LordoftheHunt

by Anonymous Author

  But as she cantered up into the hills, she wondered at the great amounts of venison the bishop wanted. It could not all be eaten at one day’s feast. Were the suitors to linger?

  She dreaded the thought. Dreaded the idea Mathilda intended to choose Adam. Just as her mind shied from thoughts of Adam making love to Lady Claris, so her mind revolted from images of Mathilda and Adam entwined in a lover’s embrace.

  As she entered the area where the hunters drove deer, she saw only Mathilda and Adam in the lady’s fine bed, the hangings let down to ensure privacy while they made love.

  Joan knew the skill with which Adam made love. The thoughts brought a pain to her chest like no other.

  * * * * *

  Adam woke to find himself on the floor of a straw-strewn cell. His head throbbed. When he moved, chains rattled. Attached to his wrist was a wide iron manacle.

  The cell door opened. Torchlight dazzled Adam’s eyes. Bishop Gravant stood in the open doorway. “You have proved a nuisance, Quintin.”

  Adam tried to rise, but found his chains prevented it.

  “I shall not bandy words with you, Quintin. I want the ring.”

  To reveal the location of the ring was to reveal the location of the secret entrance through the crypt. He would be giving up more than just Louis’ ring. Physical pain did not concern him. Honor did.

  “I want Mathilda. When shall we arrange the exchange?” Adam tested the length of his chain. The bishop stood just beyond his reach.

  “That simple? I give you Mathilda, you give me the ring?”

  “That simple.”

  “This says you intend to keep the ring and refuse her bargain.”

  The bishop tossed something at Adam’s feet. It was the note he’d sent Mathilda.

  “If you read it, you know I did not refuse her. I simply refused to give up the ring. I’m not a complete fool.”

  “How so?”

  “What reason does she have to honor the bargain if I give up the ring? So, I hid it away.”

  “And if I say you can have Mathilda?”

  Joan would cringe to hear them bargain over her lady. “I’ll slip the ring on her finger as I wed her. You’ll not get it sooner.”

  The bishop paced in the narrow corridor outside the cell for a few moments, then called for the guard who minded the cells. The guard unlocked Adam’s manacle.

  When the man retreated to his post, Gravant said, “I’m not a fool either. I’ll want more than the ring to give her over to you. I’ve had wealth beyond your imaginings offered for Mathilda’s hand. De Harcourt, alone, offers a king’s ransom.”

  Adam assumed this further bargaining was simply to conceal how much the ring meant to the bishop.

  “Let us be clear. I know de Harcourt’s worth. We shared our prospective offers,” he lied. “I know pound for pound what Mathilda is worth to him. But I agree you should be amply rewarded for turning over the jewel of England’s heiresses to a nameless mercenary.”

  “What do you offer then? Beyond the ring, that is?”

  “Whatever I need to. I’ll not be outbid by the likes of Artois or de Harcourt.” He rattled off a list of manors and stated a sum of silver de Harcourt and Artois could not hope to amass even if they put their fortunes together.

  Gravant tapped his finger on his chin. “You can deliver that sum? When?”

  “The day after I consummate the vows.”

  Gravant wrinkled his nose as if he had just noticed his surroundings. “I will hold you to this bargain. I shall perform the wedding ceremony, and if you do not put the ring on her finger upon the vows, one of my men will put a dagger between your ribs.”

  He turned away. Adam followed the bishop up from the punishment cells. The man’s long robes dusted the stairs with every step.

  Adam reflected on the bargain he’d made with the bishop. Adam’s first thought, that the moment he said his vows and slid the ring on Mathilda’s finger, he’d receive a dagger between the ribs anyway, or poison in his wedding wine during the feast, gave way to others ideas.

  Did the bishop plan the consummation of the vows so he could collect not only the ring, but also Adam’s bride offer?

  And Mathilda, the widow, could wed again in a few days, to one of the suitors on the bishop’s list, reaping another fortune for the Gravant.

  Adam imagined the second wedding would wait upon the departure of his men—with his body—whereupon the castle would be closed.

  Thoughts of Joan trapped at Ravenswood brought a holy chill to his vitals. Could he make amends suitable enough to persuade her to Winchester again? Or was it too late?

  If she refused, he would go to Nat. Nat must take her away—perhaps ride into the hills to hunt and just keep going.

  And if Joan refused to go to Winchester, Adam knew he must go himself—within the hour if any good were to come of it.

  His steps carried him to the kennels.

  * * * * *

  Joan rode along the defile without seeing any sign of Nat. Confusion filled her. Why would her father be out here, chasing after a legend? And if he was not, where was he?

  Her horse went down beneath her. She rolled away from the flailing hooves and lay stunned on her back, staring up at the blue sky overhead.

  The horse thrashed until she regained her feet. An arrow protruded from the mare’s shoulder. She bolted.

  Joan cried out and tried to regain her feet. But it was too late, the horse was gone. She knelt in the path and cursed the archer.

  An arrow slapped into a nearby tree trunk. And another.

  “Joan,” called a voice. “Stand where you are.”

  She froze in place.

  Oswald came around a tree, dressed in green, a bow in his hands. “There must be a poacher about.”

  He tried to take her arm. She slipped out of his grasp.

  “This is nonsense, Joan. Let me help you, you’re limping.” He put out his hand. “Perhaps it is Nat who shot the arrows.”

  Joan turned to run. “You’re the only man I see with a bow.”

  “Except me,” said Francis de Coucy. He stepped into her path and said to Oswald, “I told you she’d run after her father.”

  * * * * *

  Adam saw Nat with three of his huntsmen in a friendly argument about the preference of ladies for a decorative lapdogs over a dependable hunting dog.

  Several of the running hounds jumped up against the partition walls and greeted Adam. He recognized many of them now and saw the individuality of their markings, the set of their ears, and the way they moved their heads.

  Hugh strode into the kennel from the run, his arm swathed in a fanciful yellow cloth Adam imagined had come from Mathilda.

  “Are you looking for Joan?” Hugh asked, putting out his hand for one of the dogs to sniff.

  “Why?”

  “You spend too much time here for one who is a rather indifferent hunter, and also for one who courts the lady.”

  “I thought you encouraged me to seek the huntress.”

  “She’s kind, generous, lushly made,” Hugh said softly. “She’s well loved, or so I hear from gossip. I grant you she’s not so lovely as Lady Mathilda, but still, she’s quite pretty in her own way.”

  Hugh took Adam’s arm and led him away from Nat and his huntsmen, out into the run. No dogs raced around the green space. A servant trimmed the grass along the fencing with long, slow sweeps of his scythe.

  “Look, I’ve a confession to make,” Hugh said. “And it’s got to be made immediately. I fear if I fall in the tournament,” he touched his injured arm, “I’ll die with the sin on my soul. I’m in love, and just thinking of the woman is a betrayal of you and our friendship.”

  Suddenly, the air around them went cold. Hugh loved Joan?

  “I’m in love with Mathilda,” Hugh said.

  Adam stared at Hugh’s craggy features. “The devil you say.” But he read the truth in Hugh’s eyes.

  “Let me think,” Adam said. He leaned on the fencing and w
atched the bustling activity centered on the next day’s tournament: Men honed weapons; grooms polished hooves and plaited manes and tails; women stitched rents in caparisons and banners; two carts of ale kegs were being maneuvered alongside the steps up into the hall.

  If he was to take the castle by stealth, he needed to be inside. If he went to Winchester, he, or William Marshal, must lay siege. Until his conversation with the bishop, he’d been sure only a siege would result if his team needed to forfeit the tournament. Now, he was not so sure. “Hugh,” he said. “I think Mathilda will make you miserable, but I’ll see the two of you wed if you but offer me one service. Consider it your penance.”

  “Anything.”

  “Take Joan and her father, if you can persuade him, to Winchester.”

  “You’ll forfeit the tournament.”

  “You’re not fit to ride, anyway. If you were injured, I’d never forgive myself. Now do as I ask. Now. This minute. I may forfeit, but I may still find a way to linger here.” If the bishop really wanted his bribe and the ring, the man would need to contrive some way to allow Adam to stay, if only as a spectator.

  And if Joan delivered his letter to John d’Erley, all might not be lost. “Go, find Joan, and persuade her to leave.”

  “I’d be happy to do so, but Joan’s not here.”

  “Not here?” Adam rounded on his friend. “What do you mean?”

  “I saw her ride off with her bow on her back.” Hugh frowned. “If she’s hunting, who knows when she might return.”

  Adam strode past his friend into the kennels and grabbed one of the kennel lads by the sleeve. “Is your mistress hunting?” he asked.

  The boy bobbed his head. “Aye. Oswald Red-hair spotted a stag with antlers this big.” The boy stretched out his arms. “‘Tis said it’s the one from the legends.”

  Adam swore. “Hugh, I’ve changed my mind. Stay here and go on as you should. If anyone asks for me, I’m…in the privy…or swimming. Make excuses for me—say whatever needs saying. As to Mathilda, tell her to prepare to go at a moment’s notice. And when I tell you to take her and go, do so without questions. She’ll likely bedevil your days, but if you want her, have her.”

  “What of Joan? And Nat?”

  Adam looked up at the towers of Ravenswood, then to the hills. “I’ll see to Joan myself. And, aye, to Nat as well. Now, find Mathilda.”

  * * * * *

  Hugh found Mathilda in her solar. He beckoned her from her circle of gossiping ladies. “I must speak to you.”

  She followed him from the solar. They climbed the steps up to the battlements and stood looking over the far fields filled with men and horses preparing for the final tests between the suitors. Hugh wondered if Adam would ever take the field. It was Adam he saw mounting Sinner and riding off toward the hills. Going after Joan, he suspected.

  “You are very silent. Why did you need to speak to me?” Mathilda asked.

  “Do you wish to wed me?”

  “The bishop will not allow it.”

  Her voice was a breathy whisper.

  “Will you trust me enough to run away with me?”

  “I shall fetch my things.”

  He grabbed her sleeve as she turned toward the steps. “Not so hasty. I did not mean this instant. We’d get no farther than those encampments there.” He pointed to the fields. He hoped the sentries standing nearby would think they were doing naught but discussing the tournament.

  “Then when? My lord bishop will see me pledged and bedded ere you make a move, Hugh de Coleville.”

  “When the time is ripe, the way open, I will tell you. Just be prepared to go.” He eyed her up and down. “And I want you just as you are. No encumbrances, no baggage, nothing. Just you.”

  “Shall we seal this bargain? Now?”

  His heart beat a trifle faster. The throb in his shoulder intensified. Blood beat in his temples. And lower. “Now?”

  “I want you this moment. Follow me.”

  He did so, thinking he was as trained to follow her as the hounds were trained to follow Nat Swan. She passed quickly down the steps to the lower levels. Servants bowed or curtsied to them as they wended their way to the physician’s chamber.

  The healer looked up and smiled.

  “I want you to put a new poultice on Lord Hugh’s wounds,” Mathilda said.

  Puzzled at what she intended, Hugh shrugged out of his tunic and shirt and allowed the healer to remove his bandages and look over his wound.

  Mathilda stood by, arms wrapped around her waist. Only the soft tap, tap of her small foot betrayed her impatience with the man’s careful inspection.

  When the bandages were set in place she said, “Now, I want you to go to the gatehouse and see to the wounds of a man called Del. Tell them you come in my name.”

  “Aye, my lady,” the healer said. He picked up a basket and moved slowly about the room, gathering what he needed.

  When the healer was gone, Mathilda shoved the man’s table across the door to bar its way.

  “A clever way to get me naked,” Hugh said, one hand to his freshly bandaged shoulder.

  “In truth, I thought less of your nakedness than I did of your wounds. I would not want to overtax you.”

  She put her hands on his hips. “And you are not but half naked.” She helped him remove the rest of his clothing, and he helped her out of hers.

  She was all gold in the light of the healer’s many candles. Her perfume still reached him despite the hanging herbs and bowls of mysterious concoctions. His cock stood up as stiff and alert as a sentry on the ramparts.

  Her hand was warm and soft when she wrapped it around him and began to stroke him.

  “I’ve wanted you since I was ten and two,” she said. “Since ever I saw you.”

  “I’ve wanted you since…well…” She dropped onto her knees before him. “Since a few days ago.” He gasped as she nipped his manhood. “As you wish. I have wanted you since almost as long.”

  She sighed in a whisper of warm breath on his skin. He pulled away lest he make a fool of himself and find release without offering her even a modicum of satisfaction.

  She hopped onto the table and held out her arms, spreading her legs. “You once asked me how many swords I’ve known. I think you must understand I’ve played the harlot since Richard died.”

  He slid into her and held her close against his chest. There was nothing to say.

  “I was lonely, but ‘tis no excuse for wantonness, is it?” she asked.

  “Aye, it is, my love. And I’ve not been living in a monk’s cell, myself. Hush and make no more confessions. The past is the past. Just know you’ll polish only one sword from this moment on. Mine.”

  She moaned softly in her throat when he began to move. He sealed his avowal with quick, hard strokes, showing her who was her master. The table thudded against the door with each thrust. But he spared no thoughts for detection, concentrated only on the end. It came with near painful intensity, the blood pulsing in his shoulder as much as in his groin. Her answering gasps filled him with intense satisfaction, but he allowed her only a moment to savor the small ripples he knew still coursed her body.

  “Dress and prepare yourself. When I say we must go, we must go. There will be no time for contemplation or goodbyes.”

  She smoothed her gown and slipped her feet into her tiny slippers. “Believe me when I say I shall be waiting for your signal. I cannot wait to bid this place adieu. What shall the signal be? Something secret? Shall you tap your nose? Hold up a certain number of fingers?”

  He drew the support for his wounded arm over his head and settled the bright yellow cloth about his forearm. His shoulder throbbed with every movement. “You are ridiculous, my lady. Secret hand signals will never work. Who would think of such a thing? Nay, I shall simply say, ‘Time to go.’”

  Chapter Thirty

  Joan stared at the boy suitor who stood with Oswald in the shelter of the trees. “Nat’s not here?”

  Oswald smi
led. He touched her cheek. She jerked away. His smile became a frown.

  “See, Oswald, she’s a bitch in more ways than one. Now get her to the lodge.”

  Francis took her one arm, and Oswald the other.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I told you she was stupid,” Francis said to Oswald. To Joan he said, “One night with Oswald and you’ll have to wed him.” Francis pulled her along, and pain radiated from his fingers up to her shoulder.

  “I want her to understand,” Oswald said. His hands were more gentle, but she could not wrest from his grasp.

  “Understand what?” she said. “That you are two fiends for hunting a woman?”

  “I should have shot her through the throat to shut her up,” Francis said. “Of course, I imagine she’d be useless then. She’d not be sucking the marrow from anyone’s bone after that, would she?”

  Oswald clucked his tongue at Francis’ crudity. “You’re frightening her. You and I are simply going to spend the night together, my dear. Come morning, Francis will find us and report your seduction to his mother. She’ll go to the bishop and insist we wed. You’ll agree, of course, to save Nat the shame. Remember last time? How he suffered when you spent the night with Brian de Harcourt in the kennels. They still talk about it in the alehouse.” Oswald jerked her to a halt. “I’ll be wanting exactly what you gave de Harcourt.”

  “I’ll be wanting the same, as well,” Francis said.

  Joan rolled her eyes up into her head, swayed, and collapsed.

  Oswald yelped like a woman. Francis cursed and kicked her thigh. She stifled a gasp.

  “Carry her,” Francis ordered.

  Joan sensed when Oswald bent over her. She opened her eyes, poked her fingers squarely into his, and leapt up. She dashed into the trees.

  * * * * *

  Adam went first to Joan’s cottage. Her saddlebags lay open on the table. One pouch held bread and cheese, the other a clean shift. He pulled it out, held it to his face, and breathed in her scent.

  He imagined her pulling this soft garment over her head and revealing her lithe, young body for his pleasure.

  And he had taken the first opportunity to crush her spirit and question her honor. Now, she was alone in the hills, hunting a legendary stag no one believed in.