Lord of the Forest

by Keysian, Elizabeth

  He heard his name being called. Gazing up, he saw Clemence, looking down at him from behind a wooden balustrade. When he gave no response, she said, “Come upstairs, Lancelot, to refresh yourself while everything is arranged. I’ll show you to your room.”

  Keen to be close to the only thing that made any sense to him—Clemence—he strode across the floor, climbed onto a large coffer, and swung himself up the complex structure of carved wooden posts so he could reach her.

  His feat was greeted by a series of gasps from below.

  Clemence looked stunned for a moment, then gurgled with laughter. “Oh, Lancelot, have you forgotten how to use the stairs?”

  He looked at her, then at the puzzled faces beneath him. He’d erred again, curse it! But no matter—whatever mistakes he made here threatened no one. They’d just have to get used to him.

  He tilted his head to one side. “My method is faster.” Saluting Sir Kester and the Fitzpaynes, he followed in Clemence’s footsteps, mounting the next flight of stairs in the usual fashion.

  She chuckled as she opened the door for him. Another young woman, less richly attired than Clemence, curtseyed and melted away into the depths of the house. He would have to explore the building thoroughly before he could relax his vigilance—he needed to be sure he was safe.

  “Why do you laugh?”

  “Forgive me, Lancelot, but you’re so unpredictable. You’re the most entertaining man I’ve ever met in my life.”

  “By entertaining, you mean foolish.”

  “Nay, indeed.” She stood back, encouraging him to enter the chamber. It seemed most odd, stepping into a space so regimented and confined. He must try and think of it as the cloven oak—then he’d find it easier to accustom himself to it. He strode to the window, eager to enjoy the light.

  And gave his nose a resounding blow on something he’d not expected to be solid.

  “You need to open the window before you look out. Must I teach you everything?”

  Rubbing his nose, he stepped back and observed as Clemence manipulated a strip of dark metal attached to the window frame. Suddenly, the space was empty, and he felt a gentle breeze on his face.

  “Glass. I remember now. I shall not make that mistake again—pain is a great teacher.”

  She didn’t laugh at that, to his relief. He stared at her, drinking in, once more, the sight of her entrancing face with its elfin chin, framed by those straw-colored curls. Reaching a hand to her, he captured her cheek—and for a magical moment, she turned her face into his palm and closed her eyes. Then she backed away, alarm filling her face.

  He’d frightened her. Nay, disgusted her. He must curb his desire to touch her—clearly, it was not considered acceptable behavior. Gloomily, he returned to the window and inhaled several hearty breaths.

  “Look, here are some clothes for you.” Her voice was bright but brittle. “I’ll take your old ones, and have them washed and mend them if you wish it.”

  “I should be glad of that.” Though he gazed through the window, he saw nothing beyond it, only the image of the woman with her cheek cradled in his hand.

  “I’ll leave you to dress, shall I?” She sounded uncertain. “There’s water in the bowl, so you may wash before you come down for dinner. But there’s plenty of time before that. Rest awhile, if you want, for I have no doubt my parents will interrogate me for some time before we’re all allowed to break bread together.”

  “I would have you take me around the house. I need to know where I am.”

  “Of course. Soon. I need to refresh myself first. Please don’t climb out the window, or up the canopy on the bed. There’s a pot beneath it, should you need to… well, I’m sure you’ll remember what it is when you see it.”

  “I am remembering things, Clemence. Yet, ’tis a lot to understand all at one time, so forgive me my trespasses. I mean no harm by them.”

  Her grey eyes were serious. “And I mean no scorn by laughing at you, believe me. Now, I must go. Anon.”

  She dipped him a curtsey as she left, which amused him. She was no serving girl, so it made no sense that she should defer to him, a wild man of the woods. Would he ever understand the world she came from? It was nonsensical.

  He did understand washing, however. Swiftly stripping off his clothes, he set the bowl on the bare boards of the floor, and joyfully splashed water all over himself, rubbing away the marks of the rusty manacles, and cleansing the burns on his ankles caused by the ropes which had bound them.

  He gazed at the clothing that lay on the bed and thought about putting it on. But he wasn’t cold—just wet—so he took up the shirt, and dried himself with it.

  Then he stared at the bed, at the layered linens beneath the canopy. Eventually, he worked out how to release the drapes, which made him feel better—more enclosed and secure. Piling all the linens into the middle of the bed, he made a nest for himself, then curled up in the middle of it and went to sleep, naked.

  And was awakened two hours later by the scream of the maidservant when she came to call him for dinner.

  Chapter Nine

  To Clemence’s surprise and delight, Lancelot had remained at Clairbourne Manor as a guest of the Fitzpaynes for two sennights. In that time, it was firmly established that he had done her no harm. It was also established that he was an incorrigible eccentric who was more than content to make a spectacle of himself, and care not a whit if he was reprimanded or laughed at. No one had yet seen him lose his temper, and Clemence was thrilled to have his company, looking forward to each new day as it came, purely for the pleasure of being with the most compelling, intriguing—and sometimes the most infuriating—man she’d ever met.

  Lancelot had disgraced himself many times with his lack of etiquette. At their first meal together, the one with Kester Bayliss in attendance, he’d sat on the floor rather than a chair, having helped himself to an entire roast fowl—sans platter—which he proceeded to pull apart and eat with his bare hands.

  Clemence had taken responsibility for improving his table manners. It meant she could sit next to him at mealtimes and revel in the closeness of his splendidly-made body and masculine allure. He smelled so good these days, having dutifully submitted to her various attempts to conjure up a perfumed soap that would suit a man. This wasn’t easy to do without spending a fortune on rare base products like musk oil and ambergris.

  He also proved to be so exceedingly handsome—once tidied up—that she could barely take her eyes off him. The morning after his arrival, her father had taken it upon himself to trim his beard, and he’d ended up, at Lancelot’s request, shaving the entire thing off, because it had become so matted. The maid, Cissy—once she’d recovered from her initial shock of discovering he liked to sleep naked—had neatened up his hair, and cut it to frame his ears and curl over his forehead. The combination of bronzed skin, raven-black hair, and forest-green eyes was so stunning, it sometimes stole Clemence’s breath.

  She laughed at herself, told herself she was like a besotted young maiden with her first suitor, and refused to imagine she could feel any connection with this bewildering man. There was no point examining her feelings on the subject, as nothing could ever come of it. Her father had still not given up hope of allying her to Walter de Glanville.

  No trace had been found of the cart in which she’d been abducted, nor of those who’d abducted her. When the suggestion was made that a party go to Lancelot’s hideout to examine the cloak in which she’d been smothered, both she and Lancelot vetoed it instantly. It made her father mutter and grumble, but she knew he’d not pursue the matter. He had begun—despite himself—to like and respect the new addition to their household.

  Lancelot’s sojourn at the manor had been intended to be temporary, but between them, he and Clemence kept finding reasons for him to remain. Initially, it was so that he might recover fully from the blow dealt him by the constable’s club. Later, it was in case he could shed further light on Clemence’s abduction, or might be able to recall some d
etail of the scene he’d forgotten hitherto.

  To this end, Clemence made full use of her store of remedies. She went to Lancelot every morning to feed him rosemary conserve, in the hope of improving his memory. She made him drink a distillation of eyebright every day and even experimented with the rare Jerusalem thistle to help him remember more.

  What she did not vouchsafe to Lancelot was that she wanted to restore more than just his memory of the day he’d saved her from a pair of opportunistic brigands. She wanted him to remember who he was, his real name, and his history. This not knowing was eating her alive, and she couldn’t understand why he didn’t want to find out himself. If he knew of her ulterior motive, he never taxed her with it. He was, apparently, enjoying the comforts of civilized life too much to complain.

  One pleasure he’d rediscovered was reading. Books were rare and precious, but Clairbourne Manor had a fair stock of volumes, in French, English, and Latin. Ofttimes, Clemence would go in search of Lancelot, only to find him in his characteristic squat on the ground, his nose in a volume of Aesop’s Fables, or Plutarch’s Lives. There was also a precious copy of Chrétien de Troyes’ Perceval, which he read from cover to cover in a matter of days, only taking his eyes off the volume to eat, and whenever she came nigh.

  Both her mother and father began increasingly to wonder who Lancelot was, and how he came to have neither home nor memory. Something catastrophic had occurred in his life to turn it upside down, and they, like Clemence, could not understand his unwillingness to investigate further. She forbade them to speak to anyone about their unusual guest and, from respect for Lancelot, they agreed. But her father asked something from her in return—that she encourage the advances of Walter de Glanville when—and if—he next came to call upon her.

  With a heavy heart, she’d given her promise, although it cost her more than she cared to examine. Fortunately, her erstwhile suitor did not return, and she began to think herself safe. But how long would this happy state of affairs continue?

  Today was gloomy and dull—disappointing weather for early May. Clemence was out in the walled garden, harvesting more rosemary for Lancelot. She’d found a new recipe for a distilled water of the flowers, which—infused with cloves, mace, anise, and cinnamon—was good for the breath as well as the brain. She had, she hoped, already improved Lancelot’s breath by encouraging him to rub his teeth with sage each day, and clean them with a splayed hazel twig. She’d not yet had the chance to test out the efficacy of this regime, as her parents watched her like hawks when she kept company with him—much to her annoyance.

  A large drop of rain splattered onto an artichoke leaf near her head and split into silver runnels before dripping to the soil beneath. Moisture chilled the back of her neck, and the garden filled with the fizz and roar of a late spring shower.

  She flung her apron over her basket to keep it dry and had just reached the shelter of the door to the garden when she saw a sight that made her throat go dry.

  Lancelot stood in the rough grass near the empty cattle stall. He’d removed his borrowed doublet and shirt and stood, chest bared to the rain, with his arms above his head, and his face turned to the heavens.

  It looked as if he were bathing in the water. Indeed, moments later, he swiped his hands over his body, rubbing the rain into his skin, and smoothing it over his bronzed muscles until he glistened like a living statue.

  The look of sheer carnal delight on his face touched her deeply, made her wonder how it would feel to have fresh rain on one’s skin after a hot, exhausting day. Delectable, she imagined. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the spectacle of Lancelot’s hand doing what hers ached to do—touch him, explore him, own him.

  Her breath came in short bursts, and she stared her fill until the curtain of rain obscured him. She’d just made up her mind to run for the house when she heard the clatter of hooves on the road, which came to an abrupt halt level with the house.

  A visitor! If it were anyone other than Kester Bayliss, they could represent danger. Tucking her basket in the lee of the garden door, she lifted her skirts and skidded her way across the slippery flint cobbles toward the cattle byre.

  “Lancelot! Hide—someone’s coming.”

  In an instant, he’d vanished from sight, leaving her standing in the yard, her hair in dripping tangles around her face—feeling foolish.

  “Whist!”

  The sound came from the barn, several yards beyond the byre. Glancing behind her to ensure no one had yet entered the stable yard, she hurried forward, and into the musty darkness.

  Though she knew Lancelot was in there, she had no sense of his presence. It was as though he’d snuffed himself out like a candle, so no one would find him.

  “You’d better not stay. If they come looking for you, they’ll find me.”

  His voice, so close to her ear, almost stopped her heart. “I do wish you wouldn’t creep up on people thus. One day, I shall fall dead at your feet from shock, and you’ll be sorry.”

  He chuckled softly, a sound that sent ripples of pleasure through her body.

  “You love to chide, but I know you like me, really. For all that I am so coarse, uncouth, and feral.”

  It was true, but she’d never admit it. “Your use of language has improved greatly since you’ve been with us.”

  “I know it. But what use it will be when I return to the forest, I cannot fathom.”

  Her stomach felt hollow. Did he really mean to go away? “Have we not spoiled you for that life now?”

  “I don’t know what else there is for me.”

  Then let me help you find out! She didn’t voice the words—he always resisted with the stubbornness of an ox whenever she suggested investigating him. And she didn’t want to be at odds with him now.

  She turned to face him. He was still half-naked, the water trickling in tempting ripples over his chest and stomach muscles, catching in the dark smattering of hair below his collarbone. If her parents knew she was out with him in this state, he’d be cast into the street without question. Mayhap they both would.

  “Best put your shirt on, Lancelot,” she said softly. “You know the rules of this household.”

  He shot her a look—half-rueful, half-playful—that sent skitters of anticipation up and down her spine. Then, he wrung out his shirt on the baked clay floor of the barn and wriggled back into it.

  “I thank you for taking such good care of me.” He tucked a finger under her chin, then brushed his lips over hers.

  It was a gesture of tenderness, a respectful salute—no more. But it awoke a burning desire in her that she was barely able to quell. It would be easy to fling her arms around him, press her body against his, and demand the kind of kiss of which she was certain he was capable.

  “No disgust this time?” His mouth twitched, and his eyes danced with laughter.

  Before she could marshal her wits to respond, a loud voice from the house called, “Clemence? Are you out here?”

  She peeped around the door jamb and saw her father and Walter de Glanville standing outside the door to the walled garden, where she’d left her basket.

  Lancelot was so close behind her that she could feel the warmth of his body.

  “Who is that man?”

  “Have a care—he’ll see you!”

  When Lancelot had removed himself to the shadows once more, she whispered, “Walter de Glanville. The man my father wants me to marry. I have to go, and you need to find somewhere else to conceal yourself—somewhere dry, if you can.”

  “Is there anywhere in the house I can put my ear to the door or floor, so that I may overhear what Walter de Glanville has to say?”

  She turned, surprised, and stared at Lancelot’s form, dimmed by shadows.

  “Why ever would you want to do that?”

  “Because I think I recognize him.”

  Chapter Ten

  Lancelot was frustrated in his desire to hear the man called Walter de Glanville speak—there was no manner in which
he could approach the house without being seen. The windows were like multifaceted eyes, staring at him, arousing a sense of danger he couldn’t ignore. Instinct and self-preservation were so much part of his nature, he could no more deny them than he could his growing feelings for Clemence.

  Eventually, he heard the sound of hoofbeats retreating down the road, but it was several hours before he was able to have private speech with Clemence and find out what had passed between her and her suitor. She told him that the visitor had remained just long enough to dry and refresh himself. She’d not been forced to face de Glanville—she was so wet herself that she was considered unfit to be seen, and had been hustled away to be dried and put to bed for the afternoon, lest she catch a chill.

  He thus felt somewhat relieved by the time he sought his bed, but he could not be rid of the uncanny feeling of recognition he’d had on seeing de Glanville. It was not a pleasant feeling, in truth, but one of foreboding. Perchance it was jealousy, pure and simple, that some other should come courting the woman he cared for.

  He stripped off his clothes, threw back the sheets on his bed, and climbed in. It still felt peculiar, being in the bed, but he was starting to understand the attraction of a loosely-filled horsehair mattress, with soft linen sheets both above and below one’s body. He still didn’t see the sense in putting on some special garment in which to sleep but made sure to always close the drapes on the bed, and spare the housemaid’s blushes.

  When sleep eventually came, it didn’t last long. He awoke to engulfing darkness, the echo of a cry in his ears, and the sensation of a delicate hand shaking his shoulder.

  In an instant, he’d seized the woman’s wrist. “That had better be you, Lady Elaine, as I’m not ready to interrupt my rest for anyone else.”

  “Foolish fellow. Of course, it’s me. I needed to silence you before you awakened the entire household.”

  “What’s amiss?”