Joan Swan followed a well–worn deer trail
through the trees near Ravenswood Castle. Her pack of
hounds kept pace like a phalanx of the king's men. They
did not roam, nor step beyond the length of her stride.
The hound near her right hand whined. She paused
and listened. The hounds fell still in a ripple of sleek
gray and brown muscle.
At first, she heard nothing. Then she heard the
distant neigh of a horse. If she remained still, the rider
might pass her by unseen.
The horse drew closer. From her right there was
the sudden tearing sound of an animal forcing its way
through underbrush. With practiced ease, she drew her bow
from her shoulder, then stepped from a pool of golden
sunlight into a pool of soft green shadow.
The thrashing sound grew louder. A horse snorted,
whinnied, and she heard the thunder of its hooves as it
broke into a gallop, crashing through underbrush. It was a
wild sound, the sound of a horse out of control.
The hound at her side whimpered again. Through the
trees she saw the reason for the animal's fear. A boar.
Her arrows were useless against such a beast.
She shouldered the bow. Her heart thumped in her
chest. They must get away before it scented them. She
lifted her right hand at the wrist so it was parallel to
the ground. The hounds crouched. With a sharp gesture,
she dipped her fingertips and the hounds went down on their
bellies, preparing to slide through the brush like snakes
in the grass.
Then she saw the man. He lay on his back, half
supported on one elbow. His skin was stark white in
contrast to his black hair and beard.
The boar clashed its tusks, lowered its head.
Thank God she and her hounds were downwind.
The man was not.
Fear caused her stomach to churn. Were the dogs
ready? Was she?
The man moved. The boar charged.
She swept her hand out in a quick, sharp gesture.
Her dogs leapt in a monstrous, snarling maelstrom of teeth
and sound.
The man scrabbled back and rose. He drew his
sword. He did not run as she expected. Instead, he faced
the swirling mass of animals who held the great boar at
bay. In a motion as planned as if he and the dogs were
one, they parted and he thrust the blade deep into the
boar's neck.
It swung its monstrous head, eyes rolling. The
dogs brought it down.
Then all was silent.
She closed her eyes, bent her head, and offered
thanksgiving for the man's life. A hand touched her
shoulder and she opened her eyes. Dazed from her deep
concentration, she was startled to find the man so close.
""Are you hurt?"" he asked.
His vivid blue eyes were grave. His skin, no
longer white, was suffused with high color. The
close–cropped beard did not conceal his well formed
mouth. His high cheekbones betrayed his Norman ancestry.
Though uncommon in appearance, still, he was common
enough. He wore a simple V–shaped iron pin to hold
his mantle at one shoulder. Red streaked the humble wool.
""Are you hurt?"" he asked again.
He had a low voice with a touch of an accent she
could not place. A man–at–arms to one of the
visiting nobles at Ravenswood, she decided.
""Me?""
The man looked down and she did too. Blood
splotched her gown.
""It's not my blood,"" she said ""Are you hurt?""
She touched his mantle with her fingertips, briefly,
lightly.
He shook his head. ""I'm well, thanks to your
hounds. Well trained, they are, not to feast. I'm Adam
Quintin by–the–by," he said.
They faced the wide clearing where her dogs stood
like sentinels over the carnage. In truth, the hounds
awaited her next signal. They had killed and now wanted
their reward. But not here. Not yet. It was time to go.
She turned. Her path was blocked by a small, wiry
man who led a gray horse as huge as any she'd ever seen.
Its hooves were the size of meat platters, its black mane
plaited in a fanciful manner with leather thongs. The
horse danced and pawed as it neared the dead boar.
""Yer mount,"" the little man said to Adam. ""Ye
rightly named him when ye called him Sinner.""
Adam grinned and looked sheepishly in Joan's
direction. ""He should be called Lady. He's as spoiled as
any of those fine creatures."" Then he took the reins and
patted the destrier's heaving side. ""And he dumped me
like an inconvenient suitor the instant he saw that boar.
Never take a nervous horse on a hunt."" The horse bumped
his shoulder.
Slung across the battle charger's saddle was his
shield. Adam was no common man–at–arms, for
the shield bore his personal device. It echoed the simple
shape of his mantle pin. But painted on the leather cover
of the shield, she saw it more clearly. It was a
gold ""V"" rendered as if by an illuminator of fine
manuscripts. The Roman numeral of five––five
for a man whose name meant fifth son.
Men with their own devices were not simple. That
she'd mistaken him so staggered her.
""I have to forgive him, though, as he's not a
hunter,"" Adam said, pulling himself slowly into a sleek
saddle of Spanish leather. ""Now, in battle, there's no
finer horse in all––""
Joan darted into the trees.
He was a knight. Mayhap a lord. That meant he was
here for one purpose only––marriage to the most
beautiful woman in Christendom. Lady Mathilda.