Lord of the Forest

by Keysian, Elizabeth

  “Then I’m certainly not going yet, Father. I shall help find more evidence if that’s what is required.”

  Lancelot silently applauded her bravery in standing up to her father.

  The man rolled his eyes and sighed. “Very well. A few moments more, then. We’ll leave de Glanville to his musings.”

  Lancelot was grateful to be left in peace. Although the peace inside a house was very different from what he’d known in the forest. He could hear the muted voices of the other people as they wandered about, their coughs and exclamations. He heard the creak of the boards beneath their feet, the rattle of opening doors—and echoes. If one filled this house with servants, its grounds with gardeners, and the land with livestock, poultry, and doves—the noise would drive him demented.

  It would be a huge burden, taking up the task abandoned by his older brother. What age was Paris? One assumed he had no wife or progeny, or they would dwell here still—unless foul play had eradicated them, too. Nay. Sir Kester would have known of them had they existed, and Hardy would have said something.

  It struck him as odd that none of the Black Bull’s customers had recognized him as Hector de Glanville. How long had he been away from home? Had he been off fighting in some campaign, mayhap, which would explain why his sword was missing? It would also account for the scars Clemence had found upon his back, perchance even his loss of memory.

  Nothing new was coming to him, and his head was starting to ache again. The air in here must be stale—his chest felt tight. Swiftly, he descended the stairs, keen to find Clemence.

  He tracked her down in a room, similar to the one in which Kester Bayliss dealt with his business affairs. There were numerous chests set about the walls, a double-width window to let in more light, and an assortment of pottery ink pots and cobwebby quills on a table. Clemence was examining an empty box.

  “What is that?”

  Her expression was grave. “I think mayhap a box for coin—see how it is divided? It looks like the kind that might have been used by a landlord collecting rent. There should be ledgers, detailing the rents—but I can find none. So, who has been administering the manor and collecting the monies these past years? As you can see, the dust lies less thickly in this room, and there are trails on the table where items have been moved.”

  He followed her reasoning, which gave rise to a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Walter de Glanville?”

  “I suppose he must have felt duty-bound to do it, as he was the obvious heir—assuming the two of you were dead. Oh, would it not be wondrous if we discovered your brother Paris is still alive?”

  How magnanimous of her to hope Paris had survived, for his older brother’s existence would deprive him of Emborough Hall and the chance to share it with her as his bride. Then he remembered her ambition of going to court—mayhap she imagined they could both go and make something of themselves.

  He ran a finger through the dust, opened a chest full of mouse-chewed documents, and shut it again, then toyed with a lump of something sticky and malleable on the table. What was it? Ah, yes, he remembered—sealing wax.

  “It will take time to learn how to run a manor like this. Like having one’s own village, with the accounts to take care of, the welfare of one’s people to manage, the petty disputes to settle, the condition of the animals and crops to oversee. I’ve forgotten how to do such things—if, indeed, I was ever taught.” He didn’t mean to complain to Clemence, but it was a heavy responsibility and one unsuited to his nature.

  She placed her hand on his sleeve. “You would learn, Lancelot. And you would not be expected to manage alone. I’d help.”

  “But you have hopes of your own, which don’t involve a husband with less than half his memory, and a large manor in need of maintenance.”

  “There will doubtless be some complicated legal entanglements but, between us, we’ll disentangle them. And if we cannot, then—like Alexander with the Gordian Knot—we shall simply take a sword and slice them asunder.”

  Her enthusiasm cheered him, and he was about to scoop her up into his arms and steal a kiss when an exclamation from the great hall stopped him in his tracks.

  “What is it?” Clemence stared at him, alarmed.

  “I know not.” He seized her hand and took her into the hallway, every muscle tensed, crouching instinctively as if he were still in the forest.

  The others were crowded around something propped against one of the walls in the great hall.

  “We found this.” Sir Kester stepped away. “It was turned to face the wall and had been hidden behind one of the tapestries. I imagine it once took pride of place in this room, or above the stairwell.”

  The back of Lancelot’s scalp tickled, and he ran a hand over the puckered skin. All his senses were screaming at him to run, but he fought the urge. Whatever had been discovered, he would have to cope with it.

  “I don’t think there’s any doubt now as to your identity.” Sir Kester moved aside, revealing a framed canvas, bearing a portrait of two youths. Lancelot stared. The faces were so alike—both akin to the reflection he saw in his bathing pool. His face but without the long hair and straggling beard he’d worn while living in the forest.

  The artist had made it clear which of the youths was the elder—he had a solemn face, with lines on the brow and mouth, and held a book and pen, giving him a scholarly aspect. The younger of the two was broad-shouldered and athletic, and even though he wore a fancy lace falling band, it did nothing to dull his masculinity. One hand rested on his sword pommel, the other on a longbow, indicating the subject was a keen sportsman.

  But Lancelot’s gaze was drawn to the elder—the one he was sure must be Paris. His vision blurred, and he was once more kneeling by the running water, an agonizing pain in both head and heart as he tried to wash away the blood.

  When the vision faded, he gazed at the painting again. One brother, benign and studious. The other with his hand on his sword hilt and a martial look in his eye. Built so solidly that he could strangle a man with his bare hands…

  There would be no marriage, no inheritance, no gilded future for him and Clemence Fitzpayne. It was abundantly clear to him—he had killed his older brother.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Though he’d done his best to hide it, Clemence knew Lancelot had been overwhelmed by the return to his family home. For there was no doubt now in anyone’s mind that he was one of the lost heirs—the likeness in the portrait could not be disputed.

  She’d argued they should all return to the inn for their midday meal, hating the haunted expression on his face and wanting to distract him. But before leaving, one very significant thing had been discovered. Sir Kester had found a copy of Tyndale’s English translation of the Bible. The names and dates of birth of family members had been inscribed on the flyleaf.

  Hector de Glanville had a middle name. Lancelot.

  Once he’d recovered from his surprise at discovering he hadn’t chosen the name from Arthurian legend, after all, he seemed happy to continue using it. He’d become used to answering to Lancelot while at Clairbourne, and it would be a trial adjusting to any other name.

  As they sat down to their meal, Clemence noticed a glint in her father’s eyes. She’d seen it before, when Walter de Glanville first came courting, a mixture of pride and calculation. If his favor had now switched to Lancelot—as the man with the strongest claim to Emborough—she couldn’t be happier.

  Her mother seemed to have improved her behavior toward Lancelot, too. She no longer winced when he walked with a slouch, staring around him as if on the lookout for enemies. She didn’t even object when he splashed the water from the finger bowl all over his face and ate his frumenty without using a spoon.

  Mayhap his table manners had never been that good, which was why he was inclined to overlook them now. Could he remember anything of his skills? He’d been able to ride perfectly well. What would happen if one put a bow in his hand and pointed him in the direction of the archery
butts on Milforde green? If one gave him a sword, would he hold it correctly, assume the right positions to block specific blows?

  More importantly, once he’d taken a wife, would he know what to do with her? Or would he throw her over his shoulder and climb a tree, or throw her in the pond and give her a wash?

  “Something amuses you, Mistress Clemence. Not me, I trust. I have remembered to finish my frumenty with my spoon—see? Even if it will be stone cold by the time I’m done.”

  Splendid. That hunted look had eased, and he was twinkling at her, a wicked smile playing about his lips.

  She pushed the bowl with the floating rose petals toward him. “Remember, this is for cleaning fingers, not faces. And you might want to dip your spoon in to cleanse it before you reattach it to your belt.”

  He still wore the splendid doublet he’d rescued from Emborough Hall, only—typically for him—he’d made no attempt to do up the laces. Would her mother take him to task about it, or was she too awed at discovering him to be the likely owner of so grand a manor to criticize?

  “You must let me have that doublet off you, and see what I can do to mitigate the moth damage. Nay, not now! Not while we’re at our meat. I have a dried lavender and southernwood mixture to keep the moths from your clothes in the future and, if you wish it, I can embroider over the holes.”

  His green eyes bored into her. “You still think I need taking care of, Mistress Clemence? Nay—if my claim is upheld, I shall soon be master of a bevy of servants, and my wife will not be expected to mend my clothes.”

  His wife. How thrilling that sounded! To have this delectable, fascinating man for one’s own—he was worth a hundred of Walter de Glanville. Nay, a thousand!

  She felt need rise in her belly, responding to the invitation in his eyes—and suddenly wished the table, her family, and the Black Bull Inn to blazes. She wanted to be alone with this man, rolling naked in the grass on a summer’s day, exploring and reveling in his enticing body.

  “Hector? Hector de Glanville?”

  She glanced up as a woman’s voice intruded on her lascivious thoughts. She stared at the new arrivals, a well-dressed lady with a pageboy tagging along behind her.

  Clemence’s father glowered. “This room has been bespoken by our party, Madam.” He was out of his seat, looking as if he meant to shoo the pair from the room.

  “My apologies.” The lady curtseyed deeply, then fixed her eyes on Lancelot. “I heard you had been seen, sir, and had to learn the truth for myself straightway. Now I know the rumor is no rumor at all, for you are returned to us.”

  A puzzled-looking Lancelot rose to his feet and sketched the young woman a bow. She was a comely-looking girl, probably older than Clemence, and well-dressed, with a courtly air about her.

  “Do I know you?” Lancelot attempted to be chivalrous but showed no real interest.

  “Do you know me? I cannot believe you have forgotten me, sir!”

  The woman rocked backward, and Sir Kester immediately leaped up to steady her. He shot Master Hardy a steely glare. “We were supposed to keep this amongst ourselves.”

  The attorney shrugged his shoulders. “I have said nothing. I cannot think how the word has spread. What brought you hither, Madam?”

  The woman was teetering in Sir Kester’s arms, her bosom rising and falling rapidly. “Myall, the cotton lavender, if you please.”

  As the serving boy hurried forward to crush the pungent leaves beneath his mistress’ nose, Sir Kester gallantly gave up his seat. “Who might you be, my lady?” he inquired.

  Recovering herself, she sat, saying curtly, “I might ask you the same thing. I came here to see my Hector and, instead, I’m confronted by a host of disapproving strangers. Tell them to be gone, Hector, that we may talk in private.”

  Lancelot raised an eyebrow at Clemence, and she responded in kind. This untoward circumstance made her intensely uneasy.

  “That, we may not do.” Sir Kester’s voice was firm. “Say what you must before us all.”

  “Hector!” She appealed to Lancelot again. “Why do you let them bully us like this? I take it you’re not under arrest or anything?”

  “I’ll not answer until you explain yourself.” His expression was set, his voice firm.

  “Well, if I must spell it out—” The woman’s lip curled contemptuously as she looked around the table, ensuring she had the attention of all present. “My name is Julia Wentworth, and I am Hector de Glanville’s betrothed.”

  Someone’s spoon hit the table with a clatter. Clemence began to choke on her mouthful of manchet and reached for the pitcher of small beer to refill her cup.

  Lancelot stuck his knife, point down, into the table, where it quivered ominously. “What devilry is this? I have never seen you before, nor am I betrothed to you. I wager this is no more than speculation on your part. You’ve heard of a wealthy gentleman who’s lost his memory, and come to see what you can gain from it.”

  Mistress Wentworth gaped like a fish. The ornate ruff around her neck trembled with her outrage.

  “You wound me, sir. Myall!” She beckoned the pageboy forward. “My handkerchief.” This was produced from the basket, so Mistress Wentworth could dab dramatically at her eyes. “First, you disappear a week before the wedding, and now you claim to know nothing of me. I knew not you’d lost your memory—how should I? I just heard you’d been seen, and came as soon as I could. I’m very angry with you, Hector. Furious, in truth. I hope you have a good explanation for your desertion.”

  Clemence clenched her hands beneath the table. This must be some fortune hunter, attempting to gull Lancelot with a false claim, surely? But she’d acted quickly if that were the case.

  She swallowed hard. “Mistress Wentworth—pray, forgive the gentleman. Some disaster has befallen him which has deprived him of most of his memories. He means no harm by denying you. But if your claim on him is genuine, he needs more proof than your word on the matter.”

  “I should say, I do.” Lancelot’s expression was fierce. “And even if she had a prior claim on me, I’d not feel constrained to honor it. If you had cared for me, Lady, you’d have taken steps to find me—not assumed I’d deserted you.”

  Mistress Wentworth narrowed her eyes. “How could I have found you if you did not wish to be found?”

  Lancelot replied with a contemptuous snort and turned away. Clemence had never seen him so angry.

  “Why are all these people still here?” Mistress Wentworth waved her hand at the diners sitting around the board. “Affairs of the heart are not for public debate.”

  Lancelot rounded on her. “I feel nothing in your presence, Lady. Be assured I would, had I ever felt anything for you. You are a fraudster and a cheat and are upsetting my friends and my future family. Get you gone, and take your boy with you.”

  “I will not!” The woman’s hard-done-by expression had vanished, to be replaced by cold fury. “I came here in good faith, ready to forgive you for abandoning me, and all I get is disbelief and insult.”

  “Then you should not have come here making claims you cannot substantiate. Where do you live? Who are your parents? Why are they not with you? I have learned enough since my return to the world to know it is not fitting for you to approach me like this, with none but a pageboy in attendance. And do you behave to me as a loving sweetheart? Nay, you do not. Do you weep with joy for my recovery? You do not. Does the sight of you make my heart pound and my breath catch in my throat? It does not.”

  The room became ominously silent. Everyone, including Clemence, stared at Lancelot, never having heard him so voluble before. He’d taken the wind out of everyone’s sails.

  “My honesty shocks you.” He nodded his head at Mistress Wentworth. “If you wished to dupe me, you should have come better prepared. Who put you up to this? What conniving creature is behind your plot, or did you concoct it all by yourself?”

  Mistress Wentworth had puffed out her cheeks and her bosom. She looked like a pig’s bladder being infl
ated for use as a jester’s balloon. Overinflated, in truth, for she looked likely to explode at any moment. When her rage broke, it was not that of a discarded lover. It was that of an actor declaiming from the stage, a weird array of dramatic gestures and incoherent sounds.

  This performance ended with her launching herself at Lancelot and throwing everything to hand directly at his head. Wooden bowls, both empty and full, latten spoons, manchet rolls, and horn beakers sailed across the table at the hapless man. Clemence sat glued to her seat, not sure whether to scream or dissolve into hysterical laughter.

  As the rest of the diners scattered, and the potboy came hurtling in to find out what the disturbance was, Lancelot fended off the missiles, picked up the protesting Mistress Wentworth, and threw her over his shoulder before making for the door.

  Clemence leaped from her chair and pursued him, followed by the rest of their party. They made it to the front of the Black Bull just in time to see Lancelot dump Mistress Wentworth into the horse trough.

  “I believe you need to cool off, my dear,” he told her. “I trust I shall not hear from you again.” He made a show of dusting his hands on his knees, then stalked back into the inn, shouldering his way through his audience.

  Clemence’s eyes were popping. She must remember never to enrage Lancelot if this was how he avenged himself.

  “Magnificent!” Her mother’s eyes were bright as she watched Lancelot resume his seat at the now-chaotic dining table.

  “Disgraceful.” Her father strode back in, his beard bristling with annoyance. “That man needs to stop making a spectacle of himself. Can you not control him, Clemence?”

  He gave her no chance to reply as he swept past. Master Hardy came next. “I cannot help but think that woman deserved it.”

  Sir Kester Bayliss, a thoughtful expression on his face, remained watching the pageboy as he helped Mistress Wentworth out of the horse trough.