Edwina looked like a child next to the taller figure of Adam Quintin.
“Ye’ll hand that bloody tunic over as well, sir,” the laundress said. “I’ve seen the like ‘o ye before, and will no’ blush at the sight, so give it here.”
Edwina shook her finger in Adam Quintin’s face. Joan took a quick step forward to interfere, should the warrior take umbrage.
Instead, he smiled. “I’ll wager you can do nothing about this blood, mistress. But as you’re so sure of yourself, I’ll give you ten pence if you’re right and I’m wrong.”
Edwina wriggled like one of Nat’s pups. “Ten pence! T’would pay a laundress for weeks of service. I’ll see it perfect, sir, doubt it not. Now off with yon tunic. I’ve work to do.”
Joan stood in place, one hand to her throat as he complied with Edwina’s tart order and pulled his tunic over his head. He tossed it into Edwina’s waiting arms. Next, he peeled off the long black linen shirt he wore beneath it.
Joan sucked in her breath. The knight was nearly naked in the light of two torches that flanked his tent. The flickering flames gleamed on the long, lean muscles of his torso and arms. It was a body whose perfection was marred with scars and abrasions—the marks of a warrior. Heat, like that of the fires in the wash house, ran over her skin.
“And yer braies,” Edwina ordered.
The rush of heat became a flush of something else, something that snatched her breath.
The man spread his arms wide, displaying the length of his grasp and the wings of black hair that stretched out across his chest. This man could swing the heavy battle ax that hung beside the keep’s hearth, said to have been captured during a Viking raid.
“You would take my braies and leave me naked?” Adam Quintin teased the laundress.
Edwina sniffed. “I’m sure I’ve seen better—and bigger—before. Give ‘em over. And if yer so poor ye’ve but one pair o’ braies, ye’ll no have my ten pence, now, will ye?” She snapped her fingers in his face.
He tipped his head back and laughed. It was a low and joyful sound. It also attracted the attention of men at nearby fires. Joan pulled back closer to the wall.
The knight turned away and entered his tent. A moment later, his braies flew out the flap and landed at Edwina’s feet.
“Thank you, sir,” Edwina shouted as she stooped to scoop up the linen undergarment. “Ye count out those pennies now. I’ll be here at dawn to collect ‘em.”
Joan hastened away before Edwina saw her in the shadows. The woman would think nothing of calling out her name, and everyone who heard—Adam Quintin included—would know she’d watched the knight strip from his bloody garments.
Once Joan had held out hope that Nat and Edwina would marry. Though they never had, Edwina often served up advice like a mother would and watched over her.
She stopped at the cottage. “Papa, I’m going to take Matthew for a run.” She did not tell him she wanted to teach the lymer a new hand signal. Matthew spent so much time with Nat, she had little opportunity to keep his training apace of his fellows.
Nat stood up and stretched. “I’ll be off to bed then, I’ve got to be up before the sun.”
She kissed his cheek and left the cottage. She made a light clucking sound with her tongue to bring Matthew to her heel. They passed the kennel and she leashed an older, more experienced lymer named Basil. The three of them walked through the many stalls and tents in the bailey. Men did not bother her with two sizable dogs at her side.
Some newly arrived merchants were erecting their makeshift stalls for the week. Servants stood about talking to the visitors, sharing gossip.
At the gate, Joan nodded to Thomas, the gatehouse guard. “I want to run the lymers along the river.”
Thomas frowned. “You shouldn’t be out so late. I’ve orders from the bishop that any who wish to come or go may, but I think he had yon suitors in mind.”
“I’ll not be long.” She hastened on as she spoke, lest the man try to detain her.
Matthew raced away from the village and toward the river though the older dog remained at her side. “So, you’re of the same mind as I,” she said when Matthew circled back. “There’s naught in the village we care to see, is there?”
She ruffled the hound’s ears. He made a happy, snuffling sound, then bounded off toward the muddy river bank.
After he’d had a short run, she called him back for training. She held her hand by her side, her fingers together. The older lymer, Basil, immediately sat. Matthew followed suit, still as a statue. When she spread her fingers, both dogs rose, but crouched low on their haunches, bodies tense, ready to spring. She closed her fingers and without hesitation, both sat again. She rewarded them with fine words of praise and her baked nuggets.
Then she worked on another signal, her hands crossed on her breast, one she thought she might need with so many men on the castle grounds. The signal would cause the dogs to hold a man in position. Guarding, she called it. And if the man tried to pass the dogs, they would menace him until he stopped.
It was not a skill needed for hunting. It was a skill she had taught each dog for her own protection.
“Is Matthew not a canny student?” she asked Basil. “You are both wonderful,” she said when they were done. “Now play.” She snapped her fingers. Matthew bounded off. The older lymer remained at her side, never moving more than a foot away.
She followed Matthew at her own pace, keeping the castle walls on her right. The dog wandered, nose to the ground, occasionally pausing to look back at her, then offering a muffled woof to let her know she moved too slowly to suit him. With a sigh, she looked back at the castle.
The moon rose from behind the walls to illuminate her path and silver Matthew’s sleek coat. He looked like he might be the ghost of the long-dead Jupiter as he slipped and slid from shadow to shadow.
Chapter Four
Adam and Hugh crossed the bailey to Ravenswood’s great hall lighted with dozens of smoking torches. They climbed a high, wooden staircase meant to be withdrawn in times of siege. The iron-strapped doors at the top of the steps opened and noise spilled out into the night.
Emotion choked Adam’s throat as a guard flung the door wide. Adam’s last visit here was to see his mother laid to rest. He thrust the thought aside.
In the brightly lighted hall, he had a sudden qualm that someone might recognize him. He ran his hand over his jaw. He’d only grown the beard in the last few weeks and it still surprised him when he touched his face.
No one paid him any heed as Hugh led the way past ranks of tables toward the great hearth. The company was too busy fawning on the more important Hugh de Coleville to see a mere knight.
“Is it much changed?” Hugh asked when they’d reached the fore of the hall and a dais upon which sat a draped table for the bishop’s most illustrious guests.
“There’s little familiar here. There were not so many benches. Or embroidered cushions.” He leaned close to Hugh’s ear. “There are far too many cushions, if I might venture an opinion. I do hope Lady Mathilda can do more than stitch a pillow cover.”
“She’ll have other things to do with her hands if she weds you.”
Adam smiled. “There were paintings by the hearth, but I think I like this better.”
The huge paintings that had flanked the hearth were now replaced on the left with a fine tapestry and on the right with ranks of weapons.
“Quite a collection. I see a Viking ax and isn’t that a Saracen blade?”
Adam nodded, then froze in place. There, amidst a starburst of weapons, was his grandfather’s sword. He opened his mouth to tell Hugh the sword had once cut down a score of men at one battle when he became aware of the scent of flowers. He turned from Hugh to the woman who stood with one foot poised on the edge of the dais.
She was a vision of beauty. He belatedly bowed. It would not do to be more interested in the weapons than the object of the matrimonial hunt.
“My lady,” he managed when Hugh
nudged him sharply in the back. Hugh introduced him.
Lady Mathilda tipped her head to the side. “Adam Quintin? I believe I know your name.”
The lady’s golden circlet made a halo about her lovely blonde head. Her face was as serene as any angel’s worthy of a halo, her lips and cheeks as pink as rose petals.
“I would not know in what capacity, my lady.” Her hand in his was delicate, made for stitching useless things. No freckles marred her skin. She had a ring on every finger. He touched his lips to her hand, then turned it and kissed her palm. She wore another ring on her middle finger, turned palm-in. Her skin was scented with almond. She was perfection.
“I am sure I know who you are.” She raised her eyes to the lofty ceiling overhead with its smoke-blackened beams and sighed. “Ah. I have it. You’re the mysterious knight who is undefeated in tournament play. It’s an honor to meet you.”
Lady Mathilda dropped into a deep curtsy that belled her golden skirts, trimmed at the hem with six inches of embroidery. He feared she might not rise under the weight of the many gold chains about her neck.
Hugh grunted and stepped forward. “He’s the undefeated Quintin. The best with a sword in all of Christendom.”
Adam coughed. Hugh usually only made the sword reference when referring to his prowess between a woman’s thighs.
Lady Mathilda turned to Hugh. He took her hand in a perfunctory way, lifted it, and with barely a touch of his lips, dropped it. The perfect line of her brows was ruined when she pulled them together in a frown.
“Lord Hugh,” she said. “It has been a long time since we’ve seen each other.”
Adam wished there was some way to excuse Hugh’s lack of manners, but the man still smarted from the barbs of Cupid’s arrow and treated women with either bland indifference or outright contempt. His usually formidable features were rendered even more so when he frowned as he did right now.
“Hugh is also a fine swordsman,” Adam ventured.
Hugh rounded on him. “Nay. Flatter me not. ‘Tis your sword famous in poem and song. I’m sure Lady Mathilda would wish to see you ply it.”
“Mon Dieu,” Adam muttered.
“I look forward to seeing you on the tournament field, then, Sir Adam.” She turned to Hugh. “And you, as well. I have long wished for the pleasure of seeing your sword.”
Adam almost choked.
“I do not intend to enter the fray, my lady,” Hugh said, his face blandly indifferent. “I am here to watch Adam Quintin take all honors.”
Brian de Harcourt approached. He whispered in Adam’s ear, “Do you see why Joan is called plain?”
Adam ignored him, grabbed Hugh’s arm, and marched him away.
“Was that necessary?” he asked. “I’ll have your tongue stewed by the cook for that.”
“I don’t see what I’ve done to warrant such punishment,” Hugh said with mock solemnity, his hand on his breast. “I merely wished the lovely lady to know that you’re a master swordsman.”
Lady Mathilda clapped and the hall fell silent. A boy held her arm as she climbed onto a stool and then onto a chair that she might be visible to all who gathered in the hall.
“I wish to welcome my illustrious guests to Ravenswood Manor. I have many festivities planned to entertain you who have come to our Harvest Hunt and Tournament.”
A cacophony of cheering and shouting burst from the gathering. She held up one delicate hand and again the hall fell silent. “Each night, as we gather here for supper, I will assess the day and award a kiss and a token to the man who has afforded the most pleasure to one and all.”
“What is this?” Adam asked Hugh.
“A woman making fools of men. If you want her, this is what you must bear.”
Adam headed away from the dais and the small, perfect woman who ruled there.
“Do you think it was wise to abandon the field to Brian?”
“Why not? I’m as sore as a virgin on her wedding night and have no wish to sit down right now. I want to do nothing more than rest my bones. And the bishop’s nowhere about.”
Hugh stepped in front of him. “Adam, you are here for one purpose and one only. As is every other man you see.” Hugh swept out his hand to the crowded hall. “How can you win the woman if you allow such a man as Brian to occupy her attentions?”
Adam glanced over his shoulder to where Brian was seated at Lady Mathilda’s feet. The lady was smiling and giggling in a manner that set Adam’s teeth on edge. He realized he must pretend to care about her. No one must know the true reason he was at Ravenswood. Yet he had other matters to attend to this night.
“I cannot turn about now,” he said to Hugh. “I’ll unseat Brian when the time comes as surely as the boar unseated me today. And why are you leaving?”
Hugh shrugged. “I’m not after the lady. I thought I’d do my hunting over at the kennels; perhaps see if the huntress is lonely.”
Adam frowned. Hugh’s tawny hair was unruly and his face a hard collection of lines, but he’d not failed with many women, save the one who’d just broken his heart. Was it because, for once, Hugh’s name and wealth had been of no use to him? The lady had been seduced by a man with greater power—a brother to the king of Spain.
A knot of minstrels began to strum their lutes and sing of a knight’s bold and brave deed. The refrain emphasized the size of the knight’s heart in comparison to the size of a boar’s great tusks.
Adam’s frown transformed into a wide grin. “You need not fear Mathilda will forget me. Listen and hear how my single sword blow killed a boar this very day.”
He bowed to Hugh and strode through the keep doors. The air was almost warm for the time of year. The scent of burning torches filled the night as did the rich scent of roasting meat. Dozens of fires were lighted about the bailey where servants and men-at-arms fed themselves while their masters courted the lady of the keep.
Adam did not go to his tent as he had told Hugh he wished to do. Instead, Adam passed it and entered the castle chapel.
He took a seat on a bench along the wall and waited. An old woman came to light candles, eyeing him with obvious displeasure, but Adam remained in place. Air stirred against the back of his neck and told him another had entered the chapel. A young man of about a score sat beside him. It was one of the minstrels from the hall.
When the old woman had shuffled off, the young man held out his hand. “I’m Christopher,” he said.
Adam examined the young man’s night-black hair and beard. He grinned. “You look enough like me to be my brother.”
Christopher grinned back. “I’ll warrant I’ll not get as much attention as you, though.”
“Thank you for the song,” Adam said.
The minstrel shrugged. “You did the deed, I but set it to music.”
“You left out the hounds.” And the huntress.
“Lady Mathilda will not be enchanted by a hound.”
Adam sobered at the reminder of his task. “What news have you for me?”
“Nothing much, I fear. Just that Prince Louis will try again, this time he’ll have Bishop Gravant to smooth his way with the church and whomever weds Mathilda to gather support among the barons.”
“What of the lady? Where do her loyalties lie?”
“With herself. It’s believed that no matter what Lady Mathilda thinks, it will not be she who chooses the next lord of Ravenswood, but the bishop.”
“Which man does the bishop favor?”
“I’ve heard naught to lead me to one man over another.”
“And you get this from gossip?”
“Nay, more a chance word here or there.”
“In truth, the traitor need not be here. A baron may send his son to take Ravenswood without stirring from his own keep.”
Christopher shook his head. “Nay. Barons are far too arrogant to allow their sons to see to this deed. It’s too capricious a way to secure the place. That’s not my thought, but our lord’s. Nay, the son will be used to secure the
lady, but the father will ride in after to take the keep.
“And with Marshal’s edict that no man may gather more than a score of men in any one place—well, what can a man do with only a score of men? The castle must be taken by marriage.”
“Why doesn’t the bishop open the doors?” Adam asked.
“The Church cannot afford a rift with the king any more than the king can afford a rift with the church. But you may be sure at week’s end, the bishop will have chosen Mathilda’s husband, and it will be our traitor. By then it will be too late. By right of marriage, the traitor will possess this castle. A siege would be needed to wrest it back. The Church would be offended.”
“And what if the lady wishes to choose me?” Adam grinned at Christopher.
“Forgive me, but if William Marshal is right, you will not be chosen.” The minstrel shook his head. “The lady may want you, but she’ll not have her way.”
“But this edict also demands I have but a score of men with me. There’s little I can do with so few men.”
“Do you have men elsewhere?”
“A score here and a score there,” Adam said vaguely.
Christopher lowered his voice. “Others may have done the same. I’ll try to find out. We must arrange a signal of sorts when we need each other, something we can use no matter whether we’re in the hall or in the fields.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Can you sing?”
Adam grimaced. “Not to speak of. I can but whistle.”
“That will serve.” The minstrel pursed his lips. The small chapel filled with a familiar strain heard at any hunt.
“A fitting choice.” Adam followed the minstrel’s effort, trilling the notes.
They talked for another quarter hour, divided the suitors between them, and made plans to search each man’s belongings for evidence he might connive with Prince Louis. Last, they arranged for daily meetings.
Adam remained behind, but only for a few moments. He left the stone church, dwarfed by Ravenswood’s towers, and walked around the east side. There, he approached the entrance to the crypt. The door was not visible to any other building, nor to the towers themselves. A pavilion concealed its view from the bailey as well. His pavilion.
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