How could she have forgotten Adam Quintin’s men? Had they killed the minstrel? And if ‘twas Adam who became lord here, his men would stay, would they not?
“My lord?” One of Brian’s men approached, his feet crunching on the pebble path. “Lady Mathilda summons you to her love court.”
It was not to the kennels Joan went, but back to the hall on Brian’s arm. But it was not to see how Brian fared in Lady Mathilda’s mock court. As Joan stood along the edges of the throng who waited as she did to know just what sins a love court might judge, she knew it was to see Adam again and no other.
Chapter Nineteen
Adam watched Mathilda command the hall’s attention with naught but a wave of her small, white hand.
“Eleanor of Aquitaine and her ladies once held a court of love,” Mathilda said. “I would like to resurrect that tradition here tonight. If any man feels inadequate to be here judged, speak now.”
Silence ruled in the hall. Men looked from one to the other, and Adam knew none of them wanted to be thought inadequate.
A flurry of servants cleared the dais and set up the table much as Adam’s father might have when he held a manorial court. Mathilda stood by the principle seat. Her women, among them Francis de Coucy’s mother, sat in a line to the right and left. It amused Adam to see proceedings his father conducted with gravity mocked in this manner by the ladies.
Then he started; a servant led Joan to a seat at the end of the table. High color stained her cheeks. He wanted to leap up and say she should not be part of this mummery. She had suffered a grievous experience at the fish pond. She needed quiet and sleep to heal.
Why wasn’t she back in her cottage instead of here at the end of this row of women, a wren among peacocks?
Adam thought to protest Lady Claris’ place there as well. Surely, the lady could not be impartial with her son one of the suitors? Adam shook off the thought. ‘Twas naught but an amusement for ladies just as the poetry and archery had been.
“What’s this nonsense?” Hugh asked, sitting at his elbow. “I may have to take myself off to Winchester. The tournament may not be worth this wait.”
“I need you at the tournament, I’m a man down. I meant to ask you to stand in Lambert’s place, but forgot.”
Forgot because I am befuddled with lust.
Hugh clapped him on the back. “With pleasure. I’ll put that craven boy, de Coucy, on his back for you.” Hugh bumped Adam’s arm and raised his cup of wine.
“All are in place, we may begin. Will Yves of York approach,” Lady Mathilda said.
The man with the broken wrist stepped forward. He bowed low and grinned.
“You are charged with fragrantly playing false with a womanly heart. How plead you?”
Yves touched his splinted arm. “I am incapable of playing a woman false with this broken wing. I spend my time, when not in your lovely presence, saying my prayers.”
Mathilda smiled and the hall burst into laughter. She curtsied and indicated her women. “My ladies, what say you? Is this knight guilty or innocent of playing false? May he remain or shall we cast him out to find his way home?”
The bishop paid little heed to Mathilda’s antics, his head close to Roger Artois’. Adam had gone through all of Roger’s belongings, questioned his men. If he played William Marshal false, and through him King Henry, it was not to be discovered here and now.
Mathilda and her ladies held a murmured discussion on the suitor’s “guilt”. Adam noticed Joan said little, her gaze upon her hands, folded in her lap. Her drab gown was unbecoming. Her hair, however, was as untamed as her nature when making love.
His body tightened at the memory of the long, slim column of her spine, the sweet fullness of her buttocks as she had tried to climb from the rain barrel.
Mathilda clapped her hands. “We have made a judgment. Yves of York, we find you guilty. We sentence you to hie yourself from this hall and thence from this manor.”
An uproar like a tidal surge swept the hall. The bishop clapped his jeweled hands. Silence reigned again and Gravant smiled. “It shall be as our lady requests. You are dismissed.”
This time, the silence was ponderous, charged with unspoken words. Yves bowed, albeit with little grace, in Mathilda’s direction. His stride, as he headed through the hall, his men falling in behind him, was stiff with anger.
Adam bit his tongue on a question to Hugh. So this love court was not an idle amusement. It served another purpose, Adam suspected—eliminating suitors. Ones displeasing to Mathilda or the bishop?
Did a dismissal mean this man was not going to champion Louis’ or the bishop’s cause? This was a complication Adam needed to think about. This new game might aid him. And was Mathilda part of the bishop’s plot? She did wear the fleur-de-lis seal ring.
De Harcourt was called next. The same accusation was made by Mathilda. Had he played false with a womanly heart?
To Adam’s amazement, Brian went down on one knee and said, “I plead guilty. I have played a woman false. Two years ago.”
The timing coupled with the sudden jerk of Joan’s body, told Adam the woman wronged was she. The blades of jealousy carved his insides.
Mathilda placed a delicate hand on Brian’s shoulder. “Have you made amends?”
“I offered my apologies, my lady. Amends are impossible. A hurt is a hurt. It heals with a cicatrix whether dealt with a blade or a tongue.”
She nodded and went to her women. Lady Claris’ words were inaudible, but she pounded the table with her fist. Mathilda listened with respect to each woman. When it was Joan’s turn to speak she looked at Mathilda for a very long moment before shaking her head.
Adam half rose in his seat. Hugh clapped a hand over his on the table. “Do not draw attention to her or yourself.”
“What?”
“You know de Harcourt is talking of his love affair with Joan Swan. Do not appear interested. Mathilda will see you.”
Adam sat down and propped his chin on his hand, in an effort to feign ignorance. “How do you know this is about Brian and Joan?”
“Oh, I like a good gossip and de Harcourt’s men do as well. I drank with a few of them at the alehouse after the fair. It is an accepted fact that de Harcourt had her two years ago the night Richard died. In fact, there are some among his men who believe de Harcourt had her earlier still, under Richard’s nose, so to speak.”
The impulse to say ‘twas all false, that Joan had been innocent until that very morning, was on the tip of Adam’s tongue.
But he could not speak of his morning with her. That would only injure Joan and his cause here. “I said it before, I do not believe Joan is free with her favors. It’s nonsense.”
Hugh met his gaze. “De Harcourt’s men think differently. They say de Harcourt found her to his liking, for she much liked to suck the marrow from the bone.”
Adam shot to his feet. Hugh rose and snatched at his tunic. “Sit down. Now. You betray yourself.”
Blood surged through Adam’s veins. It sang hot like it did when he was deep into a tournament, or when he was confronted on two sides in battle. He wanted to flail out in all directions, but only Hugh stood before him. He became aware the hall had exploded in laughter.
“What happened?” Hugh asked the man nearest to them, one of Roger Artois’ men-at-arms.
“De Harcourt has been sentenced,” the man said.
Hugh let Adam’s tunic go. He righted his garb and sat down. “Is he dismissed?” Adam asked Artois’ man.
“Ye’ll no have such luck. He’s still yer competition. He’s to give a kiss to every woman in the hall.”
Hugh shivered. “Mon Dieu! I would dismiss myself if I was so taxed.”
The laughter around the table gave Adam time to collect himself. The next man called was Francis de Coucy. He approached the dais with an arrogant swagger.
“Someone needs to polish that rooster’s tail,” Hugh said.
Adam grinned, but without mirth. “I’ll be happy
to do so in the tournament. I’ll unhorse him within a quarter hour of the opening horns.”
De Coucy was questioned. Adam was not surprised the court found Francis “not guilty” of a crime of the heart. His mother sat on the dais, after all. Then Adam smiled whilst the hall erupted in jeers. Mathilda sentenced him to practice his manners on a kitchen wench. De Coucy’s face was almost purple with rage. Mathilda called a serving woman forward. She was at least two score, almost a decade older than Lady Claris, and stout as an ale keg.
De Coucy bowed, albeit stiffly, and relinquished his place to the next suitor.
“I must give him credit,” Hugh said. “He could have acted the child, but was quite restrained. I elevate him past Roger.”
One more suitor was found “guilty” by Mathilda’s ladies and summarily dismissed. The others were given penance like Francis’ or Brian’s. Men moved about the hall, kissing ladies on the hands or cheeks.
Roger’s name was called. Mathilda curtsied to him and posed her question.
“I-I that is. I do not know how to answer, my lady. What constitutes playing a woman false?”
“Have you caused one tear to fall from a woman’s eye?”
“Does my mother count?”
The women tittered behind their hands, except for Joan, who sat as if a statue, neither smiling nor frowning. Adam worried she might be suffering still from the shock of finding Christopher.
He drummed his fingers on the table. He was last. How should he answer? Confession had done Brian no harm.
Roger scratched his chin. “I believe I have caused some tears…That is…perhaps I might have—”
“My lord, you are very unsure of yourself,” Mathilda said amidst giggles. Adam found himself grinding his teeth each time he heard the inane sound. Yet Adam enjoyed Lord Roger’s discomfort along with the crowd. The bishop, too, watched the proceedings with evident enjoyment, a grin on his face.
Was this not an unseemly occupation for a man of God? The other holy men, clerics and the bishop’s dean, had all left the hall long ago. Was Mathilda dismissing the men by the bishop’s orders?
Roger whipped around to intimidate the laughing members of the audience. The men in his entourage fell abruptly silent. Others were not cowed at all. Some of the worst offenders were Adam’s mercenaries.
“Indeed, my lord. I am quite displeased with you. Have you no answer?” Mathilda tapped her foot.
Roger held his hands out in supplication. “I am prepared to make any apology you deem necessary, pay any penance.”
Mathilda smiled to her women. “Let us decide this man’s fate.”
The women quickly decided Roger’s fate. Mathilda returned to the edge of the dais, a length of pale rose cloth in her hands. “My lord Roger, we have found you guilty of a crime of the heart. Your penance is to wear this sash for the remainder of your time here so all might know your sins.” She knotted it on his waist.
“At least she didn’t kneel to his enfourchure,” Hugh said.
Roger opened his mouth, then snapped it closed. When Roger turned to go, Mathilda said, “My lord, please remember this sash is a symbol of your ability to practice tolerance and patience with a wife’s demands should you become a husband. You have done admirably well, a man willing to accept correction. Wear the sash in good health.”
Hugh snorted through his nose.
“Have you something to say to the court, my lord Hugh?” Mathilda asked.
He stood up and gave her a fine, but somewhat mocking bow. “I have naught to say, my lady. I am but an observer.”
“Might I offer you some advice?”
“My lady?” Hugh said after a pause.
“If you have naught of worth to say, save your tongue for other matters.”
Adam watched a flush suffuse his friend’s face. Hugh did not sit down; he bowed and left the hall. Another man chose that time to exit as well—the bishop. He left with his men behind him, going up the steps to the lord’s chamber. Adam watched him until Mathilda called his name.
She gave him a deep curtsy and smiled. Adam decided it would not do to direct even one glance at Joan. He held himself taut for he had not decided how to answer the question.
“Adam Quintin, you are charged with playing false with a woman’s heart. Are you guilty?”
A few of his men called out bawdy answers for him. He ignored them, suddenly sure how he would reply. He believed one should always use the truth in situations where uncertainty ruled.
He went down on one knee and held out his hand. Lady Mathilda placed hers in his. Her skin was smooth and soft, cared for, made for stitching and soothing a man’s brow, or making love. As he took her hand, he did glance at Joan, and knew instantly what he intended to say was the right and proper thing. He might face Mathilda, but he intended to speak to Joan.
“I am guilty, my lady, as is any man who might stand before you. From the great King Arthur, down through time, all men must admit to their guilt if so summoned to a court such as this one. All men play women false.
“We deny our mother’s love when we march to war, never looking back or displaying our fear. We deny our sisters when they plead for a suitor who offers no alliance that will fill our coffers or enhance our name.
“We deny our lovers when we set them aside to make an alliance of power. We deny our love to the women we wed in pursuit of that power. We deny our daughters when we bid them wed against their wishes. There is no time, no day, no moment, when men do not play women false.”
Chapter Twenty
A hush fell over the hall. Joan let out her breath, unaware she’d been holding it. Every word of Adam’s speech lingered in her mind. Did he mean the words?
Mathilda broke Joan’s reverie. “My ladies, you have heard this noble knight accept his guilt. As such, we must determine his punishment. And if we accept what he says, then he and the men he represents are guilty indeed. Shall we banish him? Or shall we punish him?”
“Banish him,” Lady Claris said, her voice high and shrill.
“Punish him, but keep him,” Lady Isabelle said with equal vehemence and a wide smile in Adam’s direction.
A babble of voices rose from the tables, and Joan had difficulty hearing Adam’s fate. She offered no opinion, but it was to her Mathilda finally appealed.
“Joan, we have four who wish the dismissal of this knight from the field of love. We have four who are merciful and wish to give him a punishment. How say you?”
Joan lifted her gaze to Mathilda, then flicked a glance in Adam’s direction. What did Mathilda want of her? She neither understood her place at this table, nor the role she must play.
Her fingers hurt from knotting them in her lap. Every eye in the hall was on her. Adam’s as well.
Joan took a deep breath. “I believe you should decide the matter, my lady. It is you who must choose after the tournament, and so you must know your mind to decide who stays and who does not.”
Mathilda tapped a toe on the floor and then walked to where Adam knelt. She circled him, one finger on her cheek. “You are wise, Joan Swan. I shall decide this man’s fate myself.”
Even Adam’s men knew to hold their tongues at this crucial moment. Of course, Joan thought with a bite of cynicism, it was for the ransom of horses and accoutrement that Adam’s men had come. If he left, they left.
“Rise, Adam Quintin,” Mathilda said. “I find you guilty, but will exact no punishment. Your honesty serves you well.”
Joan’s legs were wooden as she left the dais. Mathilda caught her sleeve. “The bishop wishes to see you in his quarters now. I’ll take you.”
Joan felt as if a guard had come to summon her to the dungeon. What could the bishop want of her? Had he a complaint about Nat? Was it about the missing lymer?
As they walked from the dais, Adam turned toward her, one hand pressed against his lower back. Joan missed a step and stumbled on her hem. She knew why he did it. He had deep, painful bruises from his unhorsing. As if taken on wings,
she was back in the lodge, watching the light from the hearth play light over his body—and face—a beautiful, uncommon face.
She looked down lest she trip again. With each step, she realized an appalling truth. The man with whom she’d lain was no common man. Adam was as handsome as Mathilda was lovely. A man who looked like Adam Quintin did not need the daughter of a hunt master. A snap of the fingers and he could have any woman he desired. Such a man would wed a goddess, not a servant.
“Sir Adam has asked me to offer you thanks for your valor today,” Mathilda said as they reached the top of the steps.
“What?” Joan could not concentrate on Mathilda’s words. Weariness sapped her strength. She feared the bishop.
“For trying to rescue a man from drowning, Joan. Christopher, our minstrel. Well done.”
A guard led them to the bishop’s chamber. She barely saw the beautiful hangings on the great bed or the servant who directed her to the bishop, who sat at ease in a chair draped with fur.
He wore no priestly garb, but a gorgeous blue and yellow tunic over a yellow linen shirt. The only signs of his holy stature were his tonsured head and the cross on his chest.
Joan knelt and kissed Gravant’s ring, then stood before him, hands folded, and waited patiently for him to speak. He considered her with his chin propped on one hand. It was a long-fingered, leathery hand, much unlike the priest’s in the chapel who did little toil. This hand belonged to a man who hunted and rode often.
“I have had an offer of marriage for you,” Gravant said.
Joan felt faint. “An offer of marriage?”
“My lady,” the bishop said. “Have we not had a very good offer of marriage for Joan?”
Mathilda nodded, but did not speak. Nor did she meet Joan’s gaze. Instead, she set to work on a linen square embroidered with harebells.
Joan’s heart began to thump slowly, heavily.
“Your parents are dead, are they not?” the bishop asked. “You have only Nat Swan who took you in, have you not?”
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