LordoftheHunt

by Anonymous Author

  “Did you know we saw the legendary stag?”

  His red hair flew as he violently shook his head.

  “We did. If one draws a bow on it, ‘tis said to be bad luck. I believe Francis de Coucy must have drawn his bow.”

  Oswald’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes locked on the sword blade as Adam swept it back and forth through the air as if testing its weight.

  “What is it you want?” Oswald asked.

  “Order your huntsmen, fewterers, and kennel lads to join with Nat Swan’s. Take yourself from Ravenswood this hour, on foot, or I will see you tried in William Marshal’s court as an accomplice to an attempt to murder me—a valuable knight in service to the king—whereas you are but a worm who mistreats his dogs.”

  Oswald did as bidden. It pleased Adam to watch Oswald’s men and lads congratulate themselves on their good fortune at joining Nat’s company.

  The rest depended on Joan—and Nat.

  * * * * *

  Adam approached the chapel just before the bells for Matins sounded. He watched the pious hypocrisy of the bishop as he led in his clergy and a few other faithful. When everyone was inside, Adam gently set the bar in place. It would not hold them long, but the dogs would see to them anon.

  With slow strides as if he might be drunk, Adam mounted the keep steps, carrying an earthen jug of ale. The guard gave him a cursory inspection, then ignored him.

  Adam leaned his forearms on the step railings beside the man and drank steadily from his jug.

  “Mon Dieu,” the guard whispered.

  Adam followed his gaze. “Mon Dieu, indeed,” Adam whispered.

  An army of dogs flowed in a silent stream across the bailey, coming, he knew, from the crypt. They moveded silently across the cobbles, one line encircling the stone church.

  Leading the pack was Joan. She clasped her hands across her breast and bowed her head. The dogs went on guard. Anyone who left the crypt would rue the day.

  At the great gates, another army advanced from the kennels. This one led by Nat. Interspersed in Nat’s army were the huntsmen, the fewterers, the kennel lads. They carried their bows loose in their hands as if returning from a hunt.

  Although men on guard at tents watched them, they did not perceive the threat. Several sat down and went back to work. Though the hour was late, dogs and huntsmen were a common enough sight.

  As Nat’s army advanced, men in black slipped from the tents around Adam’s and joined the hunters. These were his men, his mercenaries.

  The guard beside Adam took a step forward when Joan reached the steps. He drew his sword, speechless. Joan walked up the steps, the old lymer at her side. Adam lifted his jug and brought it down on the guard’s head. He dropped like a stone.

  At the door, Joan curtsied to Adam, and at the same time, gave the sign to guard.

  Basil set his legs, head and body stiff, over the sentry.

  With a nod to Joan, Adam pulled the hall doors open. Light and sound spilled around him. Joan swept her hand out and the dogs ran by her in a swift and beautiful phalanx. The lymers led.

  The flow of dogs swept the perimeter of the hall.

  The hunters were carried in on the tide. Every man and boy held his bow half drawn by the time he reached the hall doors. When Adam walked into the hall, several warriors had made a halfhearted effort to resist, but they were faced with a ring of archers and silent dogs.

  A hush fell on the assembly. The women cowered back near the hearth. Adam nodded at Hugh, who stood at Mathilda’s side. Hugh turned and spoke to the lady. The two slipped from the dais and into the throng of servants. They must fend for themselves.

  Adam spoke with the same authority and force he used before any battle. “Choose,” he said. “King Henry needs you.”

  No one moved. Roger Artois spat upon the floor.

  Brian de Harcourt bowed and grinned. Moments later, his men had joined the huntsmen on the perimeter, but did not draw arms until Adam gave a sign anyone in the hall might recognize—clasping Brian’s hand. With one long hiss, de Harcourt’s men drew swords and daggers.

  Confusion broke out. Women screamed. Men realized they were trapped by a force of more than one hundred—hounds. Some men drew their swords. Some acquiesced without a murmur when Joan and Adam gave the snarling dogs the signal to guard.

  Those animals who were not trained, all of Oswald’s and some of Nat’s, milled and barked, frenzied in a way the others were not. They frightened more than the silent guard dogs.

  Adam walked slowly to the dais and bowed to Lady Claris, and the suitors by her side.

  He took his grandfather’s sword from the wall. “I take this castle in the name of King Henry,” he said.

  Lady Claris quivered with anger. “The bishop will see you hanged for this.” But her eyes were not on Adam’s face, they were on something over his shoulder.

  Adam turned. Roger Artois rushed him, sword drawn. Adam met him, his grandfather’s sword comfortable in his hand.

  Roger fought well, but with wild emotion. Adam fought with the same cold deliberation he’d used to work his way from a simple tuppence-a-day mercenary to a knight.

  It was simple work to force the man back to the wall, for Roger fought without reason, slashing without control. Adam parried the blows. He wanted Roger alive.

  The man gave a ferocious yell and lunged. Adam’s sword slid down the length of Roger’s blade so they were hilt to hilt. With practiced ease, Adam twisted his blade over until Roger screamed and dropped his weapon.

  Hand to his wrist, Roger spat at Adam. Then he crumpled to the floor. Behind him, one of Nat’s huntsmen stood with a grin. He dropped the length of wood he’d used to lay the man out.

  “Bind him,” Adam ordered. He surveyed the chamber. A few men made halfhearted efforts to fight. But the archers loosed a hail of arrow over their heads and many dropped their weapons.

  A stinging blow caught Adam’s wrist. He wheeled about and saw Lady Claris dashing away from the dais, an eating dagger in her hand. He reached out and snatched her gown by the back. Stitches tore open, but her gown held as he pulled her in close.

  “You will pay for your sins,” he said to her.

  She snarled like a wild beast. Another kind of snarling joined hers. She went stiff in Adam’s arms, heaving and gasping for air.

  “She’ll not move,” Joan said, unleashing a pair of alaunts.

  A shout at the hall door told Adam the chapel hounds had failed in their work. Gravant burst into the hall. Only a few men were with him. The bishop shouted for order.

  No one obeyed. Those not intimidated by the snarling, barking dogs were held immobile by the archers.

  Gravant strode through the hall, Oswald Red-hair at his side. Adam realized he should have escorted Oswald off Ravenswood Manor himself. While the bishop ordered the dogs and archers out, Oswald veered to the hearth and snatched down the Viking blade.

  He came at Adam swinging. Oswald’s blows rang against the metal of his grandfather’s sword. The old sword could not sustain much more before it broke. Then a pack of dogs rushed through the tables. They surged like an ocean of flesh toward the hearth, silent, teeth bared. Oswald was engulfed.

  Joan ran to Adam and buried her face against his mailed chest. “They were not my dogs. They didn’t obey me.”

  It was Nat who stopped the dogs from savaging their master.

  “Don’t look,” Adam warned Joan, pulling her away from the carnage of a man who mistreated his animals.

  “Bind every man,” Adam said to his men. “Take them to the dungeons, or the cells beneath the gatehouse. There they can remain until we sort out who is loyal to King Henry and who is not.” He grabbed Douglas’ arm. “Find a young man named Del while you’re searching out cells. Take him to the physician and leave Roger and Lady Claris in his place. And this one,” Adam pointed to the bishop, “his rank demands he have a cell all his own.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Adam took Joan to the Diana
chamber for privacy; there was precious little of it in the keep.

  She lighted all the candles and did as he had once done. She spread out her mantle and sat in the middle. This time, however, he did not go to her. He looked at the mosaic. “I’ll be sorry when these corridors are blocked up, but it must be done.”

  “Will you fill this chamber?”

  He smiled at her. “Only from here to the river. This is too precious a place to destroy.”

  “I suppose Hugh and Mathilda are wed by now,” she said softly. “I’m glad they got away, and I hope they are happy, though I suspect he will need to keep an eye on her every day.” Adam smiled at Joan. “And she on him.”

  How lovely Joan looked, her arms neatly folded about her knees, her hair tamed in its plait. He wanted the wild creature, but he loved this quiet, gentle woman, too.

  “My father left Ravenswood for his own good reasons, reasons I never understood, as they caused his banishment. I think I understand now.” He touched the cold, mosaic tile of Diana’s knee. “What use is a place such as this if you have no one to share it with?”

  “Come here, Adrian.”

  “Can you love me as Adam? A simple man, a mercenary turned knight?”

  “I have loved Adam since first I laid eyes on him in the forest, unhorsed by a boar.”

  He smiled. “And now?”

  “I suppose I shall have to love Adrian as well. It is how you will present yourself in the morning to William Marshal’s man, is it not?”

  “I haven’t decided. Revealing who I am may mean I leave here, leave England. The banishment extends to me and my brother.”

  “And you want to know if I can follow? Because of Nat?”

  “Aye. I cannot promise I will be allowed to remain. I can ask it, but I cannot make a guarantee.”

  “You could continue as Adam Quintin.”

  “I could.”

  She sighed and reached behind her to let down her hair. It was as fascinating and arousing a process as any other he knew.

  “Well, Joan, what do you say?”

  “I must think about it. I owe Nat my first allegiance. I cannot allow him to be harmed by my decision.”

  She remained seated but held out her arms. He went to her because he could not resist her. And she was pliant and giving, soon naked and ready. But as he made love to her, he wondered if it was for the last time.

  When they had exhausted themselves and lay wrapped in his mantle, she slept. He did not.

  The castle, secure now, might be his by right of battle, albeit the strangest one he’d ever taken part in with an army composed mostly of animals, but would it be granted outright?

  Joan stirred in his arms, burying her face against his chest. At the most, as Adam Quintin, he could expect the rights of a seneschal, or steward, of the manor.

  He thought of how he wanted the name of de Marle restored to honor. It would not be true honor if he earned it under any name but that. Quintin needed to die.

  “Joan,” he said softly. She did not stir. “Can you love a lord’s son? One who invaded the privacy of others, read their documents? All for the cause of a king, but, in truth, for his own cause as well?”

  * * * * *

  The entourage that rode into Ravenswood came slowly. There was a sizable guard, then several knights. One caught Adam’s eye, and he squeezed Joan’s hand. “‘Tis the Marshal, himself, come to see how I’ve acquitted myself.”

  “I must change this gown.”

  Adam resisted the tug of her hand. “You’ll remain exactly as you are. They’ll remain exactly as they are.” He nodded to the three hounds that stood with her.

  William Marshal climbed the keep steps slowly. Adam thought he must be at least seven decades old. His age showed in every line on his face. The role of regent to a boy king weighed heavily on the man.

  “Welcome to Ravenswood.” Adam bowed and stood aside.

  “It went well, then?” Marshal asked.

  “Aye, my lord. It went well.” He followed William Marshal into the hall.

  Everyone stood as the earl walked to the dais. When he sat, servants rushed to pour him wine. Adam waited respectfully to be called forward. When the earl had drunk his fill, he invited Adam to sit at his side.

  “So, John d’Erley told me everything. I congratulate you on taking the castle without much effort. However, the lawyers tell me we cannot accuse Gravant of treason to our king on the evidence you sent along. His name is not mentioned anywhere. The document looks like what it is, an agreement between six noble sons and Prince Louis. We need some proof the Church is involved if we are to make Gravant squirm. We need something solid.”

  Adam grinned. “I think I have just the thing.”

  * * * * *

  William Marshal made a great ceremony of releasing Bishop Gravant. He made flowery apologies for Adam’s overzealous efforts on the king’s behalf. Marshal invited Gravant to wash and garb himself and sit down to supper at the high table, as if he had no sins upon him.

  Adam found it difficult to watch, but thought he hid his feelings as he must, playing the role of the lackey to the great William Marshal, fawning a bit, which earned him a grin from the earl, who knew Adam well.

  Joan did not appear in the hall, but when the earl suggested they all attend Matins and that the bishop officiate, she walked in with Nat. They stood in the rear of the chapel, while Adam knelt for his prayers beside the great William Marshal and his squire, John d’Erley.

  Gravant rushed through the service, but the bishop’s haste suited Adam well. It was time to bring the man to his knees.

  William Marshal spoke to the bishop in deep, sonorous tones when the clergy had sung the final notes of the service.

  “Bishop Gravant, will you bless Adam Quintin for me? I must send him into battle again.”

  Gravant’s face went stony, but he bowed his acquiescence and held up his hand. Adam walked to the fore of the chapel, to the spot where he remembered his mother had lain after death, garbed in flowers.

  He knelt before the bishop. The bishop made the sign of the cross over his head, then held out his hand. Adam gripped it tightly with both of his. He pressed his lips to the bishop’s ring. At the same time, he jammed Prince Louis’ ring on Gravant’s smallest finger. Gravant grunted and struggled to snatch his hand away, but Adam held it fast.

  “Why, my lord Bishop,” Adam said, turning the bishop’s hand to the blaze of candles on the altar, “what need have you for this ring I kissed when you have another that pledges your loyalties elsewhere?”

  William Marshal came to Adam’s side.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Gravant asked.

  Although Gravant jerked his hand, Adam held it fast. Light gleamed off the seal of the French prince.

  “Ah, something solid, after all,” said William Marshal.

  * * * * *

  Joan looked up from dosing Basil. She squealed and hid her dirty hands behind her. William Marshal and one of his men stood by the low boards of the kennel, Adam at their side.

  “Is this the one?” Marshal said.

  Adam grinned. “Aye. She’s a beauty, isn’t she. Loveliest thing in the kennel.”

  William Marshal laughed and Joan felt the heat sweep up her cheeks. She was far from lovely. Her hair was down, her gown streaked with dirt from caring for the dogs who’d injured themselves in the battle.

  “My lord,” she said, dropping into a low curtsey, but giving Adam a sharp glare.

  “Adam has asked permission to wed you,” William Marshal said. “My man has all the details.” He bowed as if she were a fine lady and walked away. To Joan’s shame, she thought she heard him laugh again.

  Adam vaulted the low boards and put his arm about her waist. The man the earl had indicated pursed his lips. He wore a monk’s robes and held them up as he neared them. She was sure he’d never before set foot in a kennel.

  “The earl has granted Adam Quintin position as seneschal of Ravenswood Manor until such time
as its fate is decided. And with that honor will come all right to rents, tithes, and so on. With the exception of that owed the king.”

  “You may go,” Adam said and the man tiptoed from the kennel, his nose in the air.

  “I see you are still Adam Quintin.” Joan slipped from his embrace to pick up her bowl and cloth. She walked out of the kennel and discarded the water and vinegar she’d been using onto the grassy space behind the building.

  “I have you and Nat to consider now. I don’t want to take a chance someone else might be given the honors here.”

  She stared at him. “You took over a castle with the minimum of bloodshed, you deserve to be reinstated here.”

  “And if Marshal will not lift the banishment?”

  “Then you will go.”

  “Without you.”

  She gripped his hands. “Aye, without me. I will always be here. You can ask again and again for Marshal’s favor until he grants it. And while you wait, I shall be here.”

  “But not in my bed.”

  Joan studied his blue eyes, solemn now; there was no hint of joy in them. “I will mourn the loss of you each and every day, but I want to wed a man who knows who he is and what he wants. I want to tell our child, should there be one, what his name is.”

  Adam pulled his hands from hers and strode away.

  * * * * *

  Later that day, as Joan brushed Basil’s coat, Edwina made an unexpected visit to the kennel.

  “What happened between ye, Joan?” Edwina asked. “Quintin rode out with ‘is men not an hour ago.”

  “I don’t understand. He left?” Joan looked out across the bailey. The black pavilion was gone.

  The pain was not so raw as it had been when Mathilda had paid her call. Nay, this pain was dull. She imagined it would last much longer than the other.

  “Aye,” Edwina said. “Adam turned William Marshal down, ‘e did. Said ‘e won’t be seneschal ‘ere, then he up and left.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Joan and Nat stood before William Marshal after a day of hunting. She was pleased to hear England��s greatest knight praise Nat’s men and dogs.