“‘Tis said ‘e carved ‘is mark on a woman’s teat. Marked ‘er so’s no other man would ‘ave her. John Armorer tol’ me.”
“Wish I could see a woman’s teat.”
Joan rubbed the mastiff’s ears and praised his patience for sitting so still for her ministrations, then she stood up and walked to the two boys. “If you wish to keep your position, you will not spread gossip. Do you understand?”
The boys bobbed their heads, eyes round with dismay. They hastened away to spread fresh straw on the bed racks.
She heard a yelp, then the sharp-pitched cry of dog in pain. Someone was abusing an animal. She ran along the partitions housing the visiting hounds. Oswald Red-hair raised an iron bar over a cowering greyhound.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, snatching at his arm.
Oswald pulled away. “A dog must know who is leader of the pack.”
Joan threw herself between the dog and Oswald. “There will be no beatings here.” She saw scars across the greyhound’s flanks. “If this animal will not obey, I will take him off your hands.”
“I don’t believe you can afford his price.”
The bar in Oswald’s hand was lined with thin ridges. He tapped it against his leg.
“You’re Nat Swan’s wife, aren’t you?” he asked.
“I’m Nat’s daughter.” She traced a row of scars along the dog’s flanks, old scars, new ones, made by the bar in the man’s hand. A glance at the animals resting on bed racks revealed similar marks of abuse. She shivered at the cruelty.
Oswald rocked on his heels. “You coddle your dogs.”
He cleared his throat and kicked at the straw in the manner of a child. It was an act. Any man who would beat his dogs as these had been was a devil. She gathered the hound into her arms.
“I must be blunt,” Oswald said. “Nat wagered my master quite a sum on the wrestling, you know.”
“I thought he wagered with you.” The dog buried his head against her breast.
“With my master, through me. You need to know Lord Roger charged me with the debt’s collection. Fifty pence, it is.” He slid his hand back and forth along the bar.
“Nat said forty.” Joan involuntarily tightened her arms. The injured greyhound whined and nuzzled her cheek. She took a deep, steadying breath and relaxed her hold. “He also said he had paid you.”
He smiled. His pale, watery blue eyes roamed over her.
“Oh, he paid me forty pence, ‘tis true, but he owes another fifty. And my master would like it soon.”
“It’s not possible. Nat wouldn’t wager ninety pence on anything!”
Oswald pressed a finger to his lips and glanced about the kennel. “Forgive me, mistress, if I’ve distressed you, but you can ask any number of folks to confirm it. My lord Roger specifically directed me to say, ‘Forty-five on Quintin, double if a draw.’ Nat agreed.”
Joan felt acid seethe in her belly. “I wish the names of these witnesses.”
The smile left his face. “Are you saying I am lying?”
Joan tempered her tone, though she wanted to shout that anyone who beat animals with a bar was surely also a liar. “Not at all, but I don’t know you. I must hear it from someone else. ‘Tis a fortune you’re asking me to turn over.”
“My master is well respected. Your suspicions of me are suspicions of him. It is he who sent me to collect the money. If you will not accept my word, then you must accept his.” With a sniff, Oswald turned and left the kennels, the bar still gripped in his hand.
Joan cursed his skinny form. What was she going to do? She gave the injured dog to one of the kennel lads and asked him to treat the animal’s wounds.
She told several huntsmen of Oswald’s iron bar and asked them to prowl the kennels in hopes their presence might deter the man from further abuse of his dogs. Then she took up her brushes and called Matthew to her. The usual soothing balm of the work, the rhythmic stroke of the brush over the dog’s coat did naught to still a rising fear for Nat, for the kennels, for their future—for herself.
* * * * *
Mathilda’s maid came to the kennels. Joan put aside her grooming brushes and met her near the fencing.
“Is there aught I may do for you?” Joan asked.
“My lady requests your presence at this morning’s games.”
“My presence?” Joan looked down at her dirty hands. “I’m not fit to appear—”
“Immediately, my lady says.”
Joan frowned, but could not refuse. She went to the cottage and hastily washed. She jerked her comb through her hair, each stroke fueling her fear and anger. This was what Edwina had spoken of, Mathilda commanding her like a servant.
She plaited her hair and donned a fresh gown the color of leaves cast off in autumn by the tall oak trees, cast off as was the gown. Its beauty lay in the fine sheen of the linen and the matching overgown stitched with a bordering motif in red and green. It became her well, though the hem had needed letting down and the line showed if one wanted to see it.
She looped her plaits and put on a headcovering, securing it with a circlet of braided red cording. With quick, long strides, she headed for the games. If she must face disaster, at least she would do so with her head held high.
Everyone was in attendance. The throwing field had been marked out so the castle ramparts could again serve as a viewing stand.
Hugh de Coleville, unshaven, his eyes bloodshot, a frown on his face, came toward her. “Ah,” he said. “The worthy huntress.”
She gave him a polite curtsy. “Have you seen my lady?”
He stiffened. “Why?”
“Her maid summoned me, but I cannot find her.”
His mouth twisted into an expression half smile, half grimace. “She’s in the center of it all. I’ll take you.”
He put out his arm. She placed her hand on his sleeve and smiled. To be summoned like a servant was one thing, to arrive with a fine lord was quite another. He led her through the crowd, which stepped aside easily to his simple order, “Make room.” The company parted and Joan saw the field.
On one side stood the company of suitors, all half naked again. Adam and Brian stood side by side, both with arms crossed on their broad chests.
Mathilda graced a semicircle of women at the end of a long, open space. She held a tall, beribboned crook. The ribbons matched her scarlet gown. She looked like a wild poppy standing in the field, albeit a poppy decorated with many gold chains.
“See Lord Roger,” Hugh said, and Joan looked for the older man. “He sets himself to a better advantage over there with Francis, a mere boy, rather than stand beside the likes of Quintin and de Harcourt.”
Joan wanted to smile, but Hugh wore such a fierce expression, she swallowed it and instead asked, “Is there something wrong, my lord?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Come.”
“I cannot go out there.” Joan pulled on his arm.
He looked down at her, covering her fingers with his large, rough hand. “Why not? You are fairer than all but one, and she grows less lovely as you come to know her. Walk with me, your head high, and put them all to shame.”
Without another word, he strode down the center of the greensward. She felt heat sweep up her cheeks as the chattering crowd watched them. Her heart thudded in her chest. If Mathilda asked her to fetch a footstool or a pitcher of wine, Joan knew she would sink into the earth in shame.
De Coleville reached Mathilda and bowed with a flourish. “My lady, I have brought the fair Joan.”
Mathilda smiled. “Thank you, my lord. Joan?” Mathilda held out her hand. She wore a ring on every finger, her thumb included. Amid her chains dangled a fine gold cross decorated with pieces of jet—a gift from a suitor, Joan imagined.
“You wished to see me?” Joan said, putting her work-roughened hand in Mathilda’s smooth, soft one.
“I want you to join me here. You remember how you and I used to watch Richard and Brian toss the stones? I believe you are the one who
suggested the marker.” Mathilda tapped a stone set in the field with her staff.
Joan remembered. The stone had only a few words scratched on its surface. De Harcourt—25 feet.
The bishop stood up and one of Lord Roger’s huntsmen blew a long salute on his hunting horn to alert the crowd. Everyone fell silent. The bishop consulted a roll of vellum a cleric held—a young cleric, upright and tall. The sight of the man brought tears to Joan’s eyes at the thought that Ivo had been dismissed without pension or consideration.
The bishop called Francis de Coucy to throw first. Francis’ mother, standing in Mathilda’s bevy of women, elbowed her way to Mathilda’s side. “My son would be honored if you would give him some token of good luck.”
Mathilda smiled and floated down the field toward Francis. He looked no more than a boy, his chest and arms spotted with the same sores that disfigured his face. But it was not for his sorry skin that Joan did not like him. It was the way he looked at Mathilda. It was the look of a fox before he stole a hen.
Mathilda held her staff in one hand, and placed her fingertips lightly on the boy’s bare shoulder. “For luck,” she said. The crowd made a collective sound half sigh, half gasp, as she touched her lips to the boy’s.
Then Mathilda turned away and walked back along the throwing field to stand ready to mark the distance Francis threw.
The boy hefted the stone to his shoulder. Joan did not see his throw. Nay, she looked at Adam Quintin, but he was not watching Francis. She saw him slip through a gap in the crowd and disappear.
A burst of jeers and screams of laughter turned Joan’s attention back to the field. Francis’ throw had gone into the spectators. A woman lay on the ground, blood on her temple, his stone by her side.
Lady Claris broke from the crowd and ran to where he stood. She screamed invectives in his face as the crowd enfolded the injured woman.
“A sorry beginning,” Joan said.
Mathilda nodded. She directed a servant to see to the woman, while the bishop called the next name.
Joan realized there was one woman on the field for each man who threw the stone. As Mathilda marked the spots with her staff, she called one of her women to stand on the edge of the field, a bright, smiling marker.
With great impatience, Joan realized this game might take all day due to Mathilda’s insistence on giving every man a token kiss. Each suitor must watch her walk the length of the throwing field and enjoy the touch of her lips on his. They must also watch her walk slowly back. The crowd loved it.
Joan looked in vain for Adam Quintin. Why did he not appear? Her hand went to her breast when she thought of the kennel lads’ words. What a terrible rumor to spread—that he’d marked a woman. For the first time, she examined his men.
Hard men. Mercenaries. A dependable force—for as long as you paid, they fought. They cared little if William Marshal ruled through the child king, or Prince Louis of France.
She forced herself to watch the competition, to concentrate on every toss, to smile when spoken to.
Roger Artois’ toss landed with a thud, the best in the field. He preened at the wealth of cheers that greeted his fine throw. To Joan’s dismay, Mathilda called her to mark Lord Roger’s distance. He scowled at her with narrowed eyes.
Adam Quintin’s name was called. To Joan’s surprise he stepped onto the field. Now, where had he hidden himself?
When he walked to the foot of the throwing field, Joan saw one of the long scratches on his shoulder looked a bit inflamed.
Why did she care?
Mathilda headed for Adam to give him the lucky kiss. With a stab of jealousy, Joan realized she cared whom Adam Quintin kissed. She cared very much—but without any right to do so.
Mathilda stood on tiptoe before him. He reached out and swept an arm about Mathilda’s waist. He pulled her against him and set his lips on hers.
The crowd burst into a thunderclap of approval. It was just a kiss, Joan said to herself. A mockery of the competitions. Meaningless.
Hugh de Coleville made a sound like a growl in his throat, caught Joan’s eye, and said, “She’s easy with her kisses.”
“She’s playing a part.”
He shrugged, pushed through the crowd, and headed for the inner bailey.
Adam set Mathilda aside. He bowed, brought the stone to his shoulder, spun, and threw it. It landed with a thud and buried itself half into the dirt just past Roger’s mark. Another of Mathilda’s ladies, Lady Isabelle, stood at the spot.
Brian took his place, last to throw. He did not wait for a kiss. He had a grace and strength that made him as beautiful to watch as Adam. With what looked like little effort, he spun and heaved the missile.
It seemed to hang in the air, then it fell with a loud smack. He grinned and shrugged. Quintin’s distance prevailed.
“A new record. Adam Quintin by a hand,” Mathilda declared.
“She moved,” a voice said from the edge of the crowd.
Roger elbowed his way to Mathilda. “I saw Lady Isabelle step aside. She added at least a hand to Quintin’s distance.”
Adam opened his mouth, but Mathilda held up her staff. “I feared some might think such a thing, so I dropped a penny in Quintin’s divot. We shall use that as the marker, shall we?”
Lord Roger’s cheeks blotched. “Of course, my lady. How canny that you should think of such a thing.”
Everyone stepped forward. Even the bishop, who’d been chatting with his cleric and paying little, if any, attention to the competition beyond calling out names, stood up.
“Joan. Find my penny, please,” Mathilda said.
Joan felt every eye on her as she walked across the width of the grassy plot. She stood in line with Lady Isabelle and looked around. There, even with the place where Lady Isabelle stood, was a shiny silver penny. The win was legitimate. Joan placed her toe near the spot. “It is here, my lady.”
Mathilda looked at Roger. He bowed. “I stand corrected, my lady. Forgive my error.”
She giggled. “Oh, my lord, everyone makes mistakes.” She swatted his arm with her crook. “See you do not make too many or you’ll be leaving.”
She walked to Adam Quintin. She extended her staff. This touch was not the cuff Roger had received. This was a slow drag of the ribbons across Adam’s honed shoulder and against the strong line of his throat.
“You were gone a very long time during our games, sir. Where were you?” She shook her beribboned staff in his face.
Joan watched a touch of color rise on Adam’s cheeks. He said, “Delicacy prevents my saying, my lady.”
“Delicacy? From a warrior?” Mathilda smiled.
“If you must know,” Adam said with a grin. “I was not far away. I was in the privy.” He lifted his hands and shrugged.
The crowd broke into laughter. Mathilda clapped her hands over her face and giggled. Then she sobered and lifted her crook. “I declare you the winner. We shall have a new marker set to honor your toss. What reward do you claim?”
Joan did not wish to hear what Adam wanted. ‘Twas obvious. He wanted what they all wanted. The lady of the keep.
Joan walked away, but not in time to miss Adam’s words.
“I claim the privilege of watching you plant the marker, my lady, after a small, private supper, perhaps along the river.”
Chapter Eleven
Adam found his way to the river through the Roman way. He carried only a small rushlight. At the shrine to Diana, he stopped a moment to look at the beauty, but his Diana only served to remind him of Joan. Kissing Mathilda had not exorcised the feel of Joan’s lips from his mind.
He placed a hand on Diana’s knee. “I want the huntress, but not yet. I shall wait until I secure Ravenswood and send Mathilda away.” He patted the mosaic’s knee and admitted he no longer thought in terms of if he bedded the huntress. It had become when.
Adam extinguished his flame as he neared the dappled light that poured through the tangled roots. No one observed his exit. About a league
along the riverbank, he hunkered down in the shadows of a huge stump, mossy and crumbling from years of insect work. He heard footsteps from his left and remained hidden until Christopher came into sight.
He lifted his tunic and urinated into the reeds. When he finished, he pursed his lips and whistled.
Adam returned the sound. Christopher did not immediately come to him, but wandered about, plucking a few river reeds and plaiting them quickly into a cord. He whistled as he worked lest anyone interpret the earlier notes as a message of sorts.
Finally, he sat by the stump and leaned back, hands busy on the cordage. “So,” Christopher said. “You spent an hour in the privy. Food too rich for you?”
Adam grinned. “It was all I could think of. I thought no one was paying me any attention, so I slipped away and searched tents. Pathetic quarters all and not one piece of paper to be found. So far, this is all I’ve found of any note.” He handed his copy of Brian’s letter over. “I found it in de Harcourt’s chest. Can you take it to one of our lord’s clerics, someone trusted, for interpretation? It’s in Greek.”
Christopher took the sealed letter. “Done.”
“How long will it take?”
“Oh, a day, no more. I’ve only to go to Winchester. There’s a man there in our lord’s employ who’ll make short work of this.”
“I feel I’ve made little headway, beyond finding that paper. And it could be a list of dirty laundry—or quotes from Sophocles. I cannot see how I’ll uncover this traitor in just one week. They all seem—”
“Ill-suited to rule Ravenswood?”
“Aye, except for de Harcourt.”
“I agree. Between us we’ve searched ten suitors who have little in common save they are younger sons whose lot will be greatly enhanced by marriage to a wealthy heiress.”
“Agreed.”
“If you’ve no confessions duly signed and sealed by week’s end, you had better wed the lady.”
“Sealed…hmmm. Why did I not think of that? To act for Louis, the bishop or this traitor will need to show he has Louis’ authority. He’ll need a ring. A seal, or some token to show his authority.”
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