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 h
er 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.
“But Nat should know better. He thought to make some easy money. It’s happened before.” Then she could not hold back the words. They tumbled out. “But, you see, I need those pennies. I’m paying the rent for an old cleric from the castle—a man the bishop dismissed today—Ivo by name.”
Anger coursed through Adam like lightning in a storm. How dare the bishop put castle folk in need? Especially one who’d served Ravenswood all his life? He clenched his fist. How many others were in need thanks to Gravant?
Nat’s whistle could be heard and in moments, he was back, a harrier, Peter, at his side.
“Shall we go, sir?” Nat asked.
“Could Joan accompany us? ‘Tis said the ladies much enjoy hunting a hare.”
“Aye. Joan would love a meat pie, wouldn’t you?”
“I needn’t join the hunt to have the pie, though, Papa.”
“Nonsense. Come along,” Adam said.
Moments later, he was handing her into the saddle. To Adam, it seemed Joan did not enjoy the hunt.
She spoke not at all, and he gave up trying to draw her out. Nat was efficient and they were not out more than an hour before his bag was full.
They rode back through the castle gates with Joan as silent as when they left. Nat filled the gaps with tales of former hunts. It gave Adam time to think about Roger and his huntsman.
At the kennels, Nat lingered, telling Adam a legend about a great stag reputed to have antlers with more than twenty tines—some said as many as thirty. The animal had roamed the hills around Ravenswood since ancient times. It was said that if one saw the beast it brought great good luck. To hunt the beast brought ill fortune.
Joan smiled at Adam’s enjoyment of the tale and his promise never to lift his bow if he saw the stag. The tale was an old favorite of Nat’s. She wished it were true so she could search out the animal and glean some good luck to ward off the bad she sensed had come to Ravenswood with Bishop Gravant.
Nat took the dog into the kennels, but Adam did not walk off as Joan expected. He took up his reins and hers and accompanied her to the ranks of stables. When he’d handed off their mounts to a groom, he took her elbow and escorted her to the cottage.
“Now, we’ve had a fine hunt, you’ve a brace of hares for a pie as does our lady, and yet, you’re silent, and you have not unfurrowed your brow all afternoon. What may I do to bring a smile to your face?” he asked.
It was not possible to deny him. She smiled. “I have my concerns,” she said.
“The purse Oswald won from your father being first?”
She looked at the kennels. “I’ll not deny I’m worried. Nat used to have difficulty with wagering, but I thought he had put it aside.”
Adam propped his foot on the bench by the cottage door. He leaned his forearm on his thigh. “I feel responsible for your father’s loss.”
“Why? You did not make the wager.”
“I was in the bo
ut.”
“You did not call the bout a draw, sir.”
“I suspect there was something more to the matter than we know. The bishop’s excuse the ground was muddy seems mighty thin.”
“Perhaps Lady Mathilda was bored.”
Adam grinned. “No one is bored when I wrestle.”
Joan smiled. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
“I’ve wrestled de Harcourt several times. He always loses.”
“So Oswald says.” Then she frowned and looked at Nat, who was bandying words with Edwina and Del. “Nat lost everything we had,” she said softly.
Adam pulled his purse from his belt and held it out to her. She took a step away.
He was on her in one stride. He snatched up her hand and pressed the purse into her palm. “You’ll take it. It was Roger’s man who cheated your father. It’s the least I can do, after you saved my life, and this is Roger’s silver, won honestly by my own wagers during the bouts. I’d prefer to handle the matter in another way, but I cannot risk the bishop’s displeasure. This is not the most satisfying end to the matter, but the most politic.”
Joan kneaded the leather purse between her palms. When she looked up, guilt swept over him at the sheen in her eyes.
None of these people would be suffering if his father had not been banished.
“How can I thank you?” she asked. She kissed the purse. Then, she rose on tiptoe and kissed his lips. It was naught but an impulse, he was sure, and the kiss naught but a whisper of touch so fleeting it might have been the kiss of a butterfly, or the brush of a cobweb across his skin.
She turned and ran into the cottage.
Adam touched his lips. A kiss on the mouth was a kiss of equals. Did she see him as her equal, not much more than a servant ordered to fetch meat on Mathilda’s whim? Or did she see herself as higher than that?
After all, according to the gossip Douglas gleaned from the alehouse, Joan Swan had been more than Richard de Poitiers’ friend, she had been his lover.
Chapter Nine
Joan skinned the rabbits for Nat’s supper. She made a stew as she hadn’t the patience for a pie. Her heart thumped wildly each time she thought of the impulsive act of kissing Adam Quintin.
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