Lord of the Forest

by Keysian, Elizabeth

  He’d rattled all the resistance out of her now. The tension in her body had gone, but the heat had not. He could feel the warmth of her hand, where it brushed the exposed muscle of his chest, the trickle of her hair on his naked shoulder. These were new, disturbing sensations that filled his soul with dread, while at the same time, they filled his loins with lust.

  He’d forgotten so much. Now, the woman’s presence was bringing it all back. He should have resisted the temptation to go to her rescue—she could bring him nothing but trouble.

  Unless, of course, he decided to keep her in the forest with him.

  Chapter Three

  Clemence’s ribs ached as if she’d been kicked by a horse, and her head felt little better after bouncing around on the giant peasant’s shoulder. Her hip was dislocated, she was sure, and it was as well she’d not eaten supper before heading out on her herb-collecting mission, or it and she would have parted company long since.

  Having begged this man to rescue her, she’d merely exchanged one dire situation for another. It should at least be easier to escape this one, as her current abductor was alone. Who had the other two been, and why had they attempted to make off with her rather than rob her?

  The answer was one that didn’t bear thinking about. It involved degradation, bawdy houses, fat, lusty merchants with fingers smelling of grease, the clink of coin, and the risk of debilitating disease.

  Unless… unless Walter de Glanville was behind it. He’d uttered veiled threats, had he not? Had he sent the two villains to frighten her? Had he planned a dramatic rescue of his own, to soften her heart toward him? Or, worst of all, did he mean to force her into marriage?

  Would any of these fates be worse than being carried like a sack of meal over the back of a brawny madman? For that was what she’d decided Lancelot must be. No man in his right mind would treat a lady thus after rescuing her from a pair of knaves.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a multitude of sharp pains—little pricking stabs on her exposed hands and ankles. Instinctively, she clutched at her face—then the stings subsided, and she was somewhere airier than the close forest, but nonetheless sheltered from the light evening breeze. This new place had less of the rank smell of wildness about it—instead, she could smell wood ash, and hear the babbling of a watercourse.

  When he lowered her to the ground, she swayed, her feet numb and bloodless. Immediately, he caught her, lowering her onto a pile of scratchy material, like dead leaves. She felt too vulnerable to lie down in this strange man’s presence, so she scrabbled her way upright again. Without success—pins and needles caused her to collapse to her knees. There she remained, confused, uncertain—and deep down, exceedingly cross at the way Fate was treating her.

  He yanked her kerchief down, and she could see. Well, just about. She was in the cleft of a blasted oak, in a space wide enough to take a tall man lying down. Gazing up, she could see the place was well-canopied with leaves, though still open to the darkening sky.

  Something small and many-legged scuttled over her hand, and she stifled a scream. Of course, an old oak tree, with its dead and rotting wood, was the perfect place for beetles—and other things. She must be brave. Spiders and woodlice were the least of her worries.

  Lancelot moved away, and she heard metal striking on stone. Shortly thereafter, she saw a flame leap up in the darkness beyond the tree. Although she felt safe in the oak’s hollow trunk, curiosity overcame her. She shuffled toward the cleft and watched the man move around, tending the fire.

  She’d never seen a man shirtless before. Not like this, at any rate. Firelight flickered over his slick skin and rounded muscles. His dark hair hung low on his shoulders, and his beard was untamed, reaching to his collarbone. Why would any man want to live like an animal in the forest, eschewing clothing and—if she wasn’t mistaken—shoes?

  And what about the peculiar assertion that he’d taken the name Lancelot because he didn’t know his own?

  No. She shouldn’t get involved. He clearly wanted no interference in his odd, meager existence. Just as she wanted no complications in her own life. Admitting to anyone she’d spent the night in the company of a half-naked outlaw would ruin everything she’d ever dreamed of. Not even the unctuous Walter de Glanville would want her after that. Although… her mouth twisted. Perhaps shocking the world through her association with Lancelot was precisely what she needed to avoid being forced into marriage. And it would make a grand tale to whisper in Queen Elizabeth’s ear.

  “How long must I stay here?” She watched as he crouched on his haunches by the fire, spitting a cony on a peeled green stick, and tearing up some leaves to add to a metal pot.

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  Since when was it his decision? “What about my basket? Aren’t you worried it will lead people here? Because it doubtless will, as my absence must have been noticed by now.”

  He swiveled to face her, his eyes intense as a hawk’s.

  “You have a choice.” His voice had a gravelly note, like that of an axle in need of oiling.

  “I can take you to the road, blindfolded, and leave you to make your own way home. Or you can stay here and make our supper while I fetch your basket.”

  A gnat buzzed past her face, and she felt a tickle on her neck. “A pox on it!” She edged closer to the fire. “Don’t these midges drive you mad?”

  “No.”

  He was sparing with his words, was he not? She moved closer still and sat deliberately in the path of the smoke. The midges retreated.

  “Very well. I’ll cook if I can. But if you want to find my basket, you’d best hurry before there’s no light at all.”

  “I need no light.” He stood, gesturing at the pot. “Nettles, for soup. There’s salt in the wooden box. Use it sparingly.”

  Leaning down, he picked up a bundle of light-colored cloth. As he pulled it over his head, she saw it was a linen shirt, thin and worn, with several tears in it. But it was surprisingly clean. She stood up and faced him. Or tried to. He was at least a head taller than she was. But she mustn’t let him think she was afraid.

  “How do you know I won’t run away?”

  His brow furrowed. “How could you? You know not where to go.”

  “I could just stand here and scream until someone comes.”

  “Then you must promise not to. I think promises mean something to people of your kind.”

  “They do.” She gazed at the fire and saw the flames were starting to die down. She’d need to feed it more to get the water boiling for the nettle soup, then spread the embers out to avoid charring the cony. If she decided not to escape.

  “Very well, I prom—” She looked around, aghast. The man had gone. She heard a faint rustle, then nothing but the spitting of a twig in the fire.

  How could such a large man move so quickly? He’d evidently decided to trust her, which was gratifying. She did think about screaming, but abandoned the idea, for it would either bring him back at the run or alert the undesirables who’d abducted her in the first place. Lancelot had made free with her person but hadn’t molested her. Not yet, at least. She would, however, find the way out. It was best to have an escape route.

  Seizing a burning brand from the fire to use as a torch, she made a circuit of the small clearing. Alas! It seemed to be entirely surrounded by impenetrable holly. That would explain the stinging on her arms when he’d carried her through. There must be a gap somewhere, but try as she might, she couldn’t find it.

  With a groan, she returned to the fire. Despite her parlous situation, she was feeling the bite of hunger now. And her eyesight wasn’t sharp enough to cope with the shadowy twilight of the forest. Matters could be resolved in the morning, after a decent night’s sleep.

  By the time Lancelot returned, she had the cony cooked to perfection, and the nettle soup had an enticing aroma.

  “Why have you tarried so long?” she demanded, as he came within the circle of flickering firelight.

  “I did
n’t want anyone to see where you’d been attacked. I’ve scuffed over the traces.”

  “Why?” Because she wanted to be found—so long as it was by her father.

  “Any search of the place will reveal me. That would serve me most ill.”

  “Why would it?”

  “Enough. Let us eat. I care not for speech.”

  “I can tell that,” she muttered under her breath.

  Gloomily, she sat cross-legged on the scorched earth next to the fire, trying to eat roast cony daintily, and fearful of the damage the rough ground was doing to her skirts.

  Lancelot had no such qualms. Despite the fact the evening was growing chill, he pulled his shirt up over his head once more, then gobbled his food like swine from a bucket, and drank his nettle soup directly from the vessel in which it had been cooked, before passing it to her.

  He had the manners of a goat, but one didn’t say such things to a man who looked as if he could tear an ox apart with his bare hands. He was sharing half his repast with her, and she must be grateful for that. All the same, she untied the latten spoon from her belt and finished the soup using that.

  It was vile, despite the addition of salt. She must tell him where the wild garlic grew, and where to find mushrooms and puffballs, to improve the taste. Nay—why should she help him? He was a fiend, holding her against her will.

  Pushing the empty pot away, she asked, “Where did you put my basket?”

  He wiped his greasy fingers over his chest, making her wince. Why not wipe them in his beard, if he was that lacking in manners?

  “On the other side of the tree.”

  She struggled to her feet, her legs tangling in her skirts, but he made no move to help.

  “Take off your—what’s the word—kirtle, if you cannot move in it.”

  It was as well the dancing shadows from the dying embers of the fire hid her blush. Muttering under her breath again, she made her way around the tree and retrieved an apple and pear from the bottom of her basket. When she returned to offer Lancelot his choice of the fruit, it was to see him standing with his back to her, some distance away, making the unmistakable movements of a man about to urinate.

  She dropped the fruit. “No, wait!”

  “Wait?” He turned his shaggy head toward her.

  “Don’t turn around! I mean—you can’t do that in front of a lady.”

  “Why not?”

  “It… it just isn’t meet, or proper.”

  “But this is where I go.” He went back to his task.

  Uttering a soft cry of defeat, she hurried as far away as she could, putting the great oak between them, and covering her ears. When she thought she’d given him sufficient time, she realized she, too, needed to relieve herself.

  Fanning out her skirts, she squatted. A sound made her glance up, to discover the man standing in front of her, hands on hips.

  “So, I may not do this in front of you, but you can do what you will?”

  “You weren’t supposed to follow me.” Wincing, she covered her face with her hands and prayed the ground would swallow her up.

  “I have a set place. This is my home. You do as I do and go where I go.”

  “Begone, you gutter-spawned numbskull! Don’t you have any manners, at all?”

  He let out a laugh then, a deep guffaw. “It seems I have forgotten them, as I have everything else.”

  To her relief, he left.

  Humiliated, she remained crouching on the ground, fighting back hot tears. This was the worst day she’d experienced since Simeon died. All men—except Simeon—were hateful, insensitive, and selfish. And Lancelot, or whatever his name was, was the very worst. As soon as it was light enough, she’d escape the forest, and make her way home, whether he liked it or not. And she didn’t care if it meant him being discovered. He was an outlaw, and it would be a crime to protect him in any case.

  Chapter Four

  Lancelot didn’t take the woman to the village in the dead of night and leave her there. He should have, most certainly, as it would have been the safest thing to do. For him, yes—but not for her. Despite himself, he didn’t like the idea of any of the villagers taking advantage of her. Even though his memory was faulty, he knew what a valuable prize this woman was, that if he abandoned her now, he’d be putting her in harm’s way.

  After the zealous over-cleaning of his cooking pot and her spoon—yes, he remembered what a spoon was—she’d fallen into a doze. He carried her into the hollow oak and deposited her on his bedding, throwing the newly-acquired cloak over her, and folding up a sack for a pillow.

  Then he crouched by the lightning-blasted cleft in the tree—a posture to which he’d become accustomed if no seat were available—and listened to her breathing.

  She was the most exciting, most terrible thing that had happened to him in all the time he’d lived in the forest. He simply didn’t know what to do with her. Well, he did—he’d not completely forgotten what women were for—but under the circumstances, she was a liability. She could destroy the way of life he’d created for himself in the forest. No matter how earnestly she might swear to keep his secret, it could be revealed through no fault of her own. Her people would want to know where she’d been and what had happened, and she would let slip some detail that would bring the authorities down on him like ravening wolves.

  Picking up a partly-burned stick, he traced meaningless patterns in the dirt around his fireplace. Some of them might have been letters—he barely knew anymore. It had been so long since he’d touched a book, he didn’t know if he’d still be able to read. Which was a pity, as he remembered enjoying Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur.

  The moon had risen and now shone its pale light into the clearing around the blasted oak. The brook turned to liquid silver, and a tawny owl wafted past on silent wings. How he loved the forest, especially in summer, when it was at its most benign. It pacified his soul, gave him new memories to replace the missing ones; memories of the birth of a new litter of badgers, of the sight of squirrels quarreling in a tree, of the time he’d felled a deer with a single shot from his stolen longbow, of the discovery of a place by the river where comfrey grew, and kingfishers whirred around the banks like winged jewels.

  The arrival of the woman was a discordant note, a splinter under the skin. She didn’t fit into his world, could never fit into it—yet, how could he let her go without endangering himself?

  He’d sleep on it. Sighing, he gazed down at her slumbering form. There should be just enough room for him to join her. They could share the cloak—it would be more comfortable than burrowing into the furze and pulling his doublet over him, as he usually did. Bunching the remaining sack under his head, he settled down, curling protectively around the sleeping woman.

  Only to be awakened, what seemed mere moments later, by a series of sharp blows on his upper arm.

  He was on his feet in an instant, instincts honed by years of being a hunter. He had his attacker in a stranglehold before realizing it was the woman that he’d rescued the previous night.

  “Doltish lout! Poltroon! What do you mean by lying all over me, taking advantage while I’m asleep?”

  For someone who called themselves a lady, she knew enough insults. He eased his grip and resisted the urge to laugh.

  “It is my bed, not yours.”

  “I don’t care. You are disgusting!”

  He brushed some dried fern leaves from his torso and realized the sun was already high. He’d not slept this late in many a moon, curse it. The deer and the conies would already be thinking of hiding in the deepest areas of undergrowth, and he’d have to rely on theft or foraging for his meals today.

  “Are you always this angry?” He reached into the oak for his doublet—it was still somewhat chilly in the glade, and a bone-dampening mist rose from the brook.

  “No. You stink as well.” She wrinkled her nose.

  “I’ll wash. I’ll show you where you can, too.” He was rediscovering amusement—the way she reacted to
the least essential things in existence was highly entertaining. She had much to learn.

  “Good.” The sour expression left her face. “Is that your doublet?”

  He looked down at himself. The cloth was still good, though he’d had to replace the laces with nettle twine, not yet having mastered the art of making a leather thong.

  “Aye.” A curious question. “Why?”

  “It’s very fine.” She moved closer to examine it and walked around him.

  It excited him to be inspected so closely. He hoped she was satisfied with what she saw.

  “You are certain it’s yours?”

  “I presume so. It was what I was wearing when I washed up—” He stopped. No one knew his story but him, and he certainly had no intention of sharing it.

  “When you ‘washed up’? On the coast, do you mean? Did you nearly drown?” Her grey eyes sparked with excitement.

  Seeing her properly now, in full daylight, he could appreciate her loveliness. Her skin was fine and white, like snow, with none of the rosy weathering evident in the country girls. Though her face was solemn in repose, it was sweetly appealing when animated, as it was now. Her head was still covered by the linen coif she wore beneath her hat, but the loose hair tumbling about her shoulders was the color of ripe wheat, and charmingly curled. He bent and brought a lock of it to his nose.

  “What are you doing?” She tugged the curl away from him.

  “Smelling you.”

  “I know that. But why?”

  Ah, he’d made her frown again. “Because you smell so different from the scents of the forest.”

  “As I should. I don’t roll around in um… ah… dead leaves, or never wash my shift.”

  He sensed she was trying to arouse some emotion in him—guilt, mayhap? But it was hard to know. He’d long since lost the ability to recognize nuance in conversation—or to care about it.