LordoftheHunt

by Anonymous Author

  “You did not kill this beast on your own, did you, Adam?” Brian asked, swinging his attention to her again.

  Adam. A simple name for a simple man. Then she realized the rest of Brian’s men would be right behind him.

  She must go. Now.

  “In a manner of speaking. I took the beast with one lucky stroke, but it would have had my entrails for supper if not for this kind woman’s hounds. They saved my skin.”

  Joan tried to tug away from him as three more men and horses pushed their way through the trees. She trusted a pack of hounds far more than a pack of men.

  Adam still held her imprisoned, his gloved fingers almost encircling her upper arm. He sketched a quick bow. “Mistress? How may I reward you?”

  More men surged into the clearing, their horses shying from the sweet stink of the boar’s blood. Soon the clearing was crowded with men. She looked from one face to the other. Most were hidden by their helms as de Harcourt’s had been.

  The forest shrank around the men and scores of iron-shod hooves. The scent of greenery was overwhelmed by that of horses and men.

  “Please, I must go,” she said softly, urgently, loath to draw anyone’s attention but he who held her.

  “This is quite a trophy.” Brian dismounted and approached the dead boar. He measured the tusks against his forearm.

  Others did as he, touching the beast and prodding it with their feet. A woman was not safe with so many men—with these men in particular. Her heart beat more quickly. Her hands began to sweat.

  Brian drew a short sword and hacked a tusk from the felled beast. “Here, Adam, have it carved into dice. They would surely be imbued with your good luck.” He tossed the tusk to Adam in a spray of blood.

  He let her go to catch the trophy. More blood dotted his mantle and hers. He frowned. “Brian, you’ve insulted this young woman.”

  “Joan’s not easily insulted, are you?” Brian inclined his head to her. He had hair the color of chestnuts.

  Joan made a deep curtsy to him, but bit her lip on any retort. Brian’s father held an adjoining manor, had hunted with Lord Guy just the day of the man’s death, though Brian had not deigned to visit Ravenswood for nearly two years.

  Heat ran over her cheeks. Brian could be at Ravenswood for only one purpose—the Harvest Hunt and Tournament at which the lady of Ravenswood was set to choose a husband. The suitors, ten in all, were all due to arrive before nightfall.

  Joan carefully turned to Adam, a man more of her station—a man who, by the lack of ornamentation or trim on his black garb, was the only man she might comfortably speak to or acknowledge with any propriety. “You owe me nothing. Now, I must go.”

  “Surely you could use a few pennies?” Brian’s words held her in place. “After all,” he continued, “you saved Adam’s life. He can spare the silver, I assure you.”

  How dare Brian imply she was needy? Her father was Master of the Hunt, not some lowly kennel man. She fought to keep her voice mild. “I ask no reward, my lord.”

  There were some quips about Adam’s unhorsing from the newly arrived men; then a voice penetrated the banter. It was as hard and harsh as the winter wind that would come in a few weeks.

  “Ah, Adam Quintin and a wench. A dog and a bitch will always end up in the grass together.”

  Joan pulled against Adam Quintin’s hold. His fingers tightened on her arm, then relaxed and slid down to take her hand. The sensation was soothing, but nothing he could do would make her feel at ease, save that he would release her—and she could flee.

  “I can only assume, my lord Roger,” Adam said, “that you’ve spent so much time with your men, you’ve forgotten how to conduct yourself before a woman. Lady Mathilda will be tossing you in the moat where you’ll stink as much as your manners.”

  There was a beat of silence. Then the men laughed and the baron reddened. Joan was a bit shocked a lord would tolerate so tart a response from a mere swordsman.

  The baron jerked his reins and retorted, “I’ve no time for such nonsense. Fetch someone to butcher this animal and see the best of the beast gets to the bishop’s table.” With a kick of his mount, he and half the party cantered off. The ground trembled at their departure.

  “Forgive Lord Roger’s churlish manners,” Adam said to her.

  Joan’s heart slowed, her stomach eased. “It is nothing.”

  She squared her shoulders, prayed the man would release her hand. His glove was frayed, but of fine, well-tanned leather. It made her uneasy to stand with her fingers in his.

  Just as the thought entered her head, he dropped her hand and made her a more proper bow. “A few hours in the saddle and Lord Roger’s as prickly as that boar’s snout.”

  Then Adam smiled and Lord Roger and Brian de Harcourt fled her thoughts. She could but stare at his eyes. They were blue as a field of harebells and framed with thick black lashes.

  “Now,” he said. “Your name is—”

  “Plain Joan,” interjected Brian.

  She wanted to put an arrow right through his throat. She almost reached for the bow slung at her back.

  Adam raised a black, straight brow. He cocked his head and considered her. “Plain Joan?”

  She ducked her head. “Aye. So I am called.”

  His voice dropped even lower. It coiled about her like a silken thread. “Lord Brian is right. I must reward you in some manner, Plain Joan.”

  Now. I must go now. She turned. Her path was blocked by a small, wiry man on a dun-brown mare coming straight toward her. He led a gray horse as huge as any she’d ever seen. Its hooves were the size of meat platters, its black mane plaited in a fanciful manner with leather thongs. The horse danced and pawed as it neared the dead boar.

  “Yer mount,” the little man said to Adam. “Ye rightly named him when ye called him Sinner.”

  Adam grinned and looked sheepishly in Joan’s direction. “He should be called Lady. He’s as spoiled as any of those fine creatures.” Then he took the reins and patted the destrier’s heaving side. “And he dumped me like an inconvenient suitor the instant he saw that boar. Never take a nervous horse on a hunt.” The horse bumped his shoulder.

  Slung across the battle charger’s saddle was his shield. Adam was no common man-at-arms, for the shield bore his personal device. It echoed the simple shape of his mantle pin. But painted on the leather cover of the shield, she saw it more clearly. It was a gold “V” rendered as if by an illuminator of fine manuscripts. The Roman numeral of five—five for a man whose name meant fifth son.

  Men with their own devices were not simple. That she’d mistaken him so staggered her.

  “I have to forgive him, though, as he’s not a hunter,” Adam said, pulling himself slowly into a sleek saddle of Spanish leather. “Now, in battle, there’s no finer horse in all—”

  Joan darted into the trees.

  He was a knight. Mayhap a lord. That meant he, too, was here for one purpose only—marriage to the most beautiful woman in Christendom. Lady Mathilda.

  Joan heard Adam Quintin shout after her, but she ignored him. She’d save a beggar with her hounds if he had been one so cornered. And in truth, ‘twas the dogs, not she, who’d done the work. She paused a moment, hand to her breast, and took a deep breath. The boar had almost killed the man, but the dogs had performed as she’d directed.

  Her hand signals had worked.

  The dogs were waiting on the bank of the river that wound from Winchester to Portsmouth Harbor, passing Ravenswood Castle on its way. They had run through the shallows, romped on the banks, cleaning themselves.

  She hugged them one by one, stroking velvety ears and rubbing smooth bellies. “I am sorry you cannot have your just reward, but I could not remain for the butchering. You made me proud, my loves. You rescued a man of worth for Lady Mathilda.”

  She remembered how he’d been addressed with familiar ease by the other men. It took little effort to imagine the carnage to the men’s friendship as they vied for Lady Mathilda’s hand.<
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  Plain Joan, Brian had called her. His tongue was as quick as ever. Her cheeks heated that Adam Quintin should be introduced to her in such a manner. Now, Brian’s opinion would be Adam’s. It was an uneasy thought and she thrust it aside.

  Her passage through the woods was no longer a joy, the dogs frolicking ahead of her no longer the pleasure of the day.

  At a barely perceptible crossing of one deer path with another, she turned to the west. She would come up to Ravenswood Castle from that direction lest she meet any more men who might be rushing to fall at Lady Mathilda’s feet.

  But as she walked, she found her thoughts on fields of harebells. Harebells as blue as the new gown Lady Mathilda had worn this morning at chapel.

  Adam Quintin was as fine in appearance as Brian de Harcourt, mayhap finer. Lady Mathilda would have great difficulty choosing between them. She discounted Lord Roger altogether. He looked like a starved crane. She hoped Brian fell in the foul water of the moat along with the rude Roger.

  “Adam Quintin.” She said the name aloud without thought. One dog lifted his head and whined. “Aye, Paul. You’re right. I will not think of him.” The young hound she’d named after her favorite saint barked. She patted his head. “Nay. I mean it. He’s forgotten already.”

  Chapter Two

  Adam Quintin rode a pace or two ahead of his men and friends. He wanted to see Ravenswood Castle alone. He stared straight ahead and as they came around the bend in the road, he saw it up ahead. The massive walls seemed to burst from the earth itself. The ramparts were touched with the gold of a setting sun. Banners flew from each of the four towers.

  The banners were not his, or rather, not his father’s. They belonged, instead, to Lady Mathilda’s guardian, Bishop Gravant.

  They would come down soon to be replaced by the device of whoever won Lady Mathilda’s hand in marriage. They would fall just as his father’s had when King John had replaced him at Ravenswood with Guy de Poitiers, Lady Mathilda’s father.

  But de Poitiers was dead and Bishop Gravant ruled here now.

  Behind Adam, someone called out his name. Adam knew he would not make it over the drawbridge unscathed, and the barbs were as sharp as he’d expected.

  Brian started it. “Shall I tie you to Sinner’s saddle lest you fall off again? We would not want you to shame yourself when you greet Lady Mathilda.”

  His close friend, Hugh de Coleville, took it up, damn him.

  “Sorry I am to have missed your unhorsing, Adam. I’d have given my best mare to have seen it. But surely, this bodes well for you, Brian? You may spare your lance and arm in the tournament if Sinner tosses him again.”

  With a grin, Brian nodded. “Aye. I swear ‘tis Adam’s mount that wins so often.”

  “Shall we tie you to the saddle?” Hugh continued despite the scowl Adam shot in his direction. “Aye, Adam, let us tie you on. You cannot afford to injure yourself. Bruises will not turn the lady’s head, you know. I’d best do it now before you get into more trouble. Toss me some rope, Brian.”

  Adam shot Hugh a rude gesture and galloped forward, ignoring the pain in his spine from the fall.

  Sinner crossed the drawbridge. Elation rose in Adam’s throat as the horse’s hooves sounded on the wooden planks then struck the stone that paved the outer bailey. He wanted to shout his exultation.

  He was inside. Inside Ravenswood for the first time in over a decade. Inside for the first time since his father had been banished and lost all to the unworthy de Poitiers.

  Adam found himself smiling, nay, grinning. The insults and barbs from Hugh and Brian mattered not at all. He rounded on the men, standing a bit in his stirrups to relieve the ache in his back.

  “Are you saying Lady Mathilda will be seeing my bruises that soon? On my ass, they are. Will she choose me that quickly? If so, you both might as well give up the hunt now.”

  Hugh’s grin turned to a frown as he maneuvered his mount next to Adam’s. The frown only intensified the deep lines about his mouth. He had tawny-colored hair and a ruddy complexion, now even redder as his thoughts turned sour. “Make no mistake, Adam. I have no designs on the lady. You forget I’ve met her—several times. I’m here to watch you rout these other suitors in the tournament, nothing more.”

  “And glad I am you’ve come.” Adam dismounted. The outer bailey was as unrecognizable as the village had been when he’d rode through an hour ago. With a tournament but a week away, every possible merchant and craftsman had come to set up a stall in the outer bailey. The village was filled with them as well.

  A horde of grooms rushed forward to grab the reins of the many horses now milling about before the long row of Ravenswood’s stables.

  Brian de Harcourt addressed himself to Adam as he dismounted. “I haven’t seen Lady Mathilda in two years, but if she’s grown so shallow your bruised ass is enough to snare her, I’ve little interest in her myself.”

  Adam shrugged. “Who cares if she’s shallow? She’s a woman, after all. And I intend to be first and foremost in her mind from the instant we meet.”

  Adam wanted Brian to know he would not be an easy opponent. He intended to excel at both the tournament and the hunt—the hunt for William Marshal’s traitor, that is.

  And he intended to ask a high reward—his father’s banishment lifted, and Ravenswood returned to the de Marle family. He would insist on command of the strategic manor and raise a different banner over the walls. His own.

  * * * * *

  Joan walked over the drawbridge, the hounds a few paces behind her. Thickening dusk muddied the bright colors of the banners that flew from the tents set out for the Harvest Hunt and Tournament. They ranged in size from small dun tents that housed the pages and squires of lords and knights to the more elaborate pavilions for the wellborn.

  The most important lords or knights would be within the keep. The status of a man would be clear by where they laid their head—from the highest honors of a chamber within the keep to the tents in the cold bailey.

  She passed through the gate that separated the outer bailey from the inner. This area surrounded the great stone keep. It was filled with the bustle of servants running from bake house to hall. Here stood the tents of the most important knights. Around the tents were the usual accompaniment of cooking fires and men.

  One pavilion, with a high-peaked roof stood a bit apart from the others. It was stark black. No pennant flew from its peak. Two men strolled back and forth before it and Joan knew they must be guards.

  There was something sinister about the tent that it began to disappear against the shadows as night fell. Then the entrance flap lifted, revealing a quick glimpse of a candle’s glow. A small man burst out and hastened away, calling a greeting to the two guards.

  It was the man who’d brought Adam Quintin his war horse. Joan’s step slowed. She watched a moment, then shook off her reverie. The men who flocked to Ravenswood held no interest for her save as something to be avoided.

  The black pavilion remained in her line of vision as she entered the kennels. They were new, expanded within the last twelve-month to half again their original size. The building was circular, made of well-seasoned timber, with a thatched upper story. She entered at the end of the run, greeting the dogs who roamed the space, petting each hound, praising their coats and their lineage.

  A feeling came over her that she was being watched. She glanced around. There was no one loitering about. The knights and their men were making their places, marking out their areas with banners thrust into the dirt. Servants ran back and forth with water and trays of meat.

  Once in the warm shelter of the kennels, Joan lost the sense of unease. She gave orders to the kennel lads on the strewing of fresh straw, then ran the few steps to her father’s cottage.

  Built against the castle wall behind the kennels, the three room stone cottage was a luxury designating her father’s lofty status in Ravenswood’s hierarchy of servants. The great front room had a hearth at one end, a couch covered in fu
rs along one wall, and an oak table polished smooth by years of scrubbing in the center. Her father sat in the gathering gloom at the table, idly stroking a spotted hound’s ear.

  Nat Swan looked up and smiled. “Ah, Joan. Back finally. We’ve had a busy day—we’re hungry, girl.”

  A bowl and spoon sat by his elbow. Joan stirred it once and frowned. “Papa, you’ve let the pottage grow cold.”

  “Eh?” He stared at the bowl as if he’d only just noticed it. “Did I?”

  Then he laughed and wrapped an arm about her waist and squeezed. He was still strong, although he was more than six decades old. It was a bone-crushing hug.

  “You’re a good girl, Joan. I’m sorry I wasted the food. Give it to Jupiter, here.”

  Jupiter. A hound dead at least ten years. Most of the hounds of today bore a saint’s name.

  Joan moved about the cottage lighting wicks in small dishes of oil to chase away the gloom. She cleared her throat. “Papa, Brian de Harcourt is here. Come for the tournament.”

  His gray brows knit into a frown. The hand he used to rub his temple was gnarled and trembled a bit with age. “Brian de Harcourt? Do I know him?”

  “Nay, Papa, do not fret on it. You don’t know him.” Joan discarded the cold pottage. She put a bowl of bread soaked in broth on the floor for the spotted lymer, Matthew, not Jupiter.

  Matthew, and the other lymers, dogs slightly larger than a greyhound, would be busy with Nat this week as it was the lymer who went out in advance with the Master of the Hunt when he tracked important game. Finding the quarry depended on the scenting abilities of the lymers.

  She gave Matthew a rub behind his ears and a sign that he might eat.

  “Explain to me again why they’ve all come, sweetling.”

  “Bishop Gravant is honoring Lord Guy’s dying wish that Lady Mathilda might choose her own husband.”

  “Then let the lady choose, eh?” Nat addressed the dog. “Though ‘tis a folly, isn’t it, young fellow, to allow a lady such an important decision?”