LordoftheHunt (15 page)

When she was done, she surveyed her handiwork. “Ah, there is
one more thing to make this complete.”

On the dais, she had not to rise so high to reach his mouth.
The kiss was short, a brush across his lips. When she stood back, she said in a
carrying voice, “Oh, forgive me. It was one kiss for each ribbon, was it not?”

If she wanted a spectacle, he would give her one.

Adam clamped his hands on Mathilda’s arms, lifted her into
the air, and held her level with his mouth. This kiss he planted himself,
bruising the delicate pouting cushions of her lips. He set her down just as
quickly, turned and saluted the crowd, now cheering his efforts.

The hall erupted into disorganized conversations and a
resumption of games. Serving maids offered more ale and wine, dodging the
roaming hands of the men.

Adam consumed a trencher of jellied eels, then walked about
the hall, questioning his men. None of them had seen the minstrel, or for that
matter, Joan’s missing lymer.

Amidst the clatter of eating and drinking, dicing and
bragging, Mathilda banged her eating dagger against her cup. Attuned to her
ways, the hall grew quiet.

“The beast that rages without keeps us from hunting other
beasts this day. In the place of that dear activity,” she said, with a small
smile, “I have planned a few games here.”

“That word play must be accidental. She’s not the wits to
think of it on her own.” Hugh shook his head. “There is only one thing worse
than a dull-witted wife.”

“What?” Adam asked.

“A man who wants her anyway.”

When Mathilda clapped her hands, two men carried in an arrow
butt from the practice field. It was placed at the end of the hall by the door.
A few serving women shrieked when men entered, bearing bows and quivers of
arrows.

“We’ll be putting another body in the graveyard next to that
hapless minstrel,” Hugh said at Adam’s ear.

“I may not be the finest bowman in the land, but I’ll wager
I can do better than Roger.”

“I don’t wager.”

“What was that you were doing just now?” Adam nodded to the
table that still held the discarded dice.

“Making sure Mathilda had someone depraved to compare your
compassionate nature to.”

“I think the gesture was lost on her.”

“She’s a cock-tease,” Hugh said with some heat.

“She’s an innocent child.”

“She knelt within kissing distance of your
enfourchure
.”

Adam stifled a smile. “Then she will know the way there when
I am wed to her.”

“If you wed her, you’ll not wait many months before you find
her kissing someone else’s
enfourchure
. You’ll never know if your child
is your own.”

“If she is locked in a convent, I need not concern myself
with her at all.”

The bishop stood up and gestured to the archery butts and
said in his usual deep, slow voice, “We have only a small field in which to
compete, so we shall make the task more difficult.”

One of the bishop’s knights held out a length of cloth.
“Would each of the suitors please advance.”

Nine men, as Yves with his broken wrist must sit out this
competition, approached the dais. They tossed dice to choose their order for
shooting. Roger was first, Adam eighth.

Mathilda had her stool brought to where Roger stood. She
mounted it and the crowd gasped, men shoving each other aside to escape the
hall, when she used the length of cloth to bind Roger’s eyes.

The bishop’s man set the bow and arrow in Roger’s hand,
turned him three time, and set him straight. Roger wove in place, but kept his
feet planted. More spectators fled the hall. It pleased Adam that none were his
men. They stood out like pepper in a white sauce, sprinkled throughout the
dwindling crowd in their black garb.

Roger, like most well-trained knights, had no need to see to
ready the bow. But his aim sawed back and forth before he settled himself and
drew the string. The arrow flew. It smacked viciously into the wooden doorpost,
ten feet adrift of the butt and inches from the guard who stood there on duty.

Women screamed, more men fled the hall, but Roger’s men
shouted and whistled for their leader.

One by one each suitor took their turn, submitting to the
blindfold, the turning, the blind aim. The hall, though greatly diminished in
company as wild shots drove even more spectators into the rain, nonetheless
echoed and rang with cheers and stomping men.

Only one suitor remained before Adam, the youth, de Coucy.
The boy’s shot went low, skimming the butt to the astonishment of all. The
collective gasp made the young man grin when he took off the blindfold. He was
the only one to touch the target. The boy licked his lips and when he turned
his back to Mathilda made a quick graphic thrust of his hips that sent Adam
after him.

He snatched the boy up by his tunic and shook him. “You’ll
not have the lady with crude gestures.” He set the boy on his feet and
acknowledged the rousing claps from his men.

Mathilda looked puzzled, and he merely bowed to her. But
behind her, Lady Claris shot Adam a look so hard, so full of malevolence, he
thought she might be a Medusa sent to turn him to stone. Acknowledging he might
have made an enemy, Adam took his place.

Adam decided that he must close his eyes behind the
blindfold and picture the butt on the practice field, take longer than
necessary to aim so his head had time to settle.

He submitted to Mathilda’s artful tying of the blindfold.
Was he mistaken that she caressed his ears with her fingertips as she knotted
the cloth?

His head swam after the three turnabouts. He took his time
raising the bow. His eyes, closed all the while, looked inward, but not at an
imaginary greensward. Nor did he visualize the narrow alley of space in the
hall. Instead, he imagined he was a raven coursing the dawn sky. He heard,
without any real noticing, the chant of the crowd, who stomped in time to his
heart’s beat.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he pulled the string by his
ear. He saw the arrow fly, rising to join his imaginary raven to ride the
golden rays of morning sun.

The smack of the arrow into the butt made him rip the
blindfold off. The arrow was embedded in the top edge.

“Not center, but not bad at that for a blind man,” Hugh
said, clapping him on the shoulder.

Adam acknowledged his men’s cheers with a wave of his arm,
then handed off the blindfold to the last contender, Brian.

When Brian stepped up for his turn, there was still only one
arrow in the butt. Adam’s.

Mathilda blindfolded the only man Adam truly felt could
defeat him if manly form and prowess on the battlefield were the means of
choosing. The lady did definitely skim her fingers on Brian’s ears as she had
on Adam’s. There was no mistake. It was a favor laid on only for them.

Brian submitted to the turning, then did as Adam had. He
waited for his head to right itself, making much ceremony of raising the bow.
The arrow whistled through the air and thudded into the target.

A silence swept the hall, then de Harcourt’s men leapt onto benches
and shouted for their master.

The arrow quivered at almost dead center. Brian walked the
length of the hall, arms out, nodding to the delighted crowd. Adam’s men hissed
and stomped their feet as Brian slowly drew Adam’s arrow, casting it to the floor,
then knotting the blindfold on the shaft of his.

Mathilda laughed and clapped her hands. It was Brian’s turn
to receive a ribbon. She blushed a pretty pink as she knotted it to Brian’s
belt buckle, only a few inches from his
enfourchure
. Ribald comments
flew about the room as men nudged each other.

“See,” Hugh said, “a wanton.”

A few drunken men rose and stood upon the tables. They sang
as was their wont. No minstrel company entertained today; instead they kept a
vigil over their friend in the chapel.

Adam joined them a few moments later. He knelt and prayed
for Christopher’s soul, deeply saddened that the young man might lie cold and
silent before the altar for no reason beyond the color of his black hair and
beard.

Joan took her time slicing bread for her supper. Nat was not
about. It worried her that he might still be out looking for the lymer in the
dismal weather. When the rain eased, she would go back out herself no matter
what hour it was.

“Joan?” Oswald stepped into the cottage without waiting for
permission. “Are you alone?” Water ran off his mantle to drip on the rushes.

She nodded, stepping closer to the hearth and keeping the
knife in her hand.

“Your father asked me to tell you he is going out with with
some of his men after more venison. The bishop ordered more for the feast after
the tournament.”

“More?”

“Aye. As if there was not already enough.” He sat at the
table.

“What do you want?” She placed the knife on the mantle and
crossed her arms over her chest. Her nipples felt sore against the linen of her
gown. She wanted nothing more than to go lie on her pallet and think of Adam.

Oswald licked his lips and smoothed his hair back. “I saw
you with Quintin.”

“And?” Had Oswald read her thoughts?

“And our lady might object to what I saw.”

Joan took a deep breath. “What is it you want?”

“I want to warn you. I would hate to think our lady would
dismiss you for your attentions to one of her suitors.”

His words paralleled some of her own thoughts. “Thank you
for the warning. Now, I have much to do.”

He didn’t rise. He gripped his hands tightly together as if
praying. “I much admire you,” he said softly. “The way you handle the hounds, a
hunt.”

Her throat went tight.

“I hope you understand this business between my Lord Roger
and Nat, is just that—their business—not ours.”

She waited. Did he want more money?

“We’ve had the same upbringing, you and I. We’d do well
together.”

“Together?” She forced the word out.

“I’d like to ask your father for your hand.”

Joan felt as if someone had struck her in the stomach.
“Don’t.” The word came out in rush.

Oswald got to his feet and held up one hand. “There’s no
need for hasty answers. Think on my offer.”

“I don’t intend to leave Ravenswood or Nat. Ever.”

He bobbed his head like a wading bird. “If Lady Mathilda
chooses my Lord Roger, you won’t need to, nor will Nat. He can serve as my
right hand. And I’ve spoken to de Coucy. He’s willing to make me his hunt
master if favor smiles on him. I’ll talk to the other suitors as well, if you
like.”

“You’ve discussed this with others?”

“Aye.” He smiled. “I want everyone to know how much I think
of you.” He bowed and went to the door. “Oh, and the bishop heard Nat lost a
valuable dog. He’s not pleased. It might be best to keep your father out of the
bishop’s sight.”

Joan watched Oswald dart across the slippery cobbles to the
hall. The rain pelted the stones at the cottage entrance, splashing her hem and
bare feet. Behind her, water from the leak pinged into the metal pot set out to
catch it. Each drop seemed to echo in her ears.

Her body ached from making love to Adam and her mind whirled
with Oswald’s words. How dare he presume to seek Nat’s job. She must speak to
Nat and Mathilda, lest Oswald get to them first. What if Oswald persuaded them
to the match?

Joan changed to a clean gown and plaited her unruly
hair—unruly from drying whilst she lay on it before a fire—making love. She
tied it with the ribbon she’d bought at the fair.

After pinning on her mantle, she was ready.

* * * * *

When the company grew restless, Roger proposed each suitor
entertain the company with either a verse or a song.

“What ill conceived notion is this?” Adam asked Brian,
sitting at his side, aware Mathilda’s attentions had shifted since his time in
the chapel.

“Assume he’s paid a jongleur to compose something for just
such an opportunity,” Brian said, draining his tankard. He walked to the table
that abutted the front of Mathilda’s and leapt boldly up onto it. To Adam’s
dismay, Brian challenged Roger, and all the other suitors, to a tournament of
verse.

“
Mon Dieu
.” He had no skill to stitch words into
rhymes.

As Mathilda solicited those who wished to compete, Adam
found himself hiding in his ale cup. Roger leapt onto another table opposite
Brian’s and said he’d pit his verses against those of any man in the room.

Joan Swan walked into the hall. She looked about, then,
clinging to the wall as if she feared someone might see her, she edged toward
the laundress.

Adam lost the thread of Roger’s speech. Hugh joined Joan,
and the laundress slid down on her bench to give him a seat. He lifted Joan’s
plait and shook it, making a remark that sent laughter down Edwina’s table and
color into Joan’s cheeks.

A sickening feeling, as if someone had taken his stones in a
fist and squeezed, overcame Adam. It was simple jealousy in its rawest, purest
form.

Oswald, the red-haired hunt master, detached himself from a
company of men and joined Joan’s party. With relief, Adam watched Edwina shoo
Oswald and Hugh away.

The women were but two among many who had sought the hall as
evening waned and the deluge lessened. No room could be brighter than this room
now Joan was there.

The poetic thought amused him. He caught her eye.

In her glance he saw the remembrance of their time together.
Those memories took him from his seat.

He made his way through the throng and sat beside her, near
the steps to the lower storerooms. The scent of dampness overpowered the sweet
rushes on this side of the hall.

Edwina acknowledged him with no sign of chasing him off. “Ye
missed winning a ribbon this morning.”

“Did I?” Adam looked at Joan.

“Mathilda gave a test on the fair. It were great good fun.
Only Francis de Coucy could answer the questions.” Edwina stood up and mimicked
the boy. “Ribbon’s a farthing a foot. Bread is two a penny.” She dropped onto
the bench and slapped her knees. “The boy knew the cost of everything. He
earned his ribbon.”

Indeed, Francis did have one ribbon. He wore it knotted
about his wrist.

Adam wanted to take Joan’s hand and lead her to one of the
storerooms below and make love to her until he was drained of seed. And any
thoughts of ribbons and fairs.

Edwina interrupted his thoughts.

“Have any of you seen Del?”

No one had. Edwina frowned. “He’s given to laziness, but
he’s never been gone so long.”

A man at the table made a remark about the number of loose
women about because of the fair and Del’s prowess between the thighs. Adam
watched Joan’s cheeks flush. The conversation was more ribald here away from
the high table.

The laundress snapped at the men to mind their tongues, then
pointed to Brian and Roger who stood upon the table. “Is this worth wagering
on?” she asked.

“Lord no,” Adam said. “It’s a combat of words.”

“What do you mean?”

Joan wore her hair in one long plait, bound with a scarlet
ribbon. It was the only spot of color as her gown was a drab brown. Yet she
needed no finery. Her skin was as downy as a peach, her brow smooth and clear.

“It seems we’re to entertain Lady Mathilda in verse or
song,” he said hastily, lest they discern his thoughts.

Tendrils of hair escaped Joan’s plait, and he remembered how
soft her hair felt to his fingers, his lips. Unbidden, his gaze dropped to her
mouth. He also remembered how soft her full lips were. With difficulty, he
forced his attention to the tournament of verse and those at the high table.

Mathilda and her ladies giggled. Bishop Gravant leaned
toward Lady Claris and said something that made her nod and touch his wrist.

“Those two look cozy,” Adam said.

“Oh, aye.” Edwina glanced about and then leaned near his
ear. “‘Tis said she’s been his mistress these twenty years.”

Jesu
. Twenty years. Adam examined Francis. Was there
a resemblance to the bishop? None that he could detect. This added a nasty
wrinkle to the question of whom the bishop would select if Mathilda could not choose.
Roger Artois could kiss the ecclesiastic ass all he wanted, but if blood would
tell…

Lady Claris touched the bishop’s wrist again. Adam wondered
if the traitor might be a woman? Could Lady Claris be working toward more than
a powerful manor for son?

The laundress nudged him in the side. “These verses are
magnificent.”

Roger posed, one foot before the other, and held out a hand
toward Mathilda. “Mathilda, jewel of eternal beauty.”

Adam listened, incredulous. Each time Roger paused to begin
another verse, Brian broke in with his own lyrical lines.

Adam’s stomach knotted. These two were smarter than he.
They’d come prepared with praise to the lady, elegant, courtly praise,
memorized and flowing from their lips with such ease, one might think they made
their living at it.

By the sixth verse, Brian and Roger had come to an
understanding that they were most evenly matched. They walked along their
respective tables, stepping over trenchers as diners snatched tankards from
their paths.

They stood face-to-face at the distance of only a few feet,
the gap between their tables, and said their verses, first one then the other,
heads of spectators bobbing first one way and then the other.

Mathilda sat rapt as her womanly virtues, beauty, and
kindness were lauded in metered verse.

Joan said, “I believe they hired the same jongleur.”

Adam snapped his attention to her. Her hair was no longer
plaited, but fell in glorious disarray about her shoulders.

She touched his sleeve. “She much admires the rose.”

He looked down. In her palm lay the scarlet ribbon. As he
watched, she folded and knotted it into a credible rosebud. She leaned down and
plucked something from the rushes. A bright piece of greenery. She slid it into
the back of the knotting.

She held it out. “Richard always gave her roses. He compared
her golden hair to the honey she much liked to lick from the comb.”

She stood up, touched his shoulder lightly, and walked
around the room to sit near a man who might be one of the fewterers or
huntsmen. From the look of the man’s gestures, they talked of dogs, not
rosebuds or honey.

Finally, with a flourish of bows, Roger and Brian fell
silent. Mathilda jumped up, her hands clasped over her breast and then sank
into a deep curtsy. Roger and Brian were lauded and whistled from the tables.

One by one, the other suitors either declined to compose a
verse, or they sang some well-known song of love or valor to show the range of
their voices. But Roger’s and Brian’s efforts had eclipsed the sum of their
contributions.

Finally, Adam became aware the hall was silent. He realized
they waited on him. He got slowly to his feet, his heart thudding. He walked
the short distance to Mathilda and stood before her.

“You are golden honey, sweet and pure. A rose may blush to
you compare. That is my verse, I am no poet, ‘tis sure.”

He held out his hand.

Mathilda’s shook a bit as she reached for the rose. She
skimmed it with her fingertips.

“Richard would say the same.” She took the flower and tucked
it into her gown at the breast.

Then she shook herself as if waking from some dream. “Well
done, Sir Adam, you have touched my heart, but I fear for all that, you have
not won the day.”

He offered her his arm. She laid her hand on his sleeve. He
usurped Roger and Brian’s moment, escorting her to them. Adam made a great show
of slicing the ribbons she indicated from her lady’s gowns, one by one, then
handing them off to the men. Mathilda never so much as touched their sleeves.

Brian raised his tankard. “Here’s to verse, and the lady
fair, but who will kiss us? Pray not Quintin there.”

The lady and company laughed with him and she ran on light
footsteps, skirt raised to show her tiny feet in embroidered shoes, to where
each man stood. She kissed them lightly, saluted, and returned to Adam’s side.

Adam realized he’d not won a ribbon, but he’d gained the
lady’s favor anyway. He led her to an oak chair, his step faltering a moment
when he realized it was one his mother had favored when she sat in this place.

As he seated Mathilda, he laid claim to her hand. “Could you
say some praise of Joan Swan—private praise? I do not want her embarrassed here
or singled out,” he hastened to add, “but she did risk her life to pull the
minstrel from the fish pond.”

Mathilda studied his face. “I thought it was you who tried
to save the minstrel.”

“I went in after Joan. She was weighed down by her skirts
and not doing very well. But her valor was extraordinary to even attempt the
thing. She thought only of saving the man. She might have drowned.”

“So, you and Joan both chose to fish this morning? So
early?”

It was his cheeks heating this time. “Nay, I was on the way
to the village to see if my men had behaved themselves last night when I saw
her struggling in the water.”

“I see. And what was she doing out and about in such dirty weather,
I wonder?”

“Nat’s favorite lymer is missing.”

Mathilda’s gaze sought the old man. “Is Nat here?”

“I’ve not seen him, only Joan.”

“He has always been kind to me.”

“Then be kind to the daughter.”

“You chastise me?” Mathilda’s small chin tipped up.

“Never.”

“Then you merely recommend my actions? Not dictate them.”

“It is only for a guardian or husband to dictate actions.”

“So, you would order me about if you were chosen.”

He recognized a sincerity in her tone that warned him he
fished in dangerous waters. “Nay, a woman may be offered advice by her mate,
but she may not take it if she does not wish to.”

“Sit here, Adam, by my feet and tell me more of how a mate
should behave.”