LordoftheHunt (16 page)

Realizing he was the favored one for this fleeting moment,
he sat down and accepted a cup of wine she passed to him. He hoped Joan was
able to trust that his attentions to Mathilda were all part of a game he must
play.

“Were your own parents well suited?” Mathilda asked.

Lady Claris interrupted him before he could speak. “It is
not a matter of suiting each other. You are very young, my lady, but surely you
know a marriage must first be one that extends and enhances one’s properties
and strength. Therein lies the suitability.”

“I must agree with you, my lady.” Adam lifted his cup to the
older woman. “But there must be some equality in temperament and nature, or
some complement at least, else days like this will be weary.”

“Aye,” Mathilda said. “One may find oneself in one’s
storeroom performing chores that have no purpose.”

Hugh, listening to the conversation, took a step closer. “I
would think you have servants enough to tend to your needs.”

Adam frowned at the abrupt tone of Hugh’s voice.

“I think you need to take a turn in the fresh air, my lord,”
Mathilda said. “You’ve been too long confined.”

Hugh bowed. “I will do just that now Joan Swan informs me
the rain has ended. Perhaps I shall help her search for her missing dog.”

“You will miss the love court,” Mathilda said.

Adam quailed inside.
Love court?
Then his thoughts
scattered. Brian, not Hugh, was escorting Joan from the hall. The rain was
done. When the guard flung the two doors wide, Adam looked upon a sky streaked
with a fine autumn’s sunset.

* * * * *

Joan could not refuse Brian’s offer to see her to the
kennels. What possessed her to think she could speak with Mathilda in the hall?
And Nat had not appeared.

As they walked, Joan explained about the missing lymer.

“I’ll ask my men if they’ve seen the dog. A well-trained
animal is always noticed,” Brian said.

“He’s the sire of the pup we nursed,” she said. “The spring
Richard died.”

“I remember. You sat up all night with the pathetic thing.”

She nodded. “Aye. I was sure he would die, too.”

“I remember more of that night.” Brian led her away from the
kennels toward the stone path through the old garden. “May I be so bold as to
give you a warning?”

Everyone had warnings for her, it seemed.

Joan sat on one of the marble benches. The setting sun cast
gold lights through his chestnut curls. He was a handsome man—had been two
years ago. Now, lines had formed about his mouth. They gave him a melancholy
look when he did not smile. He was not smiling now.

“What warning do I need?” she asked.

“That night you nursed the pup, ‘twas the same night we
learned Richard was dead.”

A lump filled her throat. “Aye. Mathilda was frantic—I could
hear her wails from here.”

“We went too far that night, you and I.”

“Brian—”

“Nay, let me finish. You offered me comfort and in the
morning, lying in the straw with you, that damned pup between us, I lied to
you.”

She examined his face for guile.

“I lied when I said you were not good enough to wed, that
you were only good enough to be a mistress, and that you were wanton to tempt
me with your kisses.”

“Stop this.” She stood up, her skin suddenly hot.

“Please, sit down.” He set his hand on her shoulder. She had
no choice but to obey. To try to break from his grip would attract the
attention of the sentry who was looking down on them from the ramparts.

“I lied in that I really wanted to wed you, to do as Richard
had sworn he would. But unlike Richard, I had not the courage in here,” he
touched his chest, “to defy
my
father…or hurt my friend.”

He held out his hand to her. She ignored it. After a moment,
he dropped it to his side and continued. “I had my opportunity with you that
night when we nursed the pup and shed our tears over Richard, but I lost it. I
hurt you. I’ve always wanted to tell you I was sorry.”

“It was two years ago.” She looked off to where the old
kennels had stood, swamped by memories, none of them joyous.

“It seems less to me.”

“So why now? Why say anything?” She clasped her elbows in
her palms to keep from wringing her hands.

“Because I’m determined to be lord here. And if I succeed,
we’ll see each other daily. I must tell you I did love you then. You are my
only regret.”

“Regret?” She forced a smile. “Pray put it from your mind.
We comforted each other—that is all. I thought no more on our night together
past that day.”

“You’re lying. I saw the way you recoiled from me when we
met at Adam’s unhorsing.”

“I was recoiling from the crowd of men. I do not trust so
many men together at a kill.”

He acknowledged her lie with a shrug. “If you say so. But I
think you were remembering when Nat needed to chastise my men at the tavern for
calling you my—”

“Don’t say it,” she cried. “Stop this. What purpose is
gained by talking over times past?”

“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable with me or my men if
I’m lord here.”

She would never be comfortable with his men. They’d called
her a bitch in heat, said Brian’s pup would be whelped in the kennel with the
other dogs come spring. Nat had been enraged enough to threaten one man.

“Nat was hurt by your men’s jokes,” she said softly. “That
was the harm you did. Nat was hurt, Nat who has harmed no one.”

“Should I be making my apology to him?”

The door of the keep opened and the sound of singing spilled
from the hall. Several men stumbled down the steps, drunken men as those in
Brian’s company had been.

“I must go,” she said.

Brian hooked her arm. “Do not let him hurt you, either.”

“Who?” She summoned as much ice in her voice as she could.

“Quintin. No one knows whence he comes. He has risen because
William Marshal sees something of himself in the man. He’s some baron’s by-blow
and will offer nothing to this estate save a mercenary attitude and a brutal
company at arms. Mercenaries serve no man save themselves.”

How could she have forgotten Adam Quintin’s men? Had they
killed the minstrel? And if ‘twas Adam who became lord here, his men would
stay, would they not?

“My lord?” One of Brian’s men approached, his feet crunching
on the pebble path. “Lady Mathilda summons you to her love court.”

It was not to the kennels Joan went, but back to the hall on
Brian’s arm. But it was not to see how Brian fared in Lady Mathilda’s mock
court. As Joan stood along the edges of the throng who waited as she did to
know just what sins a love court might judge, she knew it was to see Adam again
and no other.

Adam watched Mathilda command the hall’s attention with
naught but a wave of her small, white hand.

“Eleanor of Aquitaine and her ladies once held a court of
love,” Mathilda said. “I would like to resurrect that tradition here tonight.
If any man feels inadequate to be here judged, speak now.”

Silence ruled in the hall. Men looked from one to the other,
and Adam knew none of them wanted to be thought inadequate.

A flurry of servants cleared the dais and set up the table
much as Adam’s father might have when he held a manorial court. Mathilda stood
by the principle seat. Her women, among them Francis de Coucy’s mother, sat in
a line to the right and left. It amused Adam to see proceedings his father
conducted with gravity mocked in this manner by the ladies.

Then he started; a servant led Joan to a seat at the end of
the table. High color stained her cheeks. He wanted to leap up and say she
should not be part of this mummery. She had suffered a grievous experience at
the fish pond. She needed quiet and sleep to heal.

Why wasn’t she back in her cottage instead of here at the
end of this row of women, a wren among peacocks?

Adam thought to protest Lady Claris’ place there as well.
Surely, the lady could not be impartial with her son one of the suitors? Adam
shook off the thought. ‘Twas naught but an amusement for ladies just as the
poetry and archery had been.

“What’s this nonsense?” Hugh asked, sitting at his elbow. “I
may have to take myself off to Winchester. The tournament may not be worth this
wait.”

“I need you at the tournament, I’m a man down. I meant to
ask you to stand in Lambert’s place, but forgot.”

Forgot because I am befuddled with lust.

Hugh clapped him on the back. “With pleasure. I’ll put that
craven boy, de Coucy, on his back for you.” Hugh bumped Adam’s arm and raised
his cup of wine.

“All are in place, we may begin. Will Yves of York
approach,” Lady Mathilda said.

The man with the broken wrist stepped forward. He bowed low
and grinned.

“You are charged with fragrantly playing false with a
womanly heart. How plead you?”

Yves touched his splinted arm. “I am incapable of playing a
woman false with this broken wing. I spend my time, when not in your lovely
presence, saying my prayers.”

Mathilda smiled and the hall burst into laughter. She
curtsied and indicated her women. “My ladies, what say you? Is this knight
guilty or innocent of playing false? May he remain or shall we cast him out to
find his way home?”

The bishop paid little heed to Mathilda’s antics, his head
close to Roger Artois’. Adam had gone through all of Roger’s belongings,
questioned his men. If he played William Marshal false, and through him King
Henry, it was not to be discovered here and now.

Mathilda and her ladies held a murmured discussion on the
suitor’s “guilt”. Adam noticed Joan said little, her gaze upon her hands,
folded in her lap. Her drab gown was unbecoming. Her hair, however, was as
untamed as her nature when making love.

His body tightened at the memory of the long, slim column of
her spine, the sweet fullness of her buttocks as she had tried to climb from
the rain barrel.

Mathilda clapped her hands. “We have made a judgment. Yves
of York, we find you guilty. We sentence you to hie yourself from this hall and
thence from this manor.”

An uproar like a tidal surge swept the hall. The bishop
clapped his jeweled hands. Silence reigned again and Gravant smiled. “It shall
be as our lady requests. You are dismissed.”

This time, the silence was ponderous, charged with unspoken
words. Yves bowed, albeit with little grace, in Mathilda’s direction. His
stride, as he headed through the hall, his men falling in behind him, was stiff
with anger.

Adam bit his tongue on a question to Hugh. So this love
court was not an idle amusement. It served another purpose, Adam
suspected—eliminating suitors. Ones displeasing to Mathilda or the bishop?

Did a dismissal mean this man was not going to champion
Louis’ or the bishop’s cause? This was a complication Adam needed to think
about. This new game might aid him. And was Mathilda part of the bishop’s plot?
She did wear the fleur-de-lis seal ring.

De Harcourt was called next. The same accusation was made by
Mathilda. Had he played false with a womanly heart?

To Adam’s amazement, Brian went down on one knee and said,
“I plead guilty. I have played a woman false. Two years ago.”

The timing coupled with the sudden jerk of Joan’s body, told
Adam the woman wronged was she. The blades of jealousy carved his insides.

Mathilda placed a delicate hand on Brian’s shoulder. “Have
you made amends?”

“I offered my apologies, my lady. Amends are impossible. A
hurt is a hurt. It heals with a cicatrix whether dealt with a blade or a
tongue.”

She nodded and went to her women. Lady Claris’ words were
inaudible, but she pounded the table with her fist. Mathilda listened with
respect to each woman. When it was Joan’s turn to speak she looked at Mathilda
for a very long moment before shaking her head.

Adam half rose in his seat. Hugh clapped a hand over his on
the table. “Do not draw attention to her or yourself.”

“What?”

“You know de Harcourt is talking of his love affair with
Joan Swan. Do not appear interested. Mathilda will see you.”

Adam sat down and propped his chin on his hand, in an effort
to feign ignorance. “How do you know this is about Brian and Joan?”

“Oh, I like a good gossip and de Harcourt’s men do as well.
I drank with a few of them at the alehouse after the fair. It is an accepted
fact that de Harcourt had her two years ago the night Richard died. In fact,
there are some among his men who believe de Harcourt had her earlier still,
under Richard’s nose, so to speak.”

The impulse to say ‘twas all false, that Joan had been
innocent until that very morning, was on the tip of Adam’s tongue.

But he could not speak of his morning with her. That would
only injure Joan and his cause here. “I said it before, I do not believe Joan
is free with her favors. It’s nonsense.”

Hugh met his gaze. “De Harcourt’s men think differently.
They say de Harcourt found her to his liking, for she much liked to suck the
marrow from the bone.”

Adam shot to his feet. Hugh rose and snatched at his tunic.
“Sit down. Now. You betray yourself.”

Blood surged through Adam’s veins. It sang hot like it did
when he was deep into a tournament, or when he was confronted on two sides in
battle. He wanted to flail out in all directions, but only Hugh stood before
him. He became aware the hall had exploded in laughter.

“What happened?” Hugh asked the man nearest to them, one of
Roger Artois’ men-at-arms.

“De Harcourt has been sentenced,” the man said.

Hugh let Adam’s tunic go. He righted his garb and sat down.
“Is he dismissed?” Adam asked Artois’ man.

“Ye’ll no have such luck. He’s still yer competition. He’s
to give a kiss to every woman in the hall.”

Hugh shivered. “
Mon Dieu
! I would dismiss myself if I
was so taxed.”

The laughter around the table gave Adam time to collect
himself. The next man called was Francis de Coucy. He approached the dais with
an arrogant swagger.

“Someone needs to polish that rooster’s tail,” Hugh said.

Adam grinned, but without mirth. “I’ll be happy to do so in
the tournament. I’ll unhorse him within a quarter hour of the opening horns.”

De Coucy was questioned. Adam was not surprised the court
found Francis “not guilty” of a crime of the heart. His mother sat on the dais,
after all. Then Adam smiled whilst the hall erupted in jeers. Mathilda
sentenced him to practice his manners on a kitchen wench. De Coucy’s face was
almost purple with rage. Mathilda called a serving woman forward. She was at
least two score, almost a decade older than Lady Claris, and stout as an ale
keg.

De Coucy bowed, albeit stiffly, and relinquished his place
to the next suitor.

“I must give him credit,” Hugh said. “He could have acted
the child, but was quite restrained. I elevate him past Roger.”

One more suitor was found “guilty” by Mathilda’s ladies and
summarily dismissed. The others were given penance like Francis’ or Brian’s.
Men moved about the hall, kissing ladies on the hands or cheeks.

Roger’s name was called. Mathilda curtsied to him and posed
her question.

“I-I that is. I do not know how to answer, my lady. What
constitutes playing a woman false?”

“Have you caused one tear to fall from a woman’s eye?”

“Does my mother count?”

The women tittered behind their hands, except for Joan, who
sat as if a statue, neither smiling nor frowning. Adam worried she might be
suffering still from the shock of finding Christopher.

He drummed his fingers on the table. He was last. How should
he answer? Confession had done Brian no harm.

Roger scratched his chin. “I believe I have caused some
tears…That is…perhaps I might have—”

“My lord, you are very unsure of yourself,” Mathilda said
amidst giggles. Adam found himself grinding his teeth each time he heard the
inane sound. Yet Adam enjoyed Lord Roger’s discomfort along with the crowd. The
bishop, too, watched the proceedings with evident enjoyment, a grin on his
face.

Was this not an unseemly occupation for a man of God? The
other holy men, clerics and the bishop’s dean, had all left the hall long ago.
Was Mathilda dismissing the men by the bishop’s orders?

Roger whipped around to intimidate the laughing members of
the audience. The men in his entourage fell abruptly silent. Others were not
cowed at all. Some of the worst offenders were Adam’s mercenaries.

“Indeed, my lord. I am quite displeased with you. Have you
no answer?” Mathilda tapped her foot.

Roger held his hands out in supplication. “I am prepared to
make any apology you deem necessary, pay any penance.”

Mathilda smiled to her women. “Let us decide this man’s
fate.”

The women quickly decided Roger’s fate. Mathilda returned to
the edge of the dais, a length of pale rose cloth in her hands. “My lord Roger,
we have found you guilty of a crime of the heart. Your penance is to wear this
sash for the remainder of your time here so all might know your sins.” She
knotted it on his waist.

“At least she didn’t kneel to his
enfourchure
,” Hugh
said.

Roger opened his mouth, then snapped it closed. When Roger
turned to go, Mathilda said, “My lord, please remember this sash is a symbol of
your ability to practice tolerance and patience with a wife’s demands should
you become a husband. You have done admirably well, a man willing to accept
correction. Wear the sash in good health.”

Hugh snorted through his nose.

“Have you something to say to the court, my lord Hugh?”
Mathilda asked.

He stood up and gave her a fine, but somewhat mocking bow.
“I have naught to say, my lady. I am but an observer.”

“Might I offer you some advice?”

“My lady?” Hugh said after a pause.

“If you have naught of worth to say, save your tongue for
other matters.”

Adam watched a flush suffuse his friend’s face. Hugh did not
sit down; he bowed and left the hall. Another man chose that time to exit as
well—the bishop. He left with his men behind him, going up the steps to the
lord’s chamber. Adam watched him until Mathilda called his name.

She gave him a deep curtsy and smiled. Adam decided it would
not do to direct even one glance at Joan. He held himself taut for he had not
decided how to answer the question.

“Adam Quintin, you are charged with playing false with a
woman’s heart. Are you guilty?”

A few of his men called out bawdy answers for him. He
ignored them, suddenly sure how he would reply. He believed one should always
use the truth in situations where uncertainty ruled.

He went down on one knee and held out his hand. Lady
Mathilda placed hers in his. Her skin was smooth and soft, cared for, made for
stitching and soothing a man’s brow, or making love. As he took her hand, he
did glance at Joan, and knew instantly what he intended to say was the right
and proper thing. He might face Mathilda, but he intended to speak to Joan.

“I am guilty, my lady, as is any man who might stand before
you. From the great King Arthur, down through time, all men must admit to their
guilt if so summoned to a court such as this one. All men play women false.

“We deny our mother’s love when we march to war, never
looking back or displaying our fear. We deny our sisters when they plead for a
suitor who offers no alliance that will fill our coffers or enhance our name.

“We deny our lovers when we set them aside to make an
alliance of power. We deny our love to the women we wed in pursuit of that
power. We deny our daughters when we bid them wed against their wishes. There
is no time, no day, no moment, when men do not play women false.”