LordoftheHunt (17 page)

A hush fell over the hall. Joan let out her breath, unaware
she’d been holding it. Every word of Adam’s speech lingered in her mind. Did he
mean the words?

Mathilda broke Joan’s reverie. “My ladies, you have heard
this noble knight accept his guilt. As such, we must determine his punishment.
And if we accept what he says, then he and the men he represents are guilty
indeed. Shall we banish him? Or shall we punish him?”

“Banish him,” Lady Claris said, her voice high and shrill.

“Punish him, but keep him,” Lady Isabelle said with equal
vehemence and a wide smile in Adam’s direction.

A babble of voices rose from the tables, and Joan had
difficulty hearing Adam’s fate. She offered no opinion, but it was to her
Mathilda finally appealed.

“Joan, we have four who wish the dismissal of this knight
from the field of love. We have four who are merciful and wish to give him a
punishment. How say you?”

Joan lifted her gaze to Mathilda, then flicked a glance in
Adam’s direction. What did Mathilda want of her? She neither understood her
place at this table, nor the role she must play.

Her fingers hurt from knotting them in her lap. Every eye in
the hall was on her.
Adam’s as well.

Joan took a deep breath. “I believe you should decide the
matter, my lady. It is you who must choose after the tournament, and so you
must know your mind to decide who stays and who does not.”

Mathilda tapped a toe on the floor and then walked to where
Adam knelt. She circled him, one finger on her cheek. “You are wise, Joan Swan.
I shall decide this man’s fate myself.”

Even Adam’s men knew to hold their tongues at this crucial
moment. Of course, Joan thought with a bite of cynicism, it was for the ransom
of horses and accoutrement that Adam’s men had come. If he left, they left.

“Rise, Adam Quintin,” Mathilda said. “I find you guilty, but
will exact no punishment. Your honesty serves you well.”

Joan’s legs were wooden as she left the dais. Mathilda
caught her sleeve. “The bishop wishes to see you in his quarters now. I’ll take
you.”

Joan felt as if a guard had come to summon her to the
dungeon. What could the bishop want of her? Had he a complaint about Nat? Was
it about the missing lymer?

As they walked from the dais, Adam turned toward her, one
hand pressed against his lower back. Joan missed a step and stumbled on her
hem. She knew why he did it. He had deep, painful bruises from his unhorsing.
As if taken on wings, she was back in the lodge, watching the light from the
hearth play light over his body—and face—a beautiful, uncommon face.

She looked down lest she trip again. With each step, she
realized an appalling truth. The man with whom she’d lain was no common man.
Adam was as handsome as Mathilda was lovely. A man who looked like Adam Quintin
did not need the daughter of a hunt master. A snap of the fingers and he could
have any woman he desired. Such a man would wed a goddess, not a servant.

“Sir Adam has asked me to offer you thanks for your valor
today,” Mathilda said as they reached the top of the steps.

“What?” Joan could not concentrate on Mathilda’s words.
Weariness sapped her strength. She feared the bishop.

“For trying to rescue a man from drowning, Joan.
Christopher, our minstrel. Well done.”

A guard led them to the bishop’s chamber. She barely saw the
beautiful hangings on the great bed or the servant who directed her to the
bishop, who sat at ease in a chair draped with fur.

He wore no priestly garb, but a gorgeous blue and yellow
tunic over a yellow linen shirt. The only signs of his holy stature were his
tonsured head and the cross on his chest.

Joan knelt and kissed Gravant’s ring, then stood before him,
hands folded, and waited patiently for him to speak. He considered her with his
chin propped on one hand. It was a long-fingered, leathery hand, much unlike
the priest’s in the chapel who did little toil. This hand belonged to a man who
hunted and rode often.

“I have had an offer of marriage for you,” Gravant said.

Joan felt faint. “An offer of marriage?”

“My lady,” the bishop said. “Have we not had a very good
offer of marriage for Joan?”

Mathilda nodded, but did not speak. Nor did she meet Joan’s
gaze. Instead, she set to work on a linen square embroidered with harebells.

Joan’s heart began to thump slowly, heavily.

“Your parents are dead, are they not?” the bishop asked.
“You have only Nat Swan who took you in, have you not?”

“Aye.”

“I do not hold your lack of standing against you,” the
bishop continued. “Indeed, it makes the man who wants you that much more
admirable that he will take you with the little Nat may offer. So, it is
settled, then. I give my approval. I think the match a fine one and will bless
it myself by officiating at the service.” The bishop curved his lips, but the
smile did not reach his eyes.

She felt numb.

Mathilda said, “I think the marriage should take place as
soon as the tournament is over—if Oswald is agreed, that is.”

Mathilda approved
.

The room tilted a moment, the bishop’s face wavered. A sick
dread filled Joan’s belly. How could she escape this?

“Call Oswald here, will you?” the bishop said to the
hovering servant.

Joan remained rigidly upright, her hands clasped before her,
trying desperately to think of how to refuse this offer with the weight of the
bishop and Mathilda behind it.

It was but a moment before Oswald entered the chamber. He
knelt and kissed the bishop’s ring, his red hair falling across his cheeks. He
then rose and bowed to Mathilda.

“Joan,” Oswald said and took her arm. “I am pleased that the
bishop and Mathilda approve our match.”

His fingers locked about her upper arm where she’d bruised
it at the fish gate. She pulled away, though the defiant gesture cost her dear.

“Forgive me, my lord Bishop,” she said, going down on her
knees before Gravant. “I am honored by this man’s kind offer, but must refuse.”

The bishop frowned. Mathilda merely looked at her blankly.

“What reason have you for refusing?” Gravant asked.

Oswald shifted at her side. She could only see his shoes,
fine leather shoes, stitched with red and yellow thread as if he were a lord.

Joan took a deep breath. “I do not wish to wed, my lord Bishop.
I wish only to serve my father in gratitude for his care of me when my parents
died.”

“Nonsense.” Mathilda tossed her head. “Nat can fend for
himself.”

“You can fend for yourself also, my lady, but you have women
devoted to your every need. I wish to devote myself to Nat’s needs.”

Oswald placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Perhaps
it is Nat we should be speaking to. I shall go and—”

“I would prefer you do not.” Joan slipped from under
Oswald’s fingers and stood up. “He will feel as Lord Guy did for our lady. Nat
will want me to choose my own husband.”

But would he? Had not Nat said ‘twas foolishness to allow a
woman to decide such an important matter?

The bishop frowned. “You are very sure of yourself. You will
find it is best if a man guides your decisions. And I find no fault with this
match. Reconcile yourself to it.”

“My lord Bishop,” Joan said. “You force me to speak more
plainly.” She could feel Oswald’s gaze upon her, but speak she must lest the
bishop prevail on Nat and doom her to a life she would abhor. “I do not need
anyone to choose my husband or point out Oswald’s advantages. I already know
what I need to know to make my decision; I know Oswald treats his dogs ill. How
a man treats his animals indicates how he will treat people. I will not have
him.”

Oswald started. “My lord Bishop, we are speaking of people,
not animals.”

The bishop nodded. “I find no fault in Oswald’s behavior,
and I have often hunted with him whilst visiting Lord Roger. You are a proud
young woman, Joan Swan. Your father and I shall decide this matter.”

Oswald displayed no animosity, but his words chilled her.
“When another is lord here, you may not be so haughty, for your father may not
be hunt master then.”

“Then I shall serve him wherever he goes.” She curtsied to
the bishop. Mathilda took her from the chamber. In the corridor, Mathilda gave
her a pat on the arm and left.

Oswald caught up with her at the bottom of the steps. He
gripped her arm and swung her about. “You insulted me before the bishop and
Lady Mathilda. It is not an attractive quality in a wife.”

Joan took a deep breath. “I cannot apologize for speaking
the truth. To do otherwise might have led you or the bishop to think I might
change my mind. I thank you for your offer of marriage, but we would never
suit. I am sure we would both be miserable. Now, I must go.”

He made a grab for her hand, but she jerked free, pain
radiating from her wrist to her shoulder.

She felt another pain when she saw Adam. He was sitting
beside Mathilda at the head table. Joan’s body, still sore from Adam’s
lovemaking, mocked her.

He is a beautiful man, she thought with regret.

Nay, he was not really beautiful. His was a hard face. One
sculpted on the battlefield. He had high cheekbones, a strong jaw, stubborn in
appearance, but his features worked in concert to draw the eye and hold it.

She had lost her virginity to a man she really did not know.
If she were honest, she knew naught of him except she had been drawn to him for
all the wrong reasons—physical ones.

The same ones that had drawn her to Brian. Luckily, Brian
had dashed cold water in her face with a few choice words. And his men had
completed the drowning of the allure by their mockery of her in the village
alehouse so long ago.

Now, in trying to save Adam’s life through her precipitous
leap into the fish pond, she had proven that the visceral pull of the man was
greater than any power Brian had ever exercised.

And like a small cinder, like one that leaps from the hearth
and makes a hole in one’s gown, every touch of Mathilda’s hand on Adam
Quintin’s sleeve burned a hole in Joan’s middle.

Mathilda. Sun to Adam’s night. Gold to his ebony
.

Mathilda’s laughter ran through the hall and straight to
Joan’s heart.

What ailed me that I thought he might want such a one as
I?
Joan thought. A woman not much above a servant? A man this compelling,
this powerful, will want his match.

Joan waited until the bishop, his clergy, and a few
faithful, left the chapel after Matins. A wind fluttered the banners on the many
tents, snapping them in a sharp staccato tap, tap. Some men, dicing before a
fire by one tent, laughed with a touch of drunkenness that made her hasten her
steps.

A woman that Joan occasionally saw in the village left one
of the tents clustered by the stables. Now that Joan knew what truly went on
between men and women, her cheeks heated.

She lingered in the shadows by the castle wall for the man
guarding Adam’s tent to walk away. Surely, he must be cold, she thought, and
would take advantage of a nearby fire to warm himself. If he did not do so
soon, she would have to approach him and seek admittance to Adam’s tent on some
pretext. That pretext escaped her.

Her wait was long, more than a quarter hour, and her hands
and feet grew cold. But her patience was rewarded. The guard stepped away,
hands to the fire, which put his back to the tent entrance—and her. She slipped
behind him and lifted the flap.

Adam turned around. His face evinced no surprise. Nor any
welcome. In his hand he held a small package the size of a meat tart. He had
just sealed it, if the wax and ring that lay nearby on the table were anything
to judge by.

“Joan,” he said. “How did you get past my guard?”

“I waited until he went to the fire.”

He frowned. “I should take you into my company. You could
slip into an enemy camp, take their measure, and none would be the wiser.”

“Oh. Will you punish him? I could not bear it if you—”

Adam clasped her outstretched hands between his. “Do not
fear I’ll draw my sword as I did at the fair. I shall merely remind him to be
vigilant. After all, if I told him you were here, it might not be to your
advantage.”

The heat of his hands warmed her, but his words cast a
different chill than that of the outdoors. Of course, this would be the second
night visit to his tent. Once did not have much meaning, but twice said far too
much. To whomever might have seen her. To him.

“I had to speak to you,” she said.

Adam held a finger to his lips, then drew her past the
partition to the back section of his tent. This space had only a brazier that
warmed the space without giving much light. The darkness added to the sense of
privacy. The scent of a man, leather, metal weaponry, and the damp furs that
covered the floor, made it a foreign place for her.

He drew her close, encircling her waist and bringing his
lips to her ear. “What is it you wish to say, Sweet Joan?”

His presence was too alluring for clear thought. She pulled
from his arms and went to the foot of his bed, warming her hands at the brazier
as his guard had done outside.

“I know you asked me to trust you,” she began. His face was
in the deepest of shadow, and she found it easier to speak now she could not
see his piercing blue eyes. “It was so easy to ask no questions, express no
concerns when we were in each others’ arms, but when we were in the hall…when
you were walking arm in arm with our lady, I could not so easily set aside the
fears I have.”

“Fears? Of what are you afraid?”

“That you toy with me. And if you do not, that you are
misled that there is some way to have this,” she swept her hand out to
encompass the castle they could not see, but within whose precincts they stood,
“without Lady Mathilda.”

He no longer looked at her. He might be in contemplation of
his boots…or be thinking of some way to explain himself. Or…he might be
stifling his anger that she did not blindly offer trust.

Then he looked up. “Come,” he said softly. He held out his
hand. A tempting, strong hand. One she could so easily take and within its
grasp, forget her cares. Yet he had held Mathilda’s hand in the hall.

She shook her head. He came to her. He locked his fingers in
hers and put her hands behind her, making her his prisoner.

His lips moved over hers, warm, firm, commanding though they
claimed her with great gentleness.

“I have taken an oath that will not allow me to say more
than these two words. Trust me.”

“An oath?” she said.

“Aye.” His lips traveled along her jawline to her ear.
“Would you have me burn in hell for breaking a sacred oath made at the feet of
the Virgin?”

Although his words were whispered, his mouth warm at her
ear, she shivered. What possible oath could he have made that would have aught
to do with Ravenswood or Mathilda?

His fingers released hers, sliding around her waist to draw
her tightly against his body.

She could not help encircling his neck. The scratch of his
beard on her throat as he kissed down to her shoulder replaced the shivers with
a flush of warmth. It sped from her breast to her loins as he moved his body
subtly against her. He left her in no doubt of his needs.

His breath had grown short, or was it hers that filled the
tent? A warmth within her became the wet heat of arousal.

She disentangled herself. “I cannot think when you do that,”
she whispered, afraid the guard might hear her. “I must be able to think.”

“Think about what?” He sat down on his bed, fingers curled
on the edge of the mattress, legs spread.

She could step between those long, muscled thighs and wrap
her arms around his head, bring it to her breast—

“Sweet Mother of God.” She swallowed hard, whirling away
from him, covering her face with her hands. She heard him stand up behind her.
He settled his hands on her shoulders and turned her. Dark as it was in this
part of the tent, this close, she could not avoid his eyes.

“What is it, Joan? Is your distress thoughts of Christopher?
Of Ivo? Or is it because I am a hated mercenary and you cannot forget it?
Cannot trust one such as I? Is this what you must be separate from me to think
on?”

How could she tell him that all thoughts of dead men and
mercenaries had fled with the ache of desire? How could she tell him Oswald
wanted to marry her?

“I thought of none of those things. I thought of how much I
wanted you just now, and then, I thought of Mathilda.” It was not completely
true.

“
Jesu
. I want you, too, Joan. Enough that I would—”
He stopped speaking.

“Enough that you would what?”

“Nothing. We speak of you, not me. What can I do, or say, to
make you trust me? Ask anything of me, save that I break my oath.”

“Tell Mathilda you are no longer a suitor for her hand.”

“That I cannot do.”

A knife-edge of pain filled Joan’s breast. “Then we have
naught to say to one another. I must go.” The words caught in her throat, they
were so hard to say. Nausea almost spilled from her lips with them. “By all the
saints, what have I done?”

“Joan, you have done naught that is wrong.”

Pain in her middle held her prisoner as much as his hands on
her shoulders.

“How can I make you understand that courting Mathilda is
part of what I must do. It may appear to be heartless, this seeking her hand,
but trust me that no wedding vows will be said between her and me. But I
must
play this game.”

Adam drew her back toward the bed, sitting down and setting
his hands on her hips, looking up at her. The brazier coals were dying and the
shadows cast by their dim glow on his face smoothed some of the hard edges of
his jaw and cheekbones.

It was a noble’s face she saw. No peasant had forged this
man. A baron’s by-blow, Brian thought—a man whose face was so fine in this
half-light she could so easily see him standing, arms crossed on the dais,
dispensing judgment beneath an ancient banner.

Did Adam work to attain the honors of Ravenswood because a
father did not acknowledge him? It was common enough. Bastards often envied
their legitimate brothers.

“Who are you?” she whispered, doing as desire dictated,
stepping within the embrace of his thighs. She slid her fingers into his thick
black hair and combed it off his face, traced the lines of his brow, his high
cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, the full curve of his lips. “Who are you?”
she repeated when he did not answer.

“A man in love.” He pressed his mouth hard against her
breast.

The flame of desire flared into a conflagration of such
need, she fisted her hands in his hair and gave a strangled cry.

Instantly, he set her aside. “We cannot do this here. Come,
perhaps if I trust
you
with a secret of mine, you will be able to trust
me.”

Curiosity warred with a need to flee.

Curiosity won.

She followed him, for he had thrown back the partition
curtain and tugged her along by the hand. He set her to one side of the tent
flap and pressed his finger to his lips. He took a step outside, and she heard
him speak to the guard, though his words were indistinguishable.

A few moments later, he was back. He picked up a black
mantle lined in black fur, and wrapped her in it. “Hide your face,” he
cautioned her.

He took her hand and led her out of the tent. The guard
stood with his back to them, and she realized Adam must have told him he had a
guest he preferred to remain anonymous. She kept the great hood of his mantle
close about her face.

To her utter surprise, he took her to the crypt. The low
ceilings in the crypt and the many souls resting here caused her to shiver
despite the heavy weight of his cloak.

“Adam, what is this?” she asked in disbelief when he lifted
a section of the floor.

“A simple key and a canny hinge. Nothing magic, nothing to
fear. Follow me.”

And she did. She held his sleeve and stumbled after him,
tripping on uneven stones in the meager light of the candle, his mantle’s hem
dragging behind her.

“Stay here.” He smiled when she shook her head. “Nothing
will harm you; I just want to close the trapdoor lest anyone see where we’ve
gone.”

Reluctantly, she let go of his sleeve. It had been an
ordinary key he had held in his hand, one she’d seen about his neck the night
Matthew had leapt upon him in the river.

So, he had this key in his possession on the first day at
Ravenswood. That meant he had been inside this castle. Or knew someone who had.

“Follow me,” he said. It was less a command than a request,
and he waited for her compliance.

“As you wish,” she said. “I have come this far—I must
confess to a curiosity that will not allow me to turn back.”

But she held his arm tightly lest he disappear into one of
the dark archways they passed as they walked along a corridor with smooth, rock
walls, not made by nature, but hewn by man.

“What is this place?” she asked.

“I believe it was part of an old Roman fortress at one time.
There’s a honeycomb of corridors down here. Most have collapsed, but this one,
with its vaulted ceiling seems to have lasted. There is but one chamber I wish
you to see, the others being empty and naught but cold cells suitable for
storing foodstuff.”

“Where does this end? And how did you know this was here?
Where did the key come from?”

“It ends at the river. As to how I know of its existence—”
He hesitated. “I found the other end—a cave—by the river while exploring the
castle’s defenses. I could see no man had come through here for many years by
the amount of dirt and debris lying about. As for the key, that was hanging on
a simple hook on the back of the door to the crypt.”

There was a note to his tale that told her it was not all of
the story, but all she would get this day.

He led her forward and then stopped at an arched opening not
much different from the others they’d passed.

“Take my candle and follow the path,” he said.

With only a slight hesitation, she took the candle from his
hand, looking down. There she did see a path—a mosaic way crafted untold
hundreds of years before. She held the candle aloft, fascinated now. She set
foot on the path. Hand at her elbow, he led her forward. She had an impression
of walls coated in blues and greens, foliage and animals, but had no time to see
much more before they had left the room for another corridor. This one was
narrower than the one leading from the crypt, its walls crumbled in places,
roots protruding from the ceiling.

He led her along more corridors, each one successively more
deteriorated in condition the farther they walked. They passed into a cave. It
was concealed by a thick mat of roots that hung like a curtain across its back.

Lifting the roots aside, he lighted another candle he took
from a crevasse in the rocks. They passed through three more caves, climbing
over rubble and past twisted roots that had come through the earth from above,
perhaps over hundreds of years. Finally, she saw a gleam of light and smelled
fresh air.

They were high above the river, but under an overhang. One
needed to squeeze between two boulders to see the water.

“Oh my,” she said softly. “This is where you were swimming
that first night.”

“Aye.” He set his hands on her shoulders and pointed.
“There’s a shallow spot there, a place where the water is still.”

They stood together, looking up at the moon. Its light
bathed his upturned face. She was struck again by the certainty he was not of
peasant stock.

He led her back through the maze of caves to the brilliantly
tiled chamber. This time, he walked her about the perimeter, his candle held
aloft, and she gasped with wonder at the lovely mosaic work that allowed the
room to feel like a woodland bower.

They stood before a simple altar. There were many candles on
it, and he lighted them all. Many were candles marked to tell the passage of
time. Who had placed them here?

When the chamber was ablaze, she gazed up at a very
realistic-looking, and very naked, woman whose hand was on the shoulder of a
bowing stag.