LordoftheHunt (19 page)

“You smile,” the bishop said. “What amuses you?”

Adam sought an excuse for his smile. “The cat.” He pointed
out one of the castle mousers, who stalked some corner creature.

“Ah. A necessary evil. Vermin themselves as far as I’m
concerned.”

Adam sat down and arranged his mantle so the bishop could
see the jeweled dagger at his waist and the ribbons tied there.

“I am meeting with each suitor to make a few…shall we say,
private inquiries.”

“Ask me whatever you will.”

The bishop was a large man, but not soft, and Adam assumed
he spent less time on his knees praying than he did in the saddle hunting.

“It is simple. I want to know how many men you have at your
disposal to defend this castle.”

Adam shrugged. “I have as many as need be. I have those on
my manors who owe me their days, say one hundred men, most with their own
horses. And I have my personal force, another one hundred or so that knows no
daily limit as they have no fields to till. I have strong alliances in the
north and in the Welsh marches.”

The bishop took up a cup. He contemplated the wine inside.
“And if another, say Roger Artois, wanted to usurp your personal forces, he
need only pay higher wages?”

Adam crossed his arms on his chest and laughed. “Nay, my
lord Bishop. No man may take my men from me with such a ploy. They are my men
as much as any other lord’s who has heard their oaths of fealty. My first
requirement of any man who seeks a place in my service is just that. He must
seek
me
. And swear to me. And honor that pledge.”

“You dismissed a man at the fair.”

Adam shrugged. “Not every man is perfect. Is every man who
serves you, and through you, God, without sin?”

“And whom do your men serve through you?”

The question was asked. The bishop must seek a husband for
Mathilda who would be loyal to the bishop’s needs.

“My men serve whomever I serve.”

Gravant set his cup down. “The history of England’s kings
will show you that not all have treated the Church as they should. Some have
tried to use the Church to their own ends. Others have seen God as a partner,
rather than the supreme being without whom they would not rule at all.”

“We all must thank God for our blessings.”

“A politic answer.”

Adam waited in silence.

“England, and the Church, are ruled by a hierarchy of men,
each with their own role to play, whether one is so high as a regent or
archbishop or so low as a simple soldier or priest.”

“Agreed.” Adam nodded.

“It is necessary that each link in the chain be strongly
joined to the one beside it.”

“Agreed. Men serve best the man they know. It is his call to
arms, not the distant figure of a king or pope that rallies them to arms…or
prayer.”

“You understand.” The bishop smiled. “And where will you
deploy your arms when king and pope are at odds?”

“Let me be completely honest. I want the honor of
Ravenswood. I want the power that accompanies this manor and its strategic
location. I want to be lord of Ravenswood Manor. Nothing less will satisfy me,
and for that, I would serve the devil himself.”

The bishop’s eyes widened. Adam held his breath. Had he
overplayed his hand? At least the bishop would see nothing but truth in his
manner and expression.

“And Lady Mathilda?”

“I doubt it is Lady Mathilda who truly draws any of these
men. Mayhap the younger ones will tell you so, they may be dazzled by her
beauty, but their fathers are not. They are dazzled by Ravenswood, nothing
more.”

“And an older man, such as yourself, can see beyond the lady
to the real prize?”

Adam smiled. “An older man, such as myself, who has no
baronial father, can see beyond the lady to the true prize.”

Gravant stood up. “Our time is done. I have a holy office to
perform.”

Adam rose and went down on one knee. He kissed the bishop’s
ring. When Adam reached the door, he stood aside to allow a monk with the
bishop’s robes over his arms to enter. As the monk helped the bishop out of his
fine green tunic, Adam said, “My lord Bishop?”

Gravant turned. “What is it?”

“If I am given the opportunity to serve as Ravenswood’s
lord, I can assure you that I will defend it to the death.”

“Strong words.”

“It is strength you want, is it not?”

The bishop’s face twisted into a smile. Adam almost
recoiled. If the man were not donning an ecclesiastic robe, Adam would have
thought him more the devil than servant of God at that moment.

Gravant gave a barely perceptible nod that was more
dismissal than agreement.

Adam did not go down to the hall. Instead, he hid in a
nearby privy. He listened until he heard the sound of the bishop and others
going down the steps for Mass.

Silently, he opened the privy door, took three steps, and
slipped into the bishop’s quarters. He might never have such an opportunity
again. No guard stood at the door, no clerk copied at the long oak table.

Adam looked around and went straight to the iron-bound chest
where the cleric had deposited the bishop’s documents. As quickly as possible,
an ear alert for sounds of footsteps, Adam scanned documents, ignoring the
sealed ones.

One thought ran around and around in his mind like a hound
chasing its tail. There was no one to go to Winchester for him if he found
something of worth beyond Brian’s Greek paper. Whether Adam went himself, or
sent one of his men, he would forfeit the tournament.

But if he learned the name of Gravant’s conspirator, it
would be a triumph of sorts. He must depend on William Marshal to reward him.

Adam glanced around the chamber. He knew what he would ask
for. He would ask William Marshal to lift his father’s banishment. Even if his
father chose to remain in Wales for the rest of his days, still, the de Marle
name would be cleansed of the taint of King John’s banishment.

Adam stripped a leather thong off a rolled parchment. For
several moments, he stared down at the words without comprehension. He read and
reread the ten or so sentences at the top of the document. Unable to believe,
he touched each name listed.

He had found what William Marshal wanted.

The document—written so clearly even he, an indifferent
scholar at the best of times, could understand it—was not in Greek, nor was it
in Latin. It was written in Norman French—and signed in six different hands.

Six names. Six men who by signing, took an oath to Prince
Louis.

The flowery phrases, the promises of land, wealth, and favor
at the top of the long page, promises made by a French prince, mattered not. It
was the names that held Adam in thrall. He rolled the scroll and tied it as he
had found it, the words committed to memory.

Each signer was the son of a wealthy and powerful baron, a
son who now need not wait upon a father’s death to attain wealth and power.

Nay, the men who had signed the document would receive their
rewards quite soon—or soon if Louis fared better in England this time and
defeated William Marshal.

Adam thought of his conversation with Christopher at their
first meeting. He had stated the truth without realizing it, and there was a
royal example of sons not wishing to wait for their own time. Both Richard and
John had conspired against their father with other kings.

Every action of this Harvest Hunt and Tournament was
mummery. None of the sons needed Mathilda. She was naught but an excuse to
gather men and take a castle—nay, the castle was already taken. Had been from
the moment the suitors had ridden in a few days ago.

Preparations for defending the castle need not be hidden,
either. Sharpening weapons, tending horses, repairing armor, constituted
preparation for a tournament as much as for a battle.

Adam slit open every sealed document with icy determination
lest he miss other important information. His wanton opening of the documents
would be noticed, but could not be helped. When he had read everything, he
looked around. Was it possible to conceal his true reason for opening the
documents? If the bishop suspected his papers had been read by an outsider,
everyone not on his list would be expelled from Ravenswood.

Adam knew he was an outsider.

He set a candle near the chest and looked around. There, on
the table, lay the wax, the bishop’s seal. Could he repair some of the
documents to make them look undisturbed?

Not possible.

Adam stared at the hearth flames. Should he burn all of the
documents? His heart raced as it did before battle. How could he conceal his
time here, or make it look less suspicious?

Glancing about, Adam saw the fine jeweled cup the bishop
drank from at their interview.

An audience at which the bishop had not asked Adam to
sign for Louis’ cause.

Perhaps six men out of ten was enough. Surely, six score men
could hold Ravenswood. Gravant did not need to waste his time with men whose
loyalty he might question.

Adam thought his time at Ravenswood might be very short. And
what of de Harcourt? He’d not signed, either. Or perhaps he’d not been asked
yet.

Would that make the bishop’s true intent too obvious—dismissing
the two most worthy bachelors in the land? And without flattering himself, Adam
knew he and Brian were the best. Perhaps when the tournament was over, Mathilda
would choose a husband from the bishop’s group and all others, the unsigned,
would then have to ride out, leaving the castle manned with only those loyal to
the bishop, with no one the wiser.

Adam made a painful decision. He must leave Ravenswood and
ride to Winchester as quickly as possible, forfeiting all right to be inside
the castle. John d’Erley needed these names and Adam could return with his men
and lay siege to Ravenswood—if William Marshal chose him, that is.

Could a siege be avoided? Aye, if he could bring his men in
by the Roman Way.

Timing was crucial. It would not do to have his men arrive
while the tournament was in full swing. That only ensured every man was armed
and of a fighting mind. Better to time it whilst they feasted, gathered in the
hall, many of them drunk.

Adam tossed the bishop’s papers in a haphazard way about the
chest. He pocketed two rings and several fine chains from a velvet sack that
lay in the bottom. A weighty purse of coins he tucked into his tunic. One coin
he spun across the floor to lie winking in the firelight so only the blind
could miss it.

Joan
.

Joan could go to Winchester for him. He could remain in the
castle with his full team of men, vanquishing all, collecting armor, horses,
and weapons during the tournament. He could delay ransoming back the booty
until after the tournament feast.

Joan could let his men in through the Roman Way. There need
be no siege—just a quick surrounding of the hall while the feast raged. His men
would appear like phantoms in the night and take control before ever the guards
on the walls or at the hall doors knew what was happening.

With a new determination, Adam prized the gems from the
bishop’s goblet. A sound made him turn. Brian de Harcourt stood in the doorway.

Brian looked about the chamber, his gaze sweeping across the
scattered papers, the coin, the goblet in Adam’s hand.

Adam opened his mouth, but no words came out. Brian pulled
the door softly closed.

Adam did not chase after him. Some inner voice told him
Brian would say nothing of what he’d seen. He might use it at some future time,
but he would call no guards to have Adam Quintin, thieving mercenary, arrested.

Adam’s knees felt loose in their joints as he took the few
steps to the private privy set aside for the lord’s use. He tossed the jewels
and coins into the black abyss. They would find their way to the moat and
mayhap one day, a poor peasant would find them and benefit.

Mathilda set a crooked stitch in her square of linen, a
wreath of harebells the color of Adam Quintin’s eyes. She worked the piece to
annoy Hugh. The bishop paced and swore some very ungodly words, going again and
again to his ransacked coffer. He had spent the hours after Mass questioning
servants about the theft of the gems and coins from his chamber.

“You must not fuss so,” she said. “It happens all too often.
Servants cannot be trusted these days.”

“Indeed. The coins will probably be spent in the alehouse,
but the gems will be found, I promise you. I sent my men to the village, and
they’re searching everyone’s stall and hut.”

Mathilda shivered to think of the manner the innocent would
be treated. She changed the subject. “I do not think Joan Swan was pleased by
Oswald’s offer, do you?”

“I have told you ‘tis foolhardy to allow women to decide
such matters. Men such as Oswald are hard to find. I insist you persuade her to
the match, or I shall be very displeased.”

“I intend to decide my own matters; why should Joan not do
the same?”

“In truth, Mathilda, Lady Claris and I discussed this very
issue just an hour ago. We think ‘tis time I told you who will be your
husband.”

She studied his face. It was set in stubborn lines. “Father
wished me to choose.”

“And have you?”

“I will before the tournament is over.”

“And at the feast to follow, you’ll announce your choice and
it will be Francis de Coucy.”

Mathilda choked on laughter. “Francis? I can safely say, my
lord, that Francis will not be my choice.”

Gravant leaned back in his chair. “And why not? He has the
necessary wealth and stature.”

“Any of the other suitors would be more palatable than that
strutting boy.”

Gravant leaned forward and snatched her hand. “You will wed
whom I choose, boy or man, do you understand?”

Mathilda tried to twist from his grasp, but he only
tightened his fingers. “You’re hurting me,” she cried.

“You have no idea the hurt I can mete out if necessary. You
will obey me. Play with the suitors all you wish, but when you stand up to
announce your choice, it will be Francis you name.”

“I will not.”

“Shall we try another name? Del?”

Mathilda felt sick. Her heart missed a beat, then made up
for it with a double-time rapping in her chest.

The bishop lightened his hold on her hand but did not
release her. “Del is a servant in the wash house, is he not? He, too, was once
a boy. And I believe he had your virginity whilst scarcely more than ten and
six.”

A flush heated Mathilda’s face. “What nonsense,” she managed
to choke out.

“I’ve questioned the man, for man he is now, and he is quite
willing to admit he had you often over the past two years.”

“Then he will be lying.”

“Oh? About which statement? That he had your virginity when
he was ten and six or that he has had you often over the past two years?”
Gravant let her hand go. He sat back in an indolent posture, a smile on his
face. “Shall I question him again? For all his size, he’s not very strong. It
only took one splash of boiling water on his feet to make him confess he had
been your lover. I have need to only
show
him a pot of water and he will
swear to anything.” The bishop leaned forward. “I believe he will be useless in
the wash house after this.”

“Do it. Say what you want. Bring in a legion of men.”
Mathilda leapt to her feet. “I don’t care. Call me a whore. But I’ll not wed
Francis de Coucy.”

The bishop stood up, too. “I believe I misjudged you.” He
strolled around the table and to the hearth. He contemplated the flames for a
few moments. “You have a bit more steel than I expected, but we shall see how
strong you are when I take you to Del. He’s not far, merely over in the cells
below the gatehouse where none of our fine guests can hear him. I shall simply
pour boiling water on his feet until you agree to wed Francis. Did you know it
takes very little time to wear away flesh from bone with boiling—”

Mathilda vomited on the furs by the bishop’s desk.

“Ah. I see you will be touched by the man’s sufferings.”

“You’re a fiend.”

“Nay, Mathilda,” Gravant said, stroking back the hair from
her damp forehead. He handed her a cloth to wipe her mouth. “I am no fiend. I
am just a father who wishes to see his son well situated.”

“Son?”

“Aye. Francis is my son. Old lord de Coucy has no idea, but
surely, you knew Lady Claris was once my mistress?”

Mathilda nodded, wiping her hands on the cloth. “Is she not
still?”

“That is my business. All you need know is that the boy is
mine and is impatient, as are all sons, to have what is due him. And the Church
will hold Ravenswood through him.”

More bile ran up Mathilda’s throat. “And you would hurt Del
to force me to wed Francis?”

“Oh, I’ll be pleased to boil Del’s whole body in the wash
house if it becomes necessary.”

“I shall tell everyone what you are about.”

He smiled. “If anyone challenges my treatment of the man, I
shall say he is our thief and needed persuasion to admit to it.”

“Everyone knows Del is honest.”

“Is he? Who will dispute my word? Not the real thief. Not
you, now you know what else will happen to the man if you don’t cooperate. So,
kiss my ring and say you’ll wed Francis. And take heart, his mother swears he
can be taught.”

With her knees shaking, Mathilda did as bid. She kissed the
ring and agreed.

“And Francis has taken quite a liking to Oswald Red-hair. So
while you are composing yourself to be an obedient wife to my son, see that
Joan Swan reconciles herself to the man who will be Ravenswood’s new hunt
master.”

Mathilda nodded. Her hands dampened with sweat.

“Fetch a woman to clean this mess,” Gravant said. “And I see
you are not wearing the ring I gave you, so fetch it.”

New fear brought bile up her throat again. She saw herself
bound in the dungeon, water, boiling hot, dripping over her feet. Her voice
came out as a whisper. “I gave the ring away.”

“What?” Gravant thundered and took a step toward her, fist
upraised.

“I did not want it. I gave it away as a token,” she said
hastily, backing up, but the door blocked her flight.

Gravant reached her in two strides. He slapped her face. The
blow knocked her sideways to the floor. “To whom did you give the ring?” he
demanded.

“Adam Quintin.”

“You get that ring and bring it here. I gave it to you and
bid you wear it always. Had I known you could not abide by your word, I’d have
boiled
your
toes, not Del’s.”

“I’ll get it back, I swear it.” Mathilda struggled to her
feet. The door latch was slippery in her hands as she tried to lift it. Her
cheek stung. Her teeth ached on the side where he’d struck her.

* * * * *

Adam stepped into the melee of hounds beside the kennels.
The deployment of the dogs was as much an art as the deployment of troops for
battle. The hunt strategies so resembled those of war that it represented
preparation as much as practice at arms. He waded through the huntsmen with
their coupled dogs being loaded onto carts, looking for Joan.

Joan stood near her father, looking up at him. She smiled,
then turned to the hounds.

Every man was occupied with their duties. No one save Adam
paid her any attention. It was only he who saw it. She held her hand out as if
offering a coin, then fisted her fingers and turned them down. The row of
coupled hounds froze, then sat on their haunches.

Joan spoke a few words to Nat, touching him gently on the
sleeve. Nat smiled, nodded, and went to the row of hounds and gave their
handlers some commands.

So, it was not magic between huntress and hounds that made
them obey her in such an uncanny manner. Who knew of her hand signals? And why
did she use them? To hide her part in the hunt lest other men be offended that
a female worked the dogs?

Adam stood arrested by her loveliness. The headcovering she
wore might hide her glorious hair, but it also emphasized the long line of her
neck. He remembered kissing her throat, burying his face against her soft skin,
and breathing in her scent as he spent himself.

A ripple of emotion ran through Adam. He loved Joan’s body,
that he could easily admit to himself, but the uncanny notion that he could no
longer imagine riding away from Ravenswood without her gave him a pang of
uncertainty about his goals.

He was sure he wanted his family’s banishment lifted. He was
sure he wished to wear his grandfather’s sword and declare to all the world
that he was a de Marle. But how necessary was Ravenswood in all his schemes?

How necessary was Joan?

How necessary was meat and drink for life?

As Joan walked among the hounds, he knew he wanted to see
her just so even when her hair was gray.

Another ripple of sensation, much different from the
protective one he felt for her, filled his body with unwanted desire. He took a
deep breath and stood still until his unruly manhood decided to lie down like
the proverbial sleeping dog.

Adam waited until Nat mounted up and led his horse to the
fore of the army of men and dogs before navigating the crowded throng of men
and carts to where Joan stood. “Joan?”

She kept her head down and bobbed a curtsy. “Sir Adam?”

“I have need to speak to you.”

“Now? I fear—”

“It is very important. Mayhap we could go into the kennels?
I’ll wait a few moments before joining you.”

She shifted her gaze to Nat and frowned. “We’re about to
leave.”

“A moment. No more.”

With a nod, she walked away. He admired her stride, the
swing of her skirt, the way the soft wool draped her lush shape.

“How may I serve you?” she asked when he stepped into the
empty kennels. She went to one of the great support beams and took down several
leashes from a hook. She shook them out, eyes on the task. Her formality
puzzled him until he saw Oswald loitering by the kennel doors.

“I need someone to take a message to Winchester for me,”
Adam said softly so no one but she could hear.

Her head jerked up. “What?”

“I need someone I can trust to take a message to Winchester.
You would be back on the morrow.”

She bit her lip and looked down at the leashes in her hand.
Her long, elegant fingers smoothed the leather over her palm. “Do you not have
many men here? Is not even one trustworthy to carry a message?”

It was a slap at mercenaries. Anger filled his voice when he
spoke. “My men are trustworthy despite the fact they must earn daily wages. It
is that I cannot spare them to the task.”

Horns sounded. Huntsmen moved away from the kennel yard.

“And my father cannot spare me.” She slung the leashes back
on the hook and looked toward the kennel doors.

“Of course he can.”

It was the wrong thing to say.

Her face settled into a blank mask. “Is that your assessment
of my abilities or your opinion of women’s tasks?”

“Neither.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “It was a
stupid thing to say. What I meant is that your father has a score of huntsmen
to do his bidding. Can he not spare you to aid me?”

“Nay. He cannot.” She walked past him.

He hooked her arm, gently, mindful of her injury at the fish
pond. “I’ll pay you.”

“Money will not change my mind.”

“Joan, I desperately need your help.”

Her face softened, her straight brows lifting in question.
“Desperately?”

“I wish I could make you understand.”

She touched his hand. “What is so important?”

To his great relief, she could be reasonable, even when offended.
“I cannot tell you, just as I could not tell one of my men that might carry the
message.”

“Then send one of them.”

“I’ll forfeit the tournament. I may as well go myself as
send one of them.” In truth, beyond a fear he should not leave the castle lest
he lose it, he did not trust any of his men to do the task. If he said so, he
would confirm all of Joan’s feelings about mercenaries. Instead he said, “The
bishop was very specific we field twenty men. If I send even one, I will
forfeit.” He could but repeat himself.

“Is that so? And what do you lose if you are not part of the
bishop’s tournament?”

“Possibly Ravenswood. I cannot chance it.” This, at least,
was part of the truth.

Her hand fell from his. “I’m sorry, but I cannot go to
Winchester for you.”

He watched her walk away, back straight, head high.
Disappointment, bitter and thick, filled him as if he’d eaten rotten eels. He
left the kennels, bumping into Oswald.

Adam strode to Douglas who held his horse. “Ye’ll no like
what’s planned for ye,” Douglas said. He patted Adam’s saddle.

Draped across it was a green tunic. A quiver of arrows hung
from the saddle. “What the devil?” he said.

Gravant strode to the center of the milling horses and men.
His voice, deep and rich, captured everyone’s attention. “We hunt bow and
stable style as you all know. It suits the size of our party and will bring in
a fat harvest of deer for the feast on the morrow.”

“My least favorite hunting,” Adam said to Douglas. “It is
like shooting penned beasts.”

The bishop continued, “Lest our suitors think this day is
naught but a quiet ride to drive deer into lines of archers, we will vary the
entertainment a bit. Each of the suitors is to don the green garb of an archer
and take his duties.”

Mathilda nudged her horse next to the bishop. “I shall award
a ribbon to the suitor who brings down the most deer.”

Adam and Hugh exchanged looks. “My lady,” Hugh said. “Might
those who do not aspire to your hand take part?”

“As you wish,” Mathilda said, but she looked less than
pleased.