Francis and Roger joined the milling crowd. Francis wormed his way behind Mathilda, a sulky look upon his face. He lifted a hand and touched the sores near his mouth. On the back of his glove was a mottled stain, shaped like a teardrop.
Roger Artois addressed Adam. “Do you remember Lord Stephen of Gloucester? He died in just such a way.”
Adam remembered the baron. An archer trying to shoot straight on at a deer missed, nailing the next hunter along the trail instead.
Only this time, the deer had evaded the hunters, belying the need to shoot at all.
A hand touched Adam’s arm. He turned around. It was Mathilda. She held a scrap of linen in her hand. She dabbed at his chest.
“Allow me, sir, you’ve a spot of blood here.” The lady rose on tiptoe and scrubbed his shoulder. The men nearby hid grins behind their hands, save Francis, his face looked blank, though flushed, each sore standing out in dark isolation.
“Please, I must speak with you, ‘tis most urgent. Secretly,” Mathilda whispered, swiping his biceps.
A sound behind them, more growl than groan, tore Adam’s attention from her to Hugh. “Any time, my lady,” Adam said, edging around her to go down on one knee by his friend.
“Should I lose my fortune, I shall not seek employment as an archer,” Hugh said. The crowd laughed.
Joan and her father rode into the confusion. Mathilda fussed around Hugh like a nervous pup as Adam and Roger helped him to his feet.
“Leave off, woman,” Hugh said when Mathilda reached for his arm.
Mathilda’s face fell, but she did as bidden, backing away. She leaned over and lifted Adam’s green tunic. She held it close to her chest. “Don’t forget your promise,” she said.
Joan turned abruptly away. Adam grew conscious of how this appeared, him standing half naked in the forest, his clothing in Mathilda’s hands.
“May I have my tunic?” Adam asked. If he must, he would walk away without it, though the damage was done with Joan.
Mathilda draped the tunic across his hands, clasping them and leaning in. “Remember. I must see you.”
Bishop Gravant and Brian de Harcourt entered the confusion.
“What happened here?” the bishop demanded.
Adam took the bishop’s bridle that he might speak first. “One of these archers mistook a man for a deer. If they be blind, they should be set to tasks more worthy, such as holding thread for ladies.” He held up the arrow.
The hunters laughed and the man who Adam suspected had loosed the arrow flushed as angry a red as his master.
“Whose arrow?” the bishop asked.
The man took a step forward and bowed.
Francis clapped a hand on the archer’s shoulder. “A mere accident,” he said.
Adam sobered. “An accident, you call it? An inch over and Hugh would be dead. I demand the man be disciplined.”
“You overstep yourself. Is it not the hunt master’s place to set the archers so they are not in such a straight line?” Francis asked.
Adam saw Joan’s mount rear its head as she jerked the reins. Confusion crossed Nat’s face.
The bishop looked over the gathering. “It is indeed the hunt master’s duty. Who placed this set of men?”
Nat opened his mouth, but Hugh answered. “I asked Oswald, Lord Roger’s man, where I should stand. Oswald placed me, ‘tis no fault of Nat Swan’s.”
Adam saw Oswald and Francis exchange a look. Oswald, who sat on a fat, spotted mare, shrugged.
The bishop frowned. “Oswald, if what Quintin says is true, you imperiled a man’s life. It was not well done. Now let us discover if there are any deer to be driven.”
“I’ll take you back to the keep,” Adam said, hooking Hugh under the arm. The color ran from Hugh’s face.
“Mayhap I was shot to ensure you were short a man for the tournament,” Hugh said between his teeth.
“I saw Oswald and Francis hold a clandestine meeting the day of the fair. They might have plotted to eliminate someone of my party so I could not compete. Francis hasn’t a chance on the field if I am fighting.”
Hugh nodded. “No one has a chance if you compete. No one. It could be all of the suitors conniving through Francis.”
Adam frowned. “Pray make no more than one man my enemy. I’ll be watching not only my back but all sides as well. I’ll be driven out of my wits.” He said it lightly, but meant it.
Was the shooting a deliberate act? Adam wondered.
Several of Adam’s men helped Hugh into the saddle, but it was Adam who mounted behind his friend. They walked the horse, for the weight of two men was a burden to the hunting steed.
“Have you thought,” Hugh said, “that the archer meant to kill you, but missed?”
Adam did not speak for several moments. “I did move rather unexpectedly. The devil take it, Hugh, I cannot have you suffer in my place.”
“I’ll have this paltry wound cauterized, and even if I’m as weak as a new born calf, I’ll be in the saddle and fighting at your side come tournament time.”
“You are the best of friends,” Adam said.
“I’ll exact some payment for this, you know.”
The horse faltered and jostled the riders. Hugh groaned and swayed.
Adam tightened his grip on his friend. “What payment?”
“I’ll think of something. Mayhap I’ll demand you name your firstborn son after me.”
Adam thought of how many times he’d spilled his seed within his huntress. And if Hugh was right and someone wanted him dead, who would see to Joan and her child should his enemy succeed?
“Hugh, should Joan Swan come to you for help—”
“Help? What kind of help? Why would she come to me?”
“Just swear to me, Hugh, that if Joan should come to you for help, you will render all possible aid as if…as if it were I who did the asking.”
Hugh’s body rippled through a shrug. “I swear it, but I’m now so curious, I’m forgetting this shoulder hurts as if Lucifer held a brand to it.”
Adam kicked his mount to a quicker pace. Hugh rarely complained.
When they reached the castle, he took Hugh to the lower level of the castle where the physician kept his herbs. As Hugh cursed when his bandages were removed, Adam cursed he’d betrayed knowledge of the castle a mere tent-dwelling suitor wouldn’t know.
Adam said a silent prayer for his friend. If the arrow had been meant to kill, it might have been dipped in ordure. Recovery from such a wound was impossible.
Mathilda arrived with a bevy of serving women behind her. Her eyes went wide when the physician thrust an iron among the hot coals of his brazier.
“My lady,” Adam said, “You should not be here. This is a man’s business.”
Her eyes grew even rounder when the physician spit on the brand to test its heat.
“My lady, he would not want you to see him—see this,” Adam insisted. “You did say you wanted to speak with me. The time is now.”
She nodded and flitted from the physician’s chamber, the servants scurrying after her.
Adam handed Hugh a piece of leather to bite on, then stepped out of the chamber to allow his friend privacy for his suffering.
Hugh’s roar of pain echoed down the stone corridor. One squeal of anguish came from Adam’s left. While searching for Mathilda, he noticed that the harvest at Ravenswood was fat. Every chamber held stores stacked to the roof. He found Mathilda in a chamber filled with racks of apples.
“He’ll heal,” Adam said with a fervent prayer the arrow had not been tainted.
“You need him to ride on the morrow. It will open his wound.”
“Do you suggest I withdraw?”
She looked up at him. “It would be a useless endeavor, a woman suggesting such a thing to a man.”
Adam knew ‘twas folly to answer such an accusation. “What is it you want, my lady?”
“The ring I gave you.” She gnawed a knuckle, her attention divided between him and the way
to the physician’s chamber.
“Why?”
“I made a grievous error in giving you the ring. I must have it back,” she said.
Adam considered Mathilda. She looked far from lovely at this moment. Her headcovering was askew, and her right cheek looked bruised.
“I’m not sure I can find it,” he said. “So many women give me gifts. I’m rather careless about such things.”
Even in the dim light of the storeroom, it was obvious that her face paled.
“I’ll be in grave difficulty if you cannot find it, sir.”
He decided to test her need. “I’ll search for it…later,” he said vaguely.
She grabbed his tunic. Tears appeared in her eyes. “Please, I beg you. Search now.”
“Why do you need the ring so badly?” he asked.
“The bishop needs it.”
“The ring belongs to the bishop?” he asked, forcing himself to display surprise. “And why would the bishop give an important ring to you?”
She licked her lips, catching one tear in the process. “If I honor you with the truth, will you promise to keep it between just us?”
He contemplated the cobwebs in the corners, delaying to raise her anxiety another notch. “I suppose I can keep your secret. Of course, I may wish a favor of you one day.”
“Anything.”
Adam wagged his eyebrows. “I’m honored.”
“Sir, that is, I…that is,” she stammered. Her pale face flushed a blotchy red.
It intrigued him to see how unattractive she could become when something disturbed her placid world.
“‘Tis a jest, my lady. What I really want is simple information. Why did the bishop give you Prince Louis’ ring?” It was best she know he recognized the ring for what it was.
Her look of relief amused him.
“Bishop Gravant did not wish to be seen to have Prince Louis’ seal and thought it better a woman hold it.”
“Why not give it to Lady Claris?”
“She is a gossiping, unfaithful creature—that is why. And I could explain it away as a love token from the Prince. I met him once, you know. He’s very…compelling.”
“And a love token is less treasonous than a ring to mark a document in Louis’ name?” Adam touched her shoulder. She shivered, and he wondered if this was the first time she’d considered the significance of wearing the French prince’s ring.
Adam believed Mathilda usually did what men told her. Selecting her husband must be a rare instance of defiance. And that defiance would crumble when faced with some physical retribution.
He touched her cheek. “He struck you, did he not?”
She nodded.
“And now, the bishop must need to seal some document, I suppose.”
“I don’t know why he wants it. He just demanded I produce it.”
“Do you not fear I’ll tell someone that the bishop is in league with the French prince?”
She cocked her head to the side, a studied posture he imagined she often used on men. It left him cold.
“Are not all of you here because you crave the rewards Louis will heap on you?”
So, she knew of the bishop’s plot. “And you do not care if you serve an English king or a French one?”
She shrugged. “I’ll serve whomever my husband serves.”
Adam felt loath to cause her further distress, but it could not be helped. “I’m sorry, my lady. I’ll not give you the ring.”
She flew at him, fingers hooked like claws. “You will. You must. I’ll see Joan weds Oswald Red-hair if you do not.”
Adam thrust her hand away from his face. “What utter nonsense. Joan would not have such a man!”
“Nonsense?” She smiled, but the curve of her lips held no joy. “Oswald asked the bishop for her, and I have agreed to persuade her. Now give me the ring or I’ll do just that.”
“You gave me the ring to bedevil the bishop and cause me grief because I betrayed my interest in Joan, did you not?” He wanted to wrap his hands around the woman’s white neck.
“Aye. Everyone I’ve ever wanted has wanted Joan. And she is ugly! She is sun spotted and tall and skinny. And soon to wed and be gone from here!”
“Why do you want her gone so badly?”
“If she goes, I’ll not need to see Brian and you and Hugh de Coleville stare at her every moment of every day.” Her voice rose to a high, shrill note.
“But Nat would need to leave Ravenswood as well.”
“Why? He can stay in the kennels.”
“Joan would never leave him.”
“Then she’s a fool. And if you don’t give me the ring, I’ll see that Oswald weds Joan in the next hour.”
“You can’t force someone to wed.”
“Really? You think not?” Tears ran down Mathilda’s cheeks, her nose ran. She wiped it clean with the back of her hand.
Adam knew it was misery that made her weep. He understood misery. “How can you force her to wed the man?” he managed to ask in calm and even tones.
“The bishop will find someone she cares for and torture him.” Mathilda said it matter-of-factly.
“And whom did he torture for your compliance?”
Mathilda bowed her head. “Del from the wash house.”
Adam remembered the laundress asking after the man. Adam pitied him.
He made a decision. “I’ll do my best to see no harm comes to you or anyone you care for, but I’ll not give you the ring. And I’ll not lift a hand for you if you cause Joan any more grief.”
“The bishop will be in a rage.” Mathilda looked ill, her face white. Her shoulders slumped. “Adam?”
“Aye?” He took an apple and rolled it between his palms.
She watched his hands a moment. “We’ll not make each other happy, but…if you would but give me the ring, I swear, I will choose you for my husband.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Adam stared at Mathilda in surprise. There was a note of desperation in her voice. But Adam knew the bishop would never allow Mathilda to wed a man not on Louis’ list.
He bowed and said, “I’ll think on it.”
The physician stepped into the hall. She grabbed Adam’s sleeve. “Help me and I will reward you.” She rose on tiptoe and kissed his lips. Never had a kiss left him so unmoved.
Adam watched Mathilda run down the hall. No one paid him any heed as he climbed the steps from the lower levels. Most of the men had not returned from the hunt. Only a few of the women were before the hearth, stitching and gossiping. Servants were preparing to feed the hunters. He saw his young page sitting with several others eating meat pies.
He called the boy from the group. “The man who directed you about my sword—had he a mark on the back of his hand?”
The boy’s head bobbed agreement, while he struggled to swallow a mouthful of pie.
“Tell me about the mark.”
“‘Ere it were.” The boy traced a dirty fingertip on the back of his hand.
“Aye, more, lad. Tell me more. What made the mark?”
“Mayhap somethin’ dripped on the leather? Or ‘twere burned.”
“Ah, so it was not a scar?”
“Nay, a mark on ‘e’s glove. ‘Ere,” the boy repeated.
So De Coucy had plotted trouble for Adam from the start. The page ran back to his company, and Adam headed for the bailey. There, he assessed the sea of tents. No other man or company could defeat him in the tournament, so if de Coucy held out any hope for success, the competition must be eliminated.
Adam’s thoughts were torn from de Coucy.
Joan rode into the bailey behind her father. Adam walked straight past her to his tent. He could not look at her, nor acknowledge her. He was too full of anger at de Coucy.
In his tent, Adam stripped and washed away the sweat and dirt of the hunt. He pulled on a black linen shirt and tunic and stood by his table, the sealed package in his hands. He slit it open and set out to write down all the names he’d seen on the s
croll along with the terms and benefits offered in exchange for fealty to the French king.
The letter was twice its original length when finished. He wrote of Christopher’s death, filled with grief for a man who might have died because of the color of his hair and beard.
Those who wanted Louis on the throne were already within the castle walls.
Twenty men accompanied each of the six signers of Gravant’s document. One hundred and twenty men could hold a fortress such as Ravenswood. They could ride out and raid, raid and retreat back to the fortress with impunity. Travel on the roads to Winchester, the west country, or Portsmouth would be impossible.
With a touch of dry mirth, Adam realized it was how the original de Marle had held the area in thrall for William the Conqueror.
Were he and Brian soon to be dismissed for some frivolous reason? Nay, he would not believe it. The bishop could not dispatch the two best tournament players in England without suspicion. He would have to let the thing go forward. After the feast, all those Gravant had not deemed worthy of signing would ride out.
Adam knew if he’d not been hired by William Marshal, he’d have ridden out of Ravenswood to learn along with the crown that Louis possessed the castle—unless he was dead. Then his men could be hired on by any of Gravant’s recruits and they’d be glad of the work.
Where did Brian stand? Had he met with the bishop, and like Adam, been found questionable as an ally of Louis? Would Brian leave after the tournament, ignorant of the plot?
Adam contemplated the mark on the back of Francis’ glove. That set his mind on Mathilda, who promised her hand if Adam returned the ring.
Ravenswood could be his for nothing more than turning over the ring. Adam shook his head. Mathilda deceived herself if she thought the bishop would allow her to choose her husband.
Weariness stalked Adam. His last full night of sleep seemed months before, not days. He leaned back in his chair and closed his aching eyes. He must earn Ravenswood himself.
Whatever plan he formed, he had no one to carry his message to John d’Erley save himself. Even with a fast horse, he could not get to Winchester, seek audience with d’Erley, set out his plan to take the castle by stealth, have it considered, agreed to, and get back without suspicion falling on him like a pot of pitch poured over the battlements.
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