She closed her eyes and touched her mouth with the back of her hand. Her body felt weak and her legs unsure. She knelt at the hearth and pulled out his purse. It was of fine leather. Painted on it in gold was the V found on his shield. She smoothed her thumb over the letter, well worn from much handling, then tipped out a stream of silver pennies. She counted one hundred before stopping. More than twice what Nat had lost. She separated forty of the pennies and wrapped them in a linen square. The remainder she put back into the purse. When next she had an opportunity, she would return every penny over the forty.
She took up the purse and linen-wrapped bundle of coins and shoved them up into a space where the thatching met the wall stones, a place Nat would never look. A few moments later, she also tucked away her box of treasures. She would take no more chances.
* * * * *
Adam sat gingerly on his bed. His back was getting worse. Wrestling had made it worse. Wrestling brought his thoughts to Joan Swan’s kiss.
Why had the bishop called his match a draw? There was little to suggest the paper the bishop held was very important. The bishop had left the field, but according to Douglas, not gone into his chamber or consulted with any of his clerics. Instead, the man had called for meat and wine, then settled down to eat with his ward and those suitors not flinging mud like children in the garden.
Had the bishop made his own wagers? Perhaps on de Harcourt? And when he had seen that de Harcourt could not win, had manufactured an excuse to end the match and save his money?
It amused Adam to give Roger’s pennies to Joan. Although there was little luxury in the cottage, it was warm and inviting, with a fine stone hearth and a couch of furs along one wall. He would not want to think of his huntress deprived of that warmth or of the furs.
His huntress. Nay, not his, but still, he would like to see her on that couch. He would kneel over her, draw up the furs about her throat, and kiss her as she needed to be kissed.
Was the gossip true? Had Joan enjoyed Richard’s kisses? And what of Brian’s display of jealousy? Had Brian kissed her?
Adam forced himself from his soft bed. He struck a flint to a candle. He drew out paper and pen. Without allowing Joan to intrude again on his thoughts, he made a list of tasks he needed to do to accomplish William Marshal’s goal—unmask a traitor: Look through Francis de Coucy’s belongings, follow the best possible candidates, spend more time wooing the lady.
He examined the list and drew a line through the last item. He then rewrote it at the top of the list. If he failed William Marshal, perhaps he could win the lady. At least that would ensure the prosperity of the tenants and eliminate the frown on Joan Swan’s face.
“Adam? I saw your light.” Hugh swept into the tent and stood there, half in shadow.
Adam rose and set his list to the candle flame.
“A lover’s note?”
“Aye. Her husband would have my balls if he read it.” Adam held the burning paper until it was naught but ash and one smooth, ivory corner. He dropped that to the dirt floor.
“We need to get across to the hall before Roger has snared the quarry.”
Adam lifted a pitcher to pour his friend some ale, but found it empty. “What do you think of Roger beyond the obvious that he’s a lickspit?” Adam asked. “I think he tried to cheat Nat Swan over the wrestling.”
“Roger’s a man who will align himself with whatever breeze blows the most glory his way. He’s one of those who will equivocate until the last moment, until he is sure of a winner, and then he will cast his men that way.”
“I agree. He’s like the wrack floating on the tide. Until he’s washed onto a rock, he’ll not cling.”
“Did you see the huntress on the wall?”
“Were not all the women on the walls? I felt as a horse must at auction. Thank God the women were not allowed in the ring to examine our teeth.”
“Or peer into your braies.”
Adam grinned. “They had no need. We took them off most willingly after the bouts.”
“Roger, too? He bared that tiny eel?”
“Eel? You insult my favorite dish. Worm.”
“A lickspit, sycophant worm?” Hugh stood up. “Let us get to the hall and drink some of the bishop’s fine wine.”
The two friends entered the hall. While Hugh walked to the high table and took a seat a few places from Lady Mathilda, a seat closer to the lady than Brian de Harcourt, but one farther than Roger Artois, Adam headed to where several knights sat at a far lesser position.
Laden trays with roast boar and poached pears made the rounds. Wheels of cheese and mounds of honey pastries followed the meat and fruit. Adam noted a large meat pie in front of Lady Mathilda, and when she looked his way, he bowed and raised his goblet of wine. She lifted hers and smiled back.
Adam ate absentmindedly. He fixed his attention as he should on Lady Mathilda. She giggled into her napkin every time Hugh opened his mouth. Adam could almost hear Hugh grind his teeth.
A man tapped him on the shoulder. “You made a fine showing today, Quintin. I lost a few marks on you, but still, if the bishop had not called the match, you had de Harcourt cold.”
They discussed the wrestling. “Come,” Adam said. “The matches and all other contests serve no purpose but to please the lady. She’s seen us all in the flesh now, and it is my hope her decision is made.”
“We’ve not seen her in the flesh, though,” one knight sighed.
“I can tell you what you’re missing,” Brian said, sitting at Adam’s side.
The pair opposite stared openmouthed at de Harcourt.
Adam sliced some cheese and ate it off the tip of his eating dagger. “You must go on after that provocative statement.”
Brian also speared some of the well-aged cheese. “She will look like any other woman. Plump in the right places, spare in others. It is not her form one should care about, it is this place. The lady could be shaped like that wheel of cheese or a cask of ale and it would matter not a whit.”
Brian was right. It was Ravenswood everyone here really craved.
“Well, enjoy your visit, Brian,” said Adam. “It’ll be your last…unless I invite you back after the wedding.”
The men around them laughed.
“We will see about that—” Francis de Coucy’s words cut across Brian’s. “And if gossip has it right, you’ve been hunting other quarry, Quintin—female quarry.”
Adam forced himself not to react to the comment. Who else had observed him with Joan Swan? Mathilda? Her ladies? The bishop? Should he shove Francis’ teeth down his scrawny throat? He chose, instead, to lift his cup and take a long, cool drink.
Another man across from them said, “You must be fairly confident, de Harcourt, to leave our lady to Roger.”
“Roger can do naught but fawn on the bishop. You would think ‘twas the bishop he wished to wed, not Mathilda,” said Brian.
“Is it not the bishop we must please, perhaps more than the lady?” Adam asked. “If she cannot choose by the week’s end, it is he who will.”
Brian shrugged. “I believe he has already chosen. Who here would mostly willingly kiss his ecclesiastic ass?”
“I would if ‘twould decide the matter,” the suitor with the broken arm said.
Adam looked at Roger, who was telling Mathilda and the bishop a story replete with gestures, then sighed. “I was prepared to offer many kisses in this effort, but none in that direction.”
“Then get in practice,” Brian said, rising. He set his hand on Adam’s shoulder. “Or should I say…practice your kissing in more productive places.”
Adam was saved a response when the bishop rose. He banged his dagger hilt on the edge of a pewter goblet and commanded everyone’s attention.
“Let us drink to King Henry’s health,” the bishop said. He drank. “And to our great regent. The finest knight who ever took sword in hand—William Marshal.” This second toast brought every man to his feet.
When the noise subsided, th
e bishop held out his hand. “Lady Mathilda, will you honor our guests?”
Mathilda rose and bowed to the bishop, who kissed her hand. She wore her hair plaited and coiled into a crown about her head. Pearls were stitched on her ivory gown. A queen could not command greater attention or interest.
“It is time to honor those men who tested their mettle against one another in the wrestling bouts,” Mathilda said. “For each man who won his match, I salute you.”
She raised her cup and drank. The minstrels, Christopher among them, strummed their instruments with frantic energy for every moment she held the cup to her lips. When she lowered the cup, they ceased on a single note, and she laughed. “Now, a kiss and a token for the best display of manly strength and courtly behavior. Step forward, Brian de Harcourt and Adam Quintin.”
A frown creased Roger’s face. As Adam walked at Brian’s side to the dais, he saw Roger lean toward the bishop. The bishop held up a hand and Roger fell silent.
“Most noble knights,” Mathilda said. “Accept these tokens and know that I could not choose between you.” She rose on tiptoe and kissed Brian on the lips. She sheared a ribbon from her gown with a small silver-handled dagger.
Brian’s men rose and stomped their feet, clapping and cheering their master.
Adam bent a bit to accept the lady’s kiss. It was a very proper, simple kiss. She pressed a silky ribbon into his palm. His men, not to be outdone by Brian’s, raised a tumult of whistles and cheers.
The minstrels took up the business, Christopher’s voice rich and pure over the others, as he led his company into the song he’d composed on Adam’s boar.
When Adam turned from the lady to take his seat, he caught Lady Claris’ eye. She licked her lips and lifted a brow.
Adam kept his expression neutral. He held his ribbon aloft, then knotted it about the hilt of his dagger, a reminder to all he was now favored. Brian grinned and tied his on his belt.
Mathilda commanded everyone’s attention again when the men had taken their seats. “On the morrow, after chapel, we’ll have another competition. Those who feel so inclined are invited to test Brian de Harcourt’s mighty throwing record, marked in the outer bailey. Who wishes to take the challenge and toss the stone?”
Adam grinned as every suitor leapt to his feet, himself included. “Why not?” he said to his neighbor. “What else have we to do but pleasure the lady?”
* * * * *
Adam lighted a brace of candles in his tent. He stripped to his linen shirt and sat on his camp bed, painted with ravens in flight. Not that many would interpret his V as a bird’s wings, spread.
Despite the lure of his bed, Adam knew he could not sleep yet. He took out the parchment he’d purloined from de Harcourt.
Why would de Harcourt have a document written in Greek? It made a fairly secure way of passing information that few common man, and not even many learned men, could read, he thought. Yet Adam found it hard to believe Brian had the skill.
He needed someone to translate the page. Whom could he trust to do the task and not share its contents after? Possibly, Ivo? Nay, too many years had passed to trust the old man. Who knew where his loyalties now lay? The page must be sent to John d’Erley at Winchester.
Adam also knew the paper was too valuable to trust out of his sight. He sighed with resignation, sharpened a quill, and set about copying the page. He wished for a clerk he could trust, frowned over the poor representation he was making, and knew dawn would break before he finished.
* * * * *
Hugh heard the light tapping on his bedchamber door. He ignored it. A moment later, the door opened with a small squeal. He slid his hand under his pillow for the dagger he kept there. Then he sat up, eyes wide. “Mathilda? What are you doing here?”
He saw she wore a dark robe as she climbed on the end of his bed. Her hair was down, her feet bare.
“I must speak with you.”
By the meager light of the dying fire in his hearth, her eyes looked huge and grave.
“Speak.” He yawned to hide his complete consternation that she sat perched on his bed like a bird who’d escaped her cage.
“I must have your advice about these suitors.”
He looped his arms about his knees. “What the devil can I tell you?”
“You’re so much wiser than I. And you don’t want me.”
“Mon Dieu, that’s the truth,” he said.
She sat in silence for a moment, plucking at the coverlet. “We’ve known each other for several years, Hugh. I think a lot of your opinion, so help me make a choice.”
“Adam Quintin.” He flopped back on the pillows and turned to his side. “Be sure to latch the door on your way out.”
She slapped the bed covers. “That’s it? One name?”
He closed his eyes. Her hair dragged across his hip as she climbed up closer to him.
“Aye. One name. One man most worthy. Now, may I sleep?”
He heard her sharp intake of breath, then only measured silence. Had he done Adam a disservice by touting him?
“Give me reasons.”
Hugh sighed and rolled to his back. She was on her knees, so close, he could smell her. Flowers. Woman smells. “Adam Quintin has what a woman needs and wants most in a mate.”
“Hah. You think a woman wants naught but a pretty face!”
She slapped the bed covers again with the flat of her hand, hit his hip and just missed his genitals.
He sat up and snatched her hand that the next blow might not be more accurately placed. “You misunderstand. Adam Quintin has honor. He will never play you false. He will guard and protect you all your days.”
“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. The
y 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.”
Chapter Ten
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.”
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