Lord of the Forest

by Keysian, Elizabeth

  A squeak of alarm met his eruption from the bed. “Lancelot! Don’t you remember me? ’Tis I, Clemence. Lie down—you’re not well.”

  He refused to obey. Nobody commanded Hector de Glanville. Catching the wench by the wrist, he demanded, “What are you about? Where am I?”

  “Lancelot. Hector. You’re in the Black Bull at Milforde—you ate bad meat. Remember that?”

  He blinked, then stared at the young female regarding him, her lovely mouth twisted in annoyance. This was not the one he’d thrown in the water. How fortunate, as she didn’t look like the forgiving sort.

  He ran a hand over the back of his head, scratching at the thin skin and uneven surface of his scalp. “Forgive me.” He let go of her wrist. “I was in the forest. You brought me out, and now I’ve regained my memory. Is that correct?”

  “A little more complicated than that, but you can be forgiven your confusion—you’ve been sleeping deeply. I’d say your constitution is unharmed by the poison, though you are evidently wearied from fighting it.”

  “Poison?” He was instantly on the alert, staring around him for danger.

  “If you’re looking for enemies, there’s no one here but me,” she said dryly. “Now settle down, make yourself decent, and we’ll talk.”

  Make himself decent? He glanced down. He was clad in braies and nether hose, but shoeless and shirtless. Well enough dressed for the forest.

  Then he remembered. “I’m sorry.” He fumbled for his shirt and dragged it on. “It will take some time before the observation of good manners becomes second nature to me.”

  Her eyes twinkled. “It matters not to me, but should anyone else come in—”

  “Then why do you wear so much?” He waved a hand to indicate her double layer of head coverings, her kerchief-covered shift, her open-fronted gown and bodice, and Lord knew whatever else lay beneath to accentuate her hips and protect her modesty.

  Wouldn’t it be a pleasure to find out! To remove the layers one at a time, undoing the lacing of her bodice, untying the garters at her knees and running his hands over her ankles’ soft skin.

  “Lancelot. You’re not paying attention.” She sounded like the master who’d taught him and Paris Latin, admonishing them for some misdemeanor. He’d been losing himself in delicious imaginings. Somewhere in the turmoil that thundered through his brain, he knew he’d been celibate for an extremely long time.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been married, though I think I’ve had lovers. I just remembered studying Latin alongside my brother. He was called Paris, was he not?”

  Pink roses bloomed in her cheeks as she tilted her head to one side and regarded him. “Your thoughts scurry about like mice in a hayloft. I tell you that you’ve been poisoned, and you speak of marriage and Latin lessons. How can I ever make sense of you?”

  He couldn’t help it. His feelings seemed to be more important to him than his thoughts right now, his instincts more to be trusted than words or memories. “Nay, not poisoned. Bad meat, as I said. I ate but little of it, I know, as my senses of taste and smell are acute. Why is it so dark in here?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Because it’s nighttime, of course.” She raised the candle that flickered beside her. “I’ve been watching over you this past hour and a half. Everyone else is abed.”

  “Then I should be grateful, should I not? But I don’t need watching over—I’m well used to fending for myself.”

  Her expression softened. “Back in the forest mayhap—you were beginning to think more like an animal and less like a man. But here, in this world, you are but a child, still finding your way through the confusing maze of human existence… and human treachery.”

  His stomach clenched, and he belched to relieve the pressure, much to her amusement.

  “Not the politest thing to do in the presence of a lady.”

  “If I have truly been poisoned, then you’ll have to overlook it. I couldn’t help myself.”

  She smiled briefly, then reached for a horn beaker and offered it to him. “Fennel seed tisane, now cold. Swill it around your mouth, gargle with it if you wish—it should cleanse any foul taste that remains.”

  He took the cup, tasted the tisane, and found it palatable. It definitely improved the taste on his tongue. She watched him, a smile playing about the corners of her mouth.

  “What amuses you?” Had he just broken some other nonsensical, pointless rule of etiquette?

  “The fact that you trust me. When an attempt has been made on your life by an unknown poisoner, you still accept a drink from me without hesitation.”

  He grinned. “It is because I follow my instincts. They bid me to trust you.”

  She regarded him solemnly. There was a queer, lost expression on her face he didn’t understand.

  “You still trust me?” she queried. “Even though I wrenched you from your forest lair, almost caused you to be thrown into a cell, forced you to rediscover your true identity when you wished to remain anonymous, then put you at risk of poisoners, and imposters wanting to marry you?”

  She had a point. There was really only one reason he’d put up with it all, wasn’t there? And that reason was now sitting by his bedside, regarding him with an intensity that squeezed at his heart.

  “If I was, indeed, poisoned—then I owe you my life.”

  But who would want to poison him? Nobody even knew of his existence—or rather, his continued existence, since he’d been deemed either dead or in self-imposed exile as a murderer.

  “That evens the score between us.” She retrieved the cup from him and set it down. “And now you’re awake, and there’s none to stop us, what say you we go to Emborough Hall so you can have a good look around and see if any further memories return? There were too many people before, too much distraction. Now that you need no longer doubt who you are, shall we not go back and see what more can be discovered? If we go under cover of darkness, no one will know we’re there, and we can take as long as we like. I’ve borrowed the key—without asking, of course. Sir Kester Bayliss is far too trusting of women.” She brandished the key at him.

  He could think of far more pleasurable things to do under cover of darkness. In full daylight, too, in fact. Preferably out in the open, with a light summer breeze playing over their naked flesh, she with her arms raised above her head, saluting the sun, exposing her breasts and taut nipples to his admiring gaze. He would be naked, too, his male member aroused and ready, eager to find sanctuary in her body and drive them both to an ecstasy few people ever experienced.

  “Lancelot?”

  “Aye?” His voice was hoarse.

  “You were miles away again. What say you to a midnight visit to your old home to see what we may find?”

  “Of course, my Lady Clemence. I’m your devoted slave, and shall do whatever you require.” He hoped she’d require a good deal of him, but that was evidently not what she wanted right now.

  It was hard to know what to do or say to please a lady when one had not done so in many a long year. He could only hope she’d accept him for what he was, as he had no pretty tricks, and no flattering speeches guaranteed to please her.

  Offering himself as her devoted slave seemed not unwelcome. “Have I your word on that, sir?” She raised an eyebrow.

  “If you think my word worth anything, then, mayhap. Yes.”

  “Mayhap yes?” She aimed a mock slap at him. “Enough, you peculiar creature. Let us be gone. We have a house to search—no small house at that.”

  “Must I dress, if there are none to see?”

  She colored again. Despite the discomfort in his stomach, he was enjoying this. It seemed—among other things—that he’d remembered how to tease.

  “You mock me, sir. Aye, put on your doublet at the very least. You’ll show up less in the moonlight.”

  “You needn’t tell me how to remain hidden. Remember—I’m a master of the art.”

  “Then let us go.”

  He felt like a boy again—carefree, wic
ked—as he and Clemence surreptitiously left the inn and made their way through the quiet of the sleeping village toward Emborough Hall.

  Were all women as contradictory as Clemence? On the one hand, she wished to tame him, to teach him to abide by the mores of the world she inhabited. On the other hand, she tempted him to break the rules and join her in defying her parents’ strictures. They would not approve of him being alone with her like this—with good reason.

  They had reached the gates. Emborough Hall stood before them, a block of high walls and towers etched in darkness against the night sky. It looked forbidding, unnatural—all those straight lines, those multifaceted windows gazing out at him like a myriad of eyes.

  She claimed he’d been poisoned. He’d thought it just rotten meat, and stopped eating it before it had any serious effect. But what if she was correct, and it was poison? They weren’t safe in Milforde. Should he have brought some weapon? If only he knew what had become of his sword. Mayhap he’d find something inside he might use—a man should be able to protect himself and his lady. For now, his speed and his fists would have to serve.

  Clemence was trying to be silent, he noticed, though he couldn’t help but be aware of the swish of her skirts as she moved. He didn’t need to tell her to walk on the turf as they approached the house, avoiding the noisy stones and gravel of the avenue.

  As it turned in the lock, the key was deafening to his ears, a strident sound in the muffled night, and one he felt sure was audible for miles. As the door opened, he hurried her inside and then bolted it behind them as softly as possible.

  As Clemence held her horn lantern aloft, the shadows flew back against the walls like great, dark wings, but he knew no fear. He was used to dealing with the corporeal and had no belief in spirits. The only ghosts he experienced were his dreams, which haunted him even in the light of day.

  Was the slaying of his brother the cause of those dreams? Something terrible must have happened if he, Hector de Glanville, had felt the need to kill his own kin.

  As if reading his mind, Clemence asked, “Did Paris live here with you, or had he another dwelling?”

  “When our parents died, he would have inherited this place, so I must assume he lived here.” It was so frustrating being unable to remember.

  “Can you picture your parents?”

  He tried. “Nay.”

  She laid a hand on his arm. “No matter. There is bound to be a picture of them hereabouts. Shall we search together or separately?”

  “Together.” They’d only brought one lantern, and even if another could be found, he’d not let Clemence leave his side if there were murderers about.

  They explored all the rooms on the ground floor of the hall, including two parlors, a laundry room, the stillroom, and the kitchen. While searching the great hall, Lancelot found an antiquated sword, mounted high on a wall. On a nail below it, concealed by a dusty hanging, were a sword belt and scabbard. Hoping it would hold his weight, he placed a chair on a chest and climbed up to retrieve them, keen to have a weapon in his hand.

  Clemence mocked him. “That sword looks as if it dates back to the Crusades.”

  “What know you of the Crusades?” He clambered down and wiped the sword on his hose, then tested its edge.

  “I studied my history primer. The queen won’t take an uneducated lady into her retinue, you know, having been so well educated herself. What know you of the Crusades? I thought you’d lost your memory?”

  He tried the weight of the sword, then swung it around in an arc. His arm seemed to move of its own accord, blocking imaginary blows to his shoulders and legs.

  “Some of my knowledge has been restored by reading your father’s books. Some things I simply remember—or at least the knowledge comes back if I worry at it like a terrier at a rat. And sometimes, skills return to me—like this.” He swung the sword again, stabbing it with pinpoint accuracy at the center of a red poppy on the tapestry. “Hopefully, more abilities will return if I have need of them.”

  “You have scars on your back. Someone attacked you with a sword or a knife, and evidently bested you.”

  A fact he had to face, though he hated it. “Mayhap I had no weapon with which to defend myself. Or was already incapacitated.”

  She grimaced. “Then it was a cowardly attack. Mayhap I should have a sword, too, in case I need to defend myself.”

  He immediately sheathed the ancient weapon he’d found, and fastened the belt around his hips. “Not while I draw breath, you won’t. If you hold a blade, your attacker will feel forced to use his own. If you have no weapon, he’ll be more inclined to parley. Besides, what need have you of steel when you have me to protect you?”

  She tossed her head. “I suppose you’ll tell me next that swordplay isn’t so much fun as it looks. And I thought you a free spirit, with a mind open to new ideas, eschewing the everyday rules by which we live.”

  He’d thought himself a free spirit, too, by comparison. But when it came to Clemence, he found he could happily follow the rules if it kept her safe.

  “When I know what I know and how I know it, I might then be in a position to teach you, oh, courageous maid. But for now, I am the one wearing the sword, and intend to keep it that way.”

  “Do you intend to ruin further tapestries by plunging your blade into them?” She quirked an eyebrow at him.

  He stared at the slashed poppy, now looking like a splash of blood. “Are tapestries important?”

  “They are valuable. It is generally thought best to let tapestries fade and fall apart by themselves before they’re replaced, not cut them to ribbons with swords.” She lifted the lantern. “I’m surprised there aren’t more in a house like this. See—there are wooden battens at the top of some of the walls, where tapestries might once have hung.”

  He followed the direction of her gaze. “Maybe there were financial difficulties when my parents died, and Paris had to sell them.” He thought about this, struggling to penetrate the dark clouds that shadowed his memory. “I don’t know. I think we prospered, but cannot be sure.”

  “Other things are missing. When we were in the larger of the two parlors, I saw empty hooks in the paneling, where objects must once have hung.”

  He wouldn’t have noticed such a thing—he was still striving to recall how great houses worked. “What manner of objects?”

  “Paintings. Battle trophies. Embroideries and suchlike.”

  “And they would have been valuable?”

  “Aye. And there was a good deal of pewter in the scullery, but no silver.”

  “Silver?”

  She gave a snort of impatience. “You know. The precious metal from which coin of the realm is made, and beautiful objects such as… goblets, salt cellars, candlesticks.”

  Staring into the flickering candle flame, he pondered the problem. “I would put what I valued where no one would find it.”

  “Like your shoes and your doublet, in the hollow tree in the forest?”

  She was teasing him again, but he couldn’t be angry. That mocking smile made his heart lift, his skin tingle, and his body thrill in anticipation. The very presence of Clemence Fitzpayne rendered it impossible for him to concentrate on what he was supposed to remember or understand.

  She’d be infuriated if he told her. She was in the role of the hunter now, not that of the lover.

  “Where does your father keep those possessions that he most values?”

  “In a chest too heavy to move, sealed with bands of iron and multiple locks, covered with a patterned carpet. It’s in their bedchamber—I fear it will fall through on top of us one day.”

  “If valuable items are gone from Emborough, they’ve either been stolen or put away. Or mayhap are in the keeping of others, such as the lawyers administering the manor while Walter de Glanville’s claim is assessed.”

  She was already moving toward the stairs. Evidently, his pronouncement wasn’t going to stop her from poking around. Mistress Clemence Fitzpayne enjoyed haza
rd and adventure, he suspected, and it would tax his wits to keep her safe.

  “All we need to do is find the main bedchamber, where Paris would have slept.”

  He helped himself to the lantern, and took the stairs two at a time, keen to illuminate the dark reaches of the house before she arrived there. His hand went for the pommel of his sword without him being aware of it.

  She followed him and gazed at the impressive gallery that extended the whole length of the upper floor. “Can you remember which room Paris slept in? Or your parents?”

  On their previous visit, he’d been too absorbed in the rediscovery of his own room to pay attention to the other chambers. He prowled along, looking at doors and cross-passages, hoping for some spark of memory—but none came.

  “Nay. We’ll just have to look into each. You’ll have to tell me which is the finest, Clemence, as I’ve forgotten how to judge such things.”

  There was that teasing look again, that wayward challenge in her eyes. He responded to it on a fundamental level, knowing an overwhelming need to prove himself to her, to demonstrate his worth.

  Before he could pursue the thought, she chose a door and opened it. The golden glow from his lantern illuminated the massive bed within.

  A memory struck him so profoundly, it was like a physical blow. He had taken a woman on a bed such as this. Not just on a bed, but on the floor, across a table, in a ripe cornfield. His breath wedged in his chest, and he couldn’t move. One after another, images flashed before him, and they weren’t all of the same woman. But what they all had in common was nakedness. So—he’d had an insatiable appetite for passion before he was lost to the world, it seemed.

  Was that considered a good thing by society—or a bad one?

  “Clemence.” His voice was tight. “That woman who accosted me the other day—”

  “Think not of it. Look—there’s a chest under here. Can we get it open?”

  “That lady, Mistress Wentworth. I… I fear—” He was afraid her claim might not be invalid after all, if he’d had more than one woman in his bed. But in truth, she looked too young. The faces his mind had conjured up looked older. Lonely or abandoned wives? Widows? If only his memory had shown him himself—was it a young and foolish Hector de Glanville who’d cavorted with those wenches? Or was it an older one, still incapable of curbing his lusts?