LordoftheHunt (26 page)

He stroked a few strands away from her forehead and kissed
her.

They moved up the hill, exposed for a few feet as the trees
thinned. He heard the rush of water along a narrow cut where dirt and rocks had
eroded in the last storm. It was Joan who stepped into the water, moving
carefully on the slippery rocks, just as a deer might to evade the hunter.

He followed, bow ready. As they headed higher, Adam realized
he would follow Joan Swan anywhere. A spill of emotions, so often tangled in
confusion within his head and breast, unknotted in a long skein of
understanding. If Joan dwelt in a cottage in a village, a daub and wattle hut,
or a castle, he would want her, want to lay his head beside hers at night.

Follow whatever path she forged.

All seemed clear as nothing had been clear before. The woman
moving up the narrow ravine mattered beyond all else. Returning to Ravenswood
without her became a thought that lodged like a dart within his breast.

The bay of a hound sounded below and east of them. Another
took up its call. Joan signaled how far away she thought the dogs were, and he
was startled to know they were so close. She quickened their pace.

Sweat broke out on his skin. At the top of the ravine, they
hunkered down behind a straggly stand of pine. He wiped his hands dry on his
tunic.

“Look.” Her whisper was no louder than the sound of a breeze
on his cheek.

There was an uncanny stillness to her. She knew the forest
and knew how to wait, whereas he ached for movement. He forced himself to be
still.

She skimmed a finger across the back of his gauntlet and
pointed up. Atop the hill, no more than a bowshot away, stood a great stag. The
many tines of its antlers were silhouetted against the sky—at least twenty.

Adam blinked. He shook his head. Joan nodded and smiled. It
seemed the stag of legend was no legend after all.

Joan touched Adam’s sleeve and he tore his gaze from the
huge beast. She gestured for him to follow her. She headed toward the stag.
Adam understood. If they could follow the stag’s trail well enough, silently
enough not to startle the animal into flight, they might be able to confuse the
dogs. And when their paths diverged, stag one way, human quarry another, the
dogs might continue after the stag as was their habit.

A light rain began to fall.

The cry of the hounds was nearer now. A horn sounded.

She quickened her pace, moving like a deer across the wooded
hill. Light, graceful, sure-footed. He felt clumsy as a boar, knowing he made
too much noise. Where she avoided twigs, he bent or broke them. Where her foot
avoided loose stones and dead branches, his found them all.

They followed the trail of the stag. He walked with his majestic
head up, never looking left or right as if he were leading them to safety.

Adam saw a dead fox. Insects crawled on its fur and snout.
He held Joan still a moment, going down on one knee. He slit the animal’s
belly. He motioned for Joan to find cover; then ran as lightly as possible up
to the ridge of the defile. There, he rubbed the carcass judiciously along the
trial. He wanted it to confuse the hounds.

He smeared the guts in muddy spots where it blended in color
as well as in consistency. Last, he buried the carcass in a fallen tree trunk,
deep in its soft, insect-riddled cavity, along with his tainted gauntlets.

As he took an angled route up the ridge for a better look
over the countryside, he saw old, wooden fencing, hurdles, covered in vines, their
staked tops leaning toward the downslope. The fence was deliberately planted to
prevent the stag from escaping the hunters. Any stag that tried to leap it
would be impaled. Joan had his dagger, so he drew his sword and slashed at the
matted vines, separating the hurdles and squeezing through to the clear path to
the hill summit.

Looking around from the cover of pine branches, he took a
sharp breath. A man, garbed in green and leading a pair of scenting hounds and
two alaunts, was not three furlongs from where Joan was hidden. The scenting
hounds would find them. The alaunts would pull them down. The man was Oswald
Red-hair

To Adam’s satisfaction, the dogs followed the stag’s path.
The question was, would they continue and then divert to the fox trail, or
instead, find the human quarry?

When Oswald and the dogs were headed away from him, Adam
left his tree. To his dismay, he had left distinguishable footprints. A
knight’s prints. Swearing, he knelt and unbuckled his spurs, suspending them by
their straps on the arrow quiver, far enough apart they did not clink on each
other as he angled his way back to Joan.

She read the news on his face, for she mouthed one word,
Oswald
,
and led off, crossing the stag’s trail, but veering a bit now to take them away
from the security of the animal’s scent.

Adam tugged Joan’s sleeve when they were back into the floor
of the defile. She turned, continuing to weave through the tall pines. He
raised his bow and gestured forward, then behind him. With a nod, she allowed
him to lead.

He readied the bow. It was not his best weapon, but
protecting Joan meant keeping the enemy, whoever it was, distant.

And he doubted not that there would be archers ahead. Oswald
was herding them, driving them between the hurdles, forcing them to take the
direction he willed.

“Alaunts,” Adam whispered when he had the opportunity,
though he realized she probably knew their voices.

Joan gripped his wrist. “Color?”

“One spotted, one grey with a mark here.” He touched his
shoulder.

A worried look came over her face. He understood. They were
not her dogs. She could not hope to use her silent controls on them.

They continued along the valley, doubling and trebling their
crossings of the stag’s trail and their own.

A slight movement caught his eye. A man, hiding behind a
tree, the same man who’d shot Hugh, stepped boldly into their path. Adam thrust
Joan aside, too late. The archer was quick. She fell silently. Without thought,
Adam loosed his shot.

The archer dropped to his knees with a strangled cry, the
arrow in his throat. A gout of blood erupted from his mouth and he collapsed
face down.

Joan lay in the path, eyes wide, face white. The arrow
protruded from her thigh.

Adam dragged her under the trees, one eye on the archer
ahead. Were his fellows also lying in wait? Or was he a solitary assassin,
planted to kill in secret?

The wound on Joan’s thigh stained her gown. He took his
dagger, flung away in Joan’s fall, and slit the fabric around the smooth arrow
shaft. The barbed head had not penetrated far.

He put his hand around her nape and drew her up. Her lips
quivered as he pressed his hard against hers. At the same time, he jerked the
arrow out, swallowing her cry. Tears appeared in her eyes; she looked as hunted
as any deer might who knows the hound is near.

With as much gentleness as he could muster, though he wanted
to tear someone or something limb from limb for hurting her, he kissed her
again. Then he considered the wound.

He wadded fabric from her gown and tied it tightly to the
wound. Then he dragged the dead archer into the brush and concealed him. The
dogs would not be fooled, but another archer or Oswald might miss the telltale
signs. The bloody leaves and broken arrow he put under the body, scraping up
any dirt that looked stained with blood.

Last, he shoved the archer’s arrows into his own quiver.
Their heads looked clean and well sharpened, not discolored with ordure.

Joan was waiting for him when he returned along the trail.
She was standing now, a stout stick in her hand, one she’d cut with his dagger.
The dagger was fisted in her hand, a weapon now, not just a burden she carried
to please him.

Although she limped, she did not allow him to lead. This was
her terrain, though he knew it somewhat from childhood. He realized she was
heading for a place along the valley where the stream fell into a slower
waterway and hence on its sluggish, muddy way to the river.

Adam could hear it. It was no longer a lethargic body of
water. It was swollen with the rain.

All around them the gentle rain pattered on leaves and
dampened the earth—making it impossible not to leave footprints.

The shoulders of Joan’s green gown were dark with damp. And
when they came to the bank, she plunged in to her knees with naught more than a
hiss of breath. He could do no less.

The water ran with them and they were pushed along the
waterway toward the river.

A horn sounded and Adam judged it came from the direction
where the dead archer lay. The dogs would have an easier time tracking them
now. The scent of Joan’s blood would be strong. They moved slower.

Joan held up her hand for him to halt. She pointed to the
bank, where rocks had fallen in to make a natural dam.

He helped her up and out of the water. Would the dogs have
lost the scent for the mile they’d waded in water? Would Oswald see through
their their ruse and follow the stream?

The small stream rushed by them, filling the air with its
sound. Any sound man might make, whether footstep or spoken word, would be
drowned.

Joan shivered as she limped along the trail. He slid an arm
beneath hers and helped take some of her weight. Her body was fever warm, her
face flushed, from exertion he prayed.

An arrow thwacked into the trees ahead. They froze. He
followed the angle of the shaft to see whence it had come. Uphill, to their
right.

He dragged Joan behind a tree trunk, listening. Was it a
questing shot? To force someone from cover?

Joan dropped her head to his chest. He stroked her hair
back, holding his breath and waiting for the archer to make another move. How
in tune Joan and he were, not needing to speak beyond a look or hand gesture.

A man’s voice penetrated the sylvan silence, until then
broken by little more than the soft patter of rain. His words were
indistinguishable but it was not the sound of a man commanding hounds.

Adam’s heart thudded uncomfortably in his chest. Not from
fear, from a need to put aside this game of hunted and hunter, to confront
Oswald no matter how vicious his dogs might prove.

Someone laughed, though ‘twas choked off immediately. Joan’s
head jerked up. She traced an F upon Adam’s breast and he understood. Her ears
were tuned to the forest sounds, tuned to listen for birdcalls, hound cries, or
the call of an injured animal.

If she said ‘twas Francis, then it was.

Adam put his mouth near Joan’s ear. “It is time to take a
stand.”

Her eyes went wide; she shook her head.

Again, he whispered. “The forest you know. The hunt. But all
hunts must end when the quarry and hunter confront one another.”

Adam drew the bow. He stood up and walked slowly forward,
using the trees for concealment. She followed though he gestured for her to
stay back. She stubbornly shook her head.

Francis came through the trees on a horse as nervous as
Sinner. The horse backed and shifted when Francis raised his bow and shot.

Adam dropped to his knees and shot second. Francis’ bolt
went overhead; Adam’s met its mark, impaling Francis through the shoulder, the
same shoulder as Hugh, though this time, the arrow had not passed cleanly
through.

Without a sound, Francis fell off his horse. Adam ran to
where the boy lay thrashing in the undergrowth.

Francis’ face was white. So was Joan’s when she arrived at
their side. “Will he live?”

Adam raised his hand and she fell silent.

“Will I live?” Francis grabbed at Adam’s hand. “Help me.”

Adam slashed Francis’ tunic around the arrow. He examined
the wound and shook his head. The fall had buried the head of the arrow into
the ground. The boy was pinned to the earth.

“I am sorry, Francis, your time is very short. If I move
you, or pull this bolt…you’ll bleed to death.”

The boy gave a high-pitched wail. Joan crossed herself.

“You have little time, Francis, so make your confession now,
or you’ll go straight to hell.”

Francis’ eyes rolled with fear. He clutched at Adam’s
sleeve. “Nay, please.”

Sweat broke on the youth’s face. Every sore stood out red
against the pallor of his skin.

“Confess, Francis. You cannot go to God with these sins. Did
you not try to kill Joan but a few hours ago?”

The boy began to cry.

“Why were you hunting us?” Adam asked, taking the boy’s hand.
“Come. Confess. Cleanse your soul before it departs.”

“I’m going. I’m going, aren’t I?” Francis clasped Adam’s
hand and squeezed.

“I’m weary of kneeling here. Either make your confession, or
we’ll leave you here, pinned to the ground for any animal who might want a
taste of you.”

“Adam!” Joan gasped.

“Silence, wench. This boy is dying and if he doesn’t confess
now, he’ll burn.”

Joan’s expression went icy.

“Forgive me, for I have sinned,” Francis whispered. “It was
my mother who bid me kill you.”

“Joan?”

“Nay, you, Quintin. The bishop insisted that Mathilda would
pick me on the morrow, but Mathilda told my mother that when the bishop asked
for a name, it would not be mine.”

Francis groaned and lay back, panting. “My mother does not
believe in leaving aught to chance. She’s wanted you dead since first she saw
you.”

“Did you mistake Christopher for me?”

“Who’s Christopher?” Tears gathered in Francis’ eyes. He
began to shake.

“The minstrel who drowned.”

He nodded. “She was so angry at the mistake.”

Adam unlaced Francis’ undershirt, contriving to bump the
arrow with his elbow.

Francis shrieked.

Joan struggled to her feet and limped to a lichen-covered
boulder. She propped her hip against it and bowed her head.

Adam returned his attention to Francis who wept and clawed
at his shoulder. Adam took his hand and held it still. “Continue your
confession. During the fair, you met Oswald at the hunting lodge. Why?”

“Mother assessed the suitors when we arrived. She feared you
or de Harcourt might capture Mathilda’s heart. Women can be fools, you know.”

“I know. They are impractical creatures needing guidance.”

Joan made a small sound in her throat, but did not
interrupt.

“Just as my mother thought. Even with the bishop’s assurance
that Mathilda would choose me, still, Mother thought you or de Harcourt should
have an accident.” Francis squeezed Adam’s fingers. “She’ll be angry you killed
my archer. She liked him very much, I think.”

Francis’ voice grew stronger, so Adam nudged the arrow.
Francis hissed in his breath and gasped. Tears stained his cheeks, but the
color was returning to his face.

“And the old man? Ivo?” Adam asked.

“Ivo? That old meddler. He saw my mother in the bishop’s
bed. He chastised her at the fair. She bid me hit him with a piece of
firewood.” He gripped Adam’s arm. “Forgive me, but she is my mother.”

“So, he didn’t die for any papers he wrote or saw?”

“Papers? Who cares of papers!” Francis looked bewildered.
Adam suspected Lady Claris had had Ivo killed less for finding her with the
bishop than for reading something he shouldn’t—possibly the scroll with the
suitors’ names?

“Surely, your mother did not intend to kill all the
suitors?”

The confusion cleared from Francis’ face. “Nay, she planned
at first to see that any men Mathilda favored were dismissed. She thought to
show our lady how perfidious you could be. And she hoped I might do better than
all of you in the games.”