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mother in a pool of blood, or so the story goes. Nat
set his dogs on the men, but he was too late to save the mother.”
    “And Joan?” Adam watched her touch Nat’s sleeve and smile up
at him. He now saw how dissimilar they were. Joan’s features were fine and
elegant. Nat’s revealed peasant ancestry, and Adam remembered that the man had
risen to his rank as Master of the Hunt, not through noble birth, but from the
ranks of the huntsmen.
    “Nat found Joan hiding in some brush. Or rather the dogs
found her. He might have left her at the Convent of St. Agnes, it was nearby, I
understand, but instead, he brought her to Ravenswood. He just…added her to his
pack, so to speak. And she’s been at his side ever since. I believe Lord Guy
formalized the adoption in some writ or other.”
    Adam took his reins from a groom who led their horses
forward. So, that was why he didn’t remember her. She must have come shortly
before his family had been banished, during his fostering with de Warre.
    “Was it ever discovered why Joan’s family was murdered? Was
it thievery?” Adam asked.
    Brian shrugged. “I cannot remember. Mathilda can give you
more details should you wish them.”
    Nat Swan handed Joan up onto her mount. She swept her long
skirts aside and took up her reins, then guided her horse aside so Lady
Mathilda might pass. Roger worked his way between the lady and Bishop Gravant.
    Hugh rolled his eyes and maneuvered his horse so Adam’s was
forced into line with Brian’s. They followed Mathilda’s entourage back to the
castle.
    Brian leaned near Adam. “I do remember something more of
Joan’s story. The men who killed her family were some of King John’s Flemish
mercenaries. There was quite a furor about it at the time.”
    Adam jerked on his reins. His horse shied. He controlled his
mount and his voice. “Flemish mercenaries?”
    “Aye. It is said Joan Swan has but one passion—the hatred of
mercenaries.”

Chapter Six
     
    Douglas shook Adam from sleep and handed him a tankard of
cool, fresh ale. Adam’s head felt stuffed with wool after a night of drinking
and feasting, and not one step forward in William Marshal’s mission. Adam had
managed to search only one chamber, Lord Roger’s.
    The man was slovenly. He hid his documents and money purse
under his mattress where any servant might find them. In addition, the man had
naught incriminating save a list of properties, bolts of cloth, spices, and
jewelry for the lady.
    As a bribe to a bishop, it was mediocre. Surely, Roger,
rising forty years, could do better. His father, an earl, might be as old as
the Roman Way, but he was rich as Croesus.
    The sun painted a bronze gleam on his tent.
    “I was having wonderful dream, Douglas. In it, you allowed
me to sleep until supper and instead of your ugly face, I was awakened by a
sweet, young maid wearing naught but her hair.”
    “Happens she were here, but ye chased ‘er off with yer
snoring.”
    “Would that it were true.” Adam handed back the empty
tankard and washed his face and hands in a basin of hot water Douglas set out
on the table.
    “Ye’ve some nasty bruises on yer arse,” Douglas said,
handing Adam the linen shirt he would wear beneath his tunic.
    “Aye. I feel like I took two fingers off my height with that
fall from Sinner.”
    “Can ye manage the brute in the tournament?”
    “Don’t look so downcast. I’ll excel and nurse my aching body
after. You’ll not be shamed by my performance.”
    “At least the tournament is a few days off. Ye’ll heal some
in that time. Find a bath and soak a bit—none o’ that swimming yer so fond of.
Evil poisons in river water, ye know.”
    “Aye, my physician. Any other advice?”
    Douglas shook his head and held out three belts.
    “This one.” Adam buckled on the belt he liked best, one
studded with smoky topaz, a gift from a fine French woman who’d ordered one
topaz for each night of passion they’d shared. “What has the bishop planned