LordoftheHunt (27 page)

There was a pathetic, wistful manner to his speech.

“So, she contrived to make us appear unfaithful wretches.
What changed her mind to murder?”

Francis gripped his arm. “Say not that word. It was not my
fault. I am sorry the minstrel died, but when Mathilda disappeared from the
fair—”

“Disappeared?” Adam wondered where the woman had gone.

“Aye. She disappeared,” Francis’ voice choked on the words.
“Mother was enraged. She knew Mathilda was not with de Harcourt. He never left
the fair, nor did any others except you. Only you. We paid Mathilda’s maid to—”

“Spy on her mistress?”

Francis nodded and closed his eyes. Adam tapped the arrow
and the boy moaned, clutching Adam’s hand. Joan made a small, inarticulate
sound of protest.

“What did the maid say?”

“She saw stains on Mathilda’s clothes and marks on her
thighs and—and she said her lady went missing sometimes. Times when only you
could not be found.”

Joan looked up at him. Her eyes glistened with tears. One
spilled over and fell on her breast. Her hand went to her waist. Her gaze was
so full of sorrow, Adam felt it within his breast as if a blade were twisting
there.

He wanted to reassure her that he and Mathilda had never
made love, but could not. He wanted to remind Joan that when he had
disappeared, he was often with her.

“Mother knew the only way to ensure that Mathilda picked me
was to…kill you.”

“And since you were already hunting Joan for Oswald, killing
me just fit the day’s amusements.”

“Where is he?” Francis’ voice grew sulky. “This is his
fault.” He gasped, more from fear than pain. “Nay. This is Mother’s fault.”

Although Adam was sure he knew the answer, he asked it
anyway. “Why did the bishop want Mathilda to choose you?”

“I’m his son.” Francis’ voice dropped as if his end was
truly nigh. “My mother wants Ravenswood for me. Lord Charles knows I’m not his
son. He swears he’ll leave me naught but an old quarry. One tin mine.” He gripped
Adam’s hand and beckoned him close. “It is right the bishop see to me, is it
not?”

Adam nodded. “Another son,” he said aloud. To himself, he
added,
Another son who wanted property before his time.

Joan limped away into the lush greenery. Adam had but one
more question to ask.

“Remember your immortal soul, young Francis. Answer this
truthfully. By what means did Gravant intend to make Mathilda choose you? And
why didn’t your mother believe in it?”

Francis clutched Adam’s hand and closed his eyes. He did not
speak for several moments, moments in which Adam thought Joan might be walking
out of his life.

“There’s a man in the dungeon Mathilda cares about. But my
mother is not so sure Mathilda cares for anyone but herself.”

The boy fell silent, sketching a shaky sign of the cross on
his breast. He began a rambling discourse on his venial sins but Adam had no
more time for them.

He leapt to his feet and ran into the trees after Joan. She
had not walked far. Indeed, she leaned against a tree, back to him, her green
gown striped with damp, her head down.

Certain that words would not be sufficient, he pulled her
into his embrace.

“I love you, Joan Swan,” he said softly. “But will you
believe me?”

She braced the heels of her hands against his chest and
shoved at him. “Let me go. You questioned that boy when he is near to dying—”

“He’s no more near death than Hugh is. I had to make Francis
believe in his death, or he’d have told me nothing.”

Still, she strained against his embrace. “Why did he need to
tell you anything?”

“Because Christopher died in my place. That is reason
enough.”

Adam bound Francis’ feet with a twist of vines so he could
do naught but hobble along. Then he marched the boy to the hunting lodge. Joan
rode on Francis’ horse, which had not run far. Her thigh wound throbbed. Her
head did too.

True to Adam’s assessment, Francis no longer appeared near
death. He had reverted to the behavior of a sulky boy. She was sure his wound
needed tending, but she felt less sympathy for him now. He had murdered the
minstrel who’d done naught but bring joy to everyone’s lives, and for nothing
more than his resemblance to Adam.

She pulled the lodge door open to admit Francis and Adam.
She laid a fire in the hearth and then tended Francis’ wound as best she could,
washing it and tying it up in strips of clean linen from her underdress while
Adam secured him to the bed with rope he found in a chest.

Adam insisted on kneeling before her and lifting her skirt.

His hands were gentle as he removed the wrappings on her
wound, now crusted with blood. It oozed a bit, but looked better than she’d
expected. He gave her privacy as she pulled off her mantle and overgown, to
remove the shredded remains of her underdress.

The woolen gown was scratchy against her skin but the linen
underdress must serve for more bandages. Adam secured them for her, his hands
gentle and warm on her skin.

Adam checked Francis’ bonds. The boy jerked on his ropes.
“You can’t leave me here.”

“Aye, I can.” Adam grabbed Francis by the tunic, unheeding
of his wound. “You left Christopher to drown. I have no sympathy for your minor
discomforts.”

In the road, Joan shut her mind to Francis’ cries.

“I wonder where Oswald has gone,” Joan said.

“To ground if he’s not a fool. When I find him, I shall skin
him with his own knives.”

She shivered.

“Forgive me.” He scooped her into his arms. He remembered
carrying her back to Ravenswood another time. Only a few days ago, yet it felt
like a lifetime. “I’m going to saddle a horse for you when we get back. You’re
coming to Winchester with me.”

“Why?”

“At first, I wanted you to go to Winchester to carry my
letters. Then I realized you would be safe there. I still believe that.”

She laid her head on his shoulder. It was a trusting
gesture.

“I never made love to Mathilda. When I disappeared I was
often making love to you.”

She nodded. “Of course. It seems I’m forever doubting you.”

“I cannot allow the bishop to rule here. And anyone he
chooses for Mathilda will allow the bishop to rule.” It was but half the truth.
It pained him to be bound by his oath.

“The bishop sides with Prince Louis, does he not? It is the
reason you must send letters to Winchester. To alert them?”

He kissed her forehead. “You are a canny woman. Aye, the
bishop sides with Louis. I haven’t enough time to ride to Winchester and return
in secret in time for the tournament, but I can return afterward and openly lay
siege. You must come with me. I must know you are safe.”

Joan sighed. “I wish I understood this need men have for a
pile of stone. Men are so willing to die for
places
.”

She watched a rueful smile twist his beautiful mouth. “Put
that way, it sounds rather empty, does it not?”

“Staging a battle is not much different from a hunt—or a
tournament. By the time you ride to Winchester and back, the tournament will
have begun. Every man in the castle will be armed, ready, mounted,” she said.
“They will have little trouble shifting from a staged melee to a real one. And
with you gone, the bishop will be suspicious. He’ll be on guard.”

Joan wriggled out of his arms. She stood in the path, her
dark eyes blazed with indignation. “The bishop will win! Adam, you could take
Ravenswood
tonight
. During Matins.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Will not every man be in their cups, boasting, puffing
himself up for the tournament on the morrow? There will be song and merriment.

“I’ve attended enough feasts to know that few will miss the
opportunity to drink deeply of the bishop’s wine. The women will retreat into
the solar. And the bishop, who must maintain a semblance of piety, will attend
Matins with his priests.”

Adam nodded. “And during Matins, they will be separated from
the soldiery.”

“And you can surround the keep at that time—”

“With what army?” he interrupted.

“Mine.”

Adam carried Joan straight to her cottage. He placed her on
the fur-covered couch and knelt at her side. He did as he once wished, he drew
a fur up to her chin and kissed her lips. “Are you sure? Do you truly believe
your father is able?”

“Aye,” she said, against his lips. “I’ll take half the dogs,
he can take the rest. We’ll come a quarter hour after the bells have sounded
for Matins.”

She kissed him again and he left her. He went to the kennels
first. There, sitting at a barrel, drinking ale with one of his men, sat
Oswald.

Adam drew his sword. The hiss of the blade from the scabbard
sent Oswald stumbling to his feet.

“One would not suspect you had spent your day hunting a
woman down like an animal.”

Oswald held out his hands. “Nay, I swear, I was searching
for her because Nat was concerned.”

“Did you know we saw the legendary stag?”

His red hair flew as he violently shook his head.

“We did. If one draws a bow on it, ‘tis said to be bad luck.
I believe Francis de Coucy must have drawn his bow.”

Oswald’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes locked on
the sword blade as Adam swept it back and forth through the air as if testing
its weight.

“What is it you want?” Oswald asked.

“Order your huntsmen, fewterers, and kennel lads to join
with Nat Swan’s. Take yourself from Ravenswood this hour, on foot, or I will
see you tried in William Marshal’s court as an accomplice to an attempt to
murder me—a valuable knight in service to the king—whereas you are but a worm
who mistreats his dogs.”

Oswald did as bidden. It pleased Adam to watch Oswald’s men
and lads congratulate themselves on their good fortune at joining Nat’s
company.

The rest depended on Joan—and Nat.

* * * * *

Adam approached the chapel just before the bells for Matins
sounded. He watched the pious hypocrisy of the bishop as he led in his clergy
and a few other faithful. When everyone was inside, Adam gently set the bar in
place. It would not hold them long, but the dogs would see to them anon.

With slow strides as if he might be drunk, Adam mounted the
keep steps, carrying an earthen jug of ale. The guard gave him a cursory
inspection, then ignored him.

Adam leaned his forearms on the step railings beside the man
and drank steadily from his jug.

“
Mon Dieu
,” the guard whispered.

Adam followed his gaze. “
Mon Dieu
, indeed,” Adam whispered.

An army of dogs flowed in a silent stream across the bailey,
coming, he knew, from the crypt. They moveded silently across the cobbles, one
line encircling the stone church.

Leading the pack was Joan. She clasped her hands across her
breast and bowed her head. The dogs went on guard. Anyone who left the crypt
would rue the day.

At the great gates, another army advanced from the kennels.
This one led by Nat. Interspersed in Nat’s army were the huntsmen, the
fewterers, the kennel lads. They carried their bows loose in their hands as if
returning from a hunt.

Although men on guard at tents watched them, they did not
perceive the threat. Several sat down and went back to work. Though the hour
was late, dogs and huntsmen were a common enough sight.

As Nat’s army advanced, men in black slipped from the tents
around Adam’s and joined the hunters. These were his men, his mercenaries.

The guard beside Adam took a step forward when Joan reached
the steps. He drew his sword, speechless. Joan walked up the steps, the old
lymer at her side. Adam lifted his jug and brought it down on the guard’s head.
He dropped like a stone.

At the door, Joan curtsied to Adam, and at the same time,
gave the sign to guard.

Basil set his legs, head and body stiff, over the sentry.

With a nod to Joan, Adam pulled the hall doors open. Light
and sound spilled around him. Joan swept her hand out and the dogs ran by her
in a swift and beautiful phalanx. The lymers led.

The flow of dogs swept the perimeter of the hall.

The hunters were carried in on the tide. Every man and boy
held his bow half drawn by the time he reached the hall doors. When Adam walked
into the hall, several warriors had made a halfhearted effort to resist, but
they were faced with a ring of archers and silent dogs.

A hush fell on the assembly. The women cowered back near the
hearth. Adam nodded at Hugh, who stood at Mathilda’s side. Hugh turned and
spoke to the lady. The two slipped from the dais and into the throng of
servants. They must fend for themselves.

Adam spoke with the same authority and force he used before
any battle. “Choose,” he said. “King Henry needs you.”

No one moved. Roger Artois spat upon the floor.

Brian de Harcourt bowed and grinned. Moments later, his men
had joined the huntsmen on the perimeter, but did not draw arms until Adam gave
a sign anyone in the hall might recognize—clasping Brian’s hand. With one long
hiss, de Harcourt’s men drew swords and daggers.

Confusion broke out. Women screamed. Men realized they were
trapped by a force of more than one hundred—hounds. Some men drew their swords.
Some acquiesced without a murmur when Joan and Adam gave the snarling dogs the
signal to guard.

Those animals who were not trained, all of Oswald’s and some
of Nat’s, milled and barked, frenzied in a way the others were not. They
frightened more than the silent guard dogs.

Adam walked slowly to the dais and bowed to Lady Claris, and
the suitors by her side.

He took his grandfather’s sword from the wall. “I take this
castle in the name of King Henry,” he said.

Lady Claris quivered with anger. “The bishop will see you
hanged for this.” But her eyes were not on Adam’s face, they were on something
over his shoulder.

Adam turned. Roger Artois rushed him, sword drawn. Adam met
him, his grandfather’s sword comfortable in his hand.

Roger fought well, but with wild emotion. Adam fought with
the same cold deliberation he’d used to work his way from a simple
tuppence-a-day mercenary to a knight.

It was simple work to force the man back to the wall, for
Roger fought without reason, slashing without control. Adam parried the blows.
He wanted Roger alive.

The man gave a ferocious yell and lunged. Adam’s sword slid
down the length of Roger’s blade so they were hilt to hilt. With practiced
ease, Adam twisted his blade over until Roger screamed and dropped his weapon.

Hand to his wrist, Roger spat at Adam. Then he crumpled to
the floor. Behind him, one of Nat’s huntsmen stood with a grin. He dropped the
length of wood he’d used to lay the man out.

“Bind him,” Adam ordered. He surveyed the chamber. A few men
made halfhearted efforts to fight. But the archers loosed a hail of arrow over
their heads and many dropped their weapons.

A stinging blow caught Adam’s wrist. He wheeled about and
saw Lady Claris dashing away from the dais, an eating dagger in her hand. He
reached out and snatched her gown by the back. Stitches tore open, but her gown
held as he pulled her in close.

“You will pay for your sins,” he said to her.

She snarled like a wild beast. Another kind of snarling
joined hers. She went stiff in Adam’s arms, heaving and gasping for air.

“She’ll not move,” Joan said, unleashing a pair of alaunts.

A shout at the hall door told Adam the chapel hounds had
failed in their work. Gravant burst into the hall. Only a few men were with him.
The bishop shouted for order.

No one obeyed. Those not intimidated by the snarling,
barking dogs were held immobile by the archers.

Gravant strode through the hall, Oswald Red-hair at his
side. Adam realized he should have escorted Oswald off Ravenswood Manor
himself. While the bishop ordered the dogs and archers out, Oswald veered to
the hearth and snatched down the Viking blade.

He came at Adam swinging. Oswald’s blows rang against the
metal of his grandfather’s sword. The old sword could not sustain much more
before it broke. Then a pack of dogs rushed through the tables. They surged
like an ocean of flesh toward the hearth, silent, teeth bared. Oswald was
engulfed.

Joan ran to Adam and buried her face against his mailed
chest. “They were not my dogs. They didn’t obey me.”

It was Nat who stopped the dogs from savaging their master.

“Don’t look,” Adam warned Joan, pulling her away from the
carnage of a man who mistreated his animals.

“Bind every man,” Adam said to his men. “Take them to the
dungeons, or the cells beneath the gatehouse. There they can remain until we
sort out who is loyal to King Henry and who is not.” He grabbed Douglas’ arm.
“Find a young man named Del while you’re searching out cells. Take him to the
physician and leave Roger and Lady Claris in his place. And this one,” Adam
pointed to the bishop, “his rank demands he have a cell all his own.”