LordoftheHunt

by Anonymous Author

  Should she speak to Mathilda? Had they enough of a connection still for her to do so? And wouldn’t Mathilda expect such complaints to come from Nat and go straight to the bishop?

  Joan felt no more free to seek Mathilda’s help with Basil than she did over the wager.

  Joan asked after the lymer at the gate, but the keeper had not seen a hound wandering. No one stirred in the driving rain, and she surveyed the long, sloping road through the gate. The village lay about the base of the castle like a fringe of stones cast by a giant hand. Save the nearest, the cottages were barely visible in the mist.

  Smoke smudged the air over chimney holes, tearing quickly away or clinging close to the roofs as the wind and rain drove straight into her face. She walked as far as the bridge, its green garlands now drooping in sad disarray across the stones.

  “Basil,” she called, turning about, crossing the bridge and heading for the eastern fields of the castle.

  Though the wind whipped harder now, and she must hold down her skirts that snapped with a sharp sting against her legs, ‘twas at her back, not in her face.

  “Only the mad would be out in this,” she said, whistling for the lymer, swallowing dread that the dog might be dead.

  The turn east along the spongy, sopping terrain led her to a stream that fed the fish pond. A small channel, man-made, diverted water from the river to feed the ornamental oval fashioned to suit Lord Guy’s love of fishing. Reeds and willows had grown up along the pond bank.

  Even Mathilda had spent some time here as a child with Richard, casting for pike, squealing and tossing worms at Joan, who did not like the occupation much and had usually sat upon the bank, watching her friends.

  Her friends. That friendship had been illusionary, born of close proximity, unable to survive the rise of age and with it importance. She discounted Richard’s ardent marriage offer. It had been a youthful need to defy his father.

  Water trickled along Joan’s cheek, into her mantle to dampen the neck of her gown. She pulled her hood closer about her face.

  Her pattens were thick with mud, her shoes also, the wooden forms not protecting them as they’d been designed to do, but rather sucking her deeper as she slogged along.

  At the fish pond, she traversed the fringes, inspecting the muddy verge for paw prints. She saw deer tracks, deep ones of an animal in at least his fifth year. She also saw the spaced-out impressions of a man’s boots, which indicated he was running.

  Reeds on the pond perimeter protected the prints from obliteration in the rain. The greenery was trampled in places. She followed the markings along the edge of the pond. They ended abruptly—in a chaos of deeply incised marks.

  She neared the sluice gate, built to be opened and closed to control the water flow. Against the gate rested debris, attesting to the neglect of Guy de Poitiers’ men now he was gone. Decaying branches and leaves clogged the gate in matted confusion.

  Then she saw it. Bobbing against the gate.

  A form. A swirling drape dark of sodden cloth.

  Black hair floating like seaweed.

  White hands reaching out, fingers lax.

  “Adam!” she screamed. She cast off her pattens, her mantle, and plunged into the water. Her feet sank into the muddy bottom, shoes lost, water to her knees.

  She reached out as far as she could, one hand on the gate. Her foot slid into a void, jerking her off her feet. Her fingers caught in the matted branches.

  She went under. Pain stabbed like a dagger through her arm. Muddy water filled her mouth. She kicked to the surface, gagging.

  But he was closer. Within reach.

  “Adam!” She regained her feet and edged along the slimy fence, thick with rotted bracken.

  Her hand skimmed his hair. It slipped through her fingers.

  “Help me, God, help me.”

  She extended her fingers as far as she could and snatched at his hair. He shifted away, undulating on waves caused by her movements.

  Nausea and sobs choked her throat like the weeds on the gate. Fighting the sucking mud, she reached again for that man’s hand who had just a day before held and kissed hers.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Adam walked back through the village and cursed the rain and his folly at suggesting the village well as a place to meet Christopher. Before the storm, it had seemed a brilliant choice. It gave him a chance to speak to a few villagers again whilst waiting for the minstrel. But the villagers had added nothing to his store of information on poor Ivo’s death. In fact, they clearly thought Adam witless to stand about in the rain asking questions.

  The physicians had confirmed Adam’s suspicion that Ivo died from a blow to the back of the head. Adam wanted to find the culprit for Joan’s sake—or for his own, that she might not condemn him as completely brutal.

  Worse than the soaking rain, Christopher had not appeared. “Caught in the mud somewhere between here and Winchester,” Adam muttered.

  All along the roadbed to the castle, the ditches were rushing with water. Years of neglect had rendered them ineffective. When he was lord of Ravenswood, he would see them cleared. As a result of the rushing water, the road was awash and cut with deep ruts. He stepped onto the spongy grass verge.

  A shriek cut the air.

  He stood where he could see the flat gray twist of the river and the narrow inlet that fed the fish pond.

  The shriek came again. He dashed toward the pond, hand on his sword hilt, sinking into the soggy earth with every step.

  Something stirred in the pond.

  A woman. In the water. It took no more than a moment for him to see she was trying to pull a body to the bank.

  He tore off his mantle and shed his sword and belt as he ran.

  She went under.

  The body spun like a weather cock on a barn where she’d disappeared.

  He leapt in after her. Frigid water snatched his breath. The heels of his thigh-high hunting boots sank into the mire, and he gasped with shock as icy water poured down them.

  The water churned as the woman sought to rise.

  He lunged forward and grasped her arm.

  Joan.

  He knew her the moment he touched her. His heart, already racing, now stuttered in his chest.

  He snatched her into his arms. She fought him as she surfaced, a cry of pain on her lips.

  She caught at the cloth of his tunic, and he heaved her away from the floating body.

  The soft, slimy bottom made it difficult to bring her to shore. Her frantic thrashing hindered his efforts as well.

  “Be still, Joan. Be still,” he said, muddy water lapping his mouth as she nearly pulled him under.

  “Adam?” She quieted in his arms, her body rigid.

  She gulped for air, clinging to him now, no longer fighting. He pushed against the mushy bottom and lunged toward the bank. She began to cough. He half-dragged, half-carried her from the pond, her woolen skirts entwining his legs.

  When he deposited her on the bank, she gagged, her face concealed by the ropes of her hair.

  He returned for the body. His boots offered him little purchase against the muck of the bottom as he embraced the man and hauled him to the bank through water now brown and thick as stew. He turned the man over.

  Christopher.

  Rain beat upon Christopher’s gray, staring eyes, filled the half-open mouth. Adam’s eyes stung with grief for this man he’d known but a few days.

  Adam made sure there was naught to be done, not a thread of life to revive. No wish would resurrect him, no hope would add color to the ashen cheeks.

  Adam searched the minstrel as he knew he must. There was a gash, the edges white and gaping, on the young man’s temple. He had no purse and nothing hidden about his clothing, even in his hems and seams. Whatever message he had carried, must have been in his head and was now lost.

  Adam folded Christopher’s arms on his breast, passing a hand over the face, to close the eyes, though he could not effect a change in the staring counten
ance.

  Joan still remained where he’d left her, and although he wanted to go to her, for her own cheeks were pale, her lips almost blue, he forced himself to walk along the edge of the pond for some sign of where Christopher had gone into the water.

  Adam inspected a place where the reeds and muck were trampled. More than one man had made the prints, perhaps two or three. He waded in to his thighs and snatched something from the water.

  It was a small leather shoe, a sturdy one for a woman who did not spend her time stitching useless pillows. He went to Joan. “One of your shoes,” he said. “Where can I take you?”

  His silent “without giving rise to a thousand questions” hung on the air between them.

  She did not look at him, but at the corpse. “I can see to myself,” she said, her words barely audible.

  Her teeth chattered. Her hair was tangled with reeds. She was almost unrecognizable.

  “If that were true, you would not be here leaping into fish ponds; you would be sitting by your hearth.” The words sounded harsh, as cold as the water from which he’d dragged her, yet neither her eyes nor voice accused him when she spoke.

  “One of our dogs is missing. I must look for him.”

  “Not until I have you dry.”

  He knelt at Christopher’s side and said a prayer for the young man’s soul. He tried to think, to calm his rage; he was assailed by an uncontrollable need to find the men who’d made the prints by the pond so they could pay for Christopher’s death. His hands shook with the need. He prayed for control that he might not frighten Joan with the anger boiling in him.

  She came to his side and sank to her knees. Her body, encased in wet wool, shook as much as his hands did. She, too, prayed.

  Joan touched his arm, but Adam slid from the contact. His anger needed motion.

  He strode back to the belongings he’d discarded, belting on his sword. The action, one he performed every day, calmed him.

  His mantle was scarcely drier than Joan’s clothing but he swathed her in it anyway. She disappeared in the voluminous garment, and he had to fold back the hood to see her pale face.

  “Who is he?” she asked. Her eyes were almost black in the pelting rain. Her lips quivered.

  He skimmed his thumbs across her wet cheeks.

  “His name is Christopher. He sang in the hall.” Although Adam felt calmer, outrage and fury still held him in their grip. “If we do not get you dry, you’ll take ill.”

  A tear appeared at the corner of her eye. Or was it rain? The drop ran quickly over her cheek and slipped into the corner of her mouth.

  “I am—”

  “Hush, Joan, you’ll do as I direct.”

  He pulled her close, pressing her head to his chest, chafing her back, trying to restore some warmth to her. Yet, she could not be warmed. He scooped her into his arms.

  She gave a small cry of pain.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’ve hurt yourself.”

  “I bumped my arm, ‘tis all. Put me down and I shall fetch someone for…him.” She struggled in his arms, but he held her tightly and she fell silent and still, not at ease, but quiet.

  He knew where he must take her.

  The walk was torturous for his injured spine. Every footstep needed to be taken with care as the way was slippery, sloping, and running with water. His boots were wet, her skirts slapping the leather with every step.

  When he reached Richard De Poitiers’ hunting lodge, the ground surrounding it was smooth and unblemished. No one else had sought shelter there.

  Adam set Joan down on a broad, stone step at the lodge door. He flung it open to reveal a large, single room, dim from shuttered windows. It smelled clean. The hearth was laid as if Richard might yet appear—or others who wished a private place to rendezvous. Adam made short work of lighting a fire.

  “We must get you warm,” he said to Joan, who had not set foot within the lodge. “Come in.”

  She shook her head. Her face was almost as white as Christopher’s, and her shivers had become deep shudders. She held back the edges of his mantle and he saw what concerned her. Her muddy gown was plastered to her body, water pooled at her feet.

  He thought her overly scrupulous of a dead man’s floor, but acquiesced when another thought flitted through his head. Before the impulse passed, he reached out and tugged his mantle from her shoulders.

  The step was flanked by a bench and a great, stout rain barrel. Water sluiced down from the great sloped roof to form a small waterfall enclosing them in a curious privacy.

  She made an inarticulate protest, but did not fight him as he pulled off her gown. It fell in a sodden heap at her feet. The shift followed it.

  Her skin was icy when he lifted her over the side of the full barrel.

  “Consider this your bathtub. I’ll give you but a few moments before I come back for you. Call out if you need me.”

  He searched the interior of the lodge and found several moth-eaten tunics that had probably once belonged to the dead Richard. There were no shoes, hose, or dry mantles. The tunics must serve.

  He listened to the splashing sounds of Joan’s ablutions and warmed his hands at the fire now blooming into a fine blaze.

  “Adam?” she called and he swept a blanket off Richard De Poitiers’s fine curtained bed and stepped outside.

  She was trying to climb out of the barrel. It was like watching a doe clamber up a steep hill. It was awkward and somehow graceful at the same time. She tipped over the side.

  “Jesu,” he said, catching her up in his arms. Her skin was warmer now, slippery, clean, her hair in a wild tangle over her white shoulders, breasts, and back.

  He set her on the step and covered her with the blanket. When he tried to help her dry off, she backed away and darted into the lodge.

  Adam pulled off his clothing and dropped it beside hers. He stepped to the edge of the eaves and allowed the rush of water to rinse him clean. He was too large to fit in the barrel, so he used a dented copper ladle and his hands to wash the remaining mud from his hair and skin. The barrel water felt almost warm compared to that of the rain or the fish pond.

  He rinsed their clothing and wrung it out. He used the time and task to quell the arousal pouring through his veins like the rain pouring from the thatched roof.

  Desire ran like a deluge within him, raging along with the anger at Christopher’s death, tangled and confused.

  Inside, Joan had taken several furs from the bed and made a nest for herself before the hearth. Adam snatched up a blanket and dried himself. He pulled on one of Richard’s cast-off tunics and held another out to Joan. While she pulled it on, he gave her privacy by spreading their clothing to dry, draping the garments across two oak chairs near the hearth. The cloth began to steam and the scent of the wet wool filled the room.

  He had nothing more to occupy his time. He turned to Joan. She knelt on the nest of furs, her back to him. Her shoulders shook. He did not need to see her face to know she wept.

  Adam knelt by her and she whipped around, rising to her knees, a hunted look on her face.

  As gently as if she was a frightened doe, he put out his hand. He smoothed back the hair that had begun to curl around her shoulders and brow. He skimmed his fingers across her wet cheeks, lifting her chin. She looked like a wild creature of the forest, untamed.

  “Forgive me,” she said, wiping at her cheek with the back of her hand. “‘Tis just…Ivo and that man. He was so young. To die that way. It is so—”

  “Cruel,” he finished for her. His voice sounded overly harsh in the silent lodge—silent save for the rush of the water on the thatch and the whine of wind in the chimney. “You might have drowned,” he said.

  She would have drowned had he taken the river way instead of the road.

  A lump rose in his throat. “Why did you do it? What possessed you?”

  “I thought it was you.”

  Her words smote him like a hammer against an
anvil. The lump inside his chest twisted and knotted tighter. He could not breathe, nor control the quick spasm of his arms that pulled her close.

  She came easily into his embrace. Her lips were soft against his.

  He was ravenous. And lost.

  She slipped her hands around his neck and her blanket shifted, fell from her shoulders to pool at her knees. He dropped his alongside it.

  They knelt thigh to thigh, breast to chest separated by only the thin linen fabric of the old tunics. She did not protest when he set his hands on her hips.

  “I thought it was you,” she said again. Tears ran down her cheeks. “First Ivo. Then you. I—”

  He stopped her words with his mouth.

  A mix of fear, anger, and lust raced through his vitals. He bore her down before the fire. It flared to life at the very moment he stroked her hair from her face. The flames lighted her eyes so they shone gold.

  The tunic she wore rode up her hips, and he felt her soft, cool skin against his—cool because she had gone into a fish pond. For him.

  He eased the two tunics up to their waists and moaned as she embraced his hips with her thighs.

  Her lips were soft, lush, wet, and he feasted there whilst she ran her hands down his back to draw up his tunic, baring him further. Her fingertips journeyed in the valley of his spine. An unmerciful surge of blood rushed into his manhood, and gripped him like a fist. A groan was torn from deep within him. Her hands flexed in response; her nails bit into his flesh.

  He bent his head over her breast, nuzzling aside the loose linen. Her nipple proved as hard as a pebble. He licked over it and savored the hiss of her breath and the soft, answering moan when he took the taut peak between his teeth.

  She tasted of rain and outdoors.

  “Joan,” he whispered and put his hand between her thighs.

  This part of her burned. She was wet as if he’d just lifted her from the rain barrel.

  Slippery with want.

  He moved his fingertips over her and felt a shudder run her body; her legs locked about his hips so he could scarcely move.