“He lives about an hour’s ride away, on the Ipswich road. He has a tidy enough property, but has expectations of inheriting Emborough Hall.”
Her father’s pronouncement had an immediate effect on Sir Kester.
“Emborough Hall. Of course! I received a letter some moons ago that mentioned it.” He shuffled through the papers on his desk. Clemence’s heart sped up, and she glanced at Lancelot, but his expression was inscrutable.
“Here it is. My correspondent wrote to me of a legal case involving that property. Aye—it is as you say. Walter de Glanville, the stepson of the deceased owner, lays claim to the place, but his right to it is contested by the Crown. They’re claiming there’s no proof the direct heirs—two brothers of full blood—are deceased. Just missing.”
A hush fell over the room. Outside, a pheasant cackled, and the sound of a groom brushing down the stable yard could be heard.
Lancelot had paled, his gaze fixed on Sir Kester. Clemence longed to go to him, sensing the battle between disbelief and hope that consumed him. She sensed his fear, too—how fortunate she was the only person in the room who knew why he was afraid.
Her father said, “I’m surprised, sir, that both heirs are accounted missing. De Glanville assured me they were deceased.”
“Then he presumes too much. No bodies have been found, and ’tis too soon to declare them legally dead.”
Well, wasn’t that just typical of Walter de Glanville! She’d known he was a snake. The man had doubtless lied to her father to bolster his value as a prospective son-in-law. He would inherit Clairbourne Manor once he married her, so, even though it was worth very little, he’d have something to fall back on if his hopes of Emborough Hall came to nothing.
Lancelot’s voice broke in on her thoughts. “What are the names of the missing heirs?”
Sir Kester looked at the paper again. “The elder son was called… let me see… Paris. The younger was Hector.” He looked up and met Lancelot’s eye. “My correspondent notes that a rumor abounds in Suffolk that the younger brother may have done away with the elder. Though I can substantiate none of this, I heard from another justice of the peace that the younger son, Hector, was built like a lion and could strangle a man with his bare hands. Also, that he had something of a temper on him.”
“And what reason, pray, might a man have to kill his own brother?” Lancelot kept his voice level, but Clemence could tell from the flexing of his fingers that he was deeply troubled.
“To inherit Emborough Hall, I assume. As he was the younger son.”
“Surely it takes more than that to incite one man to murder another? Especially when Hector hasn’t claimed the manor. How long ago did they vanish?” Lancelot’s expression was fierce.
Exactly the question she’d wanted to ask.
“Let me see. It would be two years ago, at least.”
Her mother suddenly spoke up. “Then it is to be hoped that the rumors about one brother killing the other have died a death. ’Tis cruel to vilify a man when he’s not present to defend himself—and if both brothers have died through misadventure rather than murder, the family name of de Glanville should remain untainted.”
“There will always be speculation and gossip, Wife, in the absence of evidence.” Clemence’s father took a turn around the room, then went to stand beside Sir Kester’s chair.
“Alas, that is ofttimes the case.” Sir Kester gazed intently at Lancelot again. “The only way to scotch a vicious rumor, and put an end to surmise, is to publicly deny it. And support that denial with irrefutable evidence.”
Clemence chewed on her finger. “I can’t imagine Master de Glanville will appreciate it if we delve into his affairs.”
Sir Kester looked at her. “But he can’t prevent the upholders of the sovereign’s justice from making an investigation. In fact, I think that is exactly what we must do.”
“Do you truly think this man may be one of the two missing brothers?” Her father waved a hand in Lancelot’s direction.
Clemence thrust out of her chair and went to stand beside Lancelot. “Had you not better ask him if he wants this investigation to take place? What if it does more harm than good?”
Lancelot laid a hand on her shoulder, warm, reassuring. She glared a challenge at her father, ignoring his frown of disapproval.
Everyone was staring at them now. Whatever decision Lancelot made, she would support him. To be the center of such attention must be hard for a man who’d clung so long to anonymity and privacy. She placed a hand over his and felt him draw in a deep breath.
He inclined his head toward her father. “Master Fitzpayne—do you uphold your decree that I should marry Clemence? If she’ll have me, I’ll gladly undertake your investigation, wherever it may lead.”
Her heart swelled, and her eyes were moist. No one else knew how much he was risking to protect her good name—how high the stakes might be. He was surely the best of men—the noblest and most selfless. His nightmare must be no more than that—a nightmare. His haunting vision could surely be satisfactorily explained away. She couldn’t believe he’d killed anyone.
“Of course, I’m prepared to take you. And I’ll stand by you, whatever happens.”
His fingers gripped her shoulder, but she couldn’t allow herself to exult. She, too, was taking an enormous gamble. It was as if everything she’d ever hoped for had been ripped apart and thrown up in the air—who knew how the pieces would fall?
“So, what happens now?” Her father stared at Sir Kester, who was drumming his fingers on the table, apparently lost in contemplation.
“There’s only one thing we can do. We must take Lancelot to Emborough Hall.”
Lancelot’s fingers dug into Clemence’s shoulder. “May I request that Mistress Clemence accompany me? She’s been a pillar of support in troubled times. And I don’t want Walter de Glanville informed of our visit. Should I turn out to be one of the lost heirs, I’d rather my claim be well established before locking horns with the man. He’ll doubtless fight me with all the determination he can muster.”
“We shall appoint a lawyer for you, sir. I recommend Master Hardy, of Coggeshall. He’s a fair man, and most skilled in inheritance matters. If you wish, Lancelot may stay with me until we’re ready to depart for Emborough. If Clemence is to join us, you have my word that I shall care for her as if she were my own daughter. As, indeed, she might one day have been, had it not been for Simeon being taken before his time.”
Clemence noticed a twitch in her father’s jaw, and her heart sank. He was going to refuse to let her go, deny her any further part in this adventure. She was about to speak, but a warning squeeze of Lancelot’s fingers silenced her.
“If Clemence goes, we all go,” her father announced. “As you can see, Sir Kester, there is already an understanding between my daughter and this fellow. If they are to marry, I have every right to see what he can offer her.”
“Very well.” Sir Kester pushed away from the table and stood. “I shall have my steward alert Master Hardy and arrange for him to meet us in Milforde. We can take lodgings in the Black Bull, which keeps a good cellar, and there remain until matters are settled to your satisfaction. What say you, Fitzpayne?”
Her father surprised her by smiling. “Thank you, sir. You are a good neighbor and friend, and I’m grateful for your assistance. Though I cannot say I approve this fellow’s behavior beneath my roof, I don’t begrudge him the return of his fortune, or his place in society. But if there is any hint of foul play, I’ll withdraw all support, and Clemence shall never see him again.”
It was a harsh pronouncement, but she could perfectly understand his reasons. But what he said next filled her with horror.
“If this all turns out to be a wild goose chase, and Lancelot proves to be a nobody, I shall adhere to my earlier decision and return to how things stood before our lives were thrown into disarray. Clemence will marry Walter de Glanville.”
Chapter Twelve
Two days after th
eir visit to Sir Kester, the Fitzpayne party arrived in Milforde village. After depositing their baggage at the Black Bull, Lancelot was eager to waste no time in seeing the place which might have been his home before catastrophe struck.
Emborough Hall was surrounded by a towering brick wall. In the distance beyond it, he could see four turrets, each capped with an elegantly curved lead dome. He couldn’t believe there was so much brick all in one place—how long had it taken to fashion those used in this incredible edifice? How much had it cost? He could scarcely credit that he might be heir to a palace such as this, yet there was an iron-hard fist of anticipation in his gut that had—unusually—nothing to do with the presence of Clemence Fitzpayne.
This place affected him deeply. He couldn’t put hand on heart and say he knew it, but as the gates swung open and he took his first good look, he knew what he was going to see the moment before he saw it.
There was an air of neglect about the manor that filled him with deep melancholy. Mortar had crumbled from between some of the bricks, and several of the glass panes were cracked or missing. The gardens had been left to run riot—although, there were plentiful blooms to cheer the beds with color, and their untended rambling reminded him of the forest, which made him feel more at home.
Master Hardy, the attorney from Coggeshall who had family living in Milforde village, handed Lancelot a massive key. “I borrowed this from the former steward, Master March. He would have been here to greet us, were he not suffering from an attack of gout. I told him naught of the reason for our visit—if Milforde folk knew one of the lost de Glanvilles was back amongst them, there would be a waiting mob stretching from here to the marketplace. I think our business, being of a delicate nature, is best managed in private. Don’t you agree?”
Lancelot was barely listening. He was picturing what would be seen when one turned the corner of the house. There would be a trellis with a climbing rose, the flowers boasting broad golden centers when fully opened, with red petals fading to white in the middle. When each flower became overblown, the roses would let their petals fall in great handfuls. His mother used to collect and dry them for sweet bowls to set around the house. Her face flashed before him—more clearly than he’d remembered it in years.
“Lancelot—are you unwell?”
He swayed a little, and Clemence took his arm. “Pray, tell me if there is a rose trellis around that corner.” Was it truly a memory, or just surmise?
She hurried around the base of the nearest turret. He heard her call, “Aye, there’s a trellis, and the roses are in bud. You must surely have seen it when you were here before, as it can’t be seen from the gate.”
A moment later, she was back by his side, gazing up at him with her scintillating grey eyes. “Lancelot—do you really think you might be Hector de Glanville?”
“Or Paris.” How was he to know?
“Many houses have trellises on their walls. More evidence than this would be needed to convince the authorities of Lancelot’s claim.”
He knew Fitzpayne didn’t mean to sound contemptuous—he just needed reassurance that he wasn’t throwing his daughter away on a nobody.
“Indeed.” Lancelot inserted the key into the lock, then paused a moment.
“Can you tell us what we’ll find inside?” inquired Sir Kester.
Closing his eyes, Lancelot rested his forehead on the sun-warmed oak panels of the door. “A large hall, like the great halls of old, with a stairway, and—what would you call them? Balconies? Galleries? These run around three of the sides. Alas, I can picture naught else—it is as if a great cloud were drawn over my eyes, obscuring everything.”
His head ached, but he had no wish to complain. Especially not when Clemence was beside him. His whole being yearned to impress her, so he must show no weakness.
“And how shall you climb the stairs, sir?” she whispered, a mocking smile on her face. “In the usual fashion? Or like an ape in a menagerie?”
He chuckled then, and the pall of gloom that had threatened to overwhelm him dispersed. He turned the key and stepped into the darkness beyond.
“It’s enormous!” Clemence ran forward, then spun around at the foot of the steps. “It’s so airy, and I’m sure would be gloriously light if we could get these shutters opened. Stay there, sir, and close your eyes while we do it for you.”
He obliged, though he felt a fool standing in the middle of the empty, echoing space. It was strange not to feel the wind on his face, to have the scent of the trees in his nostrils, to hear the rippling of the brook and the occasional tiny plop of a fish rising to the surface.
If this really was his home, did he want it? He’d probably be just as happy in a barn. Or a pavilion in a meadow.
“We’ve opened the shutters, so you can see everything.” Clemence sounded breathless and gleeful. “You can look now.”
Her enthusiasm was contagious. This was fortunate, as he could barely contain his own dismay. Emborough Hall was full of… things. Unnecessary things, the names of some of which it was a struggle to remember. There were tapestries, old shields and weapons hung on the walls, and a massive pair of stag’s antlers suspended above a carved stone fireplace.
He was fascinated by one of the tapestries, which depicted mounted hunters in a forest. He put out a hand, tracing the elegant lines of the tree trunks with his finger, staring at the high headdress of a lady on a white palfrey, and admiring the slender lines of the hunting dogs that surrounded her.
“I know this picture.” His voice was a whisper. He did know it and, suddenly, he knew a good many more things. He could see, in his mind’s eye, the under-housekeeper brushing the accumulated dust and cobwebs from the tapestry when she did her spring cleaning. He could picture where the light of high summer penetrated and illuminated the fabric’s bottom edge, fading out the yellow dyes so that all the green became blue. He could hear his mother calling his name as he hid behind it, giggling softly, hoping to avoid a scold. “Hector,” she called. “Hector!”
“Lancelot?” He blinked. Then gazed at Clemence, his brow furrowed.
“Not Lancelot. Hector. Hector de Glanville.”
There was a mutual intake of breath from the other people in the hall.
Clemence took his hand, and he held on to it as if it were a rock, and he a mariner, shipwrecked in a raging sea.
“What makes you think you’re Hector?” Sir Kester’s face was stern.
Suddenly, Lancelot was filled with a new confidence. “Because I remember that now. I can lead you straight to the room I had for my bedchamber. We may find further proof there.”
For the moment, he’d forgotten how much he might have to hide. Not waiting to see if anyone accompanied him, he took the steps two at a time. Clemence puffed along after him.
“There!” He threw open a door and hustled her inside. The chamber was mostly taken up by a canopied bed, festooned with cobwebs. After a brief tussle with the catch, Lancelot threw back the shutters, filling the place with sunlight.
He scanned the room. “My writing things. My Bible. My slippers of Cordovan leather—I can’t believe I ever felt the need to wear soft such soft things on my feet!” He laughed, then threw open a chest. “Curse it. The moths have been devouring my doublet with the silver braid.”
He held the garment up against him, then wrenched off his borrowed doublet and tried it on. It was a near-perfect fit—allowing for the weight he’d lost while eking out his existence in the forest.
“Ah, see here—my lace ruff is still intact, though it needs crimping. Where are my sword belt and blade?”
He hunted around the room while the rest of his audience lingered near the door, apparently unwilling to interfere.
“What has become of my collar set with Baltic amber? Has that vile stepbrother of mine stolen it? Nay, for I hid it well. See!”
He held up an elaborate chain of gold links, interspersed with glowing cabochons of amber in gold settings. “And yes—here’s my copy of Le Morte d’Art
hur! Much treasured.” He flourished the book in front of him, like a trophy of battle.
Then he realized everyone was staring at him.
Sir Kester broke the silence. “Your vile stepbrother?”
Lancelot—nay, Hector, as he must call himself now, smote himself on the forehead. “But of course. Walter de Glanville. Walter is my stepbrother. Little wonder I thought I’d seen him before—he lived with us after Father married again. Then Walter inherited the house at Glemham from his aunt, and left.”
Suddenly, anger swamped him, though he barely knew why. He sat on the bed and thumped his fist against the canopy support. The whole structure wobbled ominously.
“There’s so much I can’t remember,” he growled. “What happened to me? Where is my brother, Paris? Has there been foul play at work?”
Sir Kester stepped forward. “You need time, sir. We all do, I think. Hardy and I will make an inspection of the place and see what we may unearth. I advise you and the Fitzpaynes to return to the Black Bull for a pint or two of their excellent ale. Not watered down at all, as far as I can tell. You’ve had a shock, and it may be that this is all too much for you.”
“Nay.” He could not retreat, no matter how dangerous or confusing his situation. “I shall remain here. If any further memories return, I may be of use to you. And if there is any sign of the whereabouts of my brother—Paris, I mean—I wish to be the first to find it, to be the first to find him.”
He was filled with energy. If Emborough Hall was indeed his home, he had much to offer Clemence. But could he hope to be truly happy when so many questions remained unanswered? Much as he longed to be with her, he needed to establish himself first. Otherwise, he might as well go back to his glade in the woods and pretend this had never happened.
Clemence lifted her chin. “Must we go? I feel I’ve barely arrived, and I so wanted to see the gardens properly, while the weather is fair.”
“There’ll be time enough for that,” her father replied. “I, for one, have no wish to trail around overgrown gardens that may, or may not, belong to Lancelot. Should we call him Hector now? Although him knowing where a few objects were to be found, merely proves he’s been here before, not that it is his home.”
Lord of the Forest Page 9