“We’ve had the same upbringing, you and I. We’d do well together.”
“Together?” She forced the word out.
“I’d like to ask your father for your hand.”
Joan felt as if someone had struck her in the stomach. “Don’t.” The word came out in rush.
Oswald got to his feet and held up one hand. “There’s no need for hasty answers. Think on my offer.”
“I don’t intend to leave Ravenswood or Nat. Ever.”
He bobbed his head like a wading bird. “If Lady Mathilda chooses my Lord Roger, you won’t need to, nor will Nat. He can serve as my right hand. And I’ve spoken to de Coucy. He’s willing to make me his hunt master if favor smiles on him. I’ll talk to the other suitors as well, if you like.”
“You’ve discussed this with others?”
“Aye.” He smiled. “I want everyone to know how much I think of you.” He bowed and went to the door. “Oh, and the bishop heard Nat lost a valuable dog. He’s not pleased. It might be best to keep your father out of the bishop’s sight.”
Joan watched Oswald dart across the slippery cobbles to the hall. The rain pelted the stones at the cottage entrance, splashing her hem and bare feet. Behind her, water from the leak pinged into the metal pot set out to catch it. Each drop seemed to echo in her ears.
Her body ached from making love to Adam and her mind whirled with Oswald’s words. How dare he presume to seek Nat’s job. She must speak to Nat and Mathilda, lest Oswald get to them first. What if Oswald persuaded them to the match?
Joan changed to a clean gown and plaited her unruly hair—unruly from drying whilst she lay on it before a fire—making love. She tied it with the ribbon she’d bought at the fair.
After pinning on her mantle, she was ready.
* * * * *
When the company grew restless, Roger proposed each suitor entertain the company with either a verse or a song.
“What ill conceived notion is this?” Adam asked Brian, sitting at his side, aware Mathilda’s attentions had shifted since his time in the chapel.
“Assume he’s paid a jongleur to compose something for just such an opportunity,” Brian said, draining his tankard. He walked to the table that abutted the front of Mathilda’s and leapt boldly up onto it. To Adam’s dismay, Brian challenged Roger, and all the other suitors, to a tournament of verse.
“Mon Dieu.” He had no skill to stitch words into rhymes.
As Mathilda solicited those who wished to compete, Adam found himself hiding in his ale cup. Roger leapt onto another table opposite Brian’s and said he’d pit his verses against those of any man in the room.
Joan Swan walked into the hall. She looked about, then, clinging to the wall as if she feared someone might see her, she edged toward the laundress.
Adam lost the thread of Roger’s speech. Hugh joined Joan, and the laundress slid down on her bench to give him a seat. He lifted Joan’s plait and shook it, making a remark that sent laughter down Edwina’s table and color into Joan’s cheeks.
A sickening feeling, as if someone had taken his stones in a fist and squeezed, overcame Adam. It was simple jealousy in its rawest, purest form.
Oswald, the red-haired hunt master, detached himself from a company of men and joined Joan’s party. With relief, Adam watched Edwina shoo Oswald and Hugh away.
The women were but two among many who had sought the hall as evening waned and the deluge lessened. No room could be brighter than this room now Joan was there.
The poetic thought amused him. He caught her eye.
In her glance he saw the remembrance of their time together. Those memories took him from his seat.
He made his way through the throng and sat beside her, near the steps to the lower storerooms. The scent of dampness overpowered the sweet rushes on this side of the hall.
Edwina acknowledged him with no sign of chasing him off. “Ye missed winning a ribbon this morning.”
“Did I?” Adam looked at Joan.
“Mathilda gave a test on the fair. It were great good fun. Only Francis de Coucy could answer the questions.” Edwina stood up and mimicked the boy. “Ribbon’s a farthing a foot. Bread is two a penny.” She dropped onto the bench and slapped her knees. “The boy knew the cost of everything. He earned his ribbon.”
Indeed, Francis did have one ribbon. He wore it knotted about his wrist.
Adam wanted to take Joan’s hand and lead her to one of the storerooms below and make love to her until he was drained of seed. And any thoughts of ribbons and fairs.
Edwina interrupted his thoughts.
“Have any of you seen Del?”
No one had. Edwina frowned. “He’s given to laziness, but he’s never been gone so long.”
A man at the table made a remark about the number of loose women about because of the fair and Del’s prowess between the thighs. Adam watched Joan’s cheeks flush. The conversation was more ribald here away from the high table.
The laundress snapped at the men to mind their tongues, then pointed to Brian and Roger who stood upon the table. “Is this worth wagering on?” she asked.
“Lord no,” Adam said. “It’s a combat of words.”
“What do you mean?”
Joan wore her hair in one long plait, bound with a scarlet ribbon. It was the only spot of color as her gown was a drab brown. Yet she needed no finery. Her skin was as downy as a peach, her brow smooth and clear.
“It seems we’re to entertain Lady Mathilda in verse or song,” he said hastily, lest they discern his thoughts.
Tendrils of hair escaped Joan’s plait, and he remembered how soft her hair felt to his fingers, his lips. Unbidden, his gaze dropped to her mouth. He also remembered how soft her full lips were. With difficulty, he forced his attention to the tournament of verse and those at the high table.
Mathilda and her ladies giggled. Bishop Gravant leaned toward Lady Claris and said something that made her nod and touch his wrist.
“Those two look cozy,” Adam said.
“Oh, aye.” Edwina glanced about and then leaned near his ear. “‘Tis said she’s been his mistress these twenty years.”
Jesu. Twenty years. Adam examined Francis. Was there a resemblance to the bishop? None that he could detect. This added a nasty wrinkle to the question of whom the bishop would select if Mathilda could not choose. Roger Artois could kiss the ecclesiastic ass all he wanted, but if blood would tell…
Lady Claris touched the bishop’s wrist again. Adam wondered if the traitor might be a woman? Could Lady Claris be working toward more than a powerful manor for son?
The laundress nudged him in the side. “These verses are magnificent.”
Roger posed, one foot before the other, and held out a hand toward Mathilda. “Mathilda, jewel of eternal beauty.”
Adam listened, incredulous. Each time Roger paused to begin another verse, Brian broke in with his own lyrical lines.
Adam’s stomach knotted. These two were smarter than he. They’d come prepared with praise to the lady, elegant, courtly praise, memorized and flowing from their lips with such ease, one might think they made their living at it.
By the sixth verse, Brian and Roger had come to an understanding that they were most evenly matched. They walked along their respective tables, stepping over trenchers as diners snatched tankards from their paths.
They stood face-to-face at the distance of only a few feet, the gap between their tables, and said their verses, first one then the other, heads of spectators bobbing first one way and then the other.
Mathilda sat rapt as her womanly virtues, beauty, and kindness were lauded in metered verse.
Joan said, “I believe they hired the same jongleur.”
Adam snapped his attention to her. Her hair was no longer plaited, but fell in glorious disarray about her shoulders.
She touched his sleeve. “She much admires the rose.”
He looked down. In her palm lay the scarlet ribbon. As he watched, she folded and knot
ted it into a credible rosebud. She leaned down and plucked something from the rushes. A bright piece of greenery. She slid it into the back of the knotting.
She held it out. “Richard always gave her roses. He compared her golden hair to the honey she much liked to lick from the comb.”
She stood up, touched his shoulder lightly, and walked around the room to sit near a man who might be one of the fewterers or huntsmen. From the look of the man’s gestures, they talked of dogs, not rosebuds or honey.
Finally, with a flourish of bows, Roger and Brian fell silent. Mathilda jumped up, her hands clasped over her breast and then sank into a deep curtsy. Roger and Brian were lauded and whistled from the tables.
One by one, the other suitors either declined to compose a verse, or they sang some well-known song of love or valor to show the range of their voices. But Roger’s and Brian’s efforts had eclipsed the sum of their contributions.
Finally, Adam became aware the hall was silent. He realized they waited on him. He got slowly to his feet, his heart thudding. He walked the short distance to Mathilda and stood before her.
“You are golden honey, sweet and pure. A rose may blush to you compare. That is my verse, I am no poet, ‘tis sure.”
He held out his hand.
Mathilda’s shook a bit as she reached for the rose. She skimmed it with her fingertips.
“Richard would say the same.” She took the flower and tucked it into her gown at the breast.
Then she shook herself as if waking from some dream. “Well done, Sir Adam, you have touched my heart, but I fear for all that, you have not won the day.”
He offered her his arm. She laid her hand on his sleeve. He usurped Roger and Brian’s moment, escorting her to them. Adam made a great show of slicing the ribbons she indicated from her lady’s gowns, one by one, then handing them off to the men. Mathilda never so much as touched their sleeves.
Brian raised his tankard. “Here’s to verse, and the lady fair, but who will kiss us? Pray not Quintin there.”
The lady and company laughed with him and she ran on light footsteps, skirt raised to show her tiny feet in embroidered shoes, to where each man stood. She kissed them lightly, saluted, and returned to Adam’s side.
Adam realized he’d not won a ribbon, but he’d gained the lady’s favor anyway. He led her to an oak chair, his step faltering a moment when he realized it was one his mother had favored when she sat in this place.
As he seated Mathilda, he laid claim to her hand. “Could you say some praise of Joan Swan—private praise? I do not want her embarrassed here or singled out,” he hastened to add, “but she did risk her life to pull the minstrel from the fish pond.”
Mathilda studied his face. “I thought it was you who tried to save the minstrel.”
“I went in after Joan. She was weighed down by her skirts and not doing very well. But her valor was extraordinary to even attempt the thing. She thought only of saving the man. She might have drowned.”
“So, you and Joan both chose to fish this morning? So early?”
It was his cheeks heating this time. “Nay, I was on the way to the village to see if my men had behaved themselves last night when I saw her struggling in the water.”
“I see. And what was she doing out and about in such dirty weather, I wonder?”
“Nat’s favorite lymer is missing.”
Mathilda’s gaze sought the old man. “Is Nat here?”
“I’ve not seen him, only Joan.”
“He has always been kind to me.”
“Then be kind to the daughter.”
“You chastise me?” Mathilda’s small chin tipped up.
“Never.”
“Then you merely recommend my actions? Not dictate them.”
“It is only for a guardian or husband to dictate actions.”
“So, you would order me about if you were chosen.”
He recognized a sincerity in her tone that warned him he fished in dangerous waters. “Nay, a woman may be offered advice by her mate, but she may not take it if she does not wish to.”
“Sit here, Adam, by my feet and tell me more of how a mate should behave.”
Realizing he was the favored one for this fleeting moment, he sat down and accepted a cup of wine she passed to him. He hoped Joan was able to trust that his attentions to Mathilda were all part of a game he must play.
“Were your own parents well suited?” Mathilda asked.
Lady Claris interrupted him before he could speak. “It is not a matter of suiting each other. You are very young, my lady, but surely you know a marriage must first be one that extends and enhances one’s properties and strength. Therein lies the suitability.”
“I must agree with you, my lady.” Adam lifted his cup to the older woman. “But there must be some equality in temperament and nature, or some complement at least, else days like this will be weary.”
“Aye,” Mathilda said. “One may find oneself in one’s storeroom performing chores that have no purpose.”
Hugh, listening to the conversation, took a step closer. “I would think you have servants enough to tend to your needs.”
Adam frowned at the abrupt tone of Hugh’s voice.
“I think you need to take a turn in the fresh air, my lord,” Mathilda said. “You’ve been too long confined.”
Hugh bowed. “I will do just that now Joan Swan informs me the rain has ended. Perhaps I shall help her search for her missing dog.”
“You will miss the love court,” Mathilda said.
Adam quailed inside. Love court? Then his thoughts scattered. Brian, not Hugh, was escorting Joan from the hall. The rain was done. When the guard flung the two doors wide, Adam looked upon a sky streaked with a fine autumn’s sunset.
* * * * *
Joan could not refuse Brian’s offer to see her to the kennels. What possessed her to think she could speak with Mathilda in the hall? And Nat had not appeared.
As they walked, Joan explained about the missing lymer.
“I’ll ask my men if they’ve seen the dog. A well-trained animal is always noticed,” Brian said.
“He’s the sire of the pup we nursed,” she said. “The spring Richard died.”
“I remember. You sat up all night with the pathetic thing.”
She nodded. “Aye. I was sure he would die, too.”
“I remember more of that night.” Brian led her away from the kennels toward the stone path through the old garden. “May I be so bold as to give you a warning?”
Everyone had warnings for her, it seemed.
Joan sat on one of the marble benches. The setting sun cast gold lights through his chestnut curls. He was a handsome man—had been two years ago. Now, lines had formed about his mouth. They gave him a melancholy look when he did not smile. He was not smiling now.
“What warning do I need?” she asked.
“That night you nursed the pup, ‘twas the same night we learned Richard was dead.”
A lump filled her throat. “Aye. Mathilda was frantic—I could hear her wails from here.”
“We went too far that night, you and I.”
“Brian—”
“Nay, let me finish. You offered me comfort and in the morning, lying in the straw with you, that damned pup between us, I lied to you.”
She examined his face for guile.
“I lied when I said you were not good enough to wed, that you were only good enough to be a mistress, and that you were wanton to tempt me with your kisses.”
“Stop this.” She stood up, her skin suddenly hot.
“Please, sit down.” He set his hand on her shoulder. She had no choice but to obey. To try to break from his grip would attract the attention of the sentry who was looking down on them from the ramparts.
“I lied in that I really wanted to wed you, to do as Richard had sworn he would. But unlike Richard, I had not the courage in here,” he touched his chest, “to defy my father…or hurt my friend.”
He held o
ut his hand to her. She ignored it. After a moment, he dropped it to his side and continued. “I had my opportunity with you that night when we nursed the pup and shed our tears over Richard, but I lost it. I hurt you. I’ve always wanted to tell you I was sorry.”
“It was two years ago.” She looked off to where the old kennels had stood, swamped by memories, none of them joyous.
“It seems less to me.”
“So why now? Why say anything?” She clasped her elbows in her palms to keep from wringing her hands.
“Because I’m determined to be lord here. And if I succeed, we’ll see each other daily. I must tell you I did love you then. You are my only regret.”
“Regret?” She forced a smile. “Pray put it from your mind. We comforted each other—that is all. I thought no more on our night together past that day.”
“You’re lying. I saw the way you recoiled from me when we met at Adam’s unhorsing.”
“I was recoiling from the crowd of men. I do not trust so many men together at a kill.”
He acknowledged her lie with a shrug. “If you say so. But I think you were remembering when Nat needed to chastise my men at the tavern for calling you my—”
“Don’t say it,” she cried. “Stop this. What purpose is gained by talking over times past?”
“I don’t want you to be uncomfortable with me or my men if I’m lord here.”
She would never be comfortable with his men. They’d called her a bitch in heat, said Brian’s pup would be whelped in the kennel with the other dogs come spring. Nat had been enraged enough to threaten one man.
“Nat was hurt by your men’s jokes,” she said softly. “That was the harm you did. Nat was hurt, Nat who has harmed no one.”
“Should I be making my apology to him?”
The door of the keep opened and the sound of singing spilled from the hall. Several men stumbled down the steps, drunken men as those in Brian’s company had been.
“I must go,” she said.
Brian hooked her arm. “Do not let him hurt you, either.”
“Who?” She summoned as much ice in her voice as she could.
“Quintin. No one knows whence he comes. He has risen because William Marshal sees something of himself in the man. He’s some baron’s by-blow and will offer nothing to this estate save a mercenary attitude and a brutal company at arms. Mercenaries serve no man save themselves.”
LordoftheHunt Page 17