A man Joan recognized as John d’Erley, Marshal’s squire, strode up the center of the hall. “My lord,” he called, “you must come to the castle gates.”
William Marshal hesitated, but Joan surmised that the urgent tone in the man’s voice convinced him to rise. At the foot of the hall steps, Marshal’s mount waited.
To her surprise, servants were running toward the gate. She saw Edwina and Del, limping along with a stick, heading in that direction as well. The king’s regent mounted the waiting horse.
Joan lifted her hem and ran along with a throng of curious people.
She could see nothing as she ran.
“Are we being invaded?” asked one woman, clutching her child in her arms.
“Nay,” one of the kennel lads said. “They’s not enough men fer that.”
Joan kept her eyes on William Marshal who did not rush to the gates, but trotted there at a leisurely pace, his squire beside him.
As they left the inner bailey for the outer, she saw through the gates a company of men spread out in a V.
Her eyes suddenly burned. She pressed a hand to her breast.
The waiting horses were caparisoned in black and gold. Their riders bore shields with a stylized V upon them. Their faces were concealed by their helms. They ranged themselves in disciplined ranks behind a knight on a huge gray destrier.
Adam.
There was no mistaking him for he wore no helm. He did wear a long black surcoat over his mail, a V in gold embroidered on his chest.
William Marshal walked his horse over the drawbridge to confront the party. The two knights faced each other.
Joan squeezed through the gathering throng. The guard on the gate, Thomas, put out his pike to shove back two boys and let her pass.
She stood in the shadows of the great stone arch, the portcullis dangling over her head. It was cold in the shade and she shivered.
A gasp ran through the spectators when Adam drew his sword.
“My lord, I beg admittance to Ravenswood. Not as your agent, or your servant, but as its master.”
Marshal circled his horse. “By what right do you make this claim?”
“By right of ancestry.” He lifted the sword and touched the V on his chest with the hilt. “And by right of service to the king.” He lowered the blade and bowed.
“Who are these ancestors by whom you make this claim?”
“Four generations of de Marles.”
Behind Joan, the crowd whispered the name of de Marle, passing it along from the front of the throng to the back. She clasped her hands tightly together. Her skin felt suddenly hot.
“Would you be Adrian de Marle…or Robert?”
“Robert serves God these days as a priest in Wales.”
“And you serve me.”
“Long and well, my lord.”
Marshal looked at his squire. “How long?”
“Ten years, my lord, and two before that in King John’s Flemish company.”
“A long time,” Marshal said. “Not so long as I have served the Crown, but a good start.”
Adam’s men never moved. They sat on their huge horses, in their black and gold, as forbidding a force as ever Joan had seen. Yet, she did not feel afraid of the men. She only feared that Adam’s hopes might die a death here, never to be resurrected.
William Marshal and his squire, who had joined his master, spoke in low tones. Then Marshal nudged his horse forward. Adam walked his to meet the great man. They sat facing each other. Marshal put out his hand.
Adam surrendered the sword. Marshal examined it. “This is a fine weapon.”
Joan saw the hilt was polished now, the old metal gleaming.
“That sword,” Adam said, “belonged to my grandfather who wore it in battle as he fought for William the Conqueror’s cause. It is a sword I have sworn to wear. But I cannot wear it as Adam Quintin. I can only wear it as Adrian de Marle, son of Durand de Marle.”
Silence save for the jingle of harness, the cry of a child, reigned over the crowd.
Marshal extended the sword to Adam. “Wear it as is your right and enter this castle as its rightful heir.”
Adam took the blade, studied it a moment, then thrust it into its sheath. His men gave a short, abrupt shout of approval.
William Marshal wheeled his horse and addressed the castle people who filled the gate. “Know this man may ride in with impunity to rule and guide this manor until such time as another de Marle, Durand by name, should choose to reclaim his rights. Until that time, I do appoint his son, Adrian de Marle, as guardian of Ravenswood Manor and all its people. In King Henry’s name, I hereby lift King John’s banishment.”
The swell of murmuring became cheers. Men waved their hats. Someone shouted for ale. Another for wine.
Marshal smiled at Adam over his shoulder. “The lawyers can untie the knots when I return to Winchester. Shall we take up these fine folk on their offer? I’ve a thirst for an English ale, myself.”
The crowd parted for him. He walked his horse back through the castle grounds. John d’Erley guided his horse aside, and Adam cantered his forward as next in rank behind the king’s regent. Adam’s men fell into a line behind him.
When Adam reached the spot where Joan stood, he drew up his horse and put out his hand. She took it and kissed the back. “My lord Adrian,” she said.
The words came forth as if reeds choked her throat. She curtsied deeply.
“Ride with me, Joan, and know you will be my lady.”
The people pressed in. Hands reached out from the crowd, and she was lifted and fairly tossed onto the saddle before him. He laughed and held her close, his arm tight about her waist.
She rode with him in his triumph. His father was reinstated, his right to be heir of Ravenswood restored. They rode with the crowd surging along at their side. The kennel lads called out to her and she waved, then snatched her hand back and tucked it against her chest.
“A goddess may wave to her subjects,” he said, giving his own salute to Edwina. Beside her, Del raised his stick and shook it in the air.
“A goddess? A moment ago I was to be a lady.”
“You are the goddess of the hunt here at Ravenswood. But as I shall be known from this day by my rightful name of Adrian de Marle, so shall I promise not to call you Diana. You are a great huntress in your own right and shall be naught but Joan—my Joan.”
* * * * *
Joan sat between Edwina and Nat in the hall. Adrian sat at William Marshal’s side. Despite his words in the bailey, she feared what he had become. The lord of Ravenswood. Or son of the lord. Whether his father cared to return mattered not.
Ale and wine flowed long and freely. The minstrels composed a song to Adrian’s triumph over the bishop. They sang of the boy king and the kingdom’s greatest knight.
She concentrated on her meal, quail roasted in rosemary. She concentrated on the conversation at her table. That of the increase in Nat’s hunting stable and the long hours it would take to undo Oswald Red-hair’s poor teaching.
A hand fell on her shoulder. When she looked up, it was Adrian.
“Would you come with me while I say a prayer for my mother’s soul?”
They walked with decorous slowness through the hall, but when they reached the foot of the hall steps, they linked hands and ran to the crypt, passing the priest, who gave them a disapproving glare.
They dutifully said prayers for Adrian’s mother.
“He’ll think we’re blaspheming down here,” Joan whispered as Adrian unlocked the trapdoor and lifted the section of floor.
They ran the length of the corridors to the Diana chamber and there, she leapt into his arms and kissed him soundly. “My Adrian,” she said, testing his name on her lips. “I love you.”
“My Joan,” he said. “My huntress. Beautiful as any goddess and worthy of the name.”
Joan offered Adrian her back and he unlaced her gown, sliding the soft wool off her shoulders. He kissed her warm skin, shifting her
plait out of his way.
“I love the way you smell…and taste.” He tugged her gown down her hips and let it pool at her feet.
When he wrapped his arms about her waist, she leaned her head back. “You’re wearing too many clothes,” she said.
“Is that what you want? My clothes off?” He nuzzled her neck.
“Did you not ask me once what women really want?”
“I believe my riddle was what do men really want?”
Joan captured his hand and clasped it to her breast. “The answer is the same whether man or woman. Each wants their own way. Now, off with your clothes,” she said.
He seemed unable to remove any article of clothing without her help, complaining of some weakness in his hands from fighting with his grandfather’s sword. She smiled and knew it was but a game he played.
It was she with the bandage about her thigh.
“You realize,” he said as she straddled his leg to pull off one of his high hunting boots. “I shall ever remember this view of you in my head.”
She whipped around and clasped the boot to her chest, then laughed. The sound echoed around them.
She set the boot down and picked up her shift. She held it in front of her, suddenly flooded with desire, and equally with a need to know the answer to one last question.
“How did Lady Claris know you had bruises on your—”
He threw back his head and laughed. She heaved his boot at him. He caught it. “I imagine every woman knows what my ass looks like. After the wrestling, we suitors stripped for any and all who chose to watch us bathe that day. Only my innocent Joan was absent from the ramparts.”
“Is that what you think? I am innocent?”
“Innocent of guile and perfidious behavior, aye. I must say I cannot imagine you eyeing naked suitors from the castle walls.” His throat went thick. “How different this could have turned out.”
She knelt between his spread thighs, helping him off with the rest of his clothes. He lay on his back, knees raised.
She made a small cushion of his linen shirt and put it under his head. Then she set her palms on his spread thighs, and he felt the desire to pull her down.
“When you were sitting at table, I thought, ‘This is a noble’s son.’ And I was right.” She leaned over and kissed him where his thigh and hip joined.
He closed his eyes, buried his hands in the brown and gold sheet of her hair, and felt his heart stutter in his chest. Her tongue was warm and gentle across his skin; her hands were not so gentle.
“Joan. I pray that you have the same want as I,” he whispered. He drew her up and astride him.
She rocked gently. He arched beneath her. When he settled, she did it again. “You stir madness,” he whispered.
Joan reveled in the sensations of his aroused body deep within her. She understood his madness. It brewed within her as well. She took up his hand and placed it over her breast. He cupped and weighed her, explored her shape, lifted his head, and kissed the swollen peak.
Then he wrapped his arms around her hips, buried his face between her breasts, and breathed fire on her skin.
She was supported in the cradle of his raised legs. “Adrian,” she said. “I remember thinking, the first time you entered me, that no possible moment could succeed it for joy. I was wrong. Each of these moments holds its own most perfect happiness.”
“Joan.” He pressed his lips to hers. He rolled her over. “Let it be as it was that first time.” He stroked into her, deeply, slowly, hoping he could hold back for her.
She was sweet, hot silk about his manhood. There was nothing but her in that moment, no other wants or desires but feeling the slick slide of his body into hers.
He recognized her end in the sudden buck of her hips, the gasp, the clutch of her fingers on his back. He rode her storm, reveled in the throes of her passion, and knew her wants and his were the same.
* * * * *
They came out of the crypt, hand in hand, a few hours later to the soft, golden glow of the setting sun. Brian de Harcourt stood by the chapel with his horse, arms crossed on his chest.
“Were you praying for your mother’s soul?” Brian asked.
“So, you heard I’ve changed my name.”
“It explains many things.” Brian took Joan’s hand and lifted it to his lips, then addressed Adrian. “I came to thank you for taking my part when the suitors were examined. If not for your assurance I’d not signed Prince Louis’ pledge, I might be a banished lord myself. Or hanged, as Francis surely will be. What will become of Lady Claris?”
“I expect she’ll be exiled to France along with the bishop and the other suitors,” Adrian said.
“The death of her son might be a greater punishment than anything else.” Joan covered Brian’s hand with hers. “Are you staying?”
Adrian growled, but Brian and Joan ignored him.
“I must find another way to satisfy my father. He expects me to increase the de Harcourt wealth. Ravenswood stood to be a great jewel in our crown.”
“I hope you’ll return one day,” she said.
Not too soon, Adrian replied silently. “Wait here, Brian, I have something for you.”
Adrian went back into the crypt. He groped over the door and withdrew the sheet of Greek purloined from Brian’s chest.
When he stepped back into the sunshine, Joan stood in the circle of Brian’s arms. The heat of jealousy swept through Adrian, but he clamped it down. Joan would be his wife. Brian would ride away.
Adrian cleared his throat and the couple stepped apart.
Brian grinned and lifted his shoulders. “You cannot blame me for a final embrace.”
“I took this from you,” Adrian said without preamble. “In my search for the bishop’s plot, I did many things of which I am not proud, including searching your tent. As I could not read this, I suspected it.”
Brian unfolded the sheet of velum. “It’s an old letter of Richard’s. I kept it for no good purpose, save it was from him.”
Joan looked at the letter, then up at Brian. “What does it say?”
“You read it,” Brian said, putting it into her hands.
“You read Greek?” Adrian asked, incredulous.
Joan examined the paper. “Not well. Mathilda insisted on learning along with Richard. Her father did indulged her, though he thought it a useless activity. He did not know they employed it to send each other messages he could not read. As for me, I learned from my father. He studied Greek literature, particularly in the field of philosophy.”
“Mathilda could have read this to me?” Adrian was stung that he’d thought Mathilda’s head filled with naught but air.
“Aye.” Joan took the page. “I can read but a word here or there. See—” She touched several words with the tip of her finger. “This is ‘father.’ Repeated over and over.”
“It is mostly a tirade on Richard’s dissatisfaction with his father,” Brian said, looking up at Adrian. “And the rest is about his love of Joan.”
Her cheeks colored. Adrian shook his head. “Well, I do feel the fool.”
Brian folded the letter and tucked it into his tunic. He turned to Joan. After a moment’s hesitation, she threw her arms around the warrior and kissed him hard—on the cheek. “Go with God,” she said.
Brian walked to his horse, mounted up, raised a hand in farewell, and cantered off.
“I do so hope he finds what he is looking for,” she said, encircling Adrian’s waist.
“A great manor to conquer and add like a jewel to the de Harcourt crown?”
She squeezed him. “What is it men really want, Adrian?”
“Their own way?” he asked, grinning.
“Nay, I think they really want what women want.”
“Aye. Their own way.”
“Love, Adrian. Love.”
He took her to the chapel and led her to the niche dedicated to the Virgin Mary. “I once prayed to this lady that I be worthy. At the time, I thought I wanted to be w
orthy of this place, of rule. As I hunted for Marshal’s traitor, I realized I was not my name, but the things I did. Whilst here, I have alternately been a soldier, a thief, a liar, a—”
“Lover,” she said. “Do not be so harsh upon yourself.”
He took her hand. “I think the Virgin granted my wish, but in a way I hadn’t planned. It is of you, Joan Swan, I wish to be worthy, not my name.”
“You are.” She kissed his fingers, entwined with hers.
Adrian brought Joan a cushion and knelt at her side. He clasped her hands between his.
He looked up at the Madonna. “I want to thank her for sending you to me in the forest. My life was changed from that moment.”
“Thank her for the hounds. It was they who saved your life.”
“You brought them into the forest.”
“You wielded the sword.”
“Joan, you’re forgetting the answer to the riddle. I want my way. If I say you saved and changed my life, then it must be so.”
“Have your way.” Joan bent her head and kissed his fingers. “But just this once.”
When they emerged from the chapel, they saw at least a dozen carters loading the forfeit belongings of the suitors into William Marshal’s wagons, destined for the royal vaults.
Outside Joan’s cottage, Nat sat on a bench, eyes closed, head back, three hounds by his feet. Joan and Adrian laughed when they both lifted their hands at the same time, in the same signal. The dogs rose and bounded toward them.
They changed direction after a few strides to chase a pair of birds who landed where a black tent once stood.
The birds were ravens.
About Ann Lawrence
Award winning author Ann Lawrence writes both historical and paranormal romance with strong heroes and equally indomitable heroines. Her books reflect her love of English history and Arthurian legend. But whichever genre Ann chooses, she likes to include a puzzle for her readers to solve. Ann loves hearing from her readers.
Ann welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email addresses on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.
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