“I must go, my lords, sir.” She curtsied, then turned to Hugh. “I’ll tell my father you would like one of the pups.”
She walked away with a sleek grace that matched that of her hounds. As Adam watched, she fisted her hands. Two dogs rose from where they lay in the grass and flanked her. The way the dogs moved with her smacked of some magical communication. He smiled. Maybe she was a forest deity after all.
“Plain Joan little resembles her father,” Hugh said. “Her mother must have been a beauty.”
“Actually,” Brian said, “Nat is not her father.”
Adam swung his attention from Joan to Nat Swan, who called out orders to his huntsmen, setting the carts of dogs in motion. “How so?”
“If I have the story right, Nat was sent by the former lord, Durand de Marle, to purchase hounds in Chichester. Upon Nat’s return he came upon Joan’s family. They’d been traveling to Winchester Cathedral. She could not have been much more than ten at the time. I believe her father was a scholar of some note and wanted to consult the books there.”
“A scholar? How curious,” Hugh said.
“Go on,” Adam said, impatient with Hugh’s interruption. “What happened?”
“As I said, Nat came upon her family. Joan’s mother was being raped by three men. Her father and brother had been butchered by the trio and lay there beside the mother in a pool of blood, or so the story goes. Nat set his dogs on the men, but he was too late to save the mother.”
“And Joan?” Adam watched her touch Nat’s sleeve and smile up at him. He now saw how dissimilar they were. Joan’s features were fine and elegant. Nat’s revealed peasant ancestry, and Adam remembered that the man had risen to his rank as Master of the Hunt, not through noble birth, but from the ranks of the huntsmen.
“Nat found Joan hiding in some brush. Or rather the dogs found her. He might have left her at the Convent of St. Agnes, it was nearby, I understand, but instead, he brought her to Ravenswood. He just…added her to his pack, so to speak. And she’s been at his side ever since. I believe Lord Guy formalized the adoption in some writ or other.”
Adam took his reins from a groom who led their horses forward. So, that was why he didn’t remember her. She must have come shortly before his family had been banished, during his fostering with de Warre.
“Was it ever discovered why Joan’s family was murdered? Was it thievery?” Adam asked.
Brian shrugged. “I cannot remember. Mathilda can give you more details should you wish them.”
Nat Swan handed Joan up onto her mount. She swept her long skirts aside and took up her reins, then guided her horse aside so Lady Mathilda might pass. Roger worked his way between the lady and Bishop Gravant.
Hugh rolled his eyes and maneuvered his horse so Adam’s was forced into line with Brian’s. They followed Mathilda’s entourage back to the castle.
Brian leaned near Adam. “I do remember something more of Joan’s story. The men who killed her family were some of King John’s Flemish mercenaries. There was quite a furor about it at the time.”
Adam jerked on his reins. His horse shied. He controlled his mount and his voice. “Flemish mercenaries?”
“Aye. It is said Joan Swan has but one passion—the hatred of mercenaries.”
Chapter Six
Douglas shook Adam from sleep and handed him a tankard of cool, fresh ale. Adam’s head felt stuffed with wool after a night of drinking and feasting, and not one step forward in William Marshal’s mission. Adam had managed to search only one chamber, Lord Roger’s.
The man was slovenly. He hid his documents and money purse under his mattress where any servant might find them. In addition, the man had naught incriminating save a list of properties, bolts of cloth, spices, and jewelry for the lady.
As a bribe to a bishop, it was mediocre. Surely, Roger, rising forty years, could do better. His father, an earl, might be as old as the Roman Way, but he was rich as Croesus.
The sun painted a bronze gleam on his tent.
“I was having wonderful dream, Douglas. In it, you allowed me to sleep until supper and instead of your ugly face, I was awakened by a sweet, young maid wearing naught but her hair.”
“Happens she were here, but ye chased ‘er off with yer snoring.”
“Would that it were true.” Adam handed back the empty tankard and washed his face and hands in a basin of hot water Douglas set out on the table.
“Ye’ve some nasty bruises on yer arse,” Douglas said, handing Adam the linen shirt he would wear beneath his tunic.
“Aye. I feel like I took two fingers off my height with that fall from Sinner.”
“Can ye manage the brute in the tournament?”
“Don’t look so downcast. I’ll excel and nurse my aching body after. You’ll not be shamed by my performance.”
“At least the tournament is a few days off. Ye’ll heal some in that time. Find a bath and soak a bit—none o’ that swimming yer so fond of. Evil poisons in river water, ye know.”
“Aye, my physician. Any other advice?”
Douglas shook his head and held out three belts.
“This one.” Adam buckled on the belt he liked best, one studded with smoky topaz, a gift from a fine French woman who’d ordered one topaz for each night of passion they’d shared. “What has the bishop planned for our day?”
“My day is set. Burnishing harness and weapons, oiling leather. Ye’re to grapple for the lady’s attentions. Half-naked. It isna decent.” Douglas gave a loud sniff.
Adam shook his head and thrust a topaz-embellished dagger into his belt sheath. “So the lady lied. It is not we who will enjoy the festivities, but we who will provide them.
“What happened to skewering each other with swords and daggers, and the last man standing wins the lady’s hand? We’ll not likely eliminate any candidates with such tame amusements.”
“Blood-letting being more sure? But it will not amuse the ladies quite as well,” Douglas said.
Adam plucked a pair of braies from his bed and stuck his finger through a rent in the linen. “You’ll need to stitch this then, or I’ll shame myself.”
He headed for the armory to see about his sword. When he entered the hot space, the armorer looked up, his hammer raised over the tip of a lance.
“I sent my sword over last evening.”
“Don’t have yer sword.” The man returned to his hammering.
“A page brought it. It has my “V” incised in the hilt.”
The man’s eyes shifted left, but he shook his head. “Never seen it.”
Adam turned and examined the ranks of weapons. There were far too many for peacetime. And just the right number for war. He plucked his sword from the group. “This is it.”
He examined the hilt. It bore a mark along the cross guard as if a chisel had been hammered against where it joined the blade. “What have you done here? It’s worse now.”
The man shrugged, but he lifted his hammer and hefted it in his hand. The action was less threat than nervousness, Adam decided.
Adam examined the sword from one end to the other. “I’ll give you twice what you were offered to damage this hilt if you will tell me who hired you to do it.”
“It were given to me that way.” The man licked his lips.
Adam spun and pressed the point of the sword under the man’s chin. “This hilt will last but one thrust, I imagine. Enough to cut your throat. His name.”
Sweat ran down the man’s temples. He licked his lips. “I ne’er seen ‘im.”
“Then I suppose you’ll die.”
“Nay,” the man croaked. “I know only he were alone. He came up behind me, offered me three marks to fix a sword. He said I were not to turn, I’d find it in the straw.”
“In what manner did he want it fixed?”
The man blinked as sweat ran in his eyes. “He just said, ‘Fix it so ‘e willna last more than a thrust er two.’”
“You knew it was my sword.”
“Ever
one knows ye wear the—” He stroked the air with a quick, slashing V.
“Do they?”
“Aye. Some say as ye’ve carved it into the breast of everyone o’ yer lovers.”
How reputations were made. “I’ll give you six marks to repair my sword—properly this time. Ten marks if you can discover the name of the man who plots my fall.”
The man stared. “Ye’re not goin’ to kill me?”
Adam smiled. “Oh, I’ll kill you. I’ll carve my “V” in your chest so deep you’ll be dead before you fall,” the man’s face paled,“if my sword fails in the tournament.”
He tossed the weapon through the air. The armorer caught it and clasped it to his chest like a cross on which he would pledge his eternal soul.
Once in the bailey, Adam found his page. He hooked the lad by the neck of his tunic and dragged him aside. “To whom did you give my sword?”
The boy met his gaze with a guileless stare that told Adam the lad was innocent as a virgin bride. “I give it o’er to one o’ yer men. He were waiting outside, he were.”
“Which one?”
The boy’s face screwed up in thought. “I canna say.”
“And what did he look like?”
“‘E wore a helm, and it were dark. ‘E had a mark ‘ere.” The boy touched the back of his hand.
Adam gave the boy a shake. “Next time, give nothing of mine into any hand but the one to whom I direct you. Now find Douglas and seek a worthy punishment for such stupidity.”
* * * * *
Joan and Edwina followed Del up the outer steps to the wall walk. He elbowed aside a few lads from the wash house to make space and set an empty nail keg down for Edwina to stand upon.
“This will do,” Edwina said. She patted Del’s beefy arm.
Joan propped her arms on the stone ledge of the wall and looked across the crowded bailey. “I’ve not seen such finery since last King John visited.”
Below, a seating area ringed an open patch of clipped grass, like a bed of lush summer flowers. Flowers formed of the bright colors of the ladies’ gowns and men’s tunics.
Next to Joan, Del wagered with a few spectators. Edwina nudged Joan’s ribs. “Step aside, I’d like some of that play.”
Joan curtsied, smiled, and stepped back so Edwina could join in the wagering. When Edwina resumed her position, Joan searched the spectators for Nat, but did not see him.
“I hope Nat’s not making wagers,” she said.
“He’s no sense to ‘im. He’ll wager on a man ‘e likes rather than on one with the strength to win.”
“Or worse, on the advice of others who know as little as he. Do you see him? Should I look for him?”
Edwina held Joan’s arm. “Leave the man be. He’s probably with the hounds. He has little interest in wrestling.”
“I have little interest in it either. How watching sweaty men grapple will help decide whether a man will make a good husband, I cannot say.”
“And I suppose ye think she should judge him on his kindness?” Edwina grinned.
“And why not?”
“A kind man is most likely a weak man, is why. Our lady would be just as happy picking the finest-looking man. He, at least, might please in bed.”
The wagering men laughed and Joan looked away. “Edwina—”
“Hush.” The laundress pointed down at the circle of grass marked off with ropes. The bishop took his seat in the tiers of benches constructed for favored spectators. All others must watch from where they could. Mathilda sat between the bishop and the wife of one of Ravenswood’s knights.
An expectant hush fell on the crowd when two men walked to the center of the grass. They wore only their braies. They were barefoot and weaponless.
The bishop outlined the rules. The winner must throw his opponent to the ground such that he hit on at least three-points. The bishop alone would determine the winner.
Gravant called out for the contest to begin and the two men circled each other, arms extended. Along with the start came a swell of shouting for one man or the other.
Joan tore her gaze from the bishop. Her hatred of him surely meant a long stint in purgatory.
“What do you know of this pair?” a woman near Edwina asked.
Edwina gave the lineage of each man. “They’ve a poor chance o’ winning the lady. They may be finer of face than Roger Artois, but they haven’t his wealth or influence. De Harcourt has my money. He’ll make a fine match there,” she nodded at the small arena “as well as for the lady—” Edwina broke off.
One of the wrestlers put the other on his back.
Shouts of derision accompanied the winner and loser as they left the circle. Edwina sighed and handed a penny to Del.
The bishop raised two fingers. The bishop’s silent signals to his minions had given Joan the idea for taking control of the hounds. It had been watching the scurrying to please Gravant that made Joan realize she might be able to save Nat from the man’s unkindness—nay, the word was too mild.
The bishop had no kindness. Or patience. He begrudged the smallest compliment to the servants. Over the past month, he’d evicted any number of tenants for petty reasons so he might set his own men in their places. The manor was in an uproar. These festivities mocked the people’s mood.
And Nat wandered vaguely through his tasks, accomplishing all of them, but not always in as timely a manner as he once had.
Fear of the bishop’s wrath, his quick dismissal of men and women no matter how long they’d served the manor, gave her sleepless nights. Now, the anxieties were drawing to a close.
Mathilda would choose her husband and the bishop would return to his palace. If the hounds obeyed Joan’s signals over Nat’s increasingly vague orders, all might be well.
A man by the bake house, his arms crossed on his chest, drew Joan’s eye away from the bishop. It was Adam Quintin.
He wore his black mantle flung back over his shoulders. He no longer looked common. The pin holding the mantle might be simple, but the ivory tunic and jeweled belt were not.
“Is Quintin not wrestling?” Joan felt an unaccountable disappointment.
“Aye, he will. Mathilda said every man, no exceptions.”
Joan forced herself to shift her attention from Adam Quintin to Lady Mathilda.
“Aye, look at her and dream.” Edwina gave her a sharp elbow. “Ye should be sitting down there.”
Joan examined the women who filled the seats near Mathilda. Not all were noble, but those who could not claim such high birth were worthy wives of the castle’s knights.
“That day is done. Only you miss it,” Joan said.
“If Richard hadn’t wanted ye, Lord Guy would have been content with your friendship with Mathilda.”
With a glance about to see who might be listening, Joan shrugged. “Richard was a wonderful man, God rest his soul.”
“And mad with love for ye.”
“He’d have forgotten me soon enough if Lord Guy had not taken on about it. It was a boy’s love, not a man’s.”
“He loved ye. He left here and swore he’d never return until Lord Guy agreed he could offer for ye.”
“It was defying his father he was in love with, not me.”
“If any good come of ‘is death, it were Lord Guy’s vow to leave Mathilda to make her own choice.”
“Aye. He did blame himself for Richard’s death.”
“And rightly so. He drove the man out. And poor Richard dead within a twelve month.”
Joan said a short prayer for Richard’s soul. He’d have forgotten her, but still, he had risked much for his boyish love—or his stubborn ways.
“I spoke with Mathilda today.”
“Why? Did she ask you to fetch something for her?” Edwina wrinkled her nose.
“She asked after a huntsman who’s ailing. She specifically asked that I bring the reply, so she did wish to speak to me.”
“What else did she say?”
Joan made a wry face. “She as
ked about Brian de Harcourt.”
“Ah, ha! She cared naught for you—or the huntsman. She wanted information on a suitor. That is all.” Edwina spat on the wooden floor of the wall walk. “Don’t ye be drawn into fetching for her. Yer not her servant.”
Joan tried to attend to the wrestling, but found little to hold her interest. She looked over the spectators, assessing gowns and the features of suitors who awaited their bouts. Unable to resist, she turned toward the buttery and Adam Quintin. He was gone.
Chapter Seven
Adam ignored the many stalls and the importuning of several merchants, skirted the buildings crouched at the base of the castle wall, and strode through the inner bailey to the outer ward.
An old man, Ivo, one of his father’s clerks, hurried by, looking straight through him. The man’s lack of greeting reminded Adam he was a stranger in his father’s castle. Euphoria warred with a deep sadness. He needed anonymity to accomplish his mission for William Marshal, but once, he’d been an honored heir here.
He looked up at the tall towers touched with a patina of age and knew it was not because of the stone edifice that he must have Ravenswood. Nay, it was what the towers represented. The first lord of Ravenswood had not built this fortress to have it fall into the hands of any but his own kin.
His father’s banishment must be lifted. The de Marle name, as venerable as these walls, must be restored.
Adam knew his first action as lord of Ravenswood Castle would be to take his grandfather’s sword down from the wall. He would clean it and hone it. And wear it.
It was for the de Marle honor he labored. A rueful smile overspread his face. To regain his honor he must leave it behind and skulk about like a common thief. The irony amused him…when it did not pain him.
Eventually, and circuitously, he ended his wanderings at de Harcourt’s tent. The man had a chamber in the hall, but Adam also knew by Douglas’ gossip that Brian came here to dress. To garb oneself as finely as de Harcourt did, he must have at least one sizable coffer. Within, Adam hoped to find evidence de Harcourt either connived with a foreign king or did not.
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