LordoftheHunt (9 page)

“Is that so rare? Would you not do the same?”

“It’s very rare. I know few men of whom I could say the
same. As to me? I’d play you false with the first serving woman who bared her
breasts.”

He nodded to her chest and flung her hand away.

She hopped off the bed and ran to the door. She did not slam
it. She left as quietly as she’d entered.

* * * * *

Adam looked over his copy and though ‘twas a pathetic
effort, he thought it was readable. He wrapped and sealed the paper, then hid
the original in a shallow hole he dug beneath his bed. He flopped back onto his
mattress, with naught but an hour until he must rise.

Yet sleep eluded him. He tried to concentrate on Mathilda.
She seemed incapable of any conversation beyond remarks on the minstrels or the
heat of the hall. Hugh’s riddles, favorites in most gatherings, drew naught but
blank looks from the lady.

Would Joan Swan have understood them? He conjured Joan’s
face. Had she freckles elsewhere? He’d like to hunt beneath her habit and know
the answer.

He heard the stirring of men in the bailey. Servants clanked
pails of water down outside tents.

Who connived with the bishop? Roger? Francis? What proof
should he look for?

With a sinking heart, he knew must search the bishop’s
belongings. How? Even during a holy office, someone lurked about the steps
leading up to the man’s bedchamber.

A dog barked.

Joan’s sweet face supplanted every other thought. Why did
the huntress’s kiss so disturb him? He’d been kissed by many women. He closed
his eyes, and conjured her dark eyes. She’d closed them just as she’d kissed
him. What would it be like to hold her and look into her eyes as he kissed her?
Next time, he would demand she keep her canny eyes open.

Next time
. How would Joan’s body feel against his?

Hugh’s words about her lush ass heated Adam’s body. As he
waited for sleep, he reveled in thoughts of kneeling behind her, his hands
spread on the rounded flesh of her bottom, leaning forward to kiss each dimple
he imagined he’d find. Abruptly, he returned to the simplicity of her kiss. His
lips almost itched with the sensation lingering there.

He fell into a restless doze. Then Brian’s words at the hunt
jolted him awake and cooled his ardor.

Joan Swan’s passions were not directed at lovemaking. They
were directed at hate. A hate for mercenaries.

“And that is what you are, Adam. A mercenary. Flemish and
despised,” he said aloud.

“Are ye speaking to me?” Douglas asked, flinging back the
tent partition.

“To myself.” Adam stood up and stretched, then pulled on a
mantle. “I’ll sleep next month. Now, come, I want you to find me some throwing
stones.”

“Stones? Not before we break our fast!” But Douglas trotted
after him despite his protests.

At the river bank, as the sky lightened, and the trees shone
as if touched with ice, Adam threw stone after stone, each retrieved by Douglas
and dropped with great sighs at his feet.

“That will do it,” Adam finally said. He’d banished the
huntress from his mind…and his body. He stripped and plunged into the river,
now deep green and cold as melted ice.

When his feet and hands grew numb, he climbed out and dried
himself in the first rays of sun. Douglas handed him his shirt.

A movement in the far field drew Adam’s gaze. A greyhound
raced across the grass, ears lifting and falling with each bound. Behind him, a
woman ran, her hair loose, whipping out behind her in a wild tangle.

“So much for banished thoughts.”

Joan smiled at the dog who ran before her with the joy of a
pup, though he was long past his prime. They hastened back to the castle as the
sky brightened. She put up her hair before she entered the kennels. There she
greeted each hound. She examined a mastiff’s paw and made up a poultice of
vinegar and soot to treat a bad scrape. As she sat cross-legged and tended the
wound, she eavesdropped on several of the boys who cleaned the kennels and kept
the dogs from quarreling.

“Ever’ one knows a black dog is bad,” one said.

“Aye. Black is evil. Did ye ev’r see a black tent like the
one there?”

Joan resisted an urge to interrupt their gossip.

“Evil doin’s in there, sure as a black dog do evil. And ‘is
‘air is dark as sin. So’s ‘is armor, though I ain’t seed it. Black ‘air, black
clothes.”

“‘Tis said ‘e carved ‘is mark on a woman’s teat. Marked ‘er
so’s no other man would ‘ave her. John Armorer tol’ me.”

“Wish I could see a woman’s teat.”

Joan rubbed the mastiff’s ears and praised his patience for
sitting so still for her ministrations, then she stood up and walked to the two
boys. “If you wish to keep your position, you will not spread gossip. Do you
understand?”

The boys bobbed their heads, eyes round with dismay. They
hastened away to spread fresh straw on the bed racks.

She heard a yelp, then the sharp-pitched cry of dog in pain.
Someone was abusing an animal. She ran along the partitions housing the
visiting hounds. Oswald Red-hair raised an iron bar over a cowering greyhound.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, snatching at his arm.

Oswald pulled away. “A dog must know who is leader of the
pack.”

Joan threw herself between the dog and Oswald. “There will
be no beatings here.” She saw scars across the greyhound’s flanks. “If this
animal will not obey, I will take him off your hands.”

“I don’t believe you can afford his price.”

The bar in Oswald’s hand was lined with thin ridges. He
tapped it against his leg.

“You’re Nat Swan’s wife, aren’t you?” he asked.

“I’m Nat’s daughter.” She traced a row of scars along the
dog’s flanks, old scars, new ones, made by the bar in the man’s hand. A glance
at the animals resting on bed racks revealed similar marks of abuse. She
shivered at the cruelty.

Oswald rocked on his heels. “You coddle your dogs.”

He cleared his throat and kicked at the straw in the manner
of a child. It was an act. Any man who would beat his dogs as these had been
was a devil. She gathered the hound into her arms.

“I must be blunt,” Oswald said. “Nat wagered my master quite
a sum on the wrestling, you know.”

“I thought he wagered with you.” The dog buried his head
against her breast.

“With my master, through me. You need to know Lord Roger
charged me with the debt’s collection. Fifty pence, it is.” He slid his hand
back and forth along the bar.

“Nat said forty.” Joan involuntarily tightened her arms. The
injured greyhound whined and nuzzled her cheek. She took a deep, steadying
breath and relaxed her hold. “He also said he had paid you.”

He smiled. His pale, watery blue eyes roamed over her.

“Oh, he paid me forty pence, ‘tis true, but he owes another
fifty. And my master would like it soon.”

“It’s not possible. Nat wouldn’t wager ninety pence on
anything!”

Oswald pressed a finger to his lips and glanced about the
kennel. “Forgive me, mistress, if I’ve distressed you, but you can ask any
number of folks to confirm it. My lord Roger specifically directed me to say,
‘Forty-five on Quintin, double if a draw.’ Nat agreed.”

Joan felt acid seethe in her belly. “I wish the names of
these witnesses.”

The smile left his face. “Are you saying I am lying?”

Joan tempered her tone, though she wanted to shout that
anyone who beat animals with a bar was surely also a liar. “Not at all, but I
don’t know you. I must hear it from someone else. ‘Tis a fortune you’re asking
me to turn over.”

“My master is well respected. Your suspicions of me are
suspicions of him. It is he who sent me to collect the money. If you will not
accept
my
word, then you must accept his.” With a sniff, Oswald turned
and left the kennels, the bar still gripped in his hand.

Joan cursed his skinny form. What was she going to do? She
gave the injured dog to one of the kennel lads and asked him to treat the
animal’s wounds.

She told several huntsmen of Oswald’s iron bar and asked
them to prowl the kennels in hopes their presence might deter the man from
further abuse of his dogs. Then she took up her brushes and called Matthew to
her. The usual soothing balm of the work, the rhythmic stroke of the brush over
the dog’s coat did naught to still a rising fear for Nat, for the kennels, for
their future—for herself.

* * * * *

Mathilda’s maid came to the kennels. Joan put aside her
grooming brushes and met her near the fencing.

“Is there aught I may do for you?” Joan asked.

“My lady requests your presence at this morning’s games.”

“My presence?” Joan looked down at her dirty hands. “I’m not
fit to appear—”

“Immediately, my lady says.”

Joan frowned, but could not refuse. She went to the cottage
and hastily washed. She jerked her comb through her hair, each stroke fueling
her fear and anger. This was what Edwina had spoken of, Mathilda commanding her
like a servant.

She plaited her hair and donned a fresh gown the color of
leaves cast off in autumn by the tall oak trees, cast off as was the gown. Its
beauty lay in the fine sheen of the linen and the matching overgown stitched
with a bordering motif in red and green. It became her well, though the hem had
needed letting down and the line showed if one wanted to see it.

She looped her plaits and put on a headcovering, securing it
with a circlet of braided red cording. With quick, long strides, she headed for
the games. If she must face disaster, at least she would do so with her head
held high.

Everyone was in attendance. The throwing field had been
marked out so the castle ramparts could again serve as a viewing stand.

Hugh de Coleville, unshaven, his eyes bloodshot, a frown on
his face, came toward her. “Ah,” he said. “The worthy huntress.”

She gave him a polite curtsy. “Have you seen my lady?”

He stiffened. “Why?”

“Her maid summoned me, but I cannot find her.”

His mouth twisted into an expression half smile, half
grimace. “She’s in the center of it all. I’ll take you.”

He put out his arm. She placed her hand on his sleeve and
smiled. To be summoned like a servant was one thing, to arrive with a fine lord
was quite another. He led her through the crowd, which stepped aside easily to
his simple order, “Make room.” The company parted and Joan saw the field.

On one side stood the company of suitors, all half naked
again. Adam and Brian stood side by side, both with arms crossed on their broad
chests.

Mathilda graced a semicircle of women at the end of a long,
open space. She held a tall, beribboned crook. The ribbons matched her scarlet
gown. She looked like a wild poppy standing in the field, albeit a poppy
decorated with many gold chains.

“See Lord Roger,” Hugh said, and Joan looked for the older
man. “He sets himself to a better advantage over there with Francis, a mere
boy, rather than stand beside the likes of Quintin and de Harcourt.”

Joan wanted to smile, but Hugh wore such a fierce
expression, she swallowed it and instead asked, “Is there something wrong, my
lord?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Come.”

“I cannot go out there.” Joan pulled on his arm.

He looked down at her, covering her fingers with his large,
rough hand. “Why not? You are fairer than all but one, and she grows less
lovely as you come to know her. Walk with me, your head high, and put them all
to shame.”

Without another word, he strode down the center of the
greensward. She felt heat sweep up her cheeks as the chattering crowd watched
them. Her heart thudded in her chest. If Mathilda asked her to fetch a
footstool or a pitcher of wine, Joan knew she would sink into the earth in
shame.

De Coleville reached Mathilda and bowed with a flourish. “My
lady, I have brought the fair Joan.”

Mathilda smiled. “Thank you, my lord. Joan?” Mathilda held
out her hand. She wore a ring on every finger, her thumb included. Amid her
chains dangled a fine gold cross decorated with pieces of jet—a gift from a
suitor, Joan imagined.

“You wished to see me?” Joan said, putting her
work-roughened hand in Mathilda’s smooth, soft one.

“I want you to join me here. You remember how you and I used
to watch Richard and Brian toss the stones? I believe you are the one who
suggested the marker.” Mathilda tapped a stone set in the field with her staff.

Joan remembered. The stone had only a few words scratched on
its surface.
De Harcourt—25 feet.

The bishop stood up and one of Lord Roger’s huntsmen blew a
long salute on his hunting horn to alert the crowd. Everyone fell silent. The
bishop consulted a roll of vellum a cleric held—a young cleric, upright and
tall. The sight of the man brought tears to Joan’s eyes at the thought that Ivo
had been dismissed without pension or consideration.

The bishop called Francis de Coucy to throw first. Francis’
mother, standing in Mathilda’s bevy of women, elbowed her way to Mathilda’s
side. “My son would be honored if you would give him some token of good luck.”

Mathilda smiled and floated down the field toward Francis.
He looked no more than a boy, his chest and arms spotted with the same sores
that disfigured his face. But it was not for his sorry skin that Joan did not
like him. It was the way he looked at Mathilda. It was the look of a fox before
he stole a hen.

Mathilda held her staff in one hand, and placed her
fingertips lightly on the boy’s bare shoulder. “For luck,” she said. The crowd
made a collective sound half sigh, half gasp, as she touched her lips to the
boy’s.

Then Mathilda turned away and walked back along the throwing
field to stand ready to mark the distance Francis threw.

The boy hefted the stone to his shoulder. Joan did not see
his throw. Nay, she looked at Adam Quintin, but he was not watching Francis.
She saw him slip through a gap in the crowd and disappear.

A burst of jeers and screams of laughter turned Joan’s
attention back to the field. Francis’ throw had gone into the spectators. A
woman lay on the ground, blood on her temple, his stone by her side.

Lady Claris broke from the crowd and ran to where he stood.
She screamed invectives in his face as the crowd enfolded the injured woman.

“A sorry beginning,” Joan said.

Mathilda nodded. She directed a servant to see to the woman,
while the bishop called the next name.

Joan realized there was one woman on the field for each man
who threw the stone. As Mathilda marked the spots with her staff, she called
one of her women to stand on the edge of the field, a bright, smiling marker.

With great impatience, Joan realized this game might take
all day due to Mathilda’s insistence on giving every man a token kiss. Each
suitor must watch her walk the length of the throwing field and enjoy the touch
of her lips on his. They must also watch her walk slowly back. The crowd loved
it.

Joan looked in vain for Adam Quintin. Why did he not appear?
Her hand went to her breast when she thought of the kennel lads’ words. What a
terrible rumor to spread—that he’d marked a woman. For the first time, she
examined his men.

Hard men. Mercenaries
. A dependable force—for as long
as you paid, they fought. They cared little if William Marshal ruled through
the child king, or Prince Louis of France.

She forced herself to watch the competition, to concentrate
on every toss, to smile when spoken to.

Roger Artois’ toss landed with a thud, the best in the
field. He preened at the wealth of cheers that greeted his fine throw. To
Joan’s dismay, Mathilda called her to mark Lord Roger’s distance. He scowled at
her with narrowed eyes.

Adam Quintin’s name was called. To Joan’s surprise he
stepped onto the field. Now, where had he hidden himself?

When he walked to the foot of the throwing field, Joan saw
one of the long scratches on his shoulder looked a bit inflamed.

Why did she care?

Mathilda headed for Adam to give him the lucky kiss. With a
stab of jealousy, Joan realized she cared whom Adam Quintin kissed. She cared
very much—but without any right to do so.

Mathilda stood on tiptoe before him. He reached out and
swept an arm about Mathilda’s waist. He pulled her against him and set his lips
on hers.

The crowd burst into a thunderclap of approval. It was just
a kiss, Joan said to herself. A mockery of the competitions.
Meaningless
.

Hugh de Coleville made a sound like a growl in his throat,
caught Joan’s eye, and said, “She’s easy with her kisses.”

“She’s playing a part.”

He shrugged, pushed through the crowd, and headed for the inner
bailey.

Adam set Mathilda aside. He bowed, brought the stone to his
shoulder, spun, and threw it. It landed with a thud and buried itself half into
the dirt just past Roger’s mark. Another of Mathilda’s ladies, Lady Isabelle,
stood at the spot.

Brian took his place, last to throw. He did not wait for a
kiss. He had a grace and strength that made him as beautiful to watch as Adam.
With what looked like little effort, he spun and heaved the missile.

It seemed to hang in the air, then it fell with a loud smack.
He grinned and shrugged. Quintin’s distance prevailed.

“A new record. Adam Quintin by a hand,” Mathilda declared.

“She moved,” a voice said from the edge of the crowd.