Lord of the Forest

by Keysian, Elizabeth

  He turned to Clemence. “I cannot help but think young Hector de Glanville did protest too much. I know he has spent some years in the forest with only himself to please, but what we witnessed may have been more than an overreaction. He needed to silence that young woman before she let slip something that would have damned him.”

  Leaning closer, he whispered, “Beware that gentleman. He may not be everything he appears to be.”

  Her back stiffened. “Had you seen the mean existence that he suffered in the forest, you could never say that. I value your opinion, sir—believe me, I do—but you misjudge the man. He’s more open and honest than you or I. He treated that woman as he saw fit. Aye—he wanted to silence her, because she was obnoxious—not because he feared she would expose him. If she’s the only fortune hunter to emerge from the woodwork now that Hector de Glanville is found again, I shall be very surprised.”

  Having delivered her parting shot, she turned away in confusion. Usually, she would have hung on Sir Kester’s every word, but she’d just torn him down in flames. This could mean one of two things—she had fallen hopelessly in love with Lancelot and would not hear a word said against him, or—and she hoped this wasn’t the case—it was because she feared Sir Kester was right.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Before supper that evening, when everyone had recovered from the unpleasant incident with Mistress Wentworth, a debate was held regarding what to do next about Lancelot. Neither Clemence nor her mother were invited. Consequently, as soon as Mother left her to her own devices, Clemence positioned herself outside the private parlor door and listened at the keyhole.

  “Walter de Glanville will have to be told that one of the heirs to Emborough is found.” She recognized Kester Bayliss’ voice, authoritative as ever.

  “I aim to be present when he’s informed.” Yes, she could well understand why Lancelot would want to come face-to-face with his stepbrother. But from the edge in his voice, it didn’t sound as if he expected the meeting to be a cordial one.

  “As a justice of the peace, I should like to be present, as should Master Hardy.”

  “I’ll have news for de Glanville he won’t want to hear. And I don’t look forward to disappointing him after I gave my word about Clemence,” said her father.

  Her mouth twisted. Well, he should never have promised her to that man without consulting her. Even if he was quite within his rights to arrange her marriage, it was not the act of a loving parent. If de Glanville turned out to be a scoundrel—as she suspected he was—it wasn’t the act of a perceptive parent, either.

  “Let us put aside the issue of Clemence’s marriage for the moment and concentrate on the affairs of Hector de Glanville. What do you wish to do, sir? Take possession of Emborough Hall immediately? It will be up to Walter to contest your right to it or come to terms with you. As he already has a residence of his own, there’ll be no need for you to offer him your hospitality.”

  Clemence shuddered. The idea of Walter under Lancelot’s roof was unappealing. How could she visit him then? How could they pursue their courtship with Walter lurking disapprovingly in corners?

  “Your pardon, Mistress.”

  She shot upright, her cheeks burning. The potboy had arrived with a tray of pastries for the gentlemen within. She scooted out of the way as he shouldered open the door and announced, “A pheasant pasty—from a ripe bird, as asked for by the tall gentleman. Master Hardy, here is your pork with apple—and there are pigeon pies for the other gentlemen.”

  By the time the youth departed the room, Clemence had removed herself from the passageway and headed toward the kitchen. The Black Bull was a warren of parlors, snugs, taprooms, and cellars, easy to get lost in unless one knew the place, but the kitchen was easy to find due to the delicious aroma of roasting beef emanating from it. She wondered how long she and her mother would have to wait for their supper.

  Not that she had a great deal of appetite—whatever was being discussed over pasties in the parlor would affect her directly. Though she had never dared say it, she’d long nursed a suspicion that Walter de Glanville might have had a hand in her abduction. He hadn’t taken her rejection well—had he meant to teach her a lesson on that road? Had he intended to circumvent the normal process of marriage by making off with her?

  If so, the only reason she could think of for his hurry was that he must be in a dire financial situation. It would have to be dire, indeed, as her dowry was unimpressive, and Clairbourne Manor the family’s only asset. Unless, of course, he’d fallen madly in love with her—which she very much doubted.

  Lurking close to the kitchen, she heard the parlor door open again and decided retreat was the safest option. Heavy footsteps hurried up the ancient stone staircase, and a door slammed somewhere above. Who had left the room in such a hurry?

  Her mother appeared around a corner. “There you are, my dear. Have you lost your way in this labyrinth?”

  “Nay, Mother. I thought to inquire about our evening repast.”

  “One must expect tardiness in these country inns. I wonder how long your father intends to be? I was hoping to speak with him about when we could return home—the servants will be running riot in our absence.”

  Clemence followed her mother to a room adjacent to the taproom and joined her at a small oak table, already set with napkins and serving spoons. But not even the prospect of dining on roast beef fresh from the spit could tempt her. Her stomach was taut with anticipation, and she expected her father to appear at any moment and make a pronouncement that would have a significant impact on her future.

  But when he came to sit with them while they ate their supper, it was to inform them that nothing had been decided, since Lancelot felt tired and had taken early to his bed. They must kick their heels until he’d rested, curse the man.

  “Tired?”

  She couldn’t imagine a man with Lancelot’s energy being tired. He’d been full of vigor when he threw Mistress Wentworth into the horse trough, and he was highly unlikely to disappear off for a rest at such a vital stage in negotiating his future. He must have lied—there was something he wanted—nay, needed to do.

  But what? Confront Walter de Glanville on his own? But Lancelot wouldn’t know where to go or what to do. Why, the man had barely ridden a horse in years. Besides, if he was going to find Walter, she didn’t want to a single word of that conversation.

  “Father, Mother—I have a headache coming on. I cannot face food. If you will excuse me, I shall lie down in my chamber.” Before anyone could see through her flimsy lie, or stop her, she was out of the room and cantering up the stairs.

  Fully expecting to find Lancelot gone from his chamber, she was much surprised upon opening his door to find him still there. But he was behaving most oddly. He’d pulled off his doublet and shirt, and thrown water from the pitcher all over himself, making a mess on the floor. He still needed to be taught to wash in a civilized fashion.

  “Lancelot?”

  He turned toward her, and she knew something was seriously wrong. “What is it? Your face is positively white.”

  “Bad meat.” He pressed a hand against his stomach and winced, then splashed more cold water on his forehead. “It sometimes happens to me in the forest, if I leave an animal in a trap too long, or hang the game up without covering it properly. I took no more than a couple of bites before I knew—I’ll soon recover.”

  “Let me fetch you something.” She was all fingers and thumbs, trying to pour some of his drinking water into a cup.

  “Panic not.” He placed a dripping hand over hers. “Bad meat, as I said. I will recover. Please go.”

  “No, let me help. Lie down—no, drink this, then lie down. Put the pot out, in case you need to be sick. I’ll see what remedies can be found.”

  “I appreciate your care but fear to shame myself in front of you. Go—send up a servant if you’re worried, then eat your vittles. But don’t eat the pheasant.”

  He clutched at his stomach again, then
swayed, and put out a hand. This was an excessively rapid response to rotten meat. Recalling how helpless she’d felt when Simeon fell ill with the sweating sickness, Clemence was determined to act immediately.

  She flew down the stairs and crashed in on her parents. “First, don’t eat any pheasant.” She tried to catch her breath. “Secondly, send someone to attend to Lancelot—he’s most unwell. I’m going to look for physick.”

  Leaving her parents open-mouthed, she spent a frustrating few minutes hunting down the innkeeper’s wife to see what simples, if any, she had in her store, then making free with the kitchen mortar to mash up some angelica root. To this, she added ginger and crushed fennel seed before warming it in a small quantity of white wine over a chafing dish.

  As soon as this was done, she raced to Lancelot’s chamber to see how he fared.

  “You may not enter.” Her father had placed himself firmly in the doorway. “This is no place for a woman.”

  She stood her ground. “This is exactly the place for a woman, particularly one accustomed to dealing with the sick.”

  “I mean, a young, unmarried woman. One not accustomed—or so I hope—to seeing a man in a state of undress.”

  Not only had she seen Lancelot naked, but she’d also seen him naked and crawling on all fours, grunting like a wild boar. But she had no intention of ever telling her father that.

  “Let her in, Fitzpayne.” Sir Kester had appeared at her elbow, with Master Hardy in tow. “She made remedies for my son—she understands sickness. If she made that concoction herself, she’s the best person to administer it.”

  When Clemence knelt by Lancelot’s bedside, attempting to spoon the medicine between his bluing lips, she truly knew the meaning of fear. He was deathly ill now—violent spasms racked his body, and most of the liquid was spilled. He clutched the bedclothes in his fists and gritted his teeth, trying to stifle his groans.

  The onset of this malady was far speedier than that from which Simeon had suffered—she’d never known decaying meat provoke so immediate a reaction in anyone. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Lancelot had been poisoned. And targeted, too, as none of the other men had shown any symptoms of illness. But who knew Lancelot was here, or would have motive to poison him?

  Poison was a woman’s weapon. Mistress Wentworth?

  It made no sense. What could she have to gain by Lancelot’s death? Being dumped in the horse trough wasn’t deserving of such vengeance, surely?

  “Hold his head still someone, I beg you, so that I can get some of the remedy into him.”

  Sir Kester exerted all his strength keeping Lancelot in one position so he could be made to swallow his physick. As soon as it was gone, Clemence stood back and spent the next few moments in earnest prayer.

  “Why all the drama, Clemence?” Her father sounded annoyed.

  Sir Kester answered for her. “She thinks it’s poison, from those pastries we had before supper. Do you feel unwell, Fitzpayne?”

  Her father looked astonished. “Nay—I feel perfectly sound. You?”

  “Hale and hearty, as is Master Hardy. I’ll remain with you and Clemence to guard our victim, while Master Hardy questions the owners of this establishment and their staff. Lancelot didn’t finish his pasty.” Sir Kester turned to the lawyer. “Make sure to get a good sniff of his platter before it’s cleaned.”

  “Clemence, you’re shaking. Pray, sit down before you fall.” Her father sounded genuinely concerned now. “I shall send for your mother to take you back to your chamber.”

  She grabbed one of Lancelot’s flailing hands and gripped it firmly. It was an enormous relief to have the pressure of her grasp returned.

  “Nay. I’ll stay here. You decreed not long since that I must marry this man. What kind of a woman abandons her future husband in his hour of need?”

  She wasn’t going to let go of Lancelot’s hand for anyone, but she accepted the offer of a stool. Her knees were so weak, her stomach so turbulent, she wondered fleetingly if she’d been poisoned, too. But no—it was the agony of seeing the man she loved suffer.

  She pressed a hand to her forehead. Exactly when had she come to love him? She knew not, but the idea that he might be taken from her shocked her so much, what she felt had to be love, a love greater than anything she’d ever known. Was Fate so cruel that it would take him before they’d even had a chance at happiness? It had happened once with Simeon. Fie! If it happened again, it would destroy her.

  How long she sat there, clutching Lancelot’s hand and praying, she knew not. Her mind was a maelstrom of conflicting urges—should she be here to comfort him at the end, or ought she to be chasing around Milforde in search of more physick? Was it more important to find the source of the poison before anyone else fell foul of it?

  Lancelot collapsed back against his pillows, and his free hand no longer plucked at the sheet. Clemence sensed the release of tension in his body and was tempted to pray again, fearing the worst.

  “Come, Daughter. You’ve done all you can.” Her father tried to raise her.

  “Nay—I need to keep watch.”

  “Shall I hunt down a physician who is skilled at bleeding?” Sir Kester asked.

  To her surprise, her father gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Let’s see what effect my daughter’s remedy may have. She’s a skilled user of herbs and ministers to all our maladies at Clairbourne with great success. If the man takes a turn for the worse, then we shall send for a physician.”

  Clemence released Lancelot’s hand and rose. “We should turn him onto his side, Father, so if he feels sick, he hasn’t far to move.”

  “Not ‘we’, Clemence. Sir Kester and I shall do it.”

  Sir Kester raised an eyebrow at her as he joined her father in the awkward task of rolling Lancelot’s sturdy frame onto one side. She knew he was thinking of Simeon and the sweating sickness, and how her efforts had failed to save the boy. But she’d been so young then—barely sixteen summers—and had learned much since. She was determined never to fail again in saving anyone—the scars on her heart had yet to heal.

  Once Lancelot was settled in his new position, he closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. He still clutched at his stomach, and his face wore a greenish tinge, but he seemed like a man exhausted from a fight, rather than one still embattled.

  “Is he improving, Clemence?”

  “I hope so. I’d like to watch over him while he rests.”

  “Then do so. Sir Kester and I will look further into this issue with the pheasant. And we’ll locate the nearest physician, just in case—but won’t alert him unless you say we should.”

  “Should we not alert the constable, too? If there’s a poisoner in our midst, they must be caught.” Her father’s face was grim.

  “Such talk is not fitting for the sickroom.” Sir Kester lowered his voice and leaned closer to her father. “I don’t want the invalid to be alarmed, but if this attack fails, there may be others.”

  “All the more reason to call the constable.” Her father might not care much for Lancelot, but Clemence knew he had no time for criminals, especially not cowardly ones unprepared to face up to their victims.

  “Let us make our own inquiries first. Constables are not known as the cleverest of men. If we inform the fellow, he’ll raise the hue and cry, but how would that help us catch our poisoner? He—or she—can hide in plain sight. They’ll have no blood upon them, and nothing to indicate their crime.”

  “So, you think more subtlety is needed?” Clemence’s father chewed on his finger.

  Lancelot groaned softly, and she bent to brush his hair back from his brow.

  “I do, indeed. We can easily bring the constable in later.” Sir Kester glanced at the bed, then back at her father. “Our main suspect must be Walter, surely. I can’t see that anyone working in the inn would deliberately poison a guest. If we can find a connection between Mistress Wentworth and Walter, all the better. Or there may be someone who lives in Milforde who needs Hector de
Glanville dead. Only subtle inquiry will help, but we must all be alert should our would-be assassin try his hand again.”

  Clemence was barely listening to their exchange now, all her attention concentrated on Lancelot. But as the two gentlemen left the chamber, she overheard her father say, “If Clemence can save our rediscovered heir, mayhap she should go to court, where the queen will value her skills. She’s always dreamed of it, you know. One of the reasons she was dead set against marriage.”

  “Mayhap you should let her go,” Sir Kester said before they were out of earshot. “If someone has deliberately attempted to poison Hector de Glanville, you need to get your daughter away from him as soon as possible. She would, indeed, be safer at court.”

  Clemence reached for Lancelot’s hand again, brought it to her mouth, and kissed his knuckles. She hadn’t been meant to overhear her father’s pronouncement, had she? A few short weeks ago, she would have been overjoyed to hear him praise her healing skills, and support her hopes of becoming a maid-of-honor to Queen Elizabeth.

  But could she envisage no longer being part of Lancelot’s story? She knew she loved him now, wanted him with every breath, with every beat of her heart. How could she bear to be parted from him?

  But how much danger would she be in if she became his wife?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lancelot awoke with an ache in his gut and a foul taste in his mouth. Where was he? He felt enclosed, so he must be in the hollow oak. But when he moved, there was no rustle or prickle of dried furze, only sliding softness. And the forest smelled wrong, too—not of fresh greenery, but of wood smoke, dust, and a deep, musky scent that was not of his world.

  “Lancelot?” A woman’s voice. An image flashed across his mind, that of a pretty female enveloped in layers of clothing, in his arms one moment and the next in the horse trough.

  “Zounds! Get away from me, Woman.”