LordoftheHunt (8 page)

“But Nat should know better. He thought to make some easy
money. It’s happened before.” Then she could not hold back the words. They
tumbled out. “But, you see, I need those pennies. I’m paying the rent for an
old cleric from the castle—a man the bishop dismissed today—Ivo by name.”

Anger coursed through Adam like lightning in a storm. How
dare the bishop put castle folk in need? Especially one who’d served Ravenswood
all his life? He clenched his fist. How many others were in need thanks to
Gravant?

Nat’s whistle could be heard and in moments, he was back, a
harrier, Peter, at his side.

“Shall we go, sir?” Nat asked.

“Could Joan accompany us? ‘Tis said the ladies much enjoy
hunting a hare.”

“Aye. Joan would love a meat pie, wouldn’t you?”

“I needn’t join the hunt to have the pie, though, Papa.”

“Nonsense. Come along,” Adam said.

Moments later, he was handing her into the saddle. To Adam,
it seemed Joan did not enjoy the hunt.

She spoke not at all, and he gave up trying to draw her out.
Nat was efficient and they were not out more than an hour before his bag was
full.

They rode back through the castle gates with Joan as silent
as when they left. Nat filled the gaps with tales of former hunts. It gave Adam
time to think about Roger and his huntsman.

At the kennels, Nat lingered, telling Adam a legend about a
great stag reputed to have antlers with more than twenty tines—some said as
many as thirty. The animal had roamed the hills around Ravenswood since ancient
times. It was said that if one saw the beast it brought great good luck. To hunt
the beast brought ill fortune.

Joan smiled at Adam’s enjoyment of the tale and his promise
never to lift his bow if he saw the stag. The tale was an old favorite of
Nat’s. She wished it were true so she could search out the animal and glean
some good luck to ward off the bad she sensed had come to Ravenswood with
Bishop Gravant.

Nat took the dog into the kennels, but Adam did not walk off
as Joan expected. He took up his reins and hers and accompanied her to the
ranks of stables. When he’d handed off their mounts to a groom, he took her
elbow and escorted her to the cottage.

“Now, we’ve had a fine hunt, you’ve a brace of hares for a
pie as does our lady, and yet, you’re silent, and you have not unfurrowed your
brow all afternoon. What may I do to bring a smile to your face?” he asked.

It was not possible to deny him. She smiled. “I have my
concerns,” she said.

“The purse Oswald won from your father being first?”

She looked at the kennels. “I’ll not deny I’m worried. Nat
used to have difficulty with wagering, but I thought he had put it aside.”

Adam propped his foot on the bench by the cottage door. He
leaned his forearm on his thigh. “I feel responsible for your father’s loss.”

“Why? You did not make the wager.”

“I was in the bout.”

“You did not call the bout a draw, sir.”

“I suspect there was something more to the matter than we
know. The bishop’s excuse the ground was muddy seems mighty thin.”

“Perhaps Lady Mathilda was bored.”

Adam grinned. “No one is bored when I wrestle.”

Joan smiled. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“I’ve wrestled de Harcourt several times. He always loses.”

“So Oswald says.” Then she frowned and looked at Nat, who
was bandying words with Edwina and Del. “Nat lost everything we had,” she said
softly.

Adam pulled his purse from his belt and held it out to her.
She took a step away.

He was on her in one stride. He snatched up her hand and
pressed the purse into her palm. “You’ll take it. It was Roger’s man who
cheated your father. It’s the least I can do, after you saved my life, and this
is Roger’s silver, won honestly by my own wagers during the bouts. I’d prefer
to handle the matter in another way, but I cannot risk the bishop’s
displeasure. This is not the most satisfying end to the matter, but the most
politic.”

Joan kneaded the leather purse between her palms. When she
looked up, guilt swept over him at the sheen in her eyes.

None of these people would be suffering if his father had
not been banished.

“How can I thank you?” she asked. She kissed the purse.
Then, she rose on tiptoe and kissed his lips. It was naught but an impulse, he
was sure, and the kiss naught but a whisper of touch so fleeting it might have
been the kiss of a butterfly, or the brush of a cobweb across his skin.

She turned and ran into the cottage.

Adam touched his lips. A kiss on the mouth was a kiss of
equals. Did she see him as her equal, not much more than a servant ordered to
fetch meat on Mathilda’s whim? Or did she see herself as higher than that?

After all, according to the gossip Douglas gleaned from the
alehouse, Joan Swan had been more than Richard de Poitiers’ friend, she had
been his lover.

Joan skinned the rabbits for Nat’s supper. She made a stew
as she hadn’t the patience for a pie. Her heart thumped wildly each time she
thought of the impulsive act of kissing Adam Quintin.

She closed her eyes and touched her mouth with the back of
her hand. Her body felt weak and her legs unsure. She knelt at the hearth and
pulled out his purse. It was of fine leather. Painted on it in gold was the V
found on his shield. She smoothed her thumb over the letter, well worn from
much handling, then tipped out a stream of silver pennies. She counted one
hundred before stopping. More than twice what Nat had lost. She separated forty
of the pennies and wrapped them in a linen square. The remainder she put back
into the purse. When next she had an opportunity, she would return every penny
over the forty.

She took up the purse and linen-wrapped bundle of coins and
shoved them up into a space where the thatching met the wall stones, a place
Nat would never look. A few moments later, she also tucked away her box of
treasures. She would take no more chances.

* * * * *

Adam sat gingerly on his bed. His back was getting worse.
Wrestling had made it worse. Wrestling brought his thoughts to Joan Swan’s
kiss.

Why had the bishop called his match a draw? There was little
to suggest the paper the bishop held was very important. The bishop had left
the field, but according to Douglas, not gone into his chamber or consulted
with any of his clerics. Instead, the man had called for meat and wine, then
settled down to eat with his ward and those suitors not flinging mud like
children in the garden.

Had the bishop made his own wagers? Perhaps on de Harcourt?
And when he had seen that de Harcourt could not win, had manufactured an excuse
to end the match and save his money?

It amused Adam to give Roger’s pennies to Joan. Although
there was little luxury in the cottage, it was warm and inviting, with a fine
stone hearth and a couch of furs along one wall. He would not want to think of
his huntress deprived of that warmth or of the furs.

His huntress. Nay, not his, but still, he would like to see
her on that couch. He would kneel over her, draw up the furs about her throat,
and kiss her as she needed to be kissed.

Was the gossip true? Had Joan enjoyed Richard’s kisses? And
what of Brian’s display of jealousy? Had Brian kissed her?

Adam forced himself from his soft bed. He struck a flint to
a candle. He drew out paper and pen. Without allowing Joan to intrude again on
his thoughts, he made a list of tasks he needed to do to accomplish William
Marshal’s goal—unmask a traitor: Look through Francis de Coucy’s belongings,
follow the best possible candidates, spend more time wooing the lady.

He examined the list and drew a line through the last item.
He then rewrote it at the top of the list. If he failed William Marshal,
perhaps he could win the lady. At least that would ensure the prosperity of the
tenants and eliminate the frown on Joan Swan’s face.

“Adam? I saw your light.” Hugh swept into the tent and stood
there, half in shadow.

Adam rose and set his list to the candle flame.

“A lover’s note?”

“Aye. Her husband would have my balls if he read it.” Adam
held the burning paper until it was naught but ash and one smooth, ivory
corner. He dropped that to the dirt floor.

“We need to get across to the hall before Roger has snared
the quarry.”

Adam lifted a pitcher to pour his friend some ale, but found
it empty. “What do you think of Roger beyond the obvious that he’s a lickspit?”
Adam asked. “I think he tried to cheat Nat Swan over the wrestling.”

“Roger’s a man who will align himself with whatever breeze
blows the most glory his way. He’s one of those who will equivocate until the
last moment, until he is sure of a winner, and then he will cast his men that
way.”

“I agree. He’s like the wrack floating on the tide. Until
he’s washed onto a rock, he’ll not cling.”

“Did you see the huntress on the wall?”

“Were not all the women on the walls? I felt as a horse must
at auction. Thank God the women were not allowed in the ring to examine our
teeth.”

“Or peer into your braies.”

Adam grinned. “They had no need. We took them off most
willingly after the bouts.”

“Roger, too? He bared that tiny eel?”

“Eel? You insult my favorite dish. Worm.”

“A lickspit, sycophant worm?” Hugh stood up. “Let us get to
the hall and drink some of the bishop’s fine wine.”

The two friends entered the hall. While Hugh walked to the
high table and took a seat a few places from Lady Mathilda, a seat closer to
the lady than Brian de Harcourt, but one farther than Roger Artois, Adam headed
to where several knights sat at a far lesser position.

Laden trays with roast boar and poached pears made the
rounds. Wheels of cheese and mounds of honey pastries followed the meat and
fruit. Adam noted a large meat pie in front of Lady Mathilda, and when she
looked his way, he bowed and raised his goblet of wine. She lifted hers and
smiled back.

Adam ate absentmindedly. He fixed his attention as he should
on Lady Mathilda. She giggled into her napkin every time Hugh opened his mouth.
Adam could almost hear Hugh grind his teeth.

A man tapped him on the shoulder. “You made a fine showing
today, Quintin. I lost a few marks on you, but still, if the bishop had not
called the match, you had de Harcourt cold.”

They discussed the wrestling. “Come,” Adam said. “The
matches and all other contests serve no purpose but to please the lady. She’s
seen us all in the flesh now, and it is my hope her decision is made.”

“We’ve not seen her in the flesh, though,” one knight
sighed.

“I can tell you what you’re missing,” Brian said, sitting at
Adam’s side.

The pair opposite stared openmouthed at de Harcourt.

Adam sliced some cheese and ate it off the tip of his eating
dagger. “You must go on after that provocative statement.”

Brian also speared some of the well-aged cheese. “She will
look like any other woman. Plump in the right places, spare in others. It is
not her form one should care about, it is this place. The lady could be shaped
like that wheel of cheese or a cask of ale and it would matter not a whit.”

Brian was right. It was Ravenswood everyone here really
craved.

“Well, enjoy your visit, Brian,” said Adam. “It’ll be your
last…unless I invite you back after the wedding.”

The men around them laughed.

“We will see about that—” Francis de Coucy’s words cut
across Brian’s. “And if gossip has it right, you’ve been hunting other quarry,
Quintin—female quarry.”

Adam forced himself not to react to the comment. Who else
had observed him with Joan Swan? Mathilda? Her ladies? The bishop? Should he
shove Francis’ teeth down his scrawny throat? He chose, instead, to lift his
cup and take a long, cool drink.

Another man across from them said, “You must be fairly
confident, de Harcourt, to leave our lady to Roger.”

“Roger can do naught but fawn on the bishop. You would think
‘twas the bishop he wished to wed, not Mathilda,” said Brian.

“Is it not the bishop we must please, perhaps more than the
lady?” Adam asked. “If she cannot choose by the week’s end, it is he who will.”

Brian shrugged. “I believe he has already chosen. Who here
would mostly willingly kiss his ecclesiastic ass?”

“I would if ‘twould decide the matter,” the suitor with the
broken arm said.

Adam looked at Roger, who was telling Mathilda and the
bishop a story replete with gestures, then sighed. “I was prepared to offer
many kisses in this effort, but none in that direction.”

“Then get in practice,” Brian said, rising. He set his hand
on Adam’s shoulder. “Or should I say…practice your kissing in more productive
places.”

Adam was saved a response when the bishop rose. He banged
his dagger hilt on the edge of a pewter goblet and commanded everyone’s
attention.

“Let us drink to King Henry’s health,” the bishop said. He
drank. “And to our great regent. The finest knight who ever took sword in
hand—William Marshal.” This second toast brought every man to his feet.

When the noise subsided, the bishop held out his hand. “Lady
Mathilda, will you honor our guests?”

Mathilda rose and bowed to the bishop, who kissed her hand.
She wore her hair plaited and coiled into a crown about her head. Pearls were
stitched on her ivory gown. A queen could not command greater attention or
interest.

“It is time to honor those men who tested their mettle
against one another in the wrestling bouts,” Mathilda said. “For each man who
won his match, I salute you.”

She raised her cup and drank. The minstrels, Christopher
among them, strummed their instruments with frantic energy for every moment she
held the cup to her lips. When she lowered the cup, they ceased on a single
note, and she laughed. “Now, a kiss and a token for the best display of manly
strength and courtly behavior. Step forward, Brian de Harcourt and Adam
Quintin.”

A frown creased Roger’s face. As Adam walked at Brian’s side
to the dais, he saw Roger lean toward the bishop. The bishop held up a hand and
Roger fell silent.

“Most noble knights,” Mathilda said. “Accept these tokens
and know that I could not choose between you.” She rose on tiptoe and kissed
Brian on the lips. She sheared a ribbon from her gown with a small
silver-handled dagger.

Brian’s men rose and stomped their feet, clapping and
cheering their master.

Adam bent a bit to accept the lady’s kiss. It was a very
proper, simple kiss. She pressed a silky ribbon into his palm. His men, not to
be outdone by Brian’s, raised a tumult of whistles and cheers.

The minstrels took up the business, Christopher’s voice rich
and pure over the others, as he led his company into the song he’d composed on
Adam’s boar.

When Adam turned from the lady to take his seat, he caught
Lady Claris’ eye. She licked her lips and lifted a brow.

Adam kept his expression neutral. He held his ribbon aloft,
then knotted it about the hilt of his dagger, a reminder to all he was now
favored. Brian grinned and tied his on his belt.

Mathilda commanded everyone’s attention again when the men
had taken their seats. “On the morrow, after chapel, we’ll have another
competition. Those who feel so inclined are invited to test Brian de Harcourt’s
mighty throwing record, marked in the outer bailey. Who wishes to take the
challenge and toss the stone?”

Adam grinned as every suitor leapt to his feet, himself
included. “Why not?” he said to his neighbor. “What else have we to do but
pleasure
the lady?”

* * * * *

Adam lighted a brace of candles in his tent. He stripped to
his linen shirt and sat on his camp bed, painted with ravens in flight. Not
that many would interpret his V as a bird’s wings, spread.

Despite the lure of his bed, Adam knew he could not sleep
yet. He took out the parchment he’d purloined from de Harcourt.

Why would de Harcourt have a document written in Greek? It
made a fairly secure way of passing information that few common man, and not
even many learned men, could read, he thought. Yet Adam found it hard to
believe Brian had the skill.

He needed someone to translate the page. Whom could he trust
to do the task and not share its contents after? Possibly, Ivo? Nay, too many
years had passed to trust the old man. Who knew where his loyalties now lay?
The page must be sent to John d’Erley at Winchester.

Adam also knew the paper was too valuable to trust out of
his sight. He sighed with resignation, sharpened a quill, and set about copying
the page. He wished for a clerk he could trust, frowned over the poor
representation he was making, and knew dawn would break before he finished.

* * * * *

Hugh heard the light tapping on his bedchamber door. He
ignored it. A moment later, the door opened with a small squeal. He slid his hand
under his pillow for the dagger he kept there. Then he sat up, eyes wide.
“Mathilda? What are you doing here?”

He saw she wore a dark robe as she climbed on the end of his
bed. Her hair was down, her feet bare.

“I must speak with you.”

By the meager light of the dying fire in his hearth, her
eyes looked huge and grave.

“Speak.” He yawned to hide his complete consternation that
she sat perched on his bed like a bird who’d escaped her cage.

“I must have your advice about these suitors.”

He looped his arms about his knees. “What the devil can I
tell you?”

“You’re so much wiser than I. And you don’t want me.”

“
Mon Dieu
, that’s the truth,” he said.

She sat in silence for a moment, plucking at the coverlet.
“We’ve known each other for several years, Hugh. I think a lot of your opinion,
so help me make a choice.”

“Adam Quintin.” He flopped back on the pillows and turned to
his side. “Be sure to latch the door on your way out.”

She slapped the bed covers. “That’s it? One name?”

He closed his eyes. Her hair dragged across his hip as she
climbed up closer to him.

“Aye. One name. One man most worthy. Now, may I sleep?”

He heard her sharp intake of breath, then only measured
silence. Had he done Adam a disservice by touting him?

“Give me reasons.”

Hugh sighed and rolled to his back. She was on her knees, so
close, he could smell her. Flowers. Woman smells. “Adam Quintin has what a
woman needs and wants most in a mate.”

“Hah. You think a woman wants naught but a pretty face!”

She slapped the bed covers again with the flat of her hand,
hit his hip and just missed his genitals.

He sat up and snatched her hand that the next blow might not
be more accurately placed. “You misunderstand. Adam Quintin has
honor
.
He will never play you false. He will guard and protect you all your days.”