“We should see how your shift is doing.” He eased her off his lap, set her down gently, and strode back to the brook. She watched, greedily enjoying his nakedness once again, the rippling of his muscles as he wrung her shift out over the water, before spreading it across a bush to dry.
When he returned to their forest bed, he wore a sinful grin. “It will be a little while ere you can put that on again.” He leaned down and scooped her into his arms, then possessed her mouth in a searing kiss. “Now, shall we explore my suggestion for your second time?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Five long days had passed since Clemence had bid Lancelot an unwilling farewell, and returned to Clairbourne Manor. She’d spent the entire time indoors, in expectation of his arrival. There were no herb-collecting forays and she had no interest in visitors, sewing, playing on her dulcimer, or making preserves. Mostly, she gazed out her chamber window, watching the road.
Only commonplace traffic passed by; farmers’ carts piled high with hay or vegetables, drovers herding cattle and geese to market, youngbloods hurtling past on newly-acquired steeds, and stately merchants, traveling together in groups, well-armed against potential robbers.
The door opened. “Clemence? Are you well?”
“Aye, Mother. Well enough.” She didn’t know what else to say. Everything seemed so complicated, and the fact she couldn’t see Lancelot to plan for their future—and had no idea of his whereabouts—was weighing on her mind like a millstone.
“You miss your betrothed sorely. I understand. Once, I was like that with your father. The young heart is both vulnerable and apt to feel things more than it should. Lancelot won’t let you down—I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”
How embarrassing. “How does he look at me?”
“As a pauper gazes at a fresh-baked pie. Hungrily. Ah, is that a smile I see? Good.”
“There is so much that could go wrong, ere we be wed.”
“I know how you feel.” Her mother settled beside her on the bed and plucked at a loose thread on the counterpane. “Think you he will make you happy? You seemed to be so dead set against marriage before.”
“I was.” A sigh escaped her. “After Simeon’s death, I thought the pain would be too much for me to dare love again. It happens when you least expect it, doesn’t it?”
“Mayhap. My marriage to your father was planned, but I already liked him, and soon learned to love him. But you, Clemence—you’re special. We should have known the man you set your heart on would be out-of-the-ordinary. But I must ask you—what of your ambition? Will Lancelot allow you to go to court? I cannot see him wanting to attend himself. As his story becomes more widely known, he’ll be notorious as the man who lost his memory and thought climbing up the outside of the stairs was a good idea.”
Clemence had wondered about that herself. “I don’t want the other courtiers to point at him and whisper behind their hands.”
Her mother chuckled. “I’m sure he’ll deal with them summarily if they do that. I’ll wager he can trade blow for blow with any man, and always prevail.”
Except when attacked from behind. She swallowed hard and hoped her mother wouldn’t see the tremor in her fingers.
“The queen may not appreciate fighting amongst her courtiers.”
“Or she might find it amusing.”
Clemence struggled to picture Lancelot, dressed in court finery, with gartered stockings, rosettes to his shoes, a ruff, and a high-crowned hat. Nay. It was impossible.
“I may have to abandon that hope. But if he has Emborough, I’ll have plenty to keep me occupied. A house not lived in for three years, and stripped of its decorations, will need work, and we’ll have to find servants to staff it.”
“And don’t forget the demands of your husband and the raising of children.”
She felt the warmth drain from her body. She had to marry him now, whatever happened, in case she was with child. Should anything occur to prevent their marriage, the consequences for her would be bitter, indeed.
Her mother glanced through the leaded panes. “Two horsemen have just arrived. We’re not expecting visitors, are we?”
Clemence wasn’t prepared for the invisible hand that squeezed at her heart. Lancelot? It had to be. But who was the other? She pressed her face against the window pane, then leaped up, cantered down the stairs, reached the door well in advance of the astonished maid, Cissy, and flung it open.
“Lancelot!” She was about to throw herself into his arms when she recognized the man standing behind him.
Walter de Glanville.
Both men bowed—Lancelot with a hearty flourish, Walter, mockingly.
“Is your father at home?”
Why did Lancelot look so solemn? After so many long days apart, she’d hoped for joy, but his expression was grave, his jaw tight.
“Aye. Cissy, pray, call Master Fitzpayne.” She shot Lancelot a questioning look, her heart beating at a furious pace, but he lifted a hand slightly, signaling her to wait.
Great heavens, what could have gone wrong, that Walter de Glanville was now free?
“God give you good day, sir.” Her father’s welcome was jovial, but his face changed when he saw Lancelot’s companion. “What do you here, sirrah? You ought to know you are no longer welcome in my house.”
“How little mercy you have in you,” Walter replied. “I’m accused of nothing more than theft at present and expect to refute all charges. As to your daughter, I would not take her now—she is tainted.”
Clemence saw her father glance at the sword-rack and quickly grasped his elbow. There’d be no blood spilled at Clairbourne Manor this day, if she could prevent it.
“Sir, forgive me.” Lancelot addressed her father. “I would have private speech with your daughter if I may. I’d be grateful if you could keep Master Walter here occupied. Nay, there’ll be no need for weapons. He has no knife or sword and is duty-bound to try nothing dishonorable. Is that not so, Stepbrother?”
Walter wrinkled his nose. “It is, though it galls me to say so. But the truth will come out, and it will be you once more behind bars, not me.”
Lancelot raised an eyebrow at Clemence. “As you can see, matters have not improved between my stepbrother and me. With your permission?” He held out his hand to her. After the briefest pause, her father nodded and ushered Walter into the parlor, calling for refreshment.
Lancelot strode around the house to the gardens, and she trotted alongside, trying to keep pace with him.
“What has happened? Why did you bring that man here?”
“I have but little time to explain it, my love. Come, is there anyone in the barn, think you? I wish to be unobserved.”
The chill that had been with her since her conversation with her mother dissipated. She went with him into the warm, dusty darkness of the hay barn, wantonly expectant.
The kiss he gave her as soon as the shadows swallowed them did not disappoint. It was as if through the passionate uniting of their lips, their souls touched. But all too soon, it was over, and he pulled away, leaving her breathless and wanting more.
“It hurts me more than I can say to spend so brief a time with you. Much is afoot, and as soon as it is over, we can prepare for our nuptials. Be assured, my sweet, I love you with every sinew in my body, with every last drop of my heart’s blood. But I cannot rest easy until Paris is found, and his earthly remains consigned to sacred ground. I know you would feel the same if it were a sibling of yours who’d been murdered.”
She gripped his hand tightly. “Was it Walter? Has he confessed?”
“Not publicly. But to me, he has admitted it. I extracted his story on the promise that I would stand him bail.”
“You mean, he’s free until his trial?”
“If he attempts to break bail, his punishment will be all the harsher. I trust him no more than you, but he swore, if I had him released long enough to organize his affairs, he would show me where he disposed of Paris’ body. We are now bound
thither.”
“Should you not take Sir Kester with you or one of the justices of the peace? Take a constable, at the very least.”
“Later. Walter would not countenance it at this point. We have agreed that, if he leads me to the body, I will not press the charge of murder, but only continue with that of theft. For he has certainly stolen many items from Emborough to which he had no legal right. When his house at Glemham was searched, numerous valuables were discovered bearing the de Glanville crest. I have now put in a counterclaim to Chancery, with the assistance of Master Hardy, who assures me Emborough will soon be mine. We need not delay our marriage. Assuming you still care for me?”
Of course, she did. But her love was laced with anger. “It sounds a foolish thing to do. If he killed your brother and almost killed you, how do you know he won’t try it again? He has no scruples.”
He spread his hands. “You think I don’t know that? I’ll not let him out of my sight. I’ll keep him always in front of me. You have not yet seen how quickly I can move through the forest.”
“Is that where the deed was done?”
“Aye, but several miles from where I found myself after the attack. As I knelt over Paris’ limp body, hoping against hope to revive him, to stanch the flow of blood from his stomach wound, Walter stole up and clubbed me from behind. To make sure I never recovered consciousness from the blow, he stabbed me several times where I lay prone beside my brother’s body. Then, thinking the deed done, he rolled me into the water, assuming the river would take me farther than it did. He hadn’t reckoned on my additional weight, you see. I went no farther than the other side of the forest.”
She put her hand to her throat. The sheer, cold-blooded cruelty of the attack stole her breath. Lancelot had been left for dead. It was a horrific thought. “The wounds on your back were shallow, thank the Lord.”
“I always wore good, finely-woven cloth. It seems a couple of layers of quality silk can be surprisingly strong. I remember having a leather jerkin over my doublet on that day, as the air was chill.”
“You remember it?” This was surely good news.
“Some of it, aye. Nothing after the attack, however. I just know Paris and I had gone out hawking on our own, while staying with a family friend in Essex. Walter had not been invited, so everyone assumed he was kicking his heels at Glemham and was miles away.”
“So, what exactly happened to Paris?”
“My brother and I became separated when his hound scented something of interest in the undergrowth. He had to go after it on foot—that was when Walter slaughtered my brother. I found Paris dying from his wounds while his dog whined and licked his face. I knelt—and then knew nothing more.”
It was a grim question to ask, but she had to know. “What did he do with Paris’ body thereafter? Did he not roll it into the water, as he did with you?”
“He says not. He claims he buried it. If my body was found, people might think Paris had killed me, then fled. If his was found, the opposite would be believed true. But if both bodies were discovered, Walter would be the most obvious subject. So, having somewhat foolishly left the discovery of my body to chance, he decided to ensure Paris’ corpse would be buried so deep, so secretly, it would never be found. Unless it suited his plans that it should be. I confess that I cannot understand the mind of one who can steal the life of another in cold blood.”
She clutched at him. “And yet you mean to go into the forest with him? Alone? To a part of it you don’t know?” It sounded like utter folly.
“Be not alarmed. I have every intention of keeping my skin whole. But I must do something to retrieve Paris’ body. You do understand that, don’t you?”
Aye, she did. But he should go with others. Be damned to his promise to Walter that he would go alone! Must she weep, kneel before him and beg him not to trust the word of that immoral cur, Walter de Glanville?
Nay. Lancelot had great faith in his own ability to look after himself. And it would dent his pride if he capitulated and agreed to take companions now. So, she would do the best next best thing.
She’d follow them.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It cut Lancelot to the quick to have to leave Clemence so soon. But the matter of Paris’ resting place was like a fever in his blood, and could not be quenched. Checking the knots binding their two mounts together, he mounted his new stallion, a handsome bay he’d named Ajax, then tightened the rope as Walter mounted his own horse. Thus far, this arrangement had prevented Walter from riding off, but Lancelot knew it was only a matter of time until he tried to escape. He’d already taken clandestine steps to prevent this by loosening Walter’s girth, and inserting some burrs beneath the saddle. These wouldn’t hurt the horse at a slow pace, but if Walter urged it to a gallop, they’d dig in, making the animal careen across the highway and throw its rider.
The trick with the burrs was one of the memories he’d recalled—he’d once played this jest on his elder brother. It had resulted in a beating from his father and a ducking in the fishpond from Paris. But once honor was satisfied, the brothers had made peace and continued on amicably as siblings generally did. This had happened before their father’s marriage to Walter’s mother, so Walter should suspect nothing.
The sun was rising above the treetops as they rode along the highway, dispelling the morning shadows. A few birds still chorused in the branches or picked at juicy morsels in the grass. Wild conies hopped swiftly out of sight as the horses reached them.
Walter retained his mocking expression, but his constant twitching and tugging at his collar belied his calm exterior. Lancelot made no effort to speak to him—he wouldn’t waste his breath on a cold-blooded killer. He needed Paris’ burial place, nothing more. Then the law could have Walter and administer punishment.
He wasn’t about to break his word—he’d sworn that if Walter showed him Paris’ body, he’d only pursue the charge of theft, not that of murder. He hadn’t promised not to charge Walter with his own attempted murder. And if Walter failed to deliver Paris, Lancelot was no longer bound by his oath.
Their uncommunicative progress gave him time to discover how uncomfortable he was. Having decided he needed to equip himself with a horse, he’d also acquired a saddle, stirrups, spurs, and riding boots. How could men cope with having their feet and ankles thus confined? One could barely feel the horse’s flanks. He would start a new fashion for riding bareback and barefooted when he came into his own again.
Would Clemence continue to “train” him, undo all those “bad” habits he’d acquired when he’d dwelled among the trees? If so, would he allow it? The simple answer was that he would—he’d do whatever it took to make her happy.
On occasion, he might need to ride over to the forest, conceal himself in the holly grove, catch his own dinner, and cook and eat it under the stars. Then he’d bathe naked in the pool fed by the river, near the place he’d washed ashore on that fateful day. If he were fortunate, he’d persuade Clemence to join him.
He was roused from some extremely lascivious thoughts by Walter announcing, “This is the path you and Paris took when you went hawking that day. Do you recall?”
Staring at the plank bridge across the ditch and the gap between the trees, Lancelot scoured his memory but could find nothing.
“Nay. You’ll have to lead on. Is it far?”
“Half a mile, I should say. You must loosen the rope—we’ll have to ride in single file.”
Alarums rang immediately in Lancelot’s head. Were they near the place? Or was it just a ploy of Walter’s to get him to release the rope?
“I can very well walk half a mile as—I’m sure—can you. We’ll take the horses in a little farther and tie them up.” The sound of flowing water reached his ears—their steeds would be all the happier to be left in a spot where they could drink.
He flung himself from Ajax’s back and stood by Walter, one hand firmly on his horse’s bridle, the other on the hilt of his sword. The temptation to tie W
alter’s hands was strong, but it wouldn’t stop him running away. And if he tied the man’s feet, they’d take hours to reach their destination, and he would surely have exploded with impatience by then.
As soon as he came to the watercourse, he caught Walter by the collar with one hand and tied up the horses with the other.
“Apologies, Ajax, my boy. I promise you a good gallop later. For now, if any stranger lays a hand on you, you have my permission to trample him into the dirt.” He patted the horse’s neck, removed his boots and spurs, then unsheathed his sword and prodded it at Walter’s back.
“Proceed. And do not try to run. It would break our contract—and I’d no longer feel obliged to keep you in one piece.”
“You always were a bully,” Walter complained as he splashed through the shallows. “And now you’re making me ruin my boots.”
Lancelot relished the reviving chill of the water around his bare ankles. “I care not one whit for your boots. Show me where my brother is buried and cease talking. I have naught to say to you.”
“You doubtless consider yourself a gentleman, but you ceased to be one long ago. The way you and your brother treated me when I joined your family—as if I were a toad that had crawled out from under a stone.”
“I’m quite fond of toads, actually.” Lancelot had no wish to bandy words with his brother’s murderer.
“You always thought my mother cared only for money and position, and you treated me like a servant. Even long-time friends of the de Glanville family refused to countenance my existence. Pah! So much for that surname opening doors to favor. I should have kept my father’s—only my fine lady mother forbade it.”
From what Lancelot could recall, his stepmother, Lucy, had disdained having anything much to do with him and Paris. She preferred spoiling her wheedling, spiteful, manipulative brat, Walter. In the end, all she had created was bitterness.
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