LordoftheHunt (10 page)

Roger elbowed his way to Mathilda. “I saw Lady Isabelle step
aside. She added at least a hand to Quintin’s distance.”

Adam opened his mouth, but Mathilda held up her staff. “I
feared some might think such a thing, so I dropped a penny in Quintin’s divot.
We shall use that as the marker, shall we?”

Lord Roger’s cheeks blotched. “Of course, my lady. How canny
that you should think of such a thing.”

Everyone stepped forward. Even the bishop, who’d been
chatting with his cleric and paying little, if any, attention to the
competition beyond calling out names, stood up.

“Joan. Find my penny, please,” Mathilda said.

Joan felt every eye on her as she walked across the width of
the grassy plot. She stood in line with Lady Isabelle and looked around. There,
even with the place where Lady Isabelle stood, was a shiny silver penny. The
win was legitimate. Joan placed her toe near the spot. “It is here, my lady.”

Mathilda looked at Roger. He bowed. “I stand corrected, my
lady. Forgive my error.”

She giggled. “Oh, my lord, everyone makes mistakes.” She
swatted his arm with her crook. “See you do not make too many or you’ll be
leaving.”

She walked to Adam Quintin. She extended her staff. This
touch was not the cuff Roger had received. This was a slow drag of the ribbons
across Adam’s honed shoulder and against the strong line of his throat.

“You were gone a very long time during our games, sir. Where
were you?” She shook her beribboned staff in his face.

Joan watched a touch of color rise on Adam’s cheeks. He
said, “Delicacy prevents my saying, my lady.”

“Delicacy? From a warrior?” Mathilda smiled.

“If you must know,” Adam said with a grin. “I was not far
away. I was in the privy.” He lifted his hands and shrugged.

The crowd broke into laughter. Mathilda clapped her hands
over her face and giggled. Then she sobered and lifted her crook. “I declare
you the winner. We shall have a new marker set to honor your toss. What reward
do you claim?”

Joan did not wish to hear what Adam wanted. ‘Twas obvious.
He wanted what they all wanted. The lady of the keep.

Joan walked away, but not in time to miss Adam’s words.

“I claim the privilege of watching you plant the marker, my
lady, after a small, private supper, perhaps along the river.”

Adam found his way to the river through the Roman way. He
carried only a small rushlight. At the shrine to Diana, he stopped a moment to
look at the beauty, but his Diana only served to remind him of Joan. Kissing
Mathilda had not exorcised the feel of Joan’s lips from his mind.

He placed a hand on Diana’s knee. “I want the huntress, but
not yet. I shall wait until I secure Ravenswood and send Mathilda away.” He
patted the mosaic’s knee and admitted he no longer thought in terms of
if
he bedded the huntress. It had become
when
.

Adam extinguished his flame as he neared the dappled light
that poured through the tangled roots. No one observed his exit. About a league
along the riverbank, he hunkered down in the shadows of a huge stump, mossy and
crumbling from years of insect work. He heard footsteps from his left and
remained hidden until Christopher came into sight.

He lifted his tunic and urinated into the reeds. When he
finished, he pursed his lips and whistled.

Adam returned the sound. Christopher did not immediately
come to him, but wandered about, plucking a few river reeds and plaiting them
quickly into a cord. He whistled as he worked lest anyone interpret the earlier
notes as a message of sorts.

Finally, he sat by the stump and leaned back, hands busy on
the cordage. “So,” Christopher said. “You spent an hour in the privy. Food too
rich for you?”

Adam grinned. “It was all I could think of. I thought no one
was paying me any attention, so I slipped away and searched tents. Pathetic
quarters all and not one piece of paper to be found. So far, this is all I’ve
found of any note.” He handed his copy of Brian’s letter over. “I found it in
de Harcourt’s chest. Can you take it to one of our lord’s clerics, someone
trusted, for interpretation? It’s in Greek.”

Christopher took the sealed letter. “Done.”

“How long will it take?”

“Oh, a day, no more. I’ve only to go to Winchester. There’s
a man there in our lord’s employ who’ll make short work of this.”

“I feel I’ve made little headway, beyond finding that paper.
And it could be a list of dirty laundry—or quotes from Sophocles. I cannot see
how I’ll uncover this traitor in just one week. They all seem—”

“Ill-suited to rule Ravenswood?”

“Aye, except for de Harcourt.”

“I agree. Between us we’ve searched ten suitors who have
little in common save they are younger sons whose lot will be greatly enhanced
by marriage to a wealthy heiress.”

“Agreed.”

“If you’ve no confessions duly signed and sealed by week’s
end, you had better wed the lady.”

“Sealed…hmmm. Why did I not think of that? To act for Louis,
the bishop or this traitor will need to show he has Louis’ authority. He’ll
need a ring. A seal, or some token to show his authority.”

“Aye. Have you seen aught that would serve?”

Adam remembered the ring turned palm to that Mathilda wore.
“Only on the lady. And she’s an unlikely candidate. She already possesses the
castle. If the ring was given her to hold, however, by someone… Nay, it does
not make sense that she would hold a king’s seal. What would it serve? And why
wear it for everyone to see?”

“Is there aught else I should find out in Winchester?”
Christopher stood up and looked cautiously about.

“I want to know why Francis’ father has sent his lady here.
Francis is naught but a boy and the mother a harpy. What is the man thinking?”

“Consider the question asked. Where shall we meet?”

“How about the village well, after dawn on the day after tomorrow?”

Christopher agreed and Adam watched the minstrel fade into
the foliage before heading down to the river.

The sun had not yet fallen behind the treetops, but he saw
Mathilda and a servant walking along the bank. The man’s back bowed under the
weight of a huge pack. They were early. “How very flattering,” he mused.

Adam sat on a flat rock, one knee raised, an elbow thrown
around it as if he’d been waiting there for hours. He watched her progress. She
had the air of making an entrance though there were no doors or arches to pass
through.

He jumped to his feet and swept her a bow when she drew
near. “Welcome, my lady, I’m pleased you chose to sup with me.”

She curtsied. “It is I who am pleased to grant your small
wish. Would that each desire presented to me were so easily met.”

The servant set out a blanket and cushions for the lady and
unpacked cold meat and cheese, wine and fruit.

“Heron,” Mathilda said, offering him a meaty leg of fowl.
“I’m particularly fond of it.”

“A noble bird.” Adam accepted the offering.

She took a leg for herself. Adam hid a smile over the way
she nibbled up and down the bone. If Hugh saw this, he would have many quips
and jests to make about cocks and feasts.

The servant removed himself a few paces and sat with his
back to them.

Mathilda had garbed herself in a rich cream from head to
toe. Pearls graced her throat, wrists, and breast. She looked ready for a
king’s banquet, not a riverside supper. A flash of movement over her shoulder
caught his eye.

Mon Dieu
. Joan walked across the distant field with
her dogs. He forced himself to look at Mathilda’s sparkling splendor.

Silence fell. Adam searched for something to say. “I thank
you for handling Roger this morning.”

“Do not thank me. I put a penny in each place for just such
an eventuality.”

“It was well thought out, then.”

Mathilda arched her back and leaned on her hands. The
posture thrust her bosom at him. The offering did little for Adam save make him
think that she must be very uncomfortable.

“I cannot take the credit,” she said. “It is what Joan used
to do when Brian and my brother competed. They argued so that she finally
settled it one day. A penny in each toss. The penny the marker. She’s clever.”

“Aye.” Adam drank from his goblet of wine. He would not
discuss Joan.

Over Mathilda’s shoulder, Joan’s hounds sat in a neat row
like students before a master. Suddenly the dogs burst past her, circled,
returned, and seated themselves.

It was magical.

Mathilda offered him an apple. “I’m glad Joan attended the
competition. She spends too much time with the dogs or Nat. He’s not her
father, you know.”

“Brian told me.”

Mathilda patted his thigh. “She’s terribly afraid of
mercenaries. You should watch your men around her.”

“I shall.” He must watch Mathilda’s hand as well.

“I believe Joan has been cheated in this life. I don’t know
what she’ll do when Nat dies. No one would accept a female Master of the Hunt
and she’s almost too old to marry. There are many younger women about who need
a husband.”

“Perhaps she is content as she is.”

“Nonsense. She needs to put ribbons in her hair and wear
pretty gowns, amuse herself.”

He bit into the apple.

“Do you not agree?” she asked.

“All women like to wear pretty clothes and deck themselves
with ribbons and jewels. Why would she be any different?”

“Because she has been denied. My brother professed to love
her. It infuriated my father—her so low, and Richard so high. My father ordered
her from the hall. She was to hide herself away lest he see her and spend his
anger on her.”

“So, she cowered in the kennels. Not very admirable.”

Joan’s dogs slunk low on their bellies, disappeared in the
grass, then bounded up to return to their mistress. She lifted her hands and
turned. The dogs swirled around her, then ran in all directions. He imagined
the joy of her laughter at the animals’ antics.

Mathilda sat up straight and pointed a beringed finger at
him. “Joan
never
cowered. She merely donned hunting clothes and went
about her work. She never once complained or wept. I would have wept to be
treated so.”

“And what did you do to alleviate the woman’s suffering?”

“I am sorry to say I did naught. I’m the coward. I had not
courage to question my father’s decisions or orders.” She brought her arms
forward and clasped her hands in her lap. Every finger bore a ring.

“I questioned mine all the time.” Adam held out his goblet
to be filled. The servant withdrew again to a discreet distance.

“Tell me of your father.” Her face was as smooth as fine
marble in the late afternoon sunlight. She looked like an angel carved for some
cathedral monument.

“My father is ruled by his heart, not his head.”

“Ah. And you hold contempt for such beliefs.”

Adam stood up. “My father gave all he had to the woman he
loves. He took off the mantle of his authority and stepped to her level.”

It occurred to him that Richard had been willing to do just
that for Joan. “My father and my stepmother care for naught but my brother and
a quintet of sisters I barely know.”

“A quintet. An omen. Five sisters.”

“Four of the girls are orphans my father and my stepmother
gathered in over the years. Imps all, I understand from my brother.”

Mathilda rose and stood by his side. She asked the servant
to go to the river and remain there until she called him.

“You must make a point of seeing your sisters,” she said,
linking her arm through his. “They may need you one day, and you will be a
stranger to them. They may hesitate to call upon you when they might
desperately need your help.”

“Is that how you feel? You’ve no one to ask for help?”

She nodded and looked off across the fields where the dogs
ran about with wild abandon. “Aye. My brother is gone. My father, too. Would
that I had another brother.”

“What of Bishop Gravant?”

“He’ll do what’s best for the church. If I had a brother,
I’d ask him to chose my husband.”

Under the guise of comforting her, Adam took her hand. “If
you cannot choose, my lady, then all hell will reign here. The country and the
king cannot have it so. You must know your mind. It will take courage. Look not
to the man who can toss a stone the farthest. Look for a man who can hold this
place and serve it with honor.”

“And are you that man of honor?”

“I believe I am. Tell me how I may succeed with you.”

She smiled. “Begin by paying less attention to Joan Swan.”
She swept out her hand to the fields.

He bent his head, his skin as hot as if she’d held a brand
to it. He raised her hand, turned it, and gently kissed the soft skin of her
palm, noting again the ring turned palm in. “This is an interesting ring,” he
said.

“This?” She plucked the ring off. It was bound with thread
to fit her finger. It had been lodged beneath a cabochon ruby much like the one
the bishop wore. The ruby swung toward her palm when she drew the other from
beneath it.

Adam’s fingers almost trembled when he took the seal ring
and slid it on his hand. Without the thread it might fit his smallest finger.
“Where did you get it?”

“I found it. Is the marking French?” Her head was very close
to his as he examined the
fleur-de-lis
.

“Aye. French. May I keep it?”

“Throw it in the river, if you like.”

Joan fussed for over an hour on her hair, cursing its wild
ripples and sun-tainted streaks. She scrubbed her face until it hurt, then put
on a bronze colored gown she’d not worn in over two years.

Nat entered the cottage as she picked up her mantle. “Where
are you off to?”

“The same place as you—the hall. I was just coming to fetch
you. Mathilda ordered us to sup with the company. Now wash your face and hands
and put on a clean tunic.”

He put his fingers under her chin. “I’ll not see you unhappy.
Isn’t de Harcourt here? Didn’t Lord Guy banish you from the hall?”

“Lord Guy is dead, Papa. This is Mathilda’s wish and we must
obey.”

“Dead?” He shook his head. “I’d forgotten. Do you remember
the time he set the hounds on Richard and Brian’s trail and found them in the
forest lodge with those two strumpets—”

“I do not need to hear that tale, Papa. It is not for my
ears. Now, no more stories. Wash up.”

When Joan entered the hall on Nat’s arm, she was pleased to
see it crowded with strangers. No one would note their presence. They sat with
many of Nat’s men and their wives, one with whom she shared a trencher of rich
venison stew spiced with pepper and cloves.

Joan kept her mantle on until the hall grew so warm she had
to shed it. Nat helped her lay it across the bench before she sat on it.

“I remember that gown,” he said. “Did you not stitch it
for…” He frowned. “The last time you wore it, I had to go to the tavern, did I
not?”

The rich sauce bubbled in Joan’s belly. She pressed a finger
to her lips and nodded to the high table and Mathilda in hope of distracting
him, though he often could not be deflected from a course by a simple gesture.

Mathilda tapped gently on her goblet.

Nat subsided but continued to watch Joan. She tried to
distract him by linking her arm through his and whispering. “Mathilda is very
lovely tonight. See, she wears her mother’s rubies. They match her gown.”

Nat swung his attention to the lady and Joan took a deep
breath. Why had she worn this particular gown? To draw someone’s attention?
What folly.

“We have reached that happy time for the giving of tokens.
Adam Quintin?” Mathilda said.

Adam wore a blue tunic trimmed in black fur. He walked
toward Mathilda without looking right or left, though several ladies and men
snatched at his hem as he went by.

On the dais, Mathilda clipped a ribbon from her sleeve. A
scarlet ribbon. He knotted it alongside the one already on his dagger hilt.

A hush fell over the hall. The air felt as heavy as it did
before a storm broke. She knew what would happen, tried to look away, but
failed.

Mathilda placed her hand flat on Adam’s chest. She rose on
tiptoe at the same time he bent his dark head.

A fiery pain coursed Joan’s middle as their lips met. It was
a longer kiss this time, less a touch of lips to lips and more a joining or
pledge of some kind. Every moment of it hurt Joan’s skin, her throat, her
middle. And worst of all, she didn’t know why.

The minstrel company beat on drums and the crowd cheered.

Not everyone. She did not. Nor Roger, or Francis de Coucy.

“Come, Nat. ‘Tis time for bed. You’ll want to be out early
and look for another stag,” she said.

“Nay. Stay. See, the bishop is going to speak. To leave now
may offend him.”

Joan subsided to her seat, folded her hands in her lap and
admitted defeat.

The bishop smiled and bowed to Adam and Mathilda. “I believe
we should make room for Quintin here at our table to save him this lengthy
walk.”

Laughter broke out across the hall and Adam bowed, his
fingers now linked in Mathilda’s. She smiled as a servant rushed forward to
slide a stool next to her chair.

The bishop waited for the noise to abate before speaking.

“As everyone knows, we will hold a fair on the morrow—a
special fair to honor our suitors and please the ladies who accompany their
men. But beware, suitors, even the market will be a test.”

* * * * *

Adam shifted uncomfortably on his stool despite its thick,
embroidered cushion. A test at a fair?
Mon Dieu
. What could that
encompass? What did he know about the price of goods?

Mathilda joined the minstrels and took up one of their
lyres. She strummed along while Christopher sang about Adam’s boar kill.

Hugh topped off Adam’s cup of wine.

“Did you drink sour milk?” Adam asked his friend.

Hugh’s scowl deepened. “Worse. I’ve been asked to escort
Lady Mathilda to the fair on the morrow. I’m not even vying for her hand, yet
cannot refuse her.”

“Why would she ask you? I should be insulted.”

“I think Mathilda needs a respite from those who curry her
favor. You must help me slip the duty. Why don’t you deliver my excuses and
offer to act in my place?”

Hugh’s face flushed a bright red. Blotches of color stained
his neck.

“Let me see…an excuse… How about, you become ill when asked
to bargain for ribbons and thread?”

Hugh grunted and frowned.

“Or, you could say you injured yourself falling off your
horse and cannot ride or walk.”

“But then I could not attend the hunting. And that would
deprive me of the huntress.”

Adam shot to his feet. “Think up your own damned excuse.
I’ll offer myself as escort in your place, but I’ll not be party to your lies.”

* * * * *

Joan saw Nat settled for the night. She paced in front of
the cottage, waiting for Adam Quintin to return to his quarters in the bailey.
When she saw him, alone fortunately, she said a small prayer for strength, then
headed for his tent. She knew the color was meant to intimidate his opponents,
but she found it worked on her senses just as it would on any man. Her heart
began to beat faster, her palms broke out in sweat.

The guard was not the amiable Douglas. This man stared at
her from beneath a ridge of bushy, brown eyebrows. She asked him if Adam would
see her. The man disappeared into the tent, then returned, and held the entry
way open for her.

Adam’s tent was divided into two parts, the fore of which he
used for conducting business or entertaining. It held a folding table and
several camp chairs. Everything looked worthy of a king, from the wax candles
to the chair carved with Adam’s V. She was glad she’d not changed her gown to
something more serviceable.

He sat at the table, a brace of candles near his hand.
Beside the candle lay a whetstone and a long dagger decorated with topaz. He
stood up, one eyebrow raised in question.

She curtsied but turned her gaze to her toes. “I have made a
most unfortunate discovery.”

He brought one of the chairs forward. When she remained
standing he said, “Please. I’m too weary to stare up at you. Sit. Now, what is
this unfortunate discovery?”

She sat on the edge of the chair, still unable to meet his
gaze. She cleared her throat. “I’ve been trying all day to find a way to solve
my problem without involving you, but I fear it cannot be done.”

“This sounds ominous.”

His tone was light, and she looked up to see if he mocked
her. His gaze was steady and even…kind?

“Nat wagered far more than I thought,” she said.

“How do you know?”

“Oswald, Lord Roger’s hunt master, informed me of the
misfortune this morning.”

Adam went to a coffer. He opened it and pulled out a small
cask. He picked up a key from the table, inserted it into the lock, and the lid
fell back. It was full of pennies. “How much do you need?”

“Nay. I did not come here to ask you for more money. It is
just I have discovered…that is…I do not know how I can ever repay you what you
have already lent me.”

Her fingers hurt from gripping them together. He reached
forward and took her hands in his. He ran his thumbs over her knuckles.

“You have no need to repay me. It was not a loan, but
recompense. As I told you, I thought Roger and Oswald had cheated Nat. And as
you can see, I can spare the money, so please, forget ‘twas I who gave it.”

“I wish I could.”

Her eyes gleamed in the candles’ glow. They were wide and as
dark as the water in a mountain tarn. He could drown in them. Her bronze gown
shimmered with each movement of her body. He cleared his throat. “I suspect
Oswald’s claim is but another cheat. Do not worry about returning my money. It
was a gift, not a loan, do you understand?”

She shook her head.

He stared up at the peak of the tent for a moment, then took
up her hands again. He rubbed his thumb across the back, enjoyed the softness
of her skin, the heat of it, the sprinkling of tawny freckles there.

“If it would make you more comfortable, let us make our own
bargain. You shall repay me one penny at a time, to be given whenever you are
able.”

Her gown shimmered almost gold as she bobbed her head in
agreement.

“And for every penny you repay, I shall kiss you once in the
center of the bailey before whomever might chance to be there. Agreed?”

Her mouth dropped open. He placed his fingertips under her
chin and closed her mouth. “Is that a bargain you can make? Every penny you
give me, I shall give you a kiss in the center of the bailey.”

She licked her lips. He felt a sharp punch of desire. In
truth, he wanted to kiss her now, draw her to his bed, slide his hands across
the shimmery fabric over her breasts, kiss them as well.

Abruptly, she leapt to her feet. “I-I, that is—”

He stood up slowly and closed the small distance between
them. A kind of hot madness possessed him and his throat felt tight. “I want
you to understand the kind of kiss you will get for your penny.”

He wrapped his arms around her and brought his mouth to
hers. It took her a moment to kiss him back, a few more moments to bring up her
hand and rest it on his thundering heart. He covered her hand, drew her even
closer, and in doing so, felt the press of her soft breast on the back of his
fingers.

He wrapped her tightly against his body, sealed his mouth on
hers, and drank in the small cry she made. Her lips were soft and full, her
tongue warm and slick across his.

Her breast filled his hand and he slid his fingertips on the
smooth material, learning her shape as his tongue learned the rich, sweet taste
of her mouth.

Her breath became his, her taste his—a mix of the wine he’d
drunk and an apple she’d eaten. It was heady, the mingling of the tastes on his
tongue and lips, a potion more intoxicating than any brew of man.

When he plucked her nipple between his fingertips, her gasp
sucked his breath from his mouth and sent a rush of blood to his groin. He
plucked her again as if taking a small berry from a bush. She moaned.

He abruptly released her, setting her aside.

As if a wind blew through the tent she swayed in place.

“Remember, Joan. For every penny, a kiss.”

He hooked her arm and led her to the tent entrance, handed
her out. “Please escort Mistress Joan to her cottage. Be sure she gets there
without harm.”

Joan followed the guard, blind and deaf to her surroundings.
The air was heavy and at the same time misty; all sounds muffled.

When the guard had bowed and turned away, she raced to the
kennels and, heedless of the boys who slept on the straw or the fineness of her
gown, she clambered over the wooden barricade that kept the dogs in separate
stalls. She threw herself into the center of the running hounds and buried her
face against Paul’s warm coat.

He nuzzled her hair and whimpered, but she just held him
tightly and closed her eyes.

But as she knelt there, she still felt Quintin’s palm on her
breast, could taste him, feel his heartbeat. “Oh Paul, this will never do. He’s
destined for Mathilda. And what man courts one woman whilst kissing another?.”