LordoftheHunt (24 page)

He dared because he knew more of her body than her soul.

She dropped the awl and leash, wiped her tears, and slipped
her feet into the low boots she wore when hunting, lacing them with sharp jerks
of her hands. “I’ll make him see reason. I care nothing for what is in his
parcel of papers.”

She paused, one boot half laced. “Indeed, I saw naught to
make me believe him a traitor either.”

Once, malicious, false gossip at the alehouse caused her
untold pain. “This time, I’ll defend myself, by myself, to the very man who
accuses me.

“I shall demand he tell me for whom he works—King Henry or
Prince Louis. If it be for King Henry, then I shall tell him his letters
opened,” she had a momentary pang of guilt, “by my rough handling, not through
some deliberate intention to read them. I shall tell him to trust me.”

She latched the door and faced the black tent. Her stomach
felt as if a thousand fleas leapt about in it. “And if he says Prince Louis, I
shall simply say…the same thing. For it is the truth. I cannot believe he works
against our king.” To herself, she wondered which truth she most feared to
learn—that he conspired with Prince Louis or that he made love to Lady Claris.

* * * * *

Adam shoved the seal ring and his package of letters far
back into the crumbling mortar over the crypt door. How could he have made such
a mistake about a woman?

He dusted off his hands, and left the crypt for the stable.
A dog walked past him and, unthinking, he slapped his hand on his thigh,
fingers stiff and together. The dog ignored him, continued on his way, marking
the corner of the crypt wall.

It was how he felt—pissed on.

Something wet nosed his hand. He turned and saw Basil. And
Nat behind him.

“Quintin, I just wanted to thank you again for finding old
Basil.” Nat grinned. “He’s more son than work dog, he is. And I want to thank
you for the money. For Joan going to Winchester. She’s a good girl, isn’t she?”

Nat’s words penetrated Adam’s fury.

“Well, we’re off, aren’t we?” Nat whistled and headed toward
the kennels.

Basil gave a soft woof. Adam put his hand down, fingers
together, and Basil went stiff on all fours, then sat, poised like a sentry
awaiting an order.

Joan was a good girl.

She’d entrusted him with her secret hand signals, her
worries. Her body. Her heart.

“Basil, I’m a fool. What does Joan care of kings and
castles?” The dog did not move. “Off with you, now, I’ve some groveling to do.”
Adam gave the release signal and watched the old dog bound after Nat with a
limping stride.

“Quintin?” The bishop’s deacon stepped in front of him as he
rounded his tent.

“Good day, Father.” He veered around the man and kept
walking.

The deacon hurried after him. “The bishop wishes a word,
sir, before you gather your men for the tournament. Would you be so kind as to
accompany me?”

Adam gritted his teeth, his eyes on Joan’s cottage. “Can it
wait? An hour?”

“I believe not.” The deacon slid his hands up into his wide
sleeves and raised his eyebrows. “The bishop insists. He’s seeing to the
security of the gatehouse. This way.”

Weapons were stored in the gatehouse. Adam hesitated. Joan’s
cottage beckoned, but so did the opportunity to count crossbows and estimate
numbers of quarrels.

He followed the deacon. They waited near the great stone
gate as two carts pulled by oxen and stacked high with barrels of ale for the
feast lumbered across the drawbridge.

The deacon opened a wooden door in the castle wall that Adam
knew led in several directions, up to the wall walk, down to punishment cells
and the guards’ quarters, and finally, to a pair of storage rooms for weapons.

Adam felt a surge of satisfaction as the deacon flung open
the door to one of the storage rooms and entered. Adam followed. He turned to
close the door, and his world went black.

Joan saw the deacon and Adam walk toward the great gates.
She hurried to catch them. She dodged two large carts of ale kegs, and ignored
several women from the village who called her name. At the gatehouse, the deacon
and Adam entered without challenge. Joan halted, unsure what to do. She must
speak to Adam, but hesitated to ask for him of the guards.

“Joan? Why are you not with your father?” Oswald fell into
step with her.

A wood carver’s stall drew her eye. “I wanted to have a last
look over these wares,” she lied and feigned interest in a small dog. It was a
canny likeness and she wished for the pennies to buy it.

Oswald wore his hunting green. Two of his greyhounds sat at
his heel while he waited on her. She examined several other carvings of birds
while keeping the gatehouse door in view.

Carts and horsemen, servants and villagers passed back and
forth through the gate in preparation for the tournament. In the fields along
the river, she could make out men whom she assumed were squires or servants.
They erected wooden barriers to mark a place for each suitor.

She saw splashes of bright color and realized each area flew
the suitors’ banners as each claimed his territory.

In the enclosures the men would regroup, rest, repair armor,
and gloat over conquests.

Oswald showed no sign of leaving her. He stepped back to
avoid splashing mud from a great cart piled with ale kegs, but he took up his
post beside her when the lumbering oxen passed.

She glanced about the many stalls clustered near the gates,
looking for an excuse to linger.

“Your father has annoyed the bishop,” Oswald said.

“What?” she jerked her attention from the gatehouse to
Oswald. His pale blue eyes watched her with a slight smile.

“A huntsmen came into the kennels and said he saw this stag
with antlers of at least twenty tines. Your father questioned him closely as to
the exact location of the beast and then went after it. Alas, his orders were
to take deer for the feast.”

“He’d not do such a thing,” she said, but heard the doubt in
her voice. Once she might have stated what Nat would do with complete
assurance, now, she might be wrong.

“I’ll be gathering my men in another hour for the deer hunt,
but your father muttered something about this stag of legend and went off. The
bishop was quite annoyed when he came to ask if he could join Nat’s huntsmen.
I, of course, assured him he was welcome in my party.”

Joan dropped the carved dog in her hand. She left Oswald and
walked to the kennel as quickly as she could without arousing suspicion. She
refused to allow Oswald to see her agitation. Adam should have been in the
kennel with Nat. Instead, he was in the gatehouse, and she must find her
father.

She interrupted two kennel lads in their sweeping. “Have you
seen my father?”

“Nay,” one said. The other shook his head.

She went through the stalls that separated the dogs. Basil
lay on his bed rack, safe at home where he belonged. She knelt by the lymer and
examined his paw.

Her mind seethed with questions. Had Adam taken Basil to
curry her favor? Was Nat out in the hills chasing a legend?

With a final stroke to Basil’s head, she rose and shook out
her skirts. She looked over the ranks of dogs and saw the young lymer, Matthew,
was missing. In the rows of hanging bows and quivers, stood an empty hook. Her
father’s.

“If the bishop hunts with Oswald, if Nat fails to make the
hunt, we are doomed.”

She ran back to the cottage, ignoring Oswald, who called out
her name. She threw off the traveling gown and pulled on her hunting green.
Taking up her bow and quiver of arrows, she ran for the stable. There, she
saddled a mare.

As she passed through the castle gates, she looked again at
the gatehouse door. Was Adam still there? She must explain herself to him. But
first, she must find Nat and set him back on his duties.

Beyond the castle gates, Joan wove her way through the
carters and servants who prepared for the next day’s tournament. The massive
numbers of men and horses filled her with dread. It looked as much as if a
battle were to be fought in Ravenswood’s fields as it did a mock challenge of
arms.

But as she cantered up into the hills, she wondered at the
great amounts of venison the bishop wanted. It could not all be eaten at one
day’s feast. Were the suitors to linger?

She dreaded the thought. Dreaded the idea Mathilda intended
to choose Adam. Just as her mind shied from thoughts of Adam making love to
Lady Claris, so her mind revolted from images of Mathilda and Adam entwined in
a lover’s embrace.

As she entered the area where the hunters drove deer, she
saw only Mathilda and Adam in the lady’s fine bed, the hangings let down to
ensure privacy while they made love.

Joan knew the skill with which Adam made love. The thoughts
brought a pain to her chest like no other.

* * * * *

Adam woke to find himself on the floor of a straw-strewn
cell. His head throbbed. When he moved, chains rattled. Attached to his wrist
was a wide iron manacle.

The cell door opened. Torchlight dazzled Adam’s eyes. Bishop
Gravant stood in the open doorway. “You have proved a nuisance, Quintin.”

Adam tried to rise, but found his chains prevented it.

“I shall not bandy words with you, Quintin. I want the
ring.”

To reveal the location of the ring was to reveal the
location of the secret entrance through the crypt. He would be giving up more
than just Louis’ ring. Physical pain did not concern him. Honor did.

“I want Mathilda. When shall we arrange the exchange?” Adam
tested the length of his chain. The bishop stood just beyond his reach.

“That simple? I give you Mathilda, you give me the ring?”

“That simple.”

“This says you intend to keep the ring and refuse her
bargain.”

The bishop tossed something at Adam’s feet. It was the note
he’d sent Mathilda.

“If you read it, you know I did not refuse her. I simply
refused to give up the ring. I’m not a complete fool.”

“How so?”

“What reason does she have to honor the bargain if I give up
the ring? So, I hid it away.”

“And if I say you can have Mathilda?”

Joan would cringe to hear them bargain over her lady. “I’ll
slip the ring on her finger as I wed her. You’ll not get it sooner.”

The bishop paced in the narrow corridor outside the cell for
a few moments, then called for the guard who minded the cells. The guard
unlocked Adam’s manacle.

When the man retreated to his post, Gravant said, “I’m not a
fool either. I’ll want more than the ring to give her over to you. I’ve had
wealth beyond your imaginings offered for Mathilda’s hand. De Harcourt, alone,
offers a king’s ransom.”

Adam assumed this further bargaining was simply to conceal
how much the ring meant to the bishop.

“Let us be clear. I know de Harcourt’s worth. We shared our
prospective offers,” he lied. “I know pound for pound what Mathilda is worth to
him. But I agree you should be amply rewarded for turning over the jewel of
England’s heiresses to a nameless mercenary.”

“What do you offer then? Beyond the ring, that is?”

“Whatever I need to. I’ll not be outbid by the likes of
Artois or de Harcourt.” He rattled off a list of manors and stated a sum of
silver de Harcourt and Artois could not hope to amass even if they put their
fortunes together.

Gravant tapped his finger on his chin. “You can deliver that
sum? When?”

“The day after I consummate the vows.”

Gravant wrinkled his nose as if he had just noticed his
surroundings. “I will hold you to this bargain. I shall perform the wedding
ceremony, and if you do not put the ring on her finger upon the vows, one of my
men will put a dagger between your ribs.”

He turned away. Adam followed the bishop up from the
punishment cells. The man’s long robes dusted the stairs with every step.

Adam reflected on the bargain he’d made with the bishop.
Adam’s first thought, that the moment he said his vows and slid the ring on
Mathilda’s finger, he’d receive a dagger between the ribs anyway, or poison in
his wedding wine during the feast, gave way to others ideas.

Did the bishop plan the consummation of the vows so he could
collect not only the ring, but also Adam’s bride offer?

And Mathilda, the widow, could wed again in a few days, to
one of the suitors on the bishop’s list, reaping another fortune for the
Gravant.

Adam imagined the second wedding would wait upon the
departure of his men—with his body—whereupon the castle would be closed.

Thoughts of Joan trapped at Ravenswood brought a holy chill
to his vitals. Could he make amends suitable enough to persuade her to
Winchester again? Or was it too late?

If she refused, he would go to Nat. Nat must take her
away—perhaps ride into the hills to hunt and just keep going.

And if Joan refused to go to Winchester, Adam knew he must
go himself—within the hour if any good were to come of it.

His steps carried him to the kennels.

* * * * *

Joan rode along the defile without seeing any sign of Nat.
Confusion filled her. Why would her father be out here, chasing after a legend?
And if he was not, where was he?

Her horse went down beneath her. She rolled away from the
flailing hooves and lay stunned on her back, staring up at the blue sky
overhead.

The horse thrashed until she regained her feet. An arrow
protruded from the mare’s shoulder. She bolted.

Joan cried out and tried to regain her feet. But it was too
late, the horse was gone. She knelt in the path and cursed the archer.

An arrow slapped into a nearby tree trunk. And another.

“Joan,” called a voice. “Stand where you are.”

She froze in place.

Oswald came around a tree, dressed in green, a bow in his
hands. “There must be a poacher about.”

He tried to take her arm. She slipped out of his grasp.

“This is nonsense, Joan. Let me help you, you’re limping.”
He put out his hand. “Perhaps it is Nat who shot the arrows.”

Joan turned to run. “You’re the only man I see with a bow.”

“Except me,” said Francis de Coucy. He stepped into her path
and said to Oswald, “I told you she’d run after her father.”

* * * * *

Adam saw Nat with three of his huntsmen in a friendly
argument about the preference of ladies for a decorative lapdogs over a
dependable hunting dog.

Several of the running hounds jumped up against the
partition walls and greeted Adam. He recognized many of them now and saw the
individuality of their markings, the set of their ears, and the way they moved
their heads.

Hugh strode into the kennel from the run, his arm swathed in
a fanciful yellow cloth Adam imagined had come from Mathilda.

“Are you looking for Joan?” Hugh asked, putting out his hand
for one of the dogs to sniff.

“Why?”

“You spend too much time here for one who is a rather
indifferent hunter, and also for one who courts the lady.”

“I thought you encouraged me to seek the huntress.”

“She’s kind, generous, lushly made,” Hugh said softly.
“She’s well loved, or so I hear from gossip. I grant you she’s not so lovely as
Lady Mathilda, but still, she’s quite pretty in her own way.”

Hugh took Adam’s arm and led him away from Nat and his
huntsmen, out into the run. No dogs raced around the green space. A servant
trimmed the grass along the fencing with long, slow sweeps of his scythe.

“Look, I’ve a confession to make,” Hugh said. “And it’s got
to be made immediately. I fear if I fall in the tournament,” he touched his
injured arm, “I’ll die with the sin on my soul. I’m in love, and just thinking
of the woman is a betrayal of you and our friendship.”

Suddenly, the air around them went cold. Hugh loved Joan?

“I’m in love with Mathilda,” Hugh said.

Adam stared at Hugh’s craggy features. “The devil you say.”
But he read the truth in Hugh’s eyes.

“Let me think,” Adam said. He leaned on the fencing and
watched the bustling activity centered on the next day’s tournament: Men honed
weapons; grooms polished hooves and plaited manes and tails; women stitched
rents in caparisons and banners; two carts of ale kegs were being maneuvered
alongside the steps up into the hall.

If he was to take the castle by stealth, he needed to be
inside. If he went to Winchester, he, or William Marshal, must lay siege. Until
his conversation with the bishop, he’d been sure only a siege would result if
his team needed to forfeit the tournament. Now, he was not so sure. “Hugh,” he
said. “I think Mathilda will make you miserable, but I’ll see the two of you
wed if you but offer me one service. Consider it your penance.”

“Anything.”

“Take Joan and her father, if you can persuade him, to
Winchester.”

“You’ll forfeit the tournament.”

“You’re not fit to ride, anyway. If you were injured, I’d
never forgive myself. Now do as I ask. Now. This minute. I may forfeit, but I
may still find a way to linger here.” If the bishop really wanted his bribe and
the ring, the man would need to contrive some way to allow Adam to stay, if
only as a spectator.

And if Joan delivered his letter to John d’Erley, all might
not be lost. “Go, find Joan, and persuade her to leave.”

“I’d be happy to do so, but Joan’s not here.”

“Not here?” Adam rounded on his friend. “What do you mean?”

“I saw her ride off with her bow on her back.” Hugh frowned.
“If she’s hunting, who knows when she might return.”

Adam strode past his friend into the kennels and grabbed one
of the kennel lads by the sleeve. “Is your mistress hunting?” he asked.

The boy bobbed his head. “Aye. Oswald Red-hair spotted a
stag with antlers this big.” The boy stretched out his arms. “‘Tis said it’s
the one from the legends.”