LordoftheHunt

by Anonymous Author

  She stripped off her gown, draped her clothing over a bush, and waded into the shallows, but after her experience in the fish pond, she was loath to go much deeper than her knees. The water was icy cold. Her nipples tightened. They ached from Adam’s fingers, lips, and teeth. She lifted cold water to her breasts to soothe the ache.

  Then she washed away the evidence of his lovemaking. She scrubbed her hands up and down the insides of her thighs, though she imagined it was too late.

  The deed was done. More than done. Another reason she could never wed Oswald. A cold thought came to her. Wedding Adam did not assure her she and Nat would remain at Ravenswood. He swore he was here to claim the castle, but how was he planning on doing it without taking the lady with it?

  Her skin broke out in gooseflesh. She climbed out of the shallows and used her shift to dry off. A bird swooped near her and she ducked, crying out, holding her gown before her.

  It was a raven. It settled on a rock and turned its inky head in her direction. She drew on her gown, knotting the leather thong that acted as her belt.

  The raven burst into flight. It rose overhead, into a sky now clear of clouds and filled with pink and gold streaks of dawn light.

  As the raven soared down again, its wings in a tight V, she thought of Adam Quintin’s device. Suddenly, she realized it was a raven. Why would Adam have a raven as his emblem? She stared up at the castle. The former lords, the de Marles, all used ravens on their banners. Their very name meant black bird. Was Adam somehow related to those former lords of Ravenswood?

  Nat said he’d seen Adrian de Marle, son of Durand de Marle, in the woods. Then she laughed. She was growing as fanciful as Nat. No de Marle, whether Durand’s son or a distant relation, would return to England under banishment. A man would have to be mad to take such a risk. Adam had simply done as others had before him—emulated an admired lord’s device.

  * * * * *

  Adam stood in his tent and washed the scent of Joan away with great regret.

  She would never know how much she looked like the Diana mosaic with her hair down, her slim white body standing in the same attitude as the goddess in the mosaic, one hand on the altar.

  As Adam dried his face and hands, Hugh swept into the tent. Adam belted on his sword and slid his dagger into its sheath whilst Hugh paced the small space.

  “Where are you going so finely garbed?” Hugh asked.

  “To see the bishop. He’s had an audience each morning with two or more of the suitors. This is my morning.”

  “We must leave this place,” Hugh said.

  “When I’ve not achieved my goals?”

  “You cannot wed Mathilda. She’ll make you miserable. No lands are worth the sacrifices you’ll make to keep her happy and—”

  “Hugh. Enough. Ravenswood is worth any sacrifice. There’s no argument you may offer that will deter me.”

  “There are no ravens here.”

  Adam paused in the act of sheathing his dagger. “No ravens?”

  “Aye. It is an ill omen. The ravens abandoned this castle with your father’s banishment. I had it from the mews master.”

  “That’s nonsense. They were captive birds.”

  “Still, no one has seen ravens here since your father left. I’ll wager you any amount you have not seen a single raven since you arrived. Confess it.”

  Adam fastened his mantle with the V pin that no one but he knew was the raven, the symbol of the de Marle family. He would wear it beneath the bishop’s nose. “You sound like an old woman. When I am lord here, I’ll net dozens of ravens and fill the sky with the flutter of their wings.”

  “‘Tis an omen of sorts, I tell you, and you’ll regret every day if you live with that woman.”

  “Not another word. I’ll not be deterred.”

  Adam strode from his tent and across the bailey to the hall. The sky had brightened over the ramparts, and he paused with one foot on the lowest step up to the hall. As he watched, the sun rose over the castle wall, bathing the stones in gold.

  The longing, the fierce pangs of anger and desire for revenge that had swept through him each morning he’d been within the castle walls, did not rise to claw at him this time.

  Instead, he thought of standing high over the river with Joan and watching a different rising, that of the moon. He thought there could be no one but she who would appreciate the sight as much as he.

  He looked down at his foot on the step. Ravenswood was what he wanted, wasn’t it? Then he looked over where the hunt master’s cottage sat against the castle walls. A lord could do as he wished. And his first act as lord of Ravenswood Castle would be to wed the huntress.

  Who would stand in his way? Not William Marshal. He would not care who shared the bed of Ravenswood’s lord if that man could hold it for King Henry.

  Adam presented himself in a timely manner before one of the bishop’s clerics. The young man, who wore simple homespun robes, reminded him that the bishop had little Christian charity. Else it would be Ivo sitting here diligently writing the bishop’s letters.

  The man gathered up several documents and gestured for Adam to follow. They entered the bishop’s chamber. Whatever emotions Adam had expected, they were swept away by the chamber’s complete and utter contrast to what had been. The chamber was now that of a man who served God and the church and liked his pleasures. The room held tables for his clerks and a small shrine, as well as hunting boots and a long couch covered in fur robes.

  The cleric announced him and then went to a great chest, hefted the lid, and deposited the parchments. Adam thought he would give his right hand to read the contents of those papers.

  The bishop wore no homespun. Instead, he wore a fine robe of deep green samite trimmed in white fur. When Adam knelt, the bishop extended his holy ring for a kiss, one ring among others.

  “Sit and have some wine.” The bishop took a seat by the hearth.

  Adam mused on a bishop who required poverty and chastity of his priests, but kept this luxurious chamber for himself.

  “You smile,” the bishop said. “What amuses you?”

  Adam sought an excuse for his smile. “The cat.” He pointed out one of the castle mousers, who stalked some corner creature.

  “Ah. A necessary evil. Vermin themselves as far as I’m concerned.”

  Adam sat down and arranged his mantle so the bishop could see the jeweled dagger at his waist and the ribbons tied there.

  “I am meeting with each suitor to make a few…shall we say, private inquiries.”

  “Ask me whatever you will.”

  The bishop was a large man, but not soft, and Adam assumed he spent less time on his knees praying than he did in the saddle hunting.

  “It is simple. I want to know how many men you have at your disposal to defend this castle.”

  Adam shrugged. “I have as many as need be. I have those on my manors who owe me their days, say one hundred men, most with their own horses. And I have my personal force, another one hundred or so that knows no daily limit as they have no fields to till. I have strong alliances in the north and in the Welsh marches.”

  The bishop took up a cup. He contemplated the wine inside. “And if another, say Roger Artois, wanted to usurp your personal forces, he need only pay higher wages?”

  Adam crossed his arms on his chest and laughed. “Nay, my lord Bishop. No man may take my men from me with such a ploy. They are my men as much as any other lord’s who has heard their oaths of fealty. My first requirement of any man who seeks a place in my service is just that. He must seek me. And swear to me. And honor that pledge.”

  “You dismissed a man at the fair.”

  Adam shrugged. “Not every man is perfect. Is every man who serves you, and through you, God, without sin?”

  “And whom do your men serve through you?”

  The question was asked. The bishop must seek a husband for Mathilda who would be loyal to the bishop’s needs.

  “My men serve whomever I serve.”
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br />   Gravant set his cup down. “The history of England’s kings will show you that not all have treated the Church as they should. Some have tried to use the Church to their own ends. Others have seen God as a partner, rather than the supreme being without whom they would not rule at all.”

  “We all must thank God for our blessings.”

  “A politic answer.”

  Adam waited in silence.

  “England, and the Church, are ruled by a hierarchy of men, each with their own role to play, whether one is so high as a regent or archbishop or so low as a simple soldier or priest.”

  “Agreed.” Adam nodded.

  “It is necessary that each link in the chain be strongly joined to the one beside it.”

  “Agreed. Men serve best the man they know. It is his call to arms, not the distant figure of a king or pope that rallies them to arms…or prayer.”

  “You understand.” The bishop smiled. “And where will you deploy your arms when king and pope are at odds?”

  “Let me be completely honest. I want the honor of Ravenswood. I want the power that accompanies this manor and its strategic location. I want to be lord of Ravenswood Manor. Nothing less will satisfy me, and for that, I would serve the devil himself.”

  The bishop’s eyes widened. Adam held his breath. Had he overplayed his hand? At least the bishop would see nothing but truth in his manner and expression.

  “And Lady Mathilda?”

  “I doubt it is Lady Mathilda who truly draws any of these men. Mayhap the younger ones will tell you so, they may be dazzled by her beauty, but their fathers are not. They are dazzled by Ravenswood, nothing more.”

  “And an older man, such as yourself, can see beyond the lady to the real prize?”

  Adam smiled. “An older man, such as myself, who has no baronial father, can see beyond the lady to the true prize.”

  Gravant stood up. “Our time is done. I have a holy office to perform.”

  Adam rose and went down on one knee. He kissed the bishop’s ring. When Adam reached the door, he stood aside to allow a monk with the bishop’s robes over his arms to enter. As the monk helped the bishop out of his fine green tunic, Adam said, “My lord Bishop?”

  Gravant turned. “What is it?”

  “If I am given the opportunity to serve as Ravenswood’s lord, I can assure you that I will defend it to the death.”

  “Strong words.”

  “It is strength you want, is it not?”

  The bishop’s face twisted into a smile. Adam almost recoiled. If the man were not donning an ecclesiastic robe, Adam would have thought him more the devil than servant of God at that moment.

  Gravant gave a barely perceptible nod that was more dismissal than agreement.

  Adam did not go down to the hall. Instead, he hid in a nearby privy. He listened until he heard the sound of the bishop and others going down the steps for Mass.

  Silently, he opened the privy door, took three steps, and slipped into the bishop’s quarters. He might never have such an opportunity again. No guard stood at the door, no clerk copied at the long oak table.

  Adam looked around and went straight to the iron-bound chest where the cleric had deposited the bishop’s documents. As quickly as possible, an ear alert for sounds of footsteps, Adam scanned documents, ignoring the sealed ones.

  One thought ran around and around in his mind like a hound chasing its tail. There was no one to go to Winchester for him if he found something of worth beyond Brian’s Greek paper. Whether Adam went himself, or sent one of his men, he would forfeit the tournament.

  But if he learned the name of Gravant’s conspirator, it would be a triumph of sorts. He must depend on William Marshal to reward him.

  Adam glanced around the chamber. He knew what he would ask for. He would ask William Marshal to lift his father’s banishment. Even if his father chose to remain in Wales for the rest of his days, still, the de Marle name would be cleansed of the taint of King John’s banishment.

  Adam stripped a leather thong off a rolled parchment. For several moments, he stared down at the words without comprehension. He read and reread the ten or so sentences at the top of the document. Unable to believe, he touched each name listed.

  He had found what William Marshal wanted.

  The document—written so clearly even he, an indifferent scholar at the best of times, could understand it—was not in Greek, nor was it in Latin. It was written in Norman French—and signed in six different hands.

  Six names. Six men who by signing, took an oath to Prince Louis.

  The flowery phrases, the promises of land, wealth, and favor at the top of the long page, promises made by a French prince, mattered not. It was the names that held Adam in thrall. He rolled the scroll and tied it as he had found it, the words committed to memory.

  Each signer was the son of a wealthy and powerful baron, a son who now need not wait upon a father’s death to attain wealth and power.

  Nay, the men who had signed the document would receive their rewards quite soon—or soon if Louis fared better in England this time and defeated William Marshal.

  Adam thought of his conversation with Christopher at their first meeting. He had stated the truth without realizing it, and there was a royal example of sons not wishing to wait for their own time. Both Richard and John had conspired against their father with other kings.

  Every action of this Harvest Hunt and Tournament was mummery. None of the sons needed Mathilda. She was naught but an excuse to gather men and take a castle—nay, the castle was already taken. Had been from the moment the suitors had ridden in a few days ago.

  Preparations for defending the castle need not be hidden, either. Sharpening weapons, tending horses, repairing armor, constituted preparation for a tournament as much as for a battle.

  Adam slit open every sealed document with icy determination lest he miss other important information. His wanton opening of the documents would be noticed, but could not be helped. When he had read everything, he looked around. Was it possible to conceal his true reason for opening the documents? If the bishop suspected his papers had been read by an outsider, everyone not on his list would be expelled from Ravenswood.

  Adam knew he was an outsider.

  He set a candle near the chest and looked around. There, on the table, lay the wax, the bishop’s seal. Could he repair some of the documents to make them look undisturbed?

  Not possible.

  Adam stared at the hearth flames. Should he burn all of the documents? His heart raced as it did before battle. How could he conceal his time here, or make it look less suspicious?

  Glancing about, Adam saw the fine jeweled cup the bishop drank from at their interview.

  An audience at which the bishop had not asked Adam to sign for Louis’ cause.

  Perhaps six men out of ten was enough. Surely, six score men could hold Ravenswood. Gravant did not need to waste his time with men whose loyalty he might question.

  Adam thought his time at Ravenswood might be very short. And what of de Harcourt? He’d not signed, either. Or perhaps he’d not been asked yet.

  Would that make the bishop’s true intent too obvious—dismissing the two most worthy bachelors in the land? And without flattering himself, Adam knew he and Brian were the best. Perhaps when the tournament was over, Mathilda would choose a husband from the bishop’s group and all others, the unsigned, would then have to ride out, leaving the castle manned with only those loyal to the bishop, with no one the wiser.

  Adam made a painful decision. He must leave Ravenswood and ride to Winchester as quickly as possible, forfeiting all right to be inside the castle. John d’Erley needed these names and Adam could return with his men and lay siege to Ravenswood—if William Marshal chose him, that is.

  Could a siege be avoided? Aye, if he could bring his men in by the Roman Way.

  Timing was crucial. It would not do to have his men arrive while the tournament was in full swing. That only ensured every man was armed
and of a fighting mind. Better to time it whilst they feasted, gathered in the hall, many of them drunk.

  Adam tossed the bishop’s papers in a haphazard way about the chest. He pocketed two rings and several fine chains from a velvet sack that lay in the bottom. A weighty purse of coins he tucked into his tunic. One coin he spun across the floor to lie winking in the firelight so only the blind could miss it.

  Joan.

  Joan could go to Winchester for him. He could remain in the castle with his full team of men, vanquishing all, collecting armor, horses, and weapons during the tournament. He could delay ransoming back the booty until after the tournament feast.

  Joan could let his men in through the Roman Way. There need be no siege—just a quick surrounding of the hall while the feast raged. His men would appear like phantoms in the night and take control before ever the guards on the walls or at the hall doors knew what was happening.

  With a new determination, Adam prized the gems from the bishop’s goblet. A sound made him turn. Brian de Harcourt stood in the doorway.

  Brian looked about the chamber, his gaze sweeping across the scattered papers, the coin, the goblet in Adam’s hand.

  Adam opened his mouth, but no words came out. Brian pulled the door softly closed.

  Adam did not chase after him. Some inner voice told him Brian would say nothing of what he’d seen. He might use it at some future time, but he would call no guards to have Adam Quintin, thieving mercenary, arrested.

  Adam’s knees felt loose in their joints as he took the few steps to the private privy set aside for the lord’s use. He tossed the jewels and coins into the black abyss. They would find their way to the moat and mayhap one day, a poor peasant would find them and benefit.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Mathilda set a crooked stitch in her square of linen, a wreath of harebells the color of Adam Quintin’s eyes. She worked the piece to annoy Hugh. The bishop paced and swore some very ungodly words, going again and again to his ransacked coffer. He had spent the hours after Mass questioning servants about the theft of the gems and coins from his chamber.