LordoftheHunt

by Anonymous Author

  “You must not fuss so,” she said. “It happens all too often. Servants cannot be trusted these days.”

  “Indeed. The coins will probably be spent in the alehouse, but the gems will be found, I promise you. I sent my men to the village, and they’re searching everyone’s stall and hut.”

  Mathilda shivered to think of the manner the innocent would be treated. She changed the subject. “I do not think Joan Swan was pleased by Oswald’s offer, do you?”

  “I have told you ‘tis foolhardy to allow women to decide such matters. Men such as Oswald are hard to find. I insist you persuade her to the match, or I shall be very displeased.”

  “I intend to decide my own matters; why should Joan not do the same?”

  “In truth, Mathilda, Lady Claris and I discussed this very issue just an hour ago. We think ‘tis time I told you who will be your husband.”

  She studied his face. It was set in stubborn lines. “Father wished me to choose.”

  “And have you?”

  “I will before the tournament is over.”

  “And at the feast to follow, you’ll announce your choice and it will be Francis de Coucy.”

  Mathilda choked on laughter. “Francis? I can safely say, my lord, that Francis will not be my choice.”

  Gravant leaned back in his chair. “And why not? He has the necessary wealth and stature.”

  “Any of the other suitors would be more palatable than that strutting boy.”

  Gravant leaned forward and snatched her hand. “You will wed whom I choose, boy or man, do you understand?”

  Mathilda tried to twist from his grasp, but he only tightened his fingers. “You’re hurting me,” she cried.

  “You have no idea the hurt I can mete out if necessary. You will obey me. Play with the suitors all you wish, but when you stand up to announce your choice, it will be Francis you name.”

  “I will not.”

  “Shall we try another name? Del?”

  Mathilda felt sick. Her heart missed a beat, then made up for it with a double-time rapping in her chest.

  The bishop lightened his hold on her hand but did not release her. “Del is a servant in the wash house, is he not? He, too, was once a boy. And I believe he had your virginity whilst scarcely more than ten and six.”

  A flush heated Mathilda’s face. “What nonsense,” she managed to choke out.

  “I’ve questioned the man, for man he is now, and he is quite willing to admit he had you often over the past two years.”

  “Then he will be lying.”

  “Oh? About which statement? That he had your virginity when he was ten and six or that he has had you often over the past two years?” Gravant let her hand go. He sat back in an indolent posture, a smile on his face. “Shall I question him again? For all his size, he’s not very strong. It only took one splash of boiling water on his feet to make him confess he had been your lover. I have need to only show him a pot of water and he will swear to anything.” The bishop leaned forward. “I believe he will be useless in the wash house after this.”

  “Do it. Say what you want. Bring in a legion of men.” Mathilda leapt to her feet. “I don’t care. Call me a whore. But I’ll not wed Francis de Coucy.”

  The bishop stood up, too. “I believe I misjudged you.” He strolled around the table and to the hearth. He contemplated the flames for a few moments. “You have a bit more steel than I expected, but we shall see how strong you are when I take you to Del. He’s not far, merely over in the cells below the gatehouse where none of our fine guests can hear him. I shall simply pour boiling water on his feet until you agree to wed Francis. Did you know it takes very little time to wear away flesh from bone with boiling—”

  Mathilda vomited on the furs by the bishop’s desk.

  “Ah. I see you will be touched by the man’s sufferings.”

  “You’re a fiend.”

  “Nay, Mathilda,” Gravant said, stroking back the hair from her damp forehead. He handed her a cloth to wipe her mouth. “I am no fiend. I am just a father who wishes to see his son well situated.”

  “Son?”

  “Aye. Francis is my son. Old lord de Coucy has no idea, but surely, you knew Lady Claris was once my mistress?”

  Mathilda nodded, wiping her hands on the cloth. “Is she not still?”

  “That is my business. All you need know is that the boy is mine and is impatient, as are all sons, to have what is due him. And the Church will hold Ravenswood through him.”

  More bile ran up Mathilda’s throat. “And you would hurt Del to force me to wed Francis?”

  “Oh, I’ll be pleased to boil Del’s whole body in the wash house if it becomes necessary.”

  “I shall tell everyone what you are about.”

  He smiled. “If anyone challenges my treatment of the man, I shall say he is our thief and needed persuasion to admit to it.”

  “Everyone knows Del is honest.”

  “Is he? Who will dispute my word? Not the real thief. Not you, now you know what else will happen to the man if you don’t cooperate. So, kiss my ring and say you’ll wed Francis. And take heart, his mother swears he can be taught.”

  With her knees shaking, Mathilda did as bid. She kissed the ring and agreed.

  “And Francis has taken quite a liking to Oswald Red-hair. So while you are composing yourself to be an obedient wife to my son, see that Joan Swan reconciles herself to the man who will be Ravenswood’s new hunt master.”

  Mathilda nodded. Her hands dampened with sweat.

  “Fetch a woman to clean this mess,” Gravant said. “And I see you are not wearing the ring I gave you, so fetch it.”

  New fear brought bile up her throat again. She saw herself bound in the dungeon, water, boiling hot, dripping over her feet. Her voice came out as a whisper. “I gave the ring away.”

  “What?” Gravant thundered and took a step toward her, fist upraised.

  “I did not want it. I gave it away as a token,” she said hastily, backing up, but the door blocked her flight.

  Gravant reached her in two strides. He slapped her face. The blow knocked her sideways to the floor. “To whom did you give the ring?” he demanded.

  “Adam Quintin.”

  “You get that ring and bring it here. I gave it to you and bid you wear it always. Had I known you could not abide by your word, I’d have boiled your toes, not Del’s.”

  “I’ll get it back, I swear it.” Mathilda struggled to her feet. The door latch was slippery in her hands as she tried to lift it. Her cheek stung. Her teeth ached on the side where he’d struck her.

  * * * * *

  Adam stepped into the melee of hounds beside the kennels. The deployment of the dogs was as much an art as the deployment of troops for battle. The hunt strategies so resembled those of war that it represented preparation as much as practice at arms. He waded through the huntsmen with their coupled dogs being loaded onto carts, looking for Joan.

  Joan stood near her father, looking up at him. She smiled, then turned to the hounds.

  Every man was occupied with their duties. No one save Adam paid her any attention. It was only he who saw it. She held her hand out as if offering a coin, then fisted her fingers and turned them down. The row of coupled hounds froze, then sat on their haunches.

  Joan spoke a few words to Nat, touching him gently on the sleeve. Nat smiled, nodded, and went to the row of hounds and gave their handlers some commands.

  So, it was not magic between huntress and hounds that made them obey her in such an uncanny manner. Who knew of her hand signals? And why did she use them? To hide her part in the hunt lest other men be offended that a female worked the dogs?

  Adam stood arrested by her loveliness. The headcovering she wore might hide her glorious hair, but it also emphasized the long line of her neck. He remembered kissing her throat, burying his face against her soft skin, and breathing in her scent as he spent himself.

  A ripple of emotion ran through Adam. He loved Joan�
�s body, that he could easily admit to himself, but the uncanny notion that he could no longer imagine riding away from Ravenswood without her gave him a pang of uncertainty about his goals.

  He was sure he wanted his family’s banishment lifted. He was sure he wished to wear his grandfather’s sword and declare to all the world that he was a de Marle. But how necessary was Ravenswood in all his schemes?

  How necessary was Joan?

  How necessary was meat and drink for life?

  As Joan walked among the hounds, he knew he wanted to see her just so even when her hair was gray.

  Another ripple of sensation, much different from the protective one he felt for her, filled his body with unwanted desire. He took a deep breath and stood still until his unruly manhood decided to lie down like the proverbial sleeping dog.

  Adam waited until Nat mounted up and led his horse to the fore of the army of men and dogs before navigating the crowded throng of men and carts to where Joan stood. “Joan?”

  She kept her head down and bobbed a curtsy. “Sir Adam?”

  “I have need to speak to you.”

  “Now? I fear—”

  “It is very important. Mayhap we could go into the kennels? I’ll wait a few moments before joining you.”

  She shifted her gaze to Nat and frowned. “We’re about to leave.”

  “A moment. No more.”

  With a nod, she walked away. He admired her stride, the swing of her skirt, the way the soft wool draped her lush shape.

  “How may I serve you?” she asked when he stepped into the empty kennels. She went to one of the great support beams and took down several leashes from a hook. She shook them out, eyes on the task. Her formality puzzled him until he saw Oswald loitering by the kennel doors.

  “I need someone to take a message to Winchester for me,” Adam said softly so no one but she could hear.

  Her head jerked up. “What?”

  “I need someone I can trust to take a message to Winchester. You would be back on the morrow.”

  She bit her lip and looked down at the leashes in her hand. Her long, elegant fingers smoothed the leather over her palm. “Do you not have many men here? Is not even one trustworthy to carry a message?”

  It was a slap at mercenaries. Anger filled his voice when he spoke. “My men are trustworthy despite the fact they must earn daily wages. It is that I cannot spare them to the task.”

  Horns sounded. Huntsmen moved away from the kennel yard.

  “And my father cannot spare me.” She slung the leashes back on the hook and looked toward the kennel doors.

  “Of course he can.”

  It was the wrong thing to say.

  Her face settled into a blank mask. “Is that your assessment of my abilities or your opinion of women’s tasks?”

  “Neither.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “It was a stupid thing to say. What I meant is that your father has a score of huntsmen to do his bidding. Can he not spare you to aid me?”

  “Nay. He cannot.” She walked past him.

  He hooked her arm, gently, mindful of her injury at the fish pond. “I’ll pay you.”

  “Money will not change my mind.”

  “Joan, I desperately need your help.”

  Her face softened, her straight brows lifting in question. “Desperately?”

  “I wish I could make you understand.”

  She touched his hand. “What is so important?”

  To his great relief, she could be reasonable, even when offended. “I cannot tell you, just as I could not tell one of my men that might carry the message.”

  “Then send one of them.”

  “I’ll forfeit the tournament. I may as well go myself as send one of them.” In truth, beyond a fear he should not leave the castle lest he lose it, he did not trust any of his men to do the task. If he said so, he would confirm all of Joan’s feelings about mercenaries. Instead he said, “The bishop was very specific we field twenty men. If I send even one, I will forfeit.” He could but repeat himself.

  “Is that so? And what do you lose if you are not part of the bishop’s tournament?”

  “Possibly Ravenswood. I cannot chance it.” This, at least, was part of the truth.

  Her hand fell from his. “I’m sorry, but I cannot go to Winchester for you.”

  He watched her walk away, back straight, head high. Disappointment, bitter and thick, filled him as if he’d eaten rotten eels. He left the kennels, bumping into Oswald.

  Adam strode to Douglas who held his horse. “Ye’ll no like what’s planned for ye,” Douglas said. He patted Adam’s saddle.

  Draped across it was a green tunic. A quiver of arrows hung from the saddle. “What the devil?” he said.

  Gravant strode to the center of the milling horses and men. His voice, deep and rich, captured everyone’s attention. “We hunt bow and stable style as you all know. It suits the size of our party and will bring in a fat harvest of deer for the feast on the morrow.”

  “My least favorite hunting,” Adam said to Douglas. “It is like shooting penned beasts.”

  The bishop continued, “Lest our suitors think this day is naught but a quiet ride to drive deer into lines of archers, we will vary the entertainment a bit. Each of the suitors is to don the green garb of an archer and take his duties.”

  Mathilda nudged her horse next to the bishop. “I shall award a ribbon to the suitor who brings down the most deer.”

  Adam and Hugh exchanged looks. “My lady,” Hugh said. “Might those who do not aspire to your hand take part?”

  “As you wish,” Mathilda said, but she looked less than pleased.

  As Douglas helped Adam exchange his tunic for the huntsman’s green, Hugh convinced another archer to give up his garb and bow. Servants moved throughout the party distributing green hats. The archers chosen to give up their bows and quivers of arrows to a suitor looked disgruntled to be left behind.

  The suitors rode out first, to be placed among other, experienced archers. The remaining members of the party would ride through the wooded hills and help drive the deer into the V of archers deployed in a strategic location. The archers spaced themselves within view of each other and the fewterers held leashed running hounds nearby to track and bring down any deer the archers shot but did not kill.

  Oswald deployed as many archers and dogs as Nat. Joan, at her father’s side, made a hand gesture Adam now recognized to settle a dog who did not like his post.

  Joan rode with a bow across her back, and Adam wondered if she was skilled in its use. The archers were strung out across the two hills as if they were a giant pair of arms spread to embrace the deer the bishop’s party would soon drive toward them. As one of the archers, Adam’s task was to stand with his back to a tree, bow half-drawn, the green of his clothing allowing him to blend with the forest colors.

  The archers who made their living at this task were trained to stand for a long time, in silence, bow half drawn, waiting for the stag to come to them head-on.

  The archer would hope the quarry ran at him and to the left. Such a route offered the best angle for shooting the beast. If the deer ran to the right, the hunter must turn his whole body and the movement alerted the deer to the hunter’s position. Shooting head-on offered the worst shooting angle.

  But as he waited, Adam’s mind lingered, not on the hunt, but on Joan and her refusal to go to Winchester. If she did not go, there was no one else he trusted to send.

  He mused on excuses for leaving Ravenswood that would not arouse the bishop’s suspicions. His imagination failed him. In addition, Adam knew if he left, taking Ravenswood must happen from outside the walls. It would be impossible to approach the castle without being seen, and even if he used the Roman Way, it might be a long and bloody siege.

  After the tournament, those inside would prepare for siege. There would be no more pretense they were suitors. Mathilda would be wed and the remaining men need only await their promised lands and favor from Louis.


  How many other sons did Louis intend to seduce this time around? And once it was known how easily Ravenswood had been snatched from beneath William Marshal’s nose, others might join the French prince. England might revert to a state of war.

  The cry of the hounds and a blast of a horn told Adam the deer, with their usual perception, had not come through the valley of the two hills in the neat manner planned.

  Hugh, not half a furlong away, grinned and shook his head. He pantomimed to Adam that his arms were tired and he would rather be drinking.

  Adam returned Hugh’s grin. Hugh might want to slip this duty and ride back to the castle for better entertainment there—and Adam could write down all he’d learned from the bishop’s papers. Who cared for ribbons? The game was done.

  Adam lowered his bow and headed toward Hugh. He heard a hiss and a thwack.

  Hugh swayed a moment, then fell like a stone to the ground.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Hugh!” Adam swore and went down on his knee by his friend.

  Hugh stared up at Adam in disbelief, one hand to his shoulder. “I’ll have that man’s balls for supper,” he said.

  Blood oozed around his wound. Adam drew his dagger. He sliced open Hugh’s tunic and the linen shirt beneath. An arrow had passed straight through the fleshy part of his friend’s shoulder.

  “You have the devil’s own luck, it missed the bone.” Adam pulled off his green tunic and shirt. He slashed the shirt into long strips, and bound Hugh’s wound, packing it well. A cacophony of shouts and snarling hounds told him the bishop’s party had arrived.

  Mathilda shrieked and half fell from her saddle. Adam found himself pushed away. Her hysterical, hand-wringing display allowed Adam time to pluck the arrow from where it had buried itself in the base of a tree.

  He examined the faces of those who gathered around Hugh. One archer, who had been a stone’s throw from Adam, stood with his bow resting on the toe of his leather boot. He, alone, did not watch Mathilda and her women or the wounded man upon the ground. The archer’s gaze was fixed on the arrow in Adam’s hand.