He put his hand around her nape and drew her up. Her lips quivered as he pressed his hard against hers. At the same time, he jerked the arrow out, swallowing her cry. Tears appeared in her eyes; she looked as hunted as any deer might who knows the hound is near.
With as much gentleness as he could muster, though he wanted to tear someone or something limb from limb for hurting her, he kissed her again. Then he considered the wound.
He wadded fabric from her gown and tied it tightly to the wound. Then he dragged the dead archer into the brush and concealed him. The dogs would not be fooled, but another archer or Oswald might miss the telltale signs. The bloody leaves and broken arrow he put under the body, scraping up any dirt that looked stained with blood.
Last, he shoved the archer’s arrows into his own quiver. Their heads looked clean and well sharpened, not discolored with ordure.
Joan was waiting for him when he returned along the trail. She was standing now, a stout stick in her hand, one she’d cut with his dagger. The dagger was fisted in her hand, a weapon now, not just a burden she carried to please him.
Although she limped, she did not allow him to lead. This was her terrain, though he knew it somewhat from childhood. He realized she was heading for a place along the valley where the stream fell into a slower waterway and hence on its sluggish, muddy way to the river.
Adam could hear it. It was no longer a lethargic body of water. It was swollen with the rain.
All around them the gentle rain pattered on leaves and dampened the earth—making it impossible not to leave footprints.
The shoulders of Joan’s green gown were dark with damp. And when they came to the bank, she plunged in to her knees with naught more than a hiss of breath. He could do no less.
The water ran with them and they were pushed along the waterway toward the river.
A horn sounded and Adam judged it came from the direction where the dead archer lay. The dogs would have an easier time tracking them now. The scent of Joan’s blood would be strong. They moved slower.
Joan held up her hand for him to halt. She pointed to the bank, where rocks had fallen in to make a natural dam.
He helped her up and out of the water. Would the dogs have lost the scent for the mile they’d waded in water? Would Oswald see through their their ruse and follow the stream?
The small stream rushed by them, filling the air with its sound. Any sound man might make, whether footstep or spoken word, would be drowned.
Joan shivered as she limped along the trail. He slid an arm beneath hers and helped take some of her weight. Her body was fever warm, her face flushed, from exertion he prayed.
An arrow thwacked into the trees ahead. They froze. He followed the angle of the shaft to see whence it had come. Uphill, to their right.
He dragged Joan behind a tree trunk, listening. Was it a questing shot? To force someone from cover?
Joan dropped her head to his chest. He stroked her hair back, holding his breath and waiting for the archer to make another move. How in tune Joan and he were, not needing to speak beyond a look or hand gesture.
A man’s voice penetrated the sylvan silence, until then broken by little more than the soft patter of rain. His words were indistinguishable but it was not the sound of a man commanding hounds.
Adam’s heart thudded uncomfortably in his chest. Not from fear, from a need to put aside this game of hunted and hunter, to confront Oswald no matter how vicious his dogs might prove.
Someone laughed, though ‘twas choked off immediately. Joan’s head jerked up. She traced an F upon Adam’s breast and he understood. Her ears were tuned to the forest sounds, tuned to listen for birdcalls, hound cries, or the call of an injured animal.
If she said ‘twas Francis, then it was.
Adam put his mouth near Joan’s ear. “It is time to take a stand.”
Her eyes went wide; she shook her head.
Again, he whispered. “The forest you know. The hunt. But all hunts must end when the quarry and hunter confront one another.”
Adam drew the bow. He stood up and walked slowly forward, using the trees for concealment. She followed though he gestured for her to stay back. She stubbornly shook her head.
Francis came through the trees on a horse as nervous as Sinner. The horse backed and shifted when Francis raised his bow and shot.
Adam dropped to his knees and shot second. Francis’ bolt went overhead; Adam’s met its mark, impaling Francis through the shoulder, the same shoulder as Hugh, though this time, the arrow had not passed cleanly through.
Without a sound, Francis fell off his horse. Adam ran to where the boy lay thrashing in the undergrowth.
Francis’ face was white. So was Joan’s when she arrived at their side. “Will he live?”
Adam raised his hand and she fell silent.
“Will I live?” Francis grabbed at Adam’s hand. “Help me.”
Adam slashed Francis’ tunic around the arrow. He examined the wound and shook his head. The fall had buried the head of the arrow into the ground. The boy was pinned to the earth.
“I am sorry, Francis, your time is very short. If I move you, or pull this bolt…you’ll bleed to death.”
The boy gave a high-pitched wail. Joan crossed herself.
“You have little time, Francis, so make your confession now, or you’ll go straight to hell.”
Francis’ eyes rolled with fear. He clutched at Adam’s sleeve. “Nay, please.”
Sweat broke on the youth’s face. Every sore stood out red against the pallor of his skin.
“Confess, Francis. You cannot go to God with these sins. Did you not try to kill Joan but a few hours ago?”
The boy began to cry.
“Why were you hunting us?” Adam asked, taking the boy’s hand. “Come. Confess. Cleanse your soul before it departs.”
“I’m going. I’m going, aren’t I?” Francis clasped Adam’s hand and squeezed.
“I’m weary of kneeling here. Either make your confession, or we’ll leave you here, pinned to the ground for any animal who might want a taste of you.”
“Adam!” Joan gasped.
“Silence, wench. This boy is dying and if he doesn’t confess now, he’ll burn.”
Joan’s expression went icy.
“Forgive me, for I have sinned,” Francis whispered. “It was my mother who bid me kill you.”
“Joan?”
“Nay, you, Quintin. The bishop insisted that Mathilda would pick me on the morrow, but Mathilda told my mother that when the bishop asked for a name, it would not be mine.”
Francis groaned and lay back, panting. “My mother does not believe in leaving aught to chance. She’s wanted you dead since first she saw you.”
“Did you mistake Christopher for me?”
“Who’s Christopher?” Tears gathered in Francis’ eyes. He began to shake.
“The minstrel who drowned.”
He nodded. “She was so angry at the mistake.”
Adam unlaced Francis’ undershirt, contriving to bump the arrow with his elbow.
Francis shrieked.
Joan struggled to her feet and limped to a lichen-covered boulder. She propped her hip against it and bowed her head.
Adam returned his attention to Francis who wept and clawed at his shoulder. Adam took his hand and held it still. “Continue your confession. During the fair, you met Oswald at the hunting lodge. Why?”
“Mother assessed the suitors when we arrived. She feared you or de Harcourt might capture Mathilda’s heart. Women can be fools, you know.”
“I know. They are impractical creatures needing guidance.”
Joan made a small sound in her throat, but did not interrupt.
“Just as my mother thought. Even with the bishop’s assurance that Mathilda would choose me, still, Mother thought you or de Harcourt should have an accident.” Francis squeezed Adam’s fingers. “She’ll be angry you killed my archer. She liked him very much, I think.”
Fran
cis’ voice grew stronger, so Adam nudged the arrow. Francis hissed in his breath and gasped. Tears stained his cheeks, but the color was returning to his face.
“And the old man? Ivo?” Adam asked.
“Ivo? That old meddler. He saw my mother in the bishop’s bed. He chastised her at the fair. She bid me hit him with a piece of firewood.” He gripped Adam’s arm. “Forgive me, but she is my mother.”
“So, he didn’t die for any papers he wrote or saw?”
“Papers? Who cares of papers!” Francis looked bewildered. Adam suspected Lady Claris had had Ivo killed less for finding her with the bishop than for reading something he shouldn’t—possibly the scroll with the suitors’ names?
“Surely, your mother did not intend to kill all the suitors?”
The confusion cleared from Francis’ face. “Nay, she planned at first to see that any men Mathilda favored were dismissed. She thought to show our lady how perfidious you could be. And she hoped I might do better than all of you in the games.”
There was a pathetic, wistful manner to his speech.
“So, she contrived to make us appear unfaithful wretches. What changed her mind to murder?”
Francis gripped his arm. “Say not that word. It was not my fault. I am sorry the minstrel died, but when Mathilda disappeared from the fair—”
“Disappeared?” Adam wondered where the woman had gone.
“Aye. She disappeared,” Francis’ voice choked on the words. “Mother was enraged. She knew Mathilda was not with de Harcourt. He never left the fair, nor did any others except you. Only you. We paid Mathilda’s maid to—”
“Spy on her mistress?”
Francis nodded and closed his eyes. Adam tapped the arrow and the boy moaned, clutching Adam’s hand. Joan made a small, inarticulate sound of protest.
“What did the maid say?”
“She saw stains on Mathilda’s clothes and marks on her thighs and—and she said her lady went missing sometimes. Times when only you could not be found.”
Joan looked up at him. Her eyes glistened with tears. One spilled over and fell on her breast. Her hand went to her waist. Her gaze was so full of sorrow, Adam felt it within his breast as if a blade were twisting there.
He wanted to reassure her that he and Mathilda had never made love, but could not. He wanted to remind Joan that when he had disappeared, he was often with her.
“Mother knew the only way to ensure that Mathilda picked me was to…kill you.”
“And since you were already hunting Joan for Oswald, killing me just fit the day’s amusements.”
“Where is he?” Francis’ voice grew sulky. “This is his fault.” He gasped, more from fear than pain. “Nay. This is Mother’s fault.”
Although Adam was sure he knew the answer, he asked it anyway. “Why did the bishop want Mathilda to choose you?”
“I’m his son.” Francis’ voice dropped as if his end was truly nigh. “My mother wants Ravenswood for me. Lord Charles knows I’m not his son. He swears he’ll leave me naught but an old quarry. One tin mine.” He gripped Adam’s hand and beckoned him close. “It is right the bishop see to me, is it not?”
Adam nodded. “Another son,” he said aloud. To himself, he added, Another son who wanted property before his time.
Joan limped away into the lush greenery. Adam had but one more question to ask.
“Remember your immortal soul, young Francis. Answer this truthfully. By what means did Gravant intend to make Mathilda choose you? And why didn’t your mother believe in it?”
Francis clutched Adam’s hand and closed his eyes. He did not speak for several moments, moments in which Adam thought Joan might be walking out of his life.
“There’s a man in the dungeon Mathilda cares about. But my mother is not so sure Mathilda cares for anyone but herself.”
The boy fell silent, sketching a shaky sign of the cross on his breast. He began a rambling discourse on his venial sins but Adam had no more time for them.
He leapt to his feet and ran into the trees after Joan. She had not walked far. Indeed, she leaned against a tree, back to him, her green gown striped with damp, her head down.
Certain that words would not be sufficient, he pulled her into his embrace.
“I love you, Joan Swan,” he said softly. “But will you believe me?”
She braced the heels of her hands against his chest and shoved at him. “Let me go. You questioned that boy when he is near to dying—”
“He’s no more near death than Hugh is. I had to make Francis believe in his death, or he’d have told me nothing.”
Still, she strained against his embrace. “Why did he need to tell you anything?”
“Because Christopher died in my place. That is reason enough.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Adam bound Francis’ feet with a twist of vines so he could do naught but hobble along. Then he marched the boy to the hunting lodge. Joan rode on Francis’ horse, which had not run far. Her thigh wound throbbed. Her head did too.
True to Adam’s assessment, Francis no longer appeared near death. He had reverted to the behavior of a sulky boy. She was sure his wound needed tending, but she felt less sympathy for him now. He had murdered the minstrel who’d done naught but bring joy to everyone’s lives, and for nothing more than his resemblance to Adam.
She pulled the lodge door open to admit Francis and Adam. She laid a fire in the hearth and then tended Francis’ wound as best she could, washing it and tying it up in strips of clean linen from her underdress while Adam secured him to the bed with rope he found in a chest.
Adam insisted on kneeling before her and lifting her skirt.
His hands were gentle as he removed the wrappings on her wound, now crusted with blood. It oozed a bit, but looked better than she’d expected. He gave her privacy as she pulled off her mantle and overgown, to remove the shredded remains of her underdress.
The woolen gown was scratchy against her skin but the linen underdress must serve for more bandages. Adam secured them for her, his hands gentle and warm on her skin.
Adam checked Francis’ bonds. The boy jerked on his ropes. “You can’t leave me here.”
“Aye, I can.” Adam grabbed Francis by the tunic, unheeding of his wound. “You left Christopher to drown. I have no sympathy for your minor discomforts.”
In the road, Joan shut her mind to Francis’ cries.
“I wonder where Oswald has gone,” Joan said.
“To ground if he’s not a fool. When I find him, I shall skin him with his own knives.”
She shivered.
“Forgive me.” He scooped her into his arms. He remembered carrying her back to Ravenswood another time. Only a few days ago, yet it felt like a lifetime. “I’m going to saddle a horse for you when we get back. You’re coming to Winchester with me.”
“Why?”
“At first, I wanted you to go to Winchester to carry my letters. Then I realized you would be safe there. I still believe that.”
She laid her head on his shoulder. It was a trusting gesture.
“I never made love to Mathilda. When I disappeared I was often making love to you.”
She nodded. “Of course. It seems I’m forever doubting you.”
“I cannot allow the bishop to rule here. And anyone he chooses for Mathilda will allow the bishop to rule.” It was but half the truth. It pained him to be bound by his oath.
“The bishop sides with Prince Louis, does he not? It is the reason you must send letters to Winchester. To alert them?”
He kissed her forehead. “You are a canny woman. Aye, the bishop sides with Louis. I haven’t enough time to ride to Winchester and return in secret in time for the tournament, but I can return afterward and openly lay siege. You must come with me. I must know you are safe.”
Joan sighed. “I wish I understood this need men have for a pile of stone. Men are so willing to die for places.”
She watched a rueful smile twist his beautiful mouth. �
�Put that way, it sounds rather empty, does it not?”
“Staging a battle is not much different from a hunt—or a tournament. By the time you ride to Winchester and back, the tournament will have begun. Every man in the castle will be armed, ready, mounted,” she said. “They will have little trouble shifting from a staged melee to a real one. And with you gone, the bishop will be suspicious. He’ll be on guard.”
Joan wriggled out of his arms. She stood in the path, her dark eyes blazed with indignation. “The bishop will win! Adam, you could take Ravenswood tonight. During Matins.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Will not every man be in their cups, boasting, puffing himself up for the tournament on the morrow? There will be song and merriment.
“I’ve attended enough feasts to know that few will miss the opportunity to drink deeply of the bishop’s wine. The women will retreat into the solar. And the bishop, who must maintain a semblance of piety, will attend Matins with his priests.”
Adam nodded. “And during Matins, they will be separated from the soldiery.”
“And you can surround the keep at that time—”
“With what army?” he interrupted.
“Mine.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Adam carried Joan straight to her cottage. He placed her on the fur-covered couch and knelt at her side. He did as he once wished, he drew a fur up to her chin and kissed her lips. “Are you sure? Do you truly believe your father is able?”
“Aye,” she said, against his lips. “I’ll take half the dogs, he can take the rest. We’ll come a quarter hour after the bells have sounded for Matins.”
She kissed him again and he left her. He went to the kennels first. There, sitting at a barrel, drinking ale with one of his men, sat Oswald.
Adam drew his sword. The hiss of the blade from the scabbard sent Oswald stumbling to his feet.
“One would not suspect you had spent your day hunting a woman down like an animal.”
Oswald held out his hands. “Nay, I swear, I was searching for her because Nat was concerned.”
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