Chapter 1
England, 1144
The sound of clashing swordsrang out, followed by hundreds of ecstatic cheers. A man dressed in full chain mail armor with a yellow surcoat fell to the ground, his knees sinking in mud. He swung his sword upward to parry yet another blow, but it was too late. His opponent’s stroke masterfully knocked aside the blade, sending it flying into the mud beside the yellow knight.
“I yield,” the yellow knight gasped out. “You win, Sir Rafe. Again.”
The triumphant knight wore blackened chain mail armor and a white surcoat with a black raven blazoned across the chest. His round shield was striped red and black, and the horse he rode earlier was black as well. Such a remarkable vision would have caught everyone’s attention if he’d been doing nothing more than traveling the path through the normally sleepy village of Ashthorpe, which lay in the very heart of England. But seeing him in the midst of an attack was spectacular. It didn’t matter at all that this attack was—ostensibly—for show. The crowd cheered wildly throughout the whole joust.
The battle was part of a festival with a special tournament hosted by the local lord to celebrate the tenth year of his reign. More than a dozen professional fighters came to compete, and it seemed the whole population for miles around came to watch.
The black-clad knight glanced at the crowd, then raised one hand in an acknowledgment of their adoration. The cheers increased and he smiled, as if pleased. In truth, he felt nothing. Absolutely nothing inside.
He’d defeated his opponent, true. But Rafe always defeated his opponents. In every tournament and joust and show battle he’d participated in over the past two years, he’d come away triumphant. And after each one, he searched for any sort of pride within himself, and found none.
As for the crowds, he was beginning to hate them as well. They were always so eager to see blood at these spectacles. These same folk who claimed to despise battle and war, largely because of the taxes and the disruption to their daily lives, were nonetheless happy to watch men risk wounds and death in a field for their entertainment.
And what does that make me?he thought. After all, no one was forcing him to fight in these tournaments. He’d once served a lord, but had forsaken him, along with his old life. Now all he had was his sword. He had to make a living somehow.
His current way of living meant that he had to put on a show, to impress the spectators. He strode over to his fallen opponent, who was still lying on the muddy ground. Rafe pointed his sword toward the man’s neck, emphasizing how easy it would be to kill him. The other man went still.
A voice boomed out, “The Knight of the Raven is the victor!”
More cheers.
Rafe looked toward a small, raised platform. The baron of Ashthorpe, who organized the event, sat in comfort, surrounded by several other people of enough importance to rate an invitation.
“My lord, what is your wish?” Rafe called out. It was a formality—but one that gave the lord immense satisfaction, since it let him play God.
“Mercy, Sir Rafe,” the baron called back. “Let him live!”
“As you command, my lord!” Rafe bowed, then sheathed his sword. He turned back to his opponent and offered a hand.
“Need a bit of assistance to get on your feet, eh, Louis?”
The other knight grimaced. “Go to hell, Rafe.” Nevertheless, he took the proffered arm and scrambled to his feet. “I had you until I slipped in that damn patch of mud.”
“Of course you did,” Rafe said with an easygoing grin. “It had nothing at all to do with the fact that you’re not as good at fighting as I am.”
“You’re lucky.”
Rafe snorted. “Lucky or not, I’ll be taking the spoils today. Don’t worry, I’ll see that your contributions go to a worthy cause.”
Louis’s expression soured further. “I’d call you greedy, but you take even that small satisfaction from your victims, don’t you?”
“You can complain to the church, if you wish.”
It was customary at tournaments and jousts for the winner to claim what the loser owned—which meant that Rafe would walk away with Louis’s horse and equipment he’d used today, as well as the prize purse offered by the baron. Such stakes ensured that only knights who were confident in their skills would enter a tourney. It also meant successful fighters were rewarded with the means to keep fighting. Horses, weapons, and armor were very expensive.
Since Rafe won so often, he quickly found himself overburdened with a particular kind of wealth. His solution was political as well as practical—he offered much of his winnings to the local church for the purposes of charity, and he gave away many small coins directly to the spectators. His growing reputation as a generous, open-handed man meant he had a following. Local clergy who otherwise objected to tourneys—viewing them as frivolous or dangerous or both—were more than happy to receive the benefits of Rafe’s donation. Local commoners crowded around him in hopes of receiving a handout, and women were impressed by the stories of Rafe’s supposedly unselfish nature—which was something he very selfishly took advantage of when opportunity knocked.
He saw an opportunity now, as he walked from the field to the platform. One of the watching noblewomen stood up as Rafe approached her. She was absolutely gorgeous, with rich dark hair and a knowing smile.
“Sir Rafe,” she said, clapping her hands together as he got closer. “Well done! You surpassed all expectation.”
“All thanks to you, my lady Sybilla,” he replied, touching the pale green ribbon tied around his upper arm. “Your favor gave me strength to endure.”
“Is that so, sir knight?” She took a deep breath, causing her chest to strain against the tight bodice of her gown. “I had heard tales of your skill, but tales are nothing compared to seeing such a magnificent fighter with my own eyes.”
