The Five Suitors

By Jordan Rivers

Prepare to be swept away into a medieval world filled with intrigue, romance, and a strong-willed heroine. As the sage's prophecy of his impending death echoes through the halls of Lord Grayhawk's castle, the lord makes a drastic decision - to have his daughter, Raven, choose her own husband from a group of five suitors. But Raven, ignorant of the sage's prophecy, is determined to defy her father's wishes and sets out to manipulate the suitors and pit them against each other. Little does she know; her own heart will become entangled in the game she has created.  For fans of historical romance and strong female protagonists, this book is a must-read. With its captivating plot and well-developed characters, readers will be on the edge of their seats until the very end. But beware, for not everything is as it seems, and the ending will leave you breathless.  Don't wait any longer, dive into the world of Raven and her suitors and experience a tale of love, betrayal, and redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. I. Rivers
• Release date: Jun 2, 2011
• ISBN: 9798224986958

Jordan Rivers

I started writing for fun when I was a kid but I didn't get serious about publishing until my 20s. After taking film and broadcasting in college I felt I'd found my true calling. I now write, direct, and produce ultra-low-budget movies. I've won two awards for my scripts; editor's choice for poetry and I'm published in paperback as well on Amazon. My first non-fiction book entitled, "I Know How You Feel..." is about my ten-year struggle with the death of my oldest son and how writing about it brought me back.

Book preview

Chapter One

Treading softly in the early morning light, the Welshman stalked his prey with a passion that went beyond hunger or the thrill of the hunt.  The intention of committing a capital crime by hunting an English Lord's deer was his only motivation.

An English lord’s deer?  Humph!

His heart knew that this was Welsh land and a Welsh deer, and it didn't matter how many times the King in England gave it away or to whom or how many castles he built here.  He cared not who occupied the great castle in the distance. The kill was for him and his people.

The Welshman lifted his bow, taking skilled aim at the quarry that was unaware of his intentions.  Instantly, his bow was torn from his hands by a powerful arrow that barely missed his flesh.  The deer bounded off into the thicket.  The Welshman's terrified eyes darted toward the arrow's master and beheld a hooded rider sitting astride a great black stallion.  The rider wore black from hood to boot, including the leather gauntlets that peaked at the Rider's elbows.  Lowering the long bow, the rider slipped it back into its holder without turning attention away from the Welshman.  The rider’s great stallion snorted and pawed the earth as if encouraging his owner to quickly dispatch the poacher and be done with it.

Without another moment’s hesitation, the Welshman took to flight, diving recklessly through the bushes.  A quick leap and he had mounted his horse.  Digging in with his heels, he sent his mount surging forward and the animal's hooves threw clods of dirt flying into the air.

The heavy pounding of hooves behind him told the Welshman that the black stallion was close on his heel.  The sun was rising quickly now, revealing the lush greenery of the land that blurred as the riders passed.  They raced on with breakneck speed, scattering the small animals who suddenly found themselves in danger's path.

At last, the Welshman spotted the pile of stones that stood as a marker between the English Lord's vast land and the free countryside.  He cast a quick look behind him just in time to see a black gauntlet-covered hand reaching for him.

The devil was going to pull him from his horse on this side of the marker!  The Welshman slid to the far side of his saddle and kicked in his heels again.  His horse answered with a slight burst of speed that prevented his young master’s unseating.

Passing the marker, he shot a look of glee at his pursuer.  His attention thus occupied; he was not aware of the mud puddle that lay in his Steed's path.  Seeing it at the last moment, the horse jumped awkwardly, causing it to land badly.  The jolt sent the Welsh rider up and then down, directly into the puddle.

The hooded rider pulled up on the black stallion's reins and the magnificent steed stopped immediately, rearing up on his hind legs before settling.  Pulling the hood back for a better look, the rider began laughing loudly.  The Welshman's head snapped up quickly at the sound.

Oh, 'tis only ye, Raven! grumbled the Welshman as he tried to stand in the thick, sucking ooze.

And lucky for thee, Drystan! she flashed a brilliant smile.

Thought ye to be one of your father's men, he continued as he wiped the mud off him and threw it toward the ground.

If I were, ye would be run through or swinging from a tree!  She patted the stallion's neck.  Her great stallion pawed the earth again.  He had enjoyed the run and yearned for yet another.  What does thee think of Lucifer?  Father brought him from England.

Lucifer? Drystan shook his head in bewilderment.  He looked up at her.  She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life.  Her thick black hair tumbled to her waist when she wasn't stuffing it up under men's hats or behind hoods.  She had the face of an angel, with expressive eyebrows and pools of dark coals for eyes that surely could look into a man's soul.  Her mouth was wet and fresh for kissing, but he was quite sure that no lips other than her father's had ever touched her face and then only in the most chaste fashion.  I cannot believe that your father would allow ye to name him so.

He does not know, Raven smiled wickedly.  Tis my private name for him.

Well, perhaps I shall tell his Lord so I may watch him haul ye over his knee, Drystan chuckled, freeing himself from the mud pit.

Ye would not get within half a furlong of my father's castle before his men would drive thee away! she teased as she leaned down to taunt him.  She was not aware that her man's tunic opened slightly with her movement allowing the top of her right breast to be revealed to him.  He savored the moment.  It was not often that Raven's womanliness revealed itself to him.  Or to anyone else for that matter.

Drystan forced his eyes to wander back to hers.  He had been only to his father's knee when the great Lord had come to the castle.  This new Lord had been more compassionate to Drystan's people then King Edward the Longshanks had been when he resided here.  Lord Grayhawk had even stunned the countryside by taking a noble Welsh woman for his wife.  But that hadn't changed the fact that this land was Wales and belonged to them and not to King Edward I of England as a reward to his bravest knight.

Drystan had not eased his hatred for the English until Raven had captured his attention.  She was eight years of age when she had first ventured out upon a horse, sitting astride the beast as if she were a poor country lass instead of a Great Lady in training.  She had come upon young Drystan skinning a rabbit.  A rabbit that belonged to her father for, then as now, Drystan was poaching on his land.  But instead of galloping away and sounding the alarm, Raven had slid from the horse and helped him with the roasting.  They had shared the meal, their names and established a friendship that had endured for twelve years.

What are ye thinking, Drystan? she queried, pulling him from his thoughts.

I am thinking mayhap I should act in your father's stead and spank ye myself! he grinned wickedly as he stepped toward her.  Her boot met his shoulder, and he was roughly shoved back.  The mud made a great sucking sound as he landed in the puddle again.

Thee will have to get free of the mud first, she laughed just as wickedly.  With a toss of her raven black hair, she urged her great mount forward and galloped off, leaving Drystan throwing curses after her.

A strange sensation overcame him, and he was shocked to discover that his encounter with Raven had aroused him greatly.  He watched her until she was out of sight.  He counted the years.  Raven had to be twenty by now.  Quite old for a woman who was not yet married.  He had braced himself for the day when she would rush to him and tell him she had been betrothed, but it had not happened.  In fact, she had tossed her hair defiantly whenever he questioned her about any future marriage or match.  Raven assured him that she had no intention of marrying anyone.  When he had pointed out that it wasn't up to her, she had caught him unaware with a blow to his jaw from a balled fist that had sent him reeling.  He hadn't brought the subject up since.

Drystan moved to his horse and captured its reins.  He looked again to where Raven had vanished.  He realized now that if she ever were to marry, it would certainly kill him.  He wanted her.  Had always wanted her.  She was the reason his kin could never interest him in a match.  He wanted Raven or nothing at all.  And since he was a lowly Welshman and the son of a farmer, then he would have nothing at all.

THE MIGHTY STALLION, its head proudly cocked to one side, carried his light rider in a graceful gallop across the lush meadow toward Raven's favorite pond.  Raven allowed herself to drink in the crisp, fresh air as she turned her face up to the warming sun.  It wasn't often during this time of the year that the sun burned so warmly through the enchanted mists that haunted this coastline.

She reined her steed to a halt beside a pond and leaned forward onto the horse's neck and hugged it.  Raven was filled with happiness.  It seemed that life had always been good to her and would continue to be that way.  The stallion had been a wondrous gift and she smiled with satisfaction at the thought that her father was feeling guilty for leaving her alone for these last few months while he conducted business in England.  True, he had offered to take her with him.  But Raven was content to stay put.  In England she would have had to wear dresses and conduct herself like a lady.  The thought alone almost fouled her mood.

She stroked the stallion’s neck.  If her father had seen her in a dress, he would have remembered that she wasn’t a boy, and might not have purchased Lucifer for her.  His mind would have asked, what female could handle this big brute?  Instead of doubt, her father had cheered and applauded as he watched her handle the horse as though she had owned it for years.  He was so proud of her and yet...

He had seemed preoccupied since his return.  Watching her from his place on the battlements as she prowled the grounds.  Hardly touching his food as he watched her eat.  And often lately, he had even asked her to dress in gowns at dinner.

Raven straightened up in the saddle.  Her gaze wandered to a bed of multi-hued wildflowers stretching along a bend of the pond.  She dismounted and held the reins as she picked one of the yellow flowers and inhaled its fragrance.  It reminded her of happy times.  She remembered bouncing on her father’s knee and the times when he used to carry her around the castle on his back.  He was her first steed and he promised to bear his rider anywhere.  But since she had grown to womanhood, he had kept her at a respectable distance.  He still hugged and kissed her as a father, but lately, his looks had been of serious study.

Tossing aside the flower, Raven jumped into the saddle and urged her mount back across the meadow.  She was planning to ride as far as the stallion desired, but movement on the road caught her attention and she turned in that direction.

Several riders slowly approached the castle.  Out in the lead were knights carrying their Lords' standards. They bore the family crests of two great houses, the Stewarts and the Connerys.  The Barons came next, each followed by their own knights who carried lances and had hand weapons attached to their saddles.  Raven recognized the two Barons as long-time friends of her father.

Lord Stewart was her father's age, completely bald save for the long thick hair that ran the length of the base of his head between his ears and down into a long ponytail bound by a silver hair cuff.  His graceful black eyebrows framed his blue eyes in a way that made them seem crystalline as they peered past a decidedly English nose.  He had a lean frame that was hardened from years of battle, and he sat his horse handsomely.  Raven had often heard her father remark on his loyalty as a friend.  Aside from her father, he had been the only man whose lap she had sat upon as a little girl.  She loved the deep timbre of his voice, his seemly inexhaustible patience, and his fatherly interest in her.  She knew, if anything had happened, her father would have trusted Colin Stewart to take of her as his ward.

Riding beside Lord Stewart on a gray roan was Baron Connery, also her father's age.  Lord Connery had a full beard and mustache and was a mixture of white, silver, gray and black hair.  He kept the steel gray hair on his head tied back and braided.  He had gray eyes, a wide nose and was not as tall as his companion.  He did however possess a large barrel chest, strong arms, and legs, and was definitely built for fighting.

Raven began remembering all the tales of heroism her father told of these two brave men.  She was glad they were here.  Perhaps they would pull her father from his recent brooding.

Following behind were spearmen were archers with long bows and cross bows, and unmounted soldiers carrying clubs, flails, maces, war hammers, daggers, knives, and swords.  Some carried Halberds, spears with thick blades, battleaxes and Horseman's picks.  Each knight wore body armor, leather, chain mail, Brigandine plates, shields, and helmets.  Every piece of metal was polished to a high sheen, decorated with ribbons or talismans.  This parade was all for show, they were not planning on warring.  However, if war occurred, they would be well ready.  Chargers, palfreys, carthorses, pack horses, rounceys and, bringing up the rear, hobby horses.  It was a magnificent cavalcade.

Turning the black stallion in the opposite direction of the retinue, Raven followed the road away from the castle.  If her father was having guests, she wouldn't be missed for some time.  In fact, it had become her habit for the past few years not to entertain her father's guest or to attend dinner, even though her father had constantly asked her to do so.  She knew as the Lady of the castle, the duty should fall to her, but she felt strange about it.  As if sitting at her mother's place at the table would acknowledge the fact that she was dead.

Why Raven should feel strange about it was unclear to her.  She had never known the mother who had died in childbirth.  The servants had told her stories of her mother, and of her father's wails of grief at the loss of the only woman he had ever loved.  Unlike most noble marriages, theirs had been a love match.  Love at first sight, as the story was told.

He had taken himself away to do service for his King, joining in the crusade to the Holy land, leaving Raven unnamed and attended to by wet nurses, servants, and tutors.  Even during those early years, she had been quite a handful.  Since she had been left unnamed, she was referred to as the girl or girl, young miss, child, that child even the brat.  Not even their resident priest could reign her in because Raven had learned early on that as long as she went to Sunday mass, confession, observed the fast and charmed the hell out of the priest, he was incapable of more than just a water-downed scolding.  And of course, she never told the truth during confession.

She was five before the great burly man had returned, standing before her with his large fists balled at his hips as he stared down at his girl child.  A smile had finally split that rock-hard face and he swept her up into his arms, crying in a loud, melodious voice, I shall call thee Raven.  'Tis the color of your glorious mane and ye are as small as a bird!

Since his return, he had made up for all the years gone, spoiling her with horses, hunting falcons, fine clothes and teaching her chess and dice games.  He also indulged her desire to dress, hunt and ride like a man.  She had taken to the dress and lifestyle because she was able to accompany her father more often and because, deep down, she felt if she had been born a male child, maybe he would never have left her in the first place.

Something on the road ahead to the right caught her eye.  She reigned in the stallion and pushed up to a standing position in the stirrups.  The object still wasn’t clear.  She settled down onto the saddle and pulled the hood back over her head.  Raven urged the horse forward with her heels, making for a clump of bushes near the road.

Dismounting Lucifer, Raven didn’t bother to tie him, and the huge animal buried its muzzle into the long grasses to feast.  She moved to position herself in the bushes so she could see the road.  Soon, a lone rider came into view.  Definitely a man, he was mounted on a steed the size of Lucifer.  From what she could tell from this distance, he was over six feet tall.  His long blonde hair flowed in volumes from under the leather headband that bore his family crest.  His sleeveless tunic revealed his huge, muscled arms and barely contained his wide chest.  His feet were shod in animal skin boots that rose to his knees.  Each of his forearms sported unadorned leather braces from his wrists to his elbows.  Around his neck he wore a thick leather string that bore a round medallion set with precious stones.

From her father’s impressive library, Raven had read many stories about the Vikings and how, two hundred years ago, they had swept down from Norway and Sweden, plundering monasteries, sacking cities and raping, or carrying off women.  After the Vikings embraced Christianity, thus putting a stop to their plundering ways, the Vikings became known only as Danes, Swedes or by the country from which they hailed.  Given his look and demeanor, he reminded her of the drawings she had seen in the book.  Although it was implausible, she decided that he must be a Viking.

As he passed by the bushes, Raven studied his chiseled face; the deep-set blue eyes beneath bushy brows; the long, well-shaped nose; his full mouth and high cheek bones.  It wasn’t so much his handsome face that caught her attention, but rather the fact that there was so much of him.

As he disappeared around the bend in the road, Raven quietly slipped from the bushes and made her way back to her horse.  Taking the reins, she stood beside the steed as she pondered the Viking.

Who was he?  Why was he here?  Did her father know him?  Was he of royal blood?  If so, why did he travel alone?

She had barely mounted Lucifer when the horse reared in startled surprise as a great force knocked Raven to the ground.  She was caught in a huge vise as she tumbled down a small slope, the great weight settling on top of her.

Raven’s hair had fallen free of the hood during the tumbling and now covered her face and eyes.  She couldn’t see, so she shook her head quickly to dislodge her hair from her face.  The Viking grinned down at her from his hovering position just above her.  His body pinned her right side to the ground as his right hand held her left arm.  Lucifer snorted his disapproval at his mistress’ unseating.

By God, the Viking thundered in his deep voice, his expression one of amusement.  ye are a female!  A Venetian accent was wrapped around his English words.

And ye are not as stupid as ye look! she spat, trying not to reveal her shock and consternation over her present situation.  Lucifer snorted and pawed the earth as he watched the couple on the ground.

And to think, I almost ran thee through! he chuckled.

I will run thee through if thee does not get off me, bastard! her venomous look served only to amuse him more.

Well, I must be mistaken in my evaluation.  Whatever this is, it does not speak like a female.  In fact, thee seems slight of build as would be a lad.  Mayhap I should satisfy myself as to your true gender.

Moving her arm above her head, he transferred the control of her left wrist to his left hand and held it against the grass.  A wicked look filled his eyes as he began tracing the opening of her garment at her throat.  Then, with deliberate strokes, he unlaced her tunic halfway down.

Unhand me!  Stop that at once! she hissed as she struggled.

Hooking his fingers into the top of her tunic, he pulled it down passed her left shoulder, revealing the top of her heaving white breast.

Not a lad in the least, he smiled appreciatively, his voice low.  The sound made her stop struggling.  She looked him in the eyes and saw something there she had seen before.  A look the guards had given the kitchen wenches.  A look shared by the village men and their women.  And, she suddenly realized, a look that she had seen in Drystan’s eyes many times before.

Mayhap ye really are a lad and this beauty I see before me a mere trick of the light.  Should I explore further? he queried as his finger traced the rise of the exposed part of her breast.  His eyes locked on hers as he lowered his mouth between her breasts, stopping barely above the exposed skin.  He waited several lingering seconds before licking the top of her breast in one long stroke.  Her breath caught in her throat at the touch of his wet tongue against her skin.  He watched her face intently as his free hand cupped her breast, her tunic cloth the only thing separating them.

Raven became rigid.  Her face hardened.  She steeled herself against what was about to occur.  Her mind raced to long forgotten images of couples in dark corners and conversations she had overheard growing up in the castle.  Conversations about things that occurred between men and women.  How men always took their pleasure and women had to lie there and put up with whatever happened to them.

Thee are too old for me to believe this is to be your first time, he began as he studied her.  Your beauty would not let ye escape a man’s notice for too long.

Enjoy yourself, brute, for I intend to kill ye when ye are finished, Raven uttered more bravely that she felt.  Her horse nodded its great head as if in agreement.

Her terse statement caused her captor to throw back his long blonde mane and roar with a laughter that seemed to thunder through the fields.

Ye?  No doubt thee are a Valkyrie with an army hidden in the mists, yes? he asked when he recovered himself.  He began kissing down her neck to the hollow between her breasts.

I do not need an army.  I can kill ye myself.  The confidence that filled her voice was a surprise even to her.  She felt helpless in his iron grip.  His hot breath between her breasts sent waves of emotion to the pit of her stomach.  But she was also thinking about the way this brute had looked at her and was curious as to why Drystan, who’d had the same look, never tried to have his way with her.  Maybe he should have.  At least if she were to lose her maidenhead, she’d rather give it to Drystan than to this rabble.  Lucifer snorted and paced by the two on the ground.

Then I had better make the most of my last meal, he teased as he continued to enjoy the taste of her.  He pulled the tunic open wider.  His huge warm hand slid under her tunic and along her skin until it reached one of her breasts.  His fingers gripped the ample dome, and he grunted his approval as his thumb and forefinger found her nipple and began rolling it gently back and forth.  The sensation shocked her.

With a final snort, Lucifer bit the blonde giant on the back.  Surprised, he bellowed as his head snapped up.  He released her immediately so he could fend off his attacker.  It was the break Raven needed.  She stomped the man in the groin with a mighty jolt from her boot.  He fell over like a rock.  Then, as if she were an arrow freshly launched, Raven flew to Lucifer’s back and dug in her heels.  Lucifer’s strong legs carried her far away from her storybook Viking and back to the safety of her father’s castle.

Chapter Two

Grayhawk embraced his friends with joy and affection.  It didn’t surprise him at how quickly they had come at his request.  These men had fought by his side from the beginning.  They had grown up together on the battlefield, slashing and cutting their way through every campaign Edward the First, the King of England, had ordered them on.  They were