LordoftheHunt (7 page)

Then, like a man who’s been toying with his opponent,
Quintin smiled and jerked Brian off his feet.

A servant stepped up to the bishop and whispered in his ear,
handing him a rolled parchment. The bishop nodded, opened the small scroll, and
with barely a glance at it, stood up, and clapped his hands just as Quintin
flung Brian to his back.

“A draw,” Bishop Gravant called in his deep, sonorous voice.
“Well done.”

Quintin stood over de Harcourt, still as stone.

“This has been a fine display of strength, but the field is
muddy and we endanger our fine warriors,” Gravant said. He held out his arm to
Mathilda. Confusion was evident on her face as she placed her hand on his
sleeve. They left the grounds, their entourage in a long line behind them.

The crowd roared its disappointment when Quintin held out
one hand to de Harcourt and hauled him to his feet. The opponents looked as
puzzled as the crowd, but bowed to each other and walked off the greensward.

“A draw! The field too muddy? They are not women to be
coddled. What nonsense.” Edwina thumped her fist on the wall. “‘Tis likely that
old bird Roger did not wish to be seen as less than these. He would have been
next. With Edgar of Wareham. Now, I’ve lost more than I’ve gained.”

With a sigh of disappointment, Edwina turned around and
jumped off the small barrel. “Back to work,” she said.

Joan picked up the barrel and headed down the steps in the
laundress’s wake. When they reached the bottom, Joan almost ran up Edwina’s
heels. Blocking their path was the bishop’s party. Mathilda and her ladies
stood but a few paces away like a row of colorful birds perched on a fence.

Before the bishop was an old man in a monk’s robe. It was
Ivo, one of the clerics who’d been at Ravenswood when Joan had come to live
here. The bishop shook a small scroll in Ivo’s face.

“Oh dear,” Joan said.

“I have had enough of your incompetence, old man,” the
bishop said. “You’ll pay for this paper and ink you’ve wasted, do you hear?”

“But, my lord, I do not understand,” Ivo said.

“I have never seen such an ill-written page. I have a dozen
men who can do better, and I intend they shall.”

“B-but, my lord—”

“Silence, old man. You try my patience. Hie yourself off to
some abbey somewhere and bedevil them. If I see you in the hall again, you’ll
be copying in a dungeon.”

Joan’s heart beat like a hound’s after racing across a
field. She ached to intervene, for Ivo looked ready to weep. When the bishop
swept off, Lady Mathilda and her party in close file after him, Joan hurried to
Ivo just as he sank to his knees on the grass. Several of the bishop’s servants
brushed past them, heedless of the old man’s misery.

“Come, Ivo,” she said. “Let me help you.”

She pulled the man to his feet. “What happened?” She touched
the brown-spotted skin on the back of Ivo’s hand. He turned his over and
grasped her fingers.

“Lord Roger asked me to pen the bishop a note. He said it
must be done with all speed. It was just a few words. It may have been a mite
hastily done, but Lord Roger was snapping his fingers, telling me to hurry. I
did just as he said, wrote word for word what he asked. Nothing more.” Ivo’s
head bowed. His lips quivered. “There was one small splash of ink in the
corner. But I could not trim it off as Lord Roger snatched the note away. He
rolled it before ‘twas dry. It was not my fault. What am I to do?” He sniffed.
“And just this morning, there was a document on the bishop’s table that Lord
Roger was signing. I merely thought to move it out of the way once they were
done. I simply touched it, nothing more. But our lord bishop snatched it away.”
Ivo’s voice quivered. “He called me a fool. I merely wanted to make more space
on the table. I should not be treated in such a manner.”

“I know,” Joan said.

“And Lord Roger smirked at me. Smirked at his elder. These
young people have no respect.”

Joan thought that Lord Roger was likely older than the
bishop, but she held her tongue.

“Where will I go?” Ivo wailed. “Why wouldn’t the bishop
listen?”

“Why indeed?” Joan patted Ivo’s hand. His fingers were
covered by paper-thin skin. “What did Lord Roger ask you to write?”

Ivo stared at her. “Oh, I could not tell you. ‘Twould be a
violation of my trust.”

“I understand. It does not signify. I imagine Lord Roger did
not wish to be seen in a poor light before our lady after the magnificent
display of strength by Quintin and de Harcourt. He thought of some excuse to
end the matches.”

Ivo didn’t answer; he only repeated, “Where am I to go?”

“You can stay right here.”

“Nay, I cannot be found here. The bishop is an avid hunter.
He’ll see me. Nay.”

“The bishop said only you were not to show your face in the
keep.”

“Do not quibble on details,” Ivo said. He wiped his nose and
shook his head. “He’s been looking for an excuse to dismiss me since first he
came. Nothing I do pleases him. My writing is not so steady as it used to be, I
grant you, but still, I am careful of details. His clerks cannot touch my
translations; they are flawless. I am the only one with Greek and Latin!” He
began to sniff and shake.

Joan patted Ivo’s hand. “I have an idea, Ivo, but you must
come with me to the village.”

Adam walked at Brian’s side through the tent where they’d
waited and wagered on the wrestling bouts, through to the area behind it—his
mother’s garden.

Her ornate gate was gone, as was the orderly concentric
circles of flowers and herbs. Now, it was merely a pleasant place of shade and
grass for a lady to wander away from the scrutiny of the lesser folk who
inhabited the manor.

He took a deep breath. The air was redolent with the scent
of apple trees, though little fruit remained.

Wooden walkways had been set out for the men to stand on
while they waited for the castle servants to haul out buckets of hot water with
which to rinse off the mud.

Adam and Brian stripped out of their wet braies as did the
other wrestlers. Suddenly, there was a clamor and calling out from spectators
on the high wall overlooking the garden. A hunting hound had gotten loose and
run at one of the wrestlers, shoving its muzzle into the man’s groin.

Adam’s skin heated, not because he was naked under the
scrutiny of a score of people—almost all women. Nay, the racing hound had
reminded him of a time when he’d been little more than Francis de Coucy’s age
and had been deflowering a kitchen maid in a garden corner when one of Nat’s
hounds had bounded over and jumped around them.

Nat’s voice had cracked the silent pleasure garden with
anger and condemnation. Luckily, it was to his mother Nat reported him and not
his father.

His mother had merely reminded him that bastards cost
heavily and kitchen maids could be tiresome, might even put something in the
food if displeased. She had turned away without another word.

It was Nat he had respected more than his mother that day.
It had been Nat who had talked of his honor and how his behavior reflected on
his father and all those who dwelt at Ravenswood. Since that time, Adam had
tried to measure his actions against those expectations.

Brian broke into Adam’s thoughts. “
Jesu
,” Brian said.
“Is every maid and lady up there?”

The man had lost the rancor from his voice—had perhaps
worked it out in the bout. “It looks as if you’re right,” Adam said.

Women leaned over the parapet, waved ribbons, and called out
to the naked men. Some of the suitors pranced and paraded around. Some washed
hastily and pulled on their clothes.

Brian was one of those who grinned and waved.

“Is Lady Mathilda among them?” asked Francis de Coucy.

It was the first time Adam had seen aught but a haughty
expression on his face. The boy covered his groin with his cupped hands.

One of the men said, “She’d not be seen indulging her
curiosity in such a way. ‘Tis not fitting in one of her station.”

“But you can be sure her maid is there to tell her whose
cock is biggest,” Brian said, then stared at Francis. “Or smallest.”

Francis stepped off the wooden walkway and scooped up some
mud. In moments Adam was dodging flying clots of sludge.

Though Adam found the amusement annoying and reminiscent of
boyhood pranks; the ladies and maids loved it. They screamed their approbation,
calling out wagers on their favorites. Adam stepped off onto the grass verge
and waved to Douglas. “Bring my mantle.”

When Douglas put the black woolen cloak over his shoulders,
Adam bowed to Brian and the others. “The maid’s seen my cock, and my ass, so
I’ll be bathing in my tent.”

He followed Douglas. The water in his tent was cold, but he
didn’t want to wait for more to be heated. He washed hastily, and thought of
how wonderful a swim in the river would feel. Of course, there would be no
alluring woman waiting on the bank today when he was done—or dog to scratch
him, either.

Joan could report to Lady Mathilda on the size of his
attributes as well.

Douglas offered him a block of soap.

“This isn’t my soap,” Adam said. “From which woman did you
steal it?” The smell carried him back to his mother’s chamber again. She had
prized exotic scents, potpourri, sachets. She had bathed in milk and perfumed
her skin. This soap reminded him of her bedchamber, redolent as the garden
she’d created in the midst of his father’s military stronghold.

“I gave it to him,” said a voice from the front of his tent.

Douglas tossed him a length of linen just in time. A woman,
followed by two maids, shoved back the hanging divider that separated the two
sections of his tent and smiled at him.

“Adam Quintin?” the woman said.

“You’re Lady Claris, Francis de Coucy’s mother, are you
not?” Adam asked. Cold water dripped from his hair to run down his back and
chest. The other two women watched the drops and one licked her lips. He felt
like a roast of mutton on a spit.

Francis’ mother gave him an inviting smile. He met it with a
bland mask. He did not need this woman, the mother of one of his rivals,
attempting a seduction.

“Lady Mathilda craves a meat pie for her dinner and bids you
to provide a brace of hares.” Lady Claris raked her gaze down Adam’s body as
Matthew had raked him with his claws.

With that the lady and her maids left his tent. The maids
looked over their shoulders and one waved.

“Watch the short one,” Douglas cautioned. “She’s a jolly
one, she is.”

“And you know…how?” Adam asked with a grin.

“Oh, she’s of a mind that laying with the squire will get
her closer to the knight.”

Adam frowned. “I’ll not tell you how to spend your nights,
Douglas, but do not make trouble for me. I cannot afford it.”

Douglas laughed. “I’m not sharing her pallet. She just comes
around. I fancy she wants me to let her into yer bed one night when yer
sleeping.”

“And you’ll be sure it doesn’t happen, right?”

“Oh, right. She hasn’t a chance of getting by me. You’ll
gain no ill will from her. It’ll be me she’ll run against, not you. Ye needn’t
fear she’ll complain to her lady about ye, but ye better watch de Coucy’s
mother. She’ll have yer braies about yer knees ere ye can say, ‘God Love Me’.
And Lady Mathilda will not want ye after that one’s had ye.”

Adam clapped Douglas on the shoulder. “You’ll guard my
honor, won’t you?”

“Every moment.”

“You’re worth your weight in gold—have I said that?”

“Many a time. If only ye’d make good on your word.” Douglas
sighed and picked up the block of soap. He wrapped it in cloth and tucked it
into Adam’s wet mantle.

Adam pulled on his clothing.

“Ye’ll need to see Nat Swan,” Douglas said. “He’ll have a
harrier to lend ye, I’m sure.”

And a huntress to direct me, if I’m lucky
, Adam
thought.

* * * * *

It was a mark of Ivo’s despair that he did not even inquire
into Joan’s plan. He followed her like an obedient dog into the village,
cowering away from the crowds in the street. She imagined Ivo rarely attended a
market day or a fair.

She intended to settle Ivo with the baker’s wife. Smells of
roasting meat and smoking fires filled the air when she reached a circle of
ovens. Here, the yeasty scent of baking bread overpowered everything else.
Aelwig, the baker, sat on a bench by one of his ovens, gnawing on a partridge
wing.

He grunted a greeting while Joan tugged Ivo toward the low
cottage that stood before the ovens.

“Estrild?” she called in the open doorway. “It’s Joan.”

Estrild, surely of Norse extraction, burst from the portal
and enveloped Joan in a bone-crushing hug.

“Yer so thin,” Estrild said to Joan, drawing the two of them
inside. She slathered the end of a cut loaf with a thick layer of butter and
then cut off the slice. “Here, eat. Both of you.” She repeated the buttering
and slicing and handed the next piece to Ivo.

“Thank you, but I must speak to you first.” Joan tugged Ivo
to a stool by the large open hearth and pushed him down. She set her bread and
his on Ivo’s lap. He lifted one slice and pecked around the edges like a bird.

She beckoned Estrild to follow her into the yard. Chickens
scattered from their feet as they walked arm in arm toward the river.

“Ivo has been dismissed by the bishop. He has lived at
Ravenswood since…well, I don’t know how long, but he has certainly been here
since I arrived. He drew up the request to the king for my adoption.”

Estrild said, “And you’d like me to keep him.”

“Aye, and bless you. What would he owe you?” Joan held her
breath and prayed it would not be too much.

“Tuppence a week should do it.”

Joan’s stomach flipped. “So much?”

“Aye. Sorry, but I cannot take less. The bishop has demanded
another ten pence a week in rent from us.”

Joan knew she had at least forty pennies. Nat would
understand that this was a good use of their money.

“The bishop won’t endear himself to anyone if he dismisses
such a one as Ivo without thought for his welfare. And he a man of God,”
Estrild continued.

Joan nodded. She thought of her father. Nat would be before
the bishop all week with the hounds. If Nat made a mistake and angered the
bishop, he, too, would be dismissed.

Twice Joan had overridden Nat’s vague orders at this
morning’s hunt. Neither incident would have created any disaster, but with
Oswald, Lord Roger’s hunt master, ready to criticize any lapse and preen over
his own prowess, she could not take chances.

If Lord Roger won Mathilda’s hand, it would be Oswald at
Ravenswood, and she and Nat who needed the pennies and a place to stay.

She shivered. Nat would die without his dogs. Although Nat
thought of each pup as his, they really belonged to the manor and whoever was
lord there.

Had she been foolish to offer her precious pennies for Ivo’s
care? She and Nat might need them one day. Nay. It was never wrong to help
someone in need, or so her mother had taught her. “If you don’t mind, Estrild,
I’ll tell Ivo of our arrangement myself. And I’ll stop as often as I can to see
how he fares.”

* * * * *

Joan hurried back to the castle. The sun streamed down on
the many colorful banners in the bailey. When she reached the cottage, Nat
stood in the doorway, a frown on his face.

“Where’ve you been, child?” he asked. “Something terrible
has happened.”

“What’s wrong? Is one of the dogs hurt?”

“Nay, why do you ask?”

“You just said something terrible had happened.”

“Did I?” He shook his head and scratched his chin. “Oh. I
must have meant the purse.”

“What purse?”

“Our purse,” he said softly. His gaze went to the hearth. “I
lost it.”

Joan snatched up a knife and wedged the tip into a crack
between two hearth stones. She levered up a block of stone, slightly smaller
than the others, and stared at the recess beneath it. She shifted a wooden box
that held a few treasures from her mother: a comb, a needle case, a faded
ribbon. The purse was gone.

“Papa, what did you do with our money?”

“Oswald said ‘twould be a good wager.”

“Oswald? Lord Roger’s hunt master?”

“Aye. He said he’d double my money if Quintin won. He said
de Harcourt always loses to Quintin.” Nat fisted his hand and smote the wooden
door panel. “When is a wrestling match ever a draw? I thought my money was
safe. He and the bishop were in it together, I’ll wager.”

She sat back on her heels and looked up at him. So strong,
so upright, so easily led astray these days. “You promised no more wagers.”
Joan curled her fingers on the cold edge of the stones.

“Oswald assured me Quintin always wins. How could I know
‘twould end in a draw?”

“This certainly is something terrible. What will we do for
money?”

He smiled. “Ah. We have few needs. Bread for the hounds comes
from the castle. If we need new leashes, we’ve but to ask.”

Joan could not help smiling back at him. “You only think of
the hounds, Papa. What if
you
have some need? Fall ill? Are injured?”

“Tush! I’m never sick. ‘Tis the hounds who take all we have,
and I’ll earn the pennies back soon enough if the hunt goes well.”

If the hunt goes well
.

The harshness with which the bishop had dismissed Ivo for
blotting his copy made her shiver. Her smile felt false and stiff.

“Did someone mention a hunt?”

Joan hastily shoved the stone back into place and stood up,
wiping her fingers on a cloth. Adam Quintin stood just outside the cottage.

“We’re to hunt on the morrow, sir. Is there aught I may do
for you until then?” Nat asked.

“I’ve been charged with a quest by our lady. She craves a
meat pie and I’m to provide the hares. Can you spare the time?”

“I’ve naught but time for you suitors. I’ll fetch one of the
dogs.”

Adam remained in the doorway. He was relieved Nat showed no
signs of recognition even when standing this close. Adam waited outside the
cottage, unsure whether he should enter or not with Nat gone.

Joan set a bowl of apples on the table.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like a word with you,” he said.

“I’ve work to do.”

“I’m sure your father will only be gone a few moments.” He
boldly stepped over the threshold but was pained to see Joan put the table
between them.

“I’ve come from the castle. There, Oswald—you know him—Lord
Roger’s hunt master, was regaling the company with his luck wagering on the
wrestling. He bragged that he’d probably taken Nat’s whole fortune over my
bout. Did he?”

Joan nodded. Her throat felt tight.

“Was it all you had?”

“It would not matter but—” She broke off. What would this
man care about Ivo?

“But?” He plucked an apple from the bowl and bit into it.

She shook her head. “Oswald told Nat you never lose.”

Adam ate the apple, watching her. Never had she cared
overmuch about her appearance, but with this man’s gaze on her, she wished for
her comb.

“It was a cheat,” he agreed.