LordoftheHunt (2 page)

Her passage through the woods was no longer a joy, the dogs
frolicking ahead of her no longer the pleasure of the day.

At a barely perceptible crossing of one deer path with
another, she turned to the west. She would come up to Ravenswood Castle from
that direction lest she meet any more men who might be rushing to fall at Lady
Mathilda’s feet.

But as she walked, she found her thoughts on fields of
harebells. Harebells as blue as the new gown Lady Mathilda had worn this
morning at chapel.

Adam Quintin was as fine in appearance as Brian de Harcourt,
mayhap finer. Lady Mathilda would have great difficulty choosing between them.
She discounted Lord Roger altogether. He looked like a starved crane. She hoped
Brian fell in the foul water of the moat along with the rude Roger.

“Adam Quintin.” She said the name aloud without thought. One
dog lifted his head and whined. “Aye, Paul. You’re right. I will not think of
him.” The young hound she’d named after her favorite saint barked. She patted
his head. “Nay. I mean it. He’s forgotten already.”

Adam Quintin rode a pace or two ahead of his men and
friends. He wanted to see Ravenswood Castle alone. He stared straight ahead and
as they came around the bend in the road, he saw it up ahead. The massive walls
seemed to burst from the earth itself. The ramparts were touched with the gold
of a setting sun. Banners flew from each of the four towers.

The banners were not his, or rather, not his father’s. They
belonged, instead, to Lady Mathilda’s guardian, Bishop Gravant.

They would come down soon to be replaced by the device of
whoever won Lady Mathilda’s hand in marriage. They would fall just as his
father’s had when King John had replaced him at Ravenswood with Guy de
Poitiers, Lady Mathilda’s father.

But de Poitiers was dead and Bishop Gravant ruled here now.

Behind Adam, someone called out his name. Adam knew he would
not make it over the drawbridge unscathed, and the barbs were as sharp as he’d
expected.

Brian started it. “Shall I tie you to Sinner’s saddle lest
you fall off again? We would not want you to shame yourself when you greet Lady
Mathilda.”

His close friend, Hugh de Coleville, took it up, damn him.

“Sorry I am to have missed your unhorsing, Adam. I’d have
given my best mare to have seen it. But surely, this bodes well for you, Brian?
You may spare your lance and arm in the tournament if Sinner tosses him again.”

With a grin, Brian nodded. “Aye. I swear ‘tis Adam’s mount
that wins so often.”

“Shall we tie you to the saddle?” Hugh continued despite the
scowl Adam shot in his direction. “Aye, Adam, let us tie you on. You cannot
afford to injure yourself. Bruises will not turn the lady’s head, you know. I’d
best do it now before you get into more trouble. Toss me some rope, Brian.”

Adam shot Hugh a rude gesture and galloped forward, ignoring
the pain in his spine from the fall.

Sinner crossed the drawbridge. Elation rose in Adam’s throat
as the horse’s hooves sounded on the wooden planks then struck the stone that
paved the outer bailey. He wanted to shout his exultation.

He was inside. Inside Ravenswood for the first time in over
a decade. Inside for the first time since his father had been banished and lost
all to the unworthy de Poitiers.

Adam found himself smiling, nay, grinning. The insults and
barbs from Hugh and Brian mattered not at all. He rounded on the men, standing
a bit in his stirrups to relieve the ache in his back.

“Are you saying Lady Mathilda will be seeing my bruises that
soon? On my ass, they are. Will she choose me that quickly? If so, you both
might as well give up the hunt now.”

Hugh’s grin turned to a frown as he maneuvered his mount
next to Adam’s. The frown only intensified the deep lines about his mouth. He
had tawny-colored hair and a ruddy complexion, now even redder as his thoughts
turned sour. “Make no mistake, Adam. I have no designs on the lady. You forget
I’ve met her—several times. I’m here to watch you rout these other suitors in
the tournament, nothing more.”

“And glad I am you’ve come.” Adam dismounted. The outer
bailey was as unrecognizable as the village had been when he’d rode through an
hour ago. With a tournament but a week away, every possible merchant and
craftsman had come to set up a stall in the outer bailey. The village was
filled with them as well.

A horde of grooms rushed forward to grab the reins of the
many horses now milling about before the long row of Ravenswood’s stables.

Brian de Harcourt addressed himself to Adam as he
dismounted. “I haven’t seen Lady Mathilda in two years, but if she’s grown so
shallow your bruised ass is enough to snare her, I’ve little interest in her
myself.”

Adam shrugged. “Who cares if she’s shallow? She’s a woman,
after all. And I intend to be first and foremost in her mind from the instant
we meet.”

Adam wanted Brian to know he would not be an easy opponent.
He intended to excel at both the tournament and the hunt—the hunt for William
Marshal’s traitor, that is.

And he intended to ask a high reward—his father’s banishment
lifted, and Ravenswood returned to the de Marle family. He would insist on
command of the strategic manor and raise a different banner over the walls. His
own.

* * * * *

Joan walked over the drawbridge, the hounds a few paces
behind her. Thickening dusk muddied the bright colors of the banners that flew
from the tents set out for the Harvest Hunt and Tournament. They ranged in size
from small dun tents that housed the pages and squires of lords and knights to
the more elaborate pavilions for the wellborn.

The most important lords or knights would be within the
keep. The status of a man would be clear by where they laid their head—from the
highest honors of a chamber within the keep to the tents in the cold bailey.

She passed through the gate that separated the outer bailey
from the inner. This area surrounded the great stone keep. It was filled with
the bustle of servants running from bake house to hall. Here stood the tents of
the most important knights. Around the tents were the usual accompaniment of
cooking fires and men.

One pavilion, with a high-peaked roof stood a bit apart from
the others. It was stark black. No pennant flew from its peak. Two men strolled
back and forth before it and Joan knew they must be guards.

There was something sinister about the tent that it began to
disappear against the shadows as night fell. Then the entrance flap lifted,
revealing a quick glimpse of a candle’s glow. A small man burst out and
hastened away, calling a greeting to the two guards.

It was the man who’d brought Adam Quintin his war horse.
Joan’s step slowed. She watched a moment, then shook off her reverie. The men
who flocked to Ravenswood held no interest for her save as something to be
avoided.

The black pavilion remained in her line of vision as she
entered the kennels. They were new, expanded within the last twelve-month to
half again their original size. The building was circular, made of
well-seasoned timber, with a thatched upper story. She entered at the end of
the run, greeting the dogs who roamed the space, petting each hound, praising
their coats and their lineage.

A feeling came over her that she was being watched. She
glanced around. There was no one loitering about. The knights and their men
were making their places, marking out their areas with banners thrust into the
dirt. Servants ran back and forth with water and trays of meat.

Once in the warm shelter of the kennels, Joan lost the sense
of unease. She gave orders to the kennel lads on the strewing of fresh straw,
then ran the few steps to her father’s cottage.

Built against the castle wall behind the kennels, the three
room stone cottage was a luxury designating her father’s lofty status in
Ravenswood’s hierarchy of servants. The great front room had a hearth at one
end, a couch covered in furs along one wall, and an oak table polished smooth
by years of scrubbing in the center. Her father sat in the gathering gloom at
the table, idly stroking a spotted hound’s ear.

Nat Swan looked up and smiled. “Ah, Joan. Back finally.
We’ve had a busy day—we’re hungry, girl.”

A bowl and spoon sat by his elbow. Joan stirred it once and
frowned. “Papa, you’ve let the pottage grow cold.”

“Eh?” He stared at the bowl as if he’d only just noticed it.
“Did I?”

Then he laughed and wrapped an arm about her waist and
squeezed. He was still strong, although he was more than six decades old. It
was a bone-crushing hug.

“You’re a good girl, Joan. I’m sorry I wasted the food. Give
it to Jupiter, here.”

Jupiter
. A hound dead at least ten years. Most of the
hounds of today bore a saint’s name.

Joan moved about the cottage lighting wicks in small dishes
of oil to chase away the gloom. She cleared her throat. “Papa, Brian de
Harcourt is here. Come for the tournament.”

His gray brows knit into a frown. The hand he used to rub
his temple was gnarled and trembled a bit with age. “Brian de Harcourt? Do I
know him?”

“Nay, Papa, do not fret on it. You don’t know him.” Joan
discarded the cold pottage. She put a bowl of bread soaked in broth on the
floor for the spotted lymer,
Matthew,
not Jupiter.

Matthew, and the other lymers, dogs slightly larger than a
greyhound, would be busy with Nat this week as it was the lymer who went out in
advance with the Master of the Hunt when he tracked important game. Finding the
quarry depended on the scenting abilities of the lymers.

She gave Matthew a rub behind his ears and a sign that he
might eat.

“Explain to me again why they’ve all come, sweetling.”

“Bishop Gravant is honoring Lord Guy’s dying wish that Lady
Mathilda might choose her own husband.”

“Then let the lady choose, eh?” Nat addressed the dog.
“Though ‘tis a folly, isn’t it, young fellow, to allow a lady such an important
decision?”

Taking another wooden bowl from a shelf over the low door,
Joan ladled a fresh bowl of pottage for her father.

“Eat.” She placed the spoon directly into his hand this time
and stroked his gray head. “And the Bishop agrees with you. He has grown
impatient with Lady Mathilda. ‘Tis why he’s holding these festivities. He has
gathered England’s finest and at the end of the week, Lady Mathilda must choose
her husband or the bishop swears he’ll choose for her.”

Nat looked up at Joan. “Festivities, you say? We’ll be busy,
then?”

There had been orders on a daily basis from the bishop about
hunting. How could her father be so vague? “Aye. Very busy. Now eat before your
supper gets cold.”

He nodded and bent over his bowl.

She would not tell him about the boar. He would want to know
why she’d had the dogs out in the forest without him. She had not the energy to
talk around the truth.

She plucked up one of Nat’s tunics and began to stitch a
small rent. Then she saw the dried blood on her skirt. He’d not noticed it. She
rose and hurried into the chamber where she slept. It had a wide window facing
the kennels. She pulled the shutters closed and took off her soiled clothes.
The air was cold as she stood in her linen shift and looked over the gowns
hanging on a row of pegs. She ignored those cast off by Lady Mathilda. They
were far too fine for wandering in the woods with a pack of dogs.

Instead, she pulled down a worn gown of deep russet wool
with an overgown to match. Hastily, ere Nat remarked on her absence, she
dressed. She plaited her hair, tied it with a thin leather thong, then gathered
up her bloodstained gown into a bundle, which she set by the door. Edwina, the
woman who commanded the wash house, would see to it.

Joan sat by the hearth fire to finish her mending as Nat
nodded over his meal, but she could barely see to set her stitches straight.

How could Nat forget Brian de Harcourt? He had figured
largely in their lives once. There was so much that Nat forgot these days. Then
she chastised herself. Nat was always more forgetful of an evening. He would be
fine in the morning sunshine.

Something warm dropped on the back of her hand. A tear.
Others spilled down her cheeks. Angry with herself for such weakness, she
dashed them away. Then, unable to stem their flow, she rose and escaped the
cottage.

The kennel was warm and scented with the dogs and freshly
cut wood. She told the lads to have a wander around the village if they’d like.
When they scurried away to a few moments of unexpected leisure, she leaned on
one of the dividing walls that separated the alaunts from the mastiffs, the
greyhounds from the running hounds.

It was the running hounds she’d taken to the forest that
day. Unlike the greyhounds and the more reckless alaunts, running hounds were
not bred to pull down prey. So Adam Quintin had been blessed that they’d done
so. They were bred, instead, to run all day long in pursuit of the quarry and
lead the hunter to the kill.

She sank to her knees, gathered a favorite hound in and
buried her face in his silky coat.

A dog and a bitch will always end up in the grass
together
, Lord Roger had said. How could she endure such a man’s contempt?
How could she escape his notice? She must accompany her father when the hounds
were brought out, and surely Lord Roger would be at every hunt.

She allowed herself only a few moments more of self-pity;
then she stood and shook out her skirts. Glancing outside the kennel to be sure
no lads lingered nearby, she climbed a ladder to the second floor.

The upper story was quiet and dim, the torches on the lower
level not lighting the space well. In summer, the lads might sleep up here away
from the heat of the hounds, but now, with the crisp autumnal weather, no
pallets lay about. The floor was swept clean of straw. At one end stood several
locked coffers that held the more valuable collars and leashes. The mundane
ones hung on hooks below.

She unlocked one chest and withdrew a small store of hard
nuggets. She had baked them herself from honey and crusty bread. Meat and blood
were only given to the hounds at the kill.

As she climbed down the ladder, the hounds rose and as one,
wagged their tails. They knew what came next.

“You’re anxious for our lessons, aren’t you?” she whispered
to the pack. “Well, if you attend, you shall have your reward. And we have
little time before the lads return.”

With that, she moved from stall to stall, teaching the
hounds desperate lessons needed to survive her father’s descent into some world
she could not visit. Lessons that commanded the dogs by silent hand signals.
Hand signals they would obey no matter what confused order her father uttered.
Silent and subtle signals lest Bishop Gravant notice it was she who commanded
them, not her father.