LordoftheHunt (21 page)

“The bishop will find someone she cares for and torture
him.” Mathilda said it matter-of-factly.

“And whom did he torture for your compliance?”

Mathilda bowed her head. “Del from the wash house.”

Adam remembered the laundress asking after the man. Adam
pitied him.

He made a decision. “I’ll do my best to see no harm comes to
you or anyone you care for, but I’ll not give you the ring. And I’ll not lift a
hand for you if you cause Joan any more grief.”

“The bishop will be in a rage.” Mathilda looked ill, her
face white. Her shoulders slumped. “Adam?”

“Aye?” He took an apple and rolled it between his palms.

She watched his hands a moment. “We’ll not make each other
happy, but…if you would but give me the ring, I swear, I will choose you for my
husband.”

Adam stared at Mathilda in surprise. There was a note of
desperation in her voice. But Adam knew the bishop would never allow Mathilda
to wed a man not on Louis’ list.

He bowed and said, “I’ll think on it.”

The physician stepped into the hall. She grabbed Adam’s
sleeve. “Help me and I will reward you.” She rose on tiptoe and kissed his
lips. Never had a kiss left him so unmoved.

Adam watched Mathilda run down the hall. No one paid him any
heed as he climbed the steps from the lower levels. Most of the men had not
returned from the hunt. Only a few of the women were before the hearth,
stitching and gossiping. Servants were preparing to feed the hunters. He saw
his young page sitting with several others eating meat pies.

He called the boy from the group. “The man who directed you
about my sword—had he a mark on the back of his hand?”

The boy’s head bobbed agreement, while he struggled to
swallow a mouthful of pie.

“Tell me about the mark.”

“‘Ere it were.” The boy traced a dirty fingertip on the back
of his hand.

“Aye, more, lad. Tell me more. What made the mark?”

“Mayhap somethin’ dripped on the leather? Or ‘twere burned.”

“Ah, so it was not a scar?”

“Nay, a mark on ‘e’s glove. ‘Ere,” the boy repeated.

So De Coucy had plotted trouble for Adam from the start. The
page ran back to his company, and Adam headed for the bailey. There, he
assessed the sea of tents. No other man or company could defeat him in the
tournament, so if de Coucy held out any hope for success, the competition must
be eliminated.

Adam’s thoughts were torn from de Coucy.

Joan rode into the bailey behind her father. Adam walked
straight past her to his tent. He could not look at her, nor acknowledge her.
He was too full of anger at de Coucy.

In his tent, Adam stripped and washed away the sweat and
dirt of the hunt. He pulled on a black linen shirt and tunic and stood by his
table, the sealed package in his hands. He slit it open and set out to write
down all the names he’d seen on the scroll along with the terms and benefits
offered in exchange for fealty to the French king.

The letter was twice its original length when finished. He
wrote of Christopher’s death, filled with grief for a man who might have died
because of the color of his hair and beard.

Those who wanted Louis on the throne were already within the
castle walls.

Twenty men accompanied each of the six signers of Gravant’s
document. One hundred and twenty men could hold a fortress such as Ravenswood.
They could ride out and raid, raid and retreat back to the fortress with
impunity. Travel on the roads to Winchester, the west country, or Portsmouth
would be impossible.

With a touch of dry mirth, Adam realized it was how the
original de Marle had held the area in thrall for William the Conqueror.

Were he and Brian soon to be dismissed for some frivolous
reason? Nay, he would not believe it. The bishop could not dispatch the two
best tournament players in England without suspicion. He would have to let the
thing go forward. After the feast, all those Gravant had not deemed worthy of
signing would ride out.

Adam knew if he’d not been hired by William Marshal, he’d
have ridden out of Ravenswood to learn along with the crown that Louis
possessed the castle—unless he was dead. Then his men could be hired on by any
of Gravant’s recruits and they’d be glad of the work.

Where did Brian stand? Had he met with the bishop, and like
Adam, been found questionable as an ally of Louis? Would Brian leave after the
tournament, ignorant of the plot?

Adam contemplated the mark on the back of Francis’ glove.
That set his mind on Mathilda, who promised her hand if Adam returned the ring.

Ravenswood could be his for nothing more than turning over
the ring. Adam shook his head. Mathilda deceived herself if she thought the
bishop would allow her to choose her husband.

Weariness stalked Adam. His last full night of sleep seemed
months before, not days. He leaned back in his chair and closed his aching
eyes. He must earn Ravenswood himself.

Whatever plan he formed, he had no one to carry his message
to John d’Erley save himself. Even with a fast horse, he could not get to
Winchester, seek audience with d’Erley, set out his plan to take the castle by
stealth, have it considered, agreed to, and get back without suspicion falling
on him like a pot of pitch poured over the battlements.

With regret, he thought of Joan’s refusal to carry his
message. If only he could remain at Ravenswood, see the tournament through, and
be the person to let the men he’d stationed nearby into the castle through the
Roman Way and take the castle by stealth.

His men outnumbered the suitors’ troops by at least one
hundred. He thought of the many fewterers and huntsmen of Roger Artois’ party.
How many of them could or would wield a sword? Such men might shoot an arrow at
a living target, but rarely wished to fight close in with a sword. ‘Twas not
their weapon.

Adam looked over his letter to William Marshal’s man. Even
if every one of Roger’s hunting stable raised arms, Adam believed surprise more
than tipped the scales.

Surprise from within.

As he finished his letter, he knew it to be a futile wish.
Instead, he must ride openly up to Ravenswood’s gates and lay siege—if William
Marshal assigned him the honor at all.

John d’Erley’s words, “A siege is to be avoided at all
costs,” tormented him. A siege looked inevitable, and Adam knew he must admit
failure.

Who would lay the siege? Would another be given the task,
and later, the rewards if the castle eventually capitulated?

Regardless, Adam wrote all that might be helpful. He wrote
of the full storerooms from a fat harvest, of the two good wells within the
walls, and of the simple manner in which Gravant had taken one of England’s
finest castles. If necessary, Adam knew William Marshal would order those fine
castle walls brought down to oust Gravant’s men.

When Adam went to seal his letter, he saw the sheet of Greek
writing from Brian de Harcourt’s chest. He folded it around his letter to John
d’Erley.

It seemed less and less likely to have aught to do with
anything, but as long as he could not read it, he must suspect it. He sealed
the package and tucked it into his tunic.

He shook his head over the business. Easier to give Mathilda
the ring and wed her at the end of the week.

Joan, beautifully naked, hair tumbling down her back,
visited his imagination. He began to laugh. He must wed no woman but Joan.

“I believe I would live in a hut in the woods with my huntress,
if that was the only way to have her.” He shot to his feet. “That is equal
madness. Whatever else may happen, I must see the de Marle banishment lifted.”

Saying the words reminded him of his duty, but a tinge of
uncertainty tainted his resolve. “I am simply weary. I need sleep.”

Douglas stuck his head into the tent. “Did ye call me?”

Adam shook his head. “Nay.”

“Anything ye need?”

Adam considered his squire’s grin. “Aye. Take a message to
our lady, would you?” He drew a sheet of paper to him and penned two lines.

Upon reflection, I have decided to retain your token. It
is precious, a reminder of all you mean to me.
A

Adam sealed it and handed it off. With pity, he thought of
Mathilda’s reaction. And the bishop’s.

He flung up the lid of his coffer and drew out his hauberk.

When Douglas returned, his eyes went round. “What’re ye
doing?” He hastened to buckle Adam’s mail shirt.

“I’m off to Portsmouth,” he lied.

“Whatever for?”

“A lady, my friend.”

Douglas’ face reflected his sour thoughts. “There’s plenty
of fine pickings in the village. Why must ye go to Portsmouth?”

Adam didn’t answer.

Douglas shook his head and handed Adam his sword. “Ye’ll not
be back in time for the tournament. Ye’ll be worth nothing and neither will yer
horse.” He tidied the table and angrily folded the bed furs. “And I so wanted
to pick off that Roger Artois’ horse right from under ‘im. And what’m I to say
if anyone asks after ye?”

“Exactly what I said, I’m in Portsmouth seeing a lady.”

They walked to the stable together and Adam waited outside,
impatient to be gone. He hoped Douglas spread the story about that he rode to
Portsmouth for physical pleasure, lest anyone suspect him of another
destination.

Adam stood in the stable doors and stared up at the high
stone towers of Ravenswood. The sun shone on the bishop’s pennants. “They will
come down,” he promised.

* * * * *

Joan saw Adam by the stables. She lifted her hem and ran,
heedless of what anyone might think. “Adam, may I speak to you?”

He nodded and led his horse behind them as they walked
through the busy bailey. Only Oswald, directing a carter with straw for the
kennels, paid them any attention.

Adam held up a hand to Joan; she fell silent in
mid-sentence. He lifted a brow and stared at Oswald until the man turned away,
scurrying like a rat into the kennels.

“Now, he is gone, what is it?” He tried to soften his tone.

“I’ve thought of nothing but our last conversation all
through the hunt,” Joan said. “It shames me that you asked me for help and I
said no.”

“Don’t fret, Joan. Listen to me and listen well. There may
be trouble here in a few days. I want you to take Nat and go away. Go anywhere,
but not to Winchester or Portsmouth.”

Her dark eyes grew wide. “Go away? What trouble?”

“Trust me. Trouble often accompanies a tournament. And this
one, with Mathilda the prize at the end, just smells like trouble. I wish I
could escort you to safety.”

Her brows drew together. “I cannot leave Ravenswood. Not
now. And I owe you an explanation,” she could not quite look him in the eye,
“considering all that is between us. I owe you that at least.”

“Come. You can tell me your tale as we walk. It will provide
less amusement to Oswald.” Adam mounted up and walked his horse toward the
gates; Joan walked at his side, with one hand on the horse’s bridle.

She looked up at Adam and said, “Nat is not so young as he
used to be. Sometimes he makes mistakes. I fear if I leave him, he might anger
the bishop, who is most intolerant—”

“You feared the bishop might dismiss Nat?”

“Aye, the bishop has been at Ravenswood for almost a year.
He’s a hard taskmaster, but lately, he has dismissed workers for no reason,
turned off tenants as well.

“Nat has served all his days at Ravenswood, risen from a
kennel man, his father a huntsmen here as well. He deserves to end his days
here, not be driven off to look for work in his old age. I cannot leave his
side.”

“Is that why you signal the dogs?”

A pain, one that had throbbed dully for many months, eased;
then alarm filled its place. “You noticed.” She wrung her hands. “If you
noticed, then—”

“Don’t be afraid.” He leaned down and touched her shoulder,
then withdrew as if remembering it was not appropriate to touch. “I believe
only I have noticed your command of the dogs. I’m right, am I not?”

“Aye. I’ve needed them more and more, especially when the
bishop is about and Nat is forgetful.”

Adam smiled. “You mean he might be telling a story to one of
his men and not see that the dog carters need an order to move the hounds out?”

She smiled back. “I have no signals for the carters.”

“If the bishop were gone, you would not have this burden.”

“The bishop
is
the burden. He has no kindness, no
patience.”

“I knew a priest once who was much like Nat. ‘Tis but old
age. We will all be there one day.”

“Aye.” They passed through the gate and over the drawbridge.
When wood and paving stones gave way to the dirt road, she stopped and held his
bridle, lest he ride out of her life without an explanation.

“The men know their business. No one bothers if Nat forgets
something now and again. Their respect for him and their training allow them to
just do as they should. We’ve all been in harmony for years. Now, Roger and
Oswald are here. If Roger wins Mathilda, we must leave, but if another wins
her, we could stay. But if the bishop finds fault—”

“And that’s why you cannot leave.” Adam dismounted. He stood
by his mount, stroking the horse’s neck. “Mathilda told me Oswald asked for
your hand. It would solve your problems.”

“Never,” she said. “Never will I wed the man. How could you
think such a thing? The hounds don’t trust him. Never. I will never wed him.”

He watched her face. She met his gaze with wide, guileless
eyes. She said naught of her feelings for him. When he left, he might not see
her again if the bishop prevailed. He longed to gather her in and kiss her
breathless. And ask her why she gave the dogs as an objection to Oswald, but
not him.

An idea bloomed in his mind. “What if I learned your
signals? Would the hounds obey me?”

“Why would you want to?”

“If I knew the signals, and stood in your place, I could
correct any vagueness of Nat’s orders, and be here to take the tournament
field. I could delay…certain events that might arise. Would you then go to
Winchester for me and stay there until I called you back?”

“If you could command the hounds, I would go.”

Her statement was so simple, so assured, he felt a knife
edge of guilt that he could not tell her his true reason for sending her to
Winchester.

He skimmed his fingers along her cheek. “You would do that?
Help me?” he said.

“You would protect Nat.”

It was not a question. “Aye, I would protect Nat for you.”
And Joan would be in Winchester out of harm’s way if hostilities broke out
before he could effect a solution to the army already in possession of
Ravenswood.