LordoftheHunt (28 page)

Adam took Joan to the Diana chamber for privacy; there was
precious little of it in the keep.

She lighted all the candles and did as he had once done. She
spread out her mantle and sat in the middle. This time, however, he did not go
to her. He looked at the mosaic. “I’ll be sorry when these corridors are
blocked up, but it must be done.”

“Will you fill this chamber?”

He smiled at her. “Only from here to the river. This is too
precious a place to destroy.”

“I suppose Hugh and Mathilda are wed by now,” she said
softly. “I’m glad they got away, and I hope they are happy, though I suspect he
will need to keep an eye on her every day.” Adam smiled at Joan. “And she on
him.”

How lovely Joan looked, her arms neatly folded about her
knees, her hair tamed in its plait. He wanted the wild creature, but he loved
this quiet, gentle woman, too.

“My father left Ravenswood for his own good reasons, reasons
I never understood, as they caused his banishment. I think I understand now.”
He touched the cold, mosaic tile of Diana’s knee. “What use is a place such as
this if you have no one to share it with?”

“Come here, Adrian.”

“Can you love me as Adam? A simple man, a mercenary turned
knight?”

“I have loved Adam since first I laid eyes on him in the
forest, unhorsed by a boar.”

He smiled. “And now?”

“I suppose I shall have to love Adrian as well. It is how
you will present yourself in the morning to William Marshal’s man, is it not?”

“I haven’t decided. Revealing who I am may mean I leave
here, leave England. The banishment extends to me and my brother.”

“And you want to know if I can follow? Because of Nat?”

“Aye. I cannot promise I will be allowed to remain. I can
ask it, but I cannot make a guarantee.”

“You could continue as Adam Quintin.”

“I could.”

She sighed and reached behind her to let down her hair. It
was as fascinating and arousing a process as any other he knew.

“Well, Joan, what do you say?”

“I must think about it. I owe Nat my first allegiance. I
cannot allow him to be harmed by my decision.”

She remained seated but held out her arms. He went to her
because he could not resist her. And she was pliant and giving, soon naked and
ready. But as he made love to her, he wondered if it was for the last time.

When they had exhausted themselves and lay wrapped in his
mantle, she slept. He did not.

The castle, secure now, might be his by right of battle,
albeit the strangest one he’d ever taken part in with an army composed mostly
of animals, but would it be granted outright?

Joan stirred in his arms, burying her face against his
chest. At the most, as Adam Quintin, he could expect the rights of a seneschal,
or steward, of the manor.

He thought of how he wanted the name of de Marle restored to
honor. It would not be true honor if he earned it under any name but that.
Quintin needed to die.

“Joan,” he said softly. She did not stir. “Can you love a
lord’s son? One who invaded the privacy of others, read their documents? All
for the cause of a king, but, in truth, for his own cause as well?”

* * * * *

The entourage that rode into Ravenswood came slowly. There
was a sizable guard, then several knights. One caught Adam’s eye, and he
squeezed Joan’s hand. “‘Tis the Marshal, himself, come to see how I’ve
acquitted myself.”

“I must change this gown.”

Adam resisted the tug of her hand. “You’ll remain exactly as
you are. They’ll remain exactly as they are.” He nodded to the three hounds
that stood with her.

William Marshal climbed the keep steps slowly. Adam thought
he must be at least seven decades old. His age showed in every line on his
face. The role of regent to a boy king weighed heavily on the man.

“Welcome to Ravenswood.” Adam bowed and stood aside.

“It went well, then?” Marshal asked.

“Aye, my lord. It went well.” He followed William Marshal
into the hall.

Everyone stood as the earl walked to the dais. When he sat,
servants rushed to pour him wine. Adam waited respectfully to be called
forward. When the earl had drunk his fill, he invited Adam to sit at his side.

“So, John d’Erley told me everything. I congratulate you on
taking the castle without much effort. However, the lawyers tell me we cannot
accuse Gravant of treason to our king on the evidence you sent along. His name
is not mentioned anywhere. The document looks like what it is, an agreement
between six noble sons and Prince Louis. We need some proof the Church is
involved if we are to make Gravant squirm. We need something solid.”

Adam grinned. “I think I have just the thing.”

* * * * *

William Marshal made a great ceremony of releasing Bishop
Gravant. He made flowery apologies for Adam’s overzealous efforts on the king’s
behalf. Marshal invited Gravant to wash and garb himself and sit down to supper
at the high table, as if he had no sins upon him.

Adam found it difficult to watch, but thought he hid his
feelings as he must, playing the role of the lackey to the great William
Marshal, fawning a bit, which earned him a grin from the earl, who knew Adam
well.

Joan did not appear in the hall, but when the earl suggested
they all attend Matins and that the bishop officiate, she walked in with Nat.
They stood in the rear of the chapel, while Adam knelt for his prayers beside
the great William Marshal and his squire, John d’Erley.

Gravant rushed through the service, but the bishop’s haste
suited Adam well. It was time to bring the man to his knees.

William Marshal spoke to the bishop in deep, sonorous tones
when the clergy had sung the final notes of the service.

“Bishop Gravant, will you bless Adam Quintin for me? I must
send him into battle again.”

Gravant’s face went stony, but he bowed his acquiescence and
held up his hand. Adam walked to the fore of the chapel, to the spot where he
remembered his mother had lain after death, garbed in flowers.

He knelt before the bishop. The bishop made the sign of the
cross over his head, then held out his hand. Adam gripped it tightly with both
of his. He pressed his lips to the bishop’s ring. At the same time, he jammed
Prince Louis’ ring on Gravant’s smallest finger. Gravant grunted and struggled
to snatch his hand away, but Adam held it fast.

“Why, my lord Bishop,” Adam said, turning the bishop’s hand
to the blaze of candles on the altar, “what need have you for this ring I
kissed when you have another that pledges your loyalties elsewhere?”

William Marshal came to Adam’s side.

“What is the meaning of this?” Gravant asked.

Although Gravant jerked his hand, Adam held it fast. Light
gleamed off the seal of the French prince.

“Ah, something solid, after all,” said William Marshal.

* * * * *

Joan looked up from dosing Basil. She squealed and hid her
dirty hands behind her. William Marshal and one of his men stood by the low
boards of the kennel, Adam at their side.

“Is this the one?” Marshal said.

Adam grinned. “Aye. She’s a beauty, isn’t she. Loveliest
thing in the kennel.”

William Marshal laughed and Joan felt the heat sweep up her
cheeks. She was far from lovely. Her hair was down, her gown streaked with dirt
from caring for the dogs who’d injured themselves in the battle.

“My lord,” she said, dropping into a low curtsey, but giving
Adam a sharp glare.

“Adam has asked permission to wed you,” William Marshal
said. “My man has all the details.” He bowed as if she were a fine lady and
walked away. To Joan’s shame, she thought she heard him laugh again.

Adam vaulted the low boards and put his arm about her waist.
The man the earl had indicated pursed his lips. He wore a monk’s robes and held
them up as he neared them. She was sure he’d never before set foot in a kennel.

“The earl has granted Adam Quintin position as seneschal of
Ravenswood Manor until such time as its fate is decided. And with that honor
will come all right to rents, tithes, and so on. With the exception of that
owed the king.”

“You may go,” Adam said and the man tiptoed from the kennel,
his nose in the air.

“I see you are still Adam Quintin.” Joan slipped from his
embrace to pick up her bowl and cloth. She walked out of the kennel and
discarded the water and vinegar she’d been using onto the grassy space behind
the building.

“I have you and Nat to consider now. I don’t want to take a
chance someone else might be given the honors here.”

She stared at him. “You took over a castle with the minimum
of bloodshed, you deserve to be reinstated here.”

“And if Marshal will not lift the banishment?”

“Then you will go.”

“Without you.”

She gripped his hands. “Aye, without me. I will always be
here. You can ask again and again for Marshal’s favor until he grants it. And
while you wait, I shall be here.”

“But not in my bed.”

Joan studied his blue eyes, solemn now; there was no hint of
joy in them. “I will mourn the loss of you each and every day, but I want to
wed a man who knows who he is and what he wants. I want to tell our child,
should there be one, what his name is.”

Adam pulled his hands from hers and strode away.

* * * * *

Later that day, as Joan brushed Basil’s coat, Edwina made an
unexpected visit to the kennel.

“What happened between ye, Joan?” Edwina asked. “Quintin rode
out with ‘is men not an hour ago.”

“I don’t understand. He left?” Joan looked out across the
bailey. The black pavilion was gone.

The pain was not so raw as it had been when Mathilda had
paid her call. Nay, this pain was dull. She imagined it would last much longer
than the other.

“Aye,” Edwina said. “Adam turned William Marshal down, ‘e
did. Said ‘e won’t be seneschal ‘ere, then he up and left.”

Joan and Nat stood before William Marshal after a day of
hunting. She was pleased to hear England��s greatest knight praise Nat’s men and
dogs.

A man Joan recognized as John d’Erley, Marshal’s squire,
strode up the center of the hall. “My lord,” he called, “you must come to the
castle gates.”

William Marshal hesitated, but Joan surmised that the urgent
tone in the man’s voice convinced him to rise. At the foot of the hall steps,
Marshal’s mount waited.

To her surprise, servants were running toward the gate. She
saw Edwina and Del, limping along with a stick, heading in that direction as
well. The king’s regent mounted the waiting horse.

Joan lifted her hem and ran along with a throng of curious
people.

She could see nothing as she ran.

“Are we being invaded?” asked one woman, clutching her child
in her arms.

“Nay,” one of the kennel lads said. “They’s not enough men
fer that.”

Joan kept her eyes on William Marshal who did not rush to
the gates, but trotted there at a leisurely pace, his squire beside him.

As they left the inner bailey for the outer, she saw through
the gates a company of men spread out in a V.

Her eyes suddenly burned. She pressed a hand to her breast.

The waiting horses were caparisoned in black and gold. Their
riders bore shields with a stylized V upon them. Their faces were concealed by
their helms. They ranged themselves in disciplined ranks behind a knight on a
huge gray destrier.

Adam
.

There was no mistaking him for he wore no helm. He did wear
a long black surcoat over his mail, a V in gold embroidered on his chest.

William Marshal walked his horse over the drawbridge to confront
the party. The two knights faced each other.

Joan squeezed through the gathering throng. The guard on the
gate, Thomas, put out his pike to shove back two boys and let her pass.

She stood in the shadows of the great stone arch, the
portcullis dangling over her head. It was cold in the shade and she shivered.

A gasp ran through the spectators when Adam drew his sword.

“My lord, I beg admittance to Ravenswood. Not as your agent,
or your servant, but as its master.”

Marshal circled his horse. “By what right do you make this
claim?”

“By right of ancestry.” He lifted the sword and touched the
V on his chest with the hilt. “And by right of service to the king.” He lowered
the blade and bowed.

“Who are these ancestors by whom you make this claim?”

“Four generations of de Marles.”

Behind Joan, the crowd whispered the name of de Marle,
passing it along from the front of the throng to the back. She clasped her
hands tightly together. Her skin felt suddenly hot.

“Would you be Adrian de Marle…or Robert?”

“Robert serves God these days as a priest in Wales.”

“And you serve me.”

“Long and well, my lord.”

Marshal looked at his squire. “How long?”

“Ten years, my lord, and two before that in King John’s
Flemish company.”

“A long time,” Marshal said. “Not so long as I have served
the Crown, but a good start.”

Adam’s men never moved. They sat on their huge horses, in
their black and gold, as forbidding a force as ever Joan had seen. Yet, she did
not feel afraid of the men. She only feared that Adam’s hopes might die a death
here, never to be resurrected.

William Marshal and his squire, who had joined his master,
spoke in low tones. Then Marshal nudged his horse forward. Adam walked his to
meet the great man. They sat facing each other. Marshal put out his hand.

Adam surrendered the sword. Marshal examined it. “This is a
fine weapon.”

Joan saw the hilt was polished now, the old metal gleaming.

“That sword,” Adam said, “belonged to my grandfather who
wore it in battle as he fought for William the Conqueror’s cause. It is a sword
I have sworn to wear. But I cannot wear it as Adam Quintin. I can only wear it
as Adrian de Marle, son of Durand de Marle.”

Silence save for the jingle of harness, the cry of a child,
reigned over the crowd.

Marshal extended the sword to Adam. “Wear it as is your
right and enter this castle as its rightful heir.”

Adam took the blade, studied it a moment, then thrust it
into its sheath. His men gave a short, abrupt shout of approval.

William Marshal wheeled his horse and addressed the castle
people who filled the gate. “Know this man may ride in with impunity to rule
and guide this manor until such time as another de Marle, Durand by name,
should choose to reclaim his rights. Until that time, I do appoint his son,
Adrian de Marle, as guardian of Ravenswood Manor and all its people. In King
Henry’s name, I hereby lift King John’s banishment.”

The swell of murmuring became cheers. Men waved their hats.
Someone shouted for ale. Another for wine.

Marshal smiled at Adam over his shoulder. “The lawyers can
untie the knots when I return to Winchester. Shall we take up these fine folk
on their offer? I’ve a thirst for an English ale, myself.”

The crowd parted for him. He walked his horse back through
the castle grounds. John d’Erley guided his horse aside, and Adam cantered his
forward as next in rank behind the king’s regent. Adam’s men fell into a line
behind him.

When Adam reached the spot where Joan stood, he drew up his
horse and put out his hand. She took it and kissed the back. “My lord Adrian,”
she said.

The words came forth as if reeds choked her throat. She
curtsied deeply.

“Ride with me, Joan, and know you will be my lady.”

The people pressed in. Hands reached out from the crowd, and
she was lifted and fairly tossed onto the saddle before him. He laughed and
held her close, his arm tight about her waist.

She rode with him in his triumph. His father was reinstated,
his right to be heir of Ravenswood restored. They rode with the crowd surging
along at their side. The kennel lads called out to her and she waved, then
snatched her hand back and tucked it against her chest.

“A goddess may wave to her subjects,” he said, giving his
own salute to Edwina. Beside her, Del raised his stick and shook it in the air.

“A goddess? A moment ago I was to be a lady.”

“You are the goddess of the hunt here at Ravenswood. But as
I shall be known from this day by my rightful name of Adrian de Marle, so shall
I promise not to call you Diana. You are a great huntress in your own right and
shall be naught but Joan—
my
Joan.”

* * * * *

Joan sat between Edwina and Nat in the hall. Adrian sat at
William Marshal’s side. Despite his words in the bailey, she feared what he had
become. The lord of Ravenswood. Or son of the lord. Whether his father cared to
return mattered not.

Ale and wine flowed long and freely. The minstrels composed
a song to Adrian’s triumph over the bishop. They sang of the boy king and the
kingdom’s greatest knight.

She concentrated on her meal, quail roasted in rosemary. She
concentrated on the conversation at her table. That of the increase in Nat’s
hunting stable and the long hours it would take to undo Oswald Red-hair’s poor
teaching.

A hand fell on her shoulder. When she looked up, it was
Adrian.

“Would you come with me while I say a prayer for my mother’s
soul?”

They walked with decorous slowness through the hall, but
when they reached the foot of the hall steps, they linked hands and ran to the
crypt, passing the priest, who gave them a disapproving glare.

They dutifully said prayers for Adrian’s mother.

“He’ll think we’re blaspheming down here,” Joan whispered as
Adrian unlocked the trapdoor and lifted the section of floor.

They ran the length of the corridors to the Diana chamber
and there, she leapt into his arms and kissed him soundly. “My Adrian,” she
said, testing his name on her lips. “I love you.”

“My Joan,” he said. “My huntress. Beautiful as any goddess
and worthy of the name.”

Joan offered Adrian her back and he unlaced her gown,
sliding the soft wool off her shoulders. He kissed her warm skin, shifting her plait
out of his way.

“I love the way you smell…and taste.” He tugged her gown
down her hips and let it pool at her feet.

When he wrapped his arms about her waist, she leaned her
head back. “You’re wearing too many clothes,” she said.

“Is that what you want? My clothes off?” He nuzzled her
neck.

“Did you not ask me once what women really want?”

“I believe
my
riddle was what do
men
really
want?”

Joan captured his hand and clasped it to her breast. “The
answer is the same whether man or woman. Each wants their own way. Now, off
with your clothes,” she said.

He seemed unable to remove any article of clothing without
her help, complaining of some weakness in his hands from fighting with his
grandfather’s sword. She smiled and knew it was but a game he played.

It was she with the bandage about her thigh.

“You realize,” he said as she straddled his leg to pull off
one of his high hunting boots. “I shall ever remember this view of you in my
head.”

She whipped around and clasped the boot to her chest, then
laughed. The sound echoed around them.

She set the boot down and picked up her shift. She held it
in front of her, suddenly flooded with desire, and equally with a need to know
the answer to one last question.

“How did Lady Claris know you had bruises on your—”

He threw back his head and laughed. She heaved his boot at
him. He caught it. “I imagine every woman knows what my ass looks like. After
the wrestling, we suitors stripped for any and all who chose to watch us bathe
that day. Only my innocent Joan was absent from the ramparts.”

“Is that what you think? I am innocent?”

“Innocent of guile and perfidious behavior, aye. I must say
I cannot imagine you eyeing naked suitors from the castle walls.” His throat
went thick. “How different this could have turned out.”

She knelt between his spread thighs, helping him off with
the rest of his clothes. He lay on his back, knees raised.

She made a small cushion of his linen shirt and put it under
his head. Then she set her palms on his spread thighs, and he felt the desire
to pull her down.

“When you were sitting at table, I thought, ‘This is a
noble’s son.’ And I was right.” She leaned over and kissed him where his thigh
and hip joined.

He closed his eyes, buried his hands in the brown and gold
sheet of her hair, and felt his heart stutter in his chest. Her tongue was warm
and gentle across his skin; her hands were not so gentle.

“Joan. I pray that you have the same want as I,” he
whispered. He drew her up and astride him.

She rocked gently. He arched beneath her. When he settled,
she did it again. “You stir madness,” he whispered.

Joan reveled in the sensations of his aroused body deep
within her. She understood his madness. It brewed within her as well. She took
up his hand and placed it over her breast. He cupped and weighed her, explored
her shape, lifted his head, and kissed the swollen peak.

Then he wrapped his arms around her hips, buried his face
between her breasts, and breathed fire on her skin.

She was supported in the cradle of his raised legs.
“Adrian,” she said. “I remember thinking, the first time you entered me, that
no possible moment could succeed it for joy. I was wrong. Each of these moments
holds its own most perfect happiness.”

“Joan.” He pressed his lips to hers. He rolled her over.
“Let it be as it was that first time.” He stroked into her, deeply, slowly,
hoping he could hold back for her.

She was sweet, hot silk about his manhood. There was nothing
but her in that moment, no other wants or desires but feeling the slick slide
of his body into hers.

He recognized her end in the sudden buck of her hips, the
gasp, the clutch of her fingers on his back. He rode her storm, reveled in the
throes of her passion, and knew her wants and his were the same.

* * * * *

They came out of the crypt, hand in hand, a few hours later
to the soft, golden glow of the setting sun. Brian de Harcourt stood by the
chapel with his horse, arms crossed on his chest.

“Were you praying for your mother’s soul?” Brian asked.

“So, you heard I’ve changed my name.”

“It explains many things.” Brian took Joan’s hand and lifted
it to his lips, then addressed Adrian. “I came to thank you for taking my part
when the suitors were examined. If not for your assurance I’d not signed Prince
Louis’ pledge, I might be a banished lord myself. Or hanged, as Francis surely
will be. What will become of Lady Claris?”

“I expect she’ll be exiled to France along with the bishop
and the other suitors,” Adrian said.

“The death of her son might be a greater punishment than
anything else.” Joan covered Brian’s hand with hers. “Are you staying?”

Adrian growled, but Brian and Joan ignored him.

“I must find another way to satisfy my father. He expects me
to increase the de Harcourt wealth. Ravenswood stood to be a great jewel in our
crown.”

“I hope you’ll return one day,” she said.

Not too soon
, Adrian replied silently. “Wait here,
Brian, I have something for you.”

Adrian went back into the crypt. He groped over the door and
withdrew the sheet of Greek purloined from Brian’s chest.

When he stepped back into the sunshine, Joan stood in the
circle of Brian’s arms. The heat of jealousy swept through Adrian, but he
clamped it down. Joan would be his wife. Brian would ride away.

Adrian cleared his throat and the couple stepped apart.

Brian grinned and lifted his shoulders. “You cannot blame me
for a final embrace.”

“I took this from you,” Adrian said without preamble. “In my
search for the bishop’s plot, I did many things of which I am not proud,
including searching your tent. As I could not read this, I suspected it.”