one case the nobility. Allies often sent their children to be fostered elsewhere as a way of strengthening bonds and taking advantage of each others’ resources. De Vere employed an excellent master of arms and several very skilled veteran knights. Now retired from active service on campaign, they still served their liege lords by training up new men to be squires and knights.
For some boys, the training was rather perfunctory. A young lord needed to know the basics of battle, but not much more than that. One of Rafe’s cohort, Luc of Braecon, had been a proud and annoying little snot, assured of his place and certain of a comfortable future due to his family’s wealth and connections. Luc participated in practices for swordplay, riding, and hand-to-hand fighting. But he had aspired only to competence—his true interest lay in politics.
Rafe was the opposite. He knew little of politics and cared less. However, he could make a name for himself on a battlefield. In a world perpetually at war, skilled fighters were always in demand. Rafe was blessed with natural athleticism and innate skill for combat. He could see weaknesses in any opponent, and he trained himself to know how to exploit those weaknesses. From the age of fourteen, Rafe could beat Luc every time they met on a practice field.
In fact, Rafe’s only true competition was Alric of Hawksmere. He was the son of a knight, so his dedication to training equaled Rafe’s. Alric was big and broad, even as a boy, and he was nothing to laugh at when it came to a duel. Still, by the time they finished training, Rafe usually triumphed against Alric too. He was just a little quicker, a little more adept, a little more driven.
“No question. You’re the best of us,” Alric had often said after practices. The other boy never knew how much those words meant to Rafe. To hear someone praise him—to confirm that Rafe had worth at least in one setting—was music to him. Without a mother or a father, or any family at all, Rafe never heard such things.
When they all grew from boys into men, they fought together on the battlefield, relying on each other to stay alive. Those experiences forged a bond among them, one eventually solemnized with an oath they each gave to the others. Rafe promised, on his life, to be a brother to Alric and Luc.
Well, Cain was a brother to Abel, he reminded himself.And it is written how that ended.
He still remembered the day he broke his vow. The day that started his descent from a respectable knight to what he was now…a mercenary and a vagabond.
Since fleeing from his old life, Rafe hadn’t stayed in one place for more than a week or two. The longest he’d stayed anywhere was London. He thought he’d be able to fade away, lost amid the thousands of other bodies. And for a while he had been happy there—well, not happy, but at least not miserable.
Then, one day, he saw a familiar face across a market square. The face and figure of Octavian de Levant was unmistakable. There was more than one African-born, black-skinned man in England. But only one who was friend to Alric and Luc, and who saw Rafe’s misdeeds up close. So when Rafe noticed the young knight in the market, he ducked behind a linen seller’s stall.
He felt like an idiot. Octavian couldn’t have seen him, and in any case, he was probably in London on his own lord’s business—he wasn’t searching for Rafe. But that didn’t mean that Tav wouldn’t send a message to Lord Rainald if he learned Rafe’s whereabouts. So Rafe left the city the next day, and had kept moving ever since, usually to the next tournament he could find. Winning at tournaments was a profitable living, but it wasn’t a vocation. When he got Angelet delivered to her destination, he’d be able to take a few days to decide his next step. And he might need those few days to forget Angelet, who already occupied more of his brain than he wanted to admit.
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 tokeepit 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.Somethingwas 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.
