Return of the Raven

By Judith Sterling

Margaret, Lady Ravenwood, is trapped in a loveless marriage and firmly entrenched in the medieval world. Along comes Griffin Nightshade, a historian from the future whose soul resonates with hers. He persuades her to return with him to the 1950s, but heeding her heart means courting danger from a curse that could spell her doom.

Haunted by his parents' sudden deaths, Griffin knows all too well the pain born of love lost. He guards his emotions, but Margaret delves deep and goes straight to the soul. She's hard to resist…and harder to set free.

The heart's desire and history's demands don't always agree. Yet true love is eternal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Feb 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781509234523

Judith Sterling

Judith Sterling is an award-winning author whose love of history and passion for the paranormal infuse everything she writes. Whether penning medieval romance (The Novels of Ravenwood) or young adult paranormal fantasy (the Guardians of Erin series), her favorite themes include true love, destiny, time travel, healing, redemption, and finding the hidden magic which exists all around us. She loves to share that magic with readers and whisk them far away from their troubles, particularly to locations in the British Isles. Her nonfiction books, written under Judith Marshall, have been translated into multiple languages. She has an MA in linguistics and a BA in history, with a minor in British Studies. Born in that sauna called Florida, she craved cooler climes, and once the travel bug bit, she lived in England, Scotland, Sweden, Wisconsin, Virginia, and on the island of Nantucket. She currently lives in Salem, Massachusetts with her husband and their identical twin sons.

Book preview

Inc.

Meg! In trouble!

He dashed into the hall and into her bedroom, then flung open the bathroom door. She stood in the bathtub, clad in bubbles whose brethren spilled over the side of the tub onto the floor. Luckily, the white foam covered all but her neck, head, and one shoulder.

There’s too much of it. She gestured to the mess and sent a cluster of bubbles flying through the air.

I can see that. Are you hurt?

No, just unnerved. They kept building and building until I feared they might cover the entire chamber.

First, let’s turn off the water. He reached into the sea of foam, found the faucets, and twisted each one in turn. How much of the soapy liquid did you use?

The whole bottle.

His eyes widened. Well, that explains it. Only a small amount is necessary.

When Hannah showed me how to use it, she simply turned the bottle upside down to demonstrate pouring. I assumed all of the liquid was needed. With a rueful expression, she looked around her. Obviously not.

She was adorable. And underneath those bubbles, she was nude. Time to go!

Well, I’m glad ʼtwas nothing serious. I’ll just be going now. With an about-face, he headed for the door.

Wait.

Uh oh. What does she want now? He turned back around.

"I must know something, and you’re the only one who can help me know it."

Praise for Judith Sterling

"Judith Sterling creates a beautiful, poetic mood that flows through the whole story…[FLIGHT OF THE RAVEN (The Novels of Ravenwood, Book One)] is a fantastic book for lovers of historical romance and romance alike!"

~InD’Tale Magazine

~*~

"[SHADOW OF THE SWAN (The Novels of Ravenwood, Book Three)] will transform you and reaffirm the power of love."

~Best Historical Romance of 2018 finalist,

N. N. Light’s Book Heaven

~*~

"NIGHT OF THE OWL [(The Novels of Ravenwood, Book Four)] is a sweeping, romantic time travel adventure and the best book of the series…[Sterling] brings such detail to this historical time period, I could smell, taste, and feel everything the characters experience."

~Best Time Travel Romance of 2019 finalist,

N. N. Light’s Book Heaven

Return

of the Raven

by

Judith Sterling

The Novels of Ravenwood, Book 5

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Return of the Raven

COPYRIGHT © 2021 by Judith Sterling

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Edition, 2021

Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-3451-6

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-3452-3

The Novels of Ravenwood, Book 5

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

I dedicate this book to Elizabeth Corwin,

whose memory and strength inspire me every day.

Chapter One

Ravenwood Keep, Northumbria, England

April 1081

Your plot to poison me has failed. Margaret, Lady Ravenwood stood tall, even as fatigue dogged her legs. Her clear, resonant tones dominated the lord’s solar, challenging her sister-in-law’s icy stare.

Agatha cradled her daughter, Gertrude—whom Margaret herself had delivered seven months before—but her maternal stance and flowing veil did nothing to soften the hostility that ruled her features. I don’t know what you mean.

At Agatha’s side stood her brother Evoric, Margaret’s husband. His green eyes, so like his sister’s, flared and seemed to diminish the worth of the blazing hearth behind him. You dare accuse her of—

I speak true, and she knows it. You will too, if you’ll just listen. Fortunately, I had plenty of mustard seeds on hand to rid me of the poison.

The hint of a smile touched Agatha’s thin mouth. Aye, I overheard the servants. You vomited so much yesternight, they wondered if you were with child. But that would require an act of God similar to the virgin birth of Christ.

No, that would require a husband who can perform the task.

A tuft of Evoric’s brown hair fell over one eye as he turned to his sister, and they shared a meaningful glance. I can easily perform with alluring women, he sneered, regarding Margaret again. The people call you beautiful, but they don’t know you as I do. Your charms are sorely lacking in the bedchamber. I doubt there’s a man alive who’d find satisfaction in swiving you. Why, I’d rather pick my nose than prick your purse.

Agatha snickered and bounced the babe in her arms. Evoric’s cruel smile turned tender as he regarded little Gertrude.

The heat of shame and anger rushed through Margaret’s body and into her face. That may be. Or perhaps you shun my bed to prevent another dream.

The corners of Evoric’s mouth drooped. He shifted his feet but said naught.

You know the one I mean?

His hands clenched into fists, then slackened as he huffed. I do. He grumbled. "I would you could entice me. I’d get you with child, and the Ravenwood curse would dispose of you."

Agatha chortled, then faked a sympathetic smile. Poor Lady Ravenwood. What a trial it must be to live under such a threat.

Again, heat claimed her face. And you wish to lift the burden by hastening my demise.

I live but to serve.

You serve yourself and no one else. Margaret regarded her husband. She’s had her child. ʼTis time she returned to Hexham, where she belongs.

Evoric moved closer to Agatha and jutted out his chin. She belongs with me.

Realization dawned, birthing a sinking feeling that seized Margaret’s core. Her eyes narrowed. You knew about the poison, didn’t you?

His mouth opened, then closed. He averted his gaze.

I know you hate me, but to go so far as to plot murder? She shook her head in disbelief. How wrong I was.

Wrong?

I thought you had at least a scrap of honor. A real man would never stoop so low.

Agatha’s stare turned venomous. He’s more man than you could ever handle. The proof is right here. She thrust the bundle that was Gertrude forward.

Margaret gasped. Her stomach, raw already, seemed to bite itself as her gaze met Evoric’s. You bedded your own sister?

She read the truth of it in his eyes. No reply was necessary.

Ravenwood was her home, her birthright. Yet the pair of them sought to make her an outsider…nay, a memory. As dead as her mother. As obsolete as all hope.

The air was thick with incestuous vice. The walls closed in, inch by inch.

I cannot bear it!

She rushed out of the room. Curious gazes and a string of anxious my ladys followed her through the hall and forebuilding, down the stairs, and all the way across the bailey to the stables. She couldn’t speak, let alone meet anyone’s gaze. All that mattered was mounting Thistle and riding to freedom, north to Nihtscua and the one person in the world who would understand.

What began as a gallop soon became a canter, then a trot. The fickle morning sky—clear one moment and cloudy the next—watched her progress and arrival. The village below Nihtscua hummed with life, while high above on a great pile of rocks, the castle waited. Both keep and gatehouse were made of durable stone, but the wooden curtain wall had begun to rot.

Like her marriage. If one could call it that. Father Cedric, Ravenwood’s priest, had bound them in matrimony, but duty had not spawned accord. How could it? Evoric cared more for her lands than he ever did for her.

A fact the Ravenwood curse would neither forgive nor forget.

Always, the curse hovered, biding its time, plaguing females of her family line for centuries. Unless a Ravenwood heir was conceived in love, the mother died in childbirth. ʼTwas her mother’s fate and likely hers, too.

Oh, Mother. How can I escape it? What can I do?

Nothing. A husband like Evoric meant her doom.

With a shiver, she exited the gatehouse and rode into the bailey. Servants scuttled to and fro, performing their daily tasks with haste but little joy. Nihtscua, which meant Shadow of Night in the Saxon tongue, was the perfect name for the place. A dark cloud of fear hung over it, sustained by its ruthless master, Cenwulf.

Margaret! Lady Sigrid’s voice carried easily over the servants’ murmurs. Framed by the massive double doors of the keep’s entrance, she lifted a hand in greeting, then hurried down the wide, stone steps to the courtyard.

Six-year-old Wulfstan followed in her wake. Mother and son shared striking features: blond hair, ice blue eyes, and a heartfelt bond that was one of Sigrid’s few pleasures in life.

Margaret dismounted Thistle as they approached. Good health to you both.

Why have you come? What… Sigrid’s voice trailed off as she studied Margaret’s face. Something has happened. Are you well?

The need to confide in her friend fought with the desire to protect Wulfstan’s ears from tidings that might singe them. I am…well enough. Tears pricked her eyes, but she refused to shed them.

No, you’re not. I see it in your eyes, and you look as though you’ve barely slept. She hailed the groom as he strode past. Bertwald, see to Lady Ravenwood’s horse.

Right away, my lady. He led Thistle toward the stables.

Turning back to Margaret, she offered a sympathetic smile. Listen, I was just on my way to the Wolf Stone. Come with me, and we can talk.

The Wolf Stone? Are you closer to solving the riddle?

"Mayhap. All I know is I must go thither now. We must go. Something important will occur."

Your instincts are never wrong. I shall come, gladly.

Little Wulfstan tugged on Sigrid’s blue overtunic. Can I come too?

Wulfstan! The harsh call sliced through the bailey and silenced all chatter.

With long, powerful strides, Cenwulf approached them, shadowed by his twelve-year-old firstborn and favorite, Aldred. Their hair was every bit as bright as the rest of the family’s; their expressions, quite the opposite.

As sour as ever, Margaret thought. On the surface, they were handsome, but darkness reigned within.

Cenwulf towered over Wulfstan. You’ll never be a man if you cling to your mother’s skirt all day. Come and learn to wield a sword as your brother does.

Aye. Aldred’s grin held a dare. Don’t be a scared mouse.

Wulfstan pouted his lips, then pursed them as he regarded the father who loomed above him. Must I?

Cenwulf gave him a brusque nod. If you don’t want to be a mewling milksop the rest of your life.

Charming. Margaret frowned. The thought of the boy facing his spiteful brother’s blade turned her stomach, but she longed to speak with Sigrid in private.

Cenwulf’s hard, brown eyes shifted in Margaret’s direction. Lady Ravenwood, why are you here? Has Evoric come too?

No, your drinking companion isn’t here to feed your cruelty. I came alone.

He should keep a closer eye on you.

"His eye is occupied elsewhere."

He quickly disguised a smirk as a smile. Of that I have no doubt. His gaze dropped to his younger son. Come, Wulfstan.

The three of them headed toward the armory. The servants murmured anew, and those who’d given Cenwulf a wide birth drew closer and resumed their duties.

Sigrid expelled a sigh of relief and met Margaret’s gaze. Our turn. Let’s go.

They strode across the courtyard to the gatehouse, then over the drawbridge and down the hill. In silent agreement, they held their tongues, for there were still a number of villeins and cottars around. A short distance farther, they turned left and started up a grassy slope toward the woods.

Despite her fatigue, Margaret welcomed the chance to stretch her legs after the long ride. She inhaled the soothing fragrance of the forest as they entered. The evergreens towered above them, dependable and aromatic as ever, while bright new growth blessed the elms, birches, beeches, and oaks.

Spring was all about rebirth and new beginnings. If only there were one for me.

Agatha tried to poison me, she said at last.

Sigrid tripped but righted herself quickly. What?!

And Evoric allowed it.

No! You must tell your head cook…and all the undercooks to be on their guard if ever she—

Oh, she wouldn’t dare try it where someone might see her, and she’s no apothecary to make poison herself. She must’ve bought it in Newcastle last week, then added it to a headache tonic I made myself when I asked her to fetch it. The medicine smelled a bit strange, but my head hurt so much, I drank it anyway. Stupid of me.

You cannot blame yourself. Do the people know of it?

No. Unless someone happened to overhear when I confronted her. But you’ve not heard the worst of it.

Sigrid halted abruptly. There’s more?

Margaret motioned for her to continue walking along the woodland path. You know of baby Gertrude.

Of course.

Evoric is her father.

Again, Sigrid stopped. But…but Agatha is…

His sister. And I am apparently the least appealing woman who’s ever lived. Again, she felt the sting of it.

Now stop the mill. You are beautiful and kind and—

Not worth his trouble.

Sigrid gave her a pointed look. "He certainly troubled himself on your wedding night."

Until he found me lacking.

No, until he caught sight of the ‘Boar Hunt’ tapestry above the bed and it afflicted him.

Margaret nodded thoughtfully. ʼTwas that night he first had the dream. And thereafter, every time he came to my bed, he’d look up at the tapestry and find himself unable to perform. Even after he had it removed and hung in the hall, he still couldn’t manage. I’ve often wondered…mayhap ʼtwas my mother’s way of keeping me safe from the curse, even from beyond the grave. But Evoric has always made it clear, ʼtis my failing, my inability to inspire a man’s passion. Perhaps he’s right. Her heart felt heavy, laden with doubt that trickled down from her mind to infect it. Evidently, Agatha has what I have not.

ʼTwouldn’t surprise me. Your mother wove magic into all of her tapestries. And now your disaster of a husband is bedding his own sister.

Margaret caught her head between her hands. All they want is to be rid of me and have Ravenwood for themselves. I’m sure they relished my reaction this morning. I shouldn’t have fled, but I couldn’t help it. I had to get out of there, if only for a little while.

I’m glad you came to me. With a sad smile, Sigrid shook her head. We’re a fine pair, you and I. At least Evoric has found another place to plant his seed. Not that Cenwulf hasn’t found that too, but he still comes to me, especially when he’s in his cups. Fear flitted across her face, and she wrung