Her brow furrowed. “I know—make an endowment to their church. Villagers always love that. Put in a stained-glass window, repair the roof, or rebuild the lych-gate. Now that we are sure you’re no Catholic, that would be the perfect use for your money.”
“Do we know that for certain? Walter tried to make it look as if Paris was a Catholic, then derided me for being Protestant—I know not what to believe. One cannot trust a single word that issues from that man’s mouth.”
She turned her wrist and clasped his fingers between hers. “Nor should you. He is beneath contempt. But you came to church with us on Sunday and failed to run out yelling, so I assume the service was acceptable to you. The tower didn’t collapse in on you, and there were no lightning strikes, so one has to assume your presence was acceptable. Thank you for not attempting to climb the bell tower.”
How she loved to tease him, and how much he enjoyed that twinkle of wickedness illuminating her face! He forgot about Paris, forgot about acreage, seed-corn and the disposition of ditches, and gazed at her, reveling in her presence.
“You’re quite correct. Nothing amiss occurred. Your father seems satisfied of my religious persuasion, so that’s one obstacle surmounted.”
She drew back abruptly, and he silently cursed himself.
“What do you mean, one obstacle? Do you believe there to be more?”
Bringing her hand to his lips, he kissed her fingers. “Don’t imagine for a moment that I don’t love you. You’re dearer to me than life itself. I just cannot be content until Walter is dealt with once and for all. And it may prove a struggle for me to get Emborough working as it should.”
“I’ll be there to help you. I’m the perfect person to do so, in fact.”
But if she remained at Emborough with him, she wouldn’t be at court. And when their children were born, she’d feel obliged to stay in Suffolk to oversee their upbringing and, gradually, her dreams would become dust, and she’d always be unfulfilled. And it would be entirely his fault.
“I could hire a housekeeper, could I not? And I understand many people have stewards to manage their outdoor affairs.”
“You don’t wish to put me to work?” She sounded reproachful.
He drew her closer and kissed her forehead. “I want you to do whatever will make you happy.”
How vague, how weak that sounded! He should simply ask her what she wanted and abide by her decision. Even if it meant losing her to the frivolities and frolics of court. And the infighting. And the factions. And the favoritism.
“What’s that grimace for? Nay, don’t tell me.” She pulled away and folded her hands in her lap, looking at him solemnly. “I have an idea what to do about Paris should you wish to hear it.”
He braced himself. “Go on.”
“I think we could erect a monument to him, in Milforde Church. It doesn’t matter if he’s not there—it shows he’s remembered and loved.”
He mulled this over. “There may be a family vault—I don’t remember. But, yes, that’s a splendid thought. I’ll investigate further.”
He hoped he looked enthusiastic, but it wasn’t the same thing as being able to bury his brother in the manner he deserved.
“I suppose,” she said, gazing down at her hands, “that you ought to go back to Emborough soon, for there is much to be done. The lawyers will need to know where to find you, and there might, even now, be a message from Chancery awaiting you there.”
He smiled and slid an arm around her waist. “Would I could take you with me.”
She leaned into him. “Aye. But it would be unseemly, would it not? Ah—it is good to see you smile. You’ve been brooding too much of late.”
Had he been brooding? He must try harder to keep his emotions to himself. Nay. That was no longer who he was. He’d become used to living on feelings and instinct—and he trusted them more than words.
“Forgive me. I should not hide my thoughts from you, my adorable Clemence. I shall return home on the morrow, and do whatever must be done. I sincerely hope Milforde is safer for me now, with Walter in Sir Kester’s cellar, and Mistress Wentworth too alarmed she may have been party to my poisoning to show her face.”
He meant only to tease, but the brightness left Clemence’s face instantly.
“Indeed. I would wish to be free of both of them.”
He pulled her tightly against him. “Mayhap we should forget all this, declare our marriage and leave straightway for court—wherever Elizabeth happens to be at this point in time. I’m certain she would love to hear our tale.”
He sensed tension in Clemence’s body and eased his hold. Not for the first time, he wished they were back in the cleft oak, where they could be together in true delight and tell the world and all its rules and complexities to be damned.
“I cannot imagine our sovereign would enjoy a tale without a satisfactory end.” She eased away from him and, reluctantly, he let her. She stood, coming between him and the sun, so he couldn’t see the expression on her face. “Pray, continue with your book—although I know it gives you little pleasure. I recall I have some errands I must run before midday. Excuse me.”
She cupped his face in her hands, bestowed on him a tender, lingering kiss, and then hurried off across the sward toward the house.
He gazed after her a moment, frowning. Then he took up his book again and desperately tried to throw himself into the useful advice it contained.
The scholarly enthusiasm waned rapidly. Clemence’s words chased each other through his head, and he eventually realized with a flash of inspiration what needed to be done. They should go to court, petition the queen to speed up the process of his inheritance in Chancery, and entertain her with the tale of their adventures. Clemence could see how much she liked Elizabeth’s entourage, what she thought of the sovereign herself, and discover what might be needed to get into her good graces. If Clemence wished to stay, he’d stay with her. If he found it intolerable, he would return to the comparative peace and quiet of rural Suffolk and enjoy Clemence’s company whenever she chose to return home. She would have the best of both worlds then, and he would endure her absence as best he could.
Tucking the book inside his doublet, he hastened indoors in search of her, to let her know his decision.
But Mistress Clemence Fitzpayne was nowhere to be found.
Chapter Twenty-Five
By the time Clemence neared home after her expedition into Walden, she was exhausted but triumphant. It had taken considerable patience to locate Mistress Julia Wentworth, but as it was market day, she’d been sure the woman would surface eventually.
It had taken the threat of making a scene to convince the lady to speak with her, but she’d apologized heartily for menacing her previously, which had won her a few moments of Mistress Wentworth’s time. A sudden squall had driven them into the Golden Fleece, where they’d sat tucked out of view on a high-backed settle, sharing a pitcher of ale and some cold chicken.
Once Clemence had apprised Mistress Wentworth of all that had occurred with Walter, the woman had lost her sulky demeanor. She’d evinced some sympathy for her former lover, but not enough to wish to help him. When Clemence had suggested revenge, Mistress Wentworth had shied away from that, too. The lady hadn’t shown any real interest until Clemence implied there might be some financial reward if she spoke to the authorities.
They had parted almost amicably, Clemence having given Mistress Wentworth directions to help her find Sir Kester, Master Hardy, or Sir Richard Kelsey. This assumed she would take the logical path, and go to the authorities—it being better to exonerate herself in person. Much would come out at Walter’s trial, including the role Mistress Wentworth had played the day Lancelot was poisoned. If she could prove her innocence of evil intent before then, she was more likely to be treated fairly.
Well-satisfied, Clemence was just trotting around the final bend before Clairbourne when the thunder of hoofbeats caused her to rein Sorrel to one side.
There, hurtling tow
ard her with a face like thunder, was Lancelot, on his majestic stallion, Ajax. As horse and rider clattered to a halt, she prepared herself for a tirade.
“Where have you been? The house has been in an uproar, as you told no one you were going out.”
“And a good evening to you, too, Master de Glanville. I trust you are well.”
“This is no time for pleasantries.” He slid down from Ajax and lifted her bodily from her mare.
“I sincerely hope you’re not planning to throw me in the horse trough, or the fishpond, or whatever,” she complained. “As appears to be your wont when angry.”
He said nothing, just seized the bridles of both horses, and indicated that she should follow him. Eager to give him her news—which she was certain would please him—she acceded, but waited until their mounts had been handed to Perkin before opening her mouth.
He stopped her with a gesture. “Not here.” His tone was harsh, uncompromising. He glanced around. “This will serve.”
“This” was the old malt house, now used mainly for storage, though the sunken area in the floor for malting barley still remained. The place retained the sweet, heady scent of malt.
“Why so angry? I may have found the solution to our troubles.” Not even his dark demeanor could dint her relief that she’d made an ally of Mistress Wentworth.
Pulling the door closed behind him, Lancelot took her shoulders between his hands and brought his face close to hers. For one joyous moment, she thought he would kiss her.
“We have worried ourselves to death over you. What were you thinking, leaving Clairbourne without an escort?”
“It was better to go alone. To take anyone else might have intimidated her, and made her flee.”
“Who? Who have you been to see?” His hot breath seared her face. The anticipation of a kiss heightened.
“Why, Mistress Wentworth, of course. I felt sure I could persuade her to join our cause.”
He gave her a shake. “Mistress Wentworth? Walter’s former lover? The woman who created a distraction for him so he could poison me?”
She jutted her chin at him. Why was he being so bullheaded?
“Aye. I could see no chance of failure. If she hated him, she’d denounce him, or if she still cared for him, she’d speak out and try and mitigate his punishment.” Especially when he wasn’t prepared to pursue a charge of murder, so he could preserve his precious family name.
“It matters not why you left here alone, but the fact that you did. My enemies are your enemies now, Clemence. Your mother and father have been beside themselves with worry.”
She lowered her chin. “I am sorry for it. But had I told them, they would have prevented me from going.”
“Quite rightly.”
The grip of his fingers was becoming painful. It looked as if the kiss was out of the question.
“Just because Walter is safely locked away does not mean he has no influence, no friends beyond his cell walls. You were abducted on the road once before—who are you to judge that it couldn’t happen again?”
She shook his hands from her shoulders. “I did it for you—for us.”
“Little fool. You might have been killed—we all know now how unforgiving a creature Walter de Glanville is.”
“Aye. As unforgiving as you.” Her temper rose like acid in her throat. Why could he not see her quest had ended in triumph? Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom now, and she could tell from the upright rigidity of his body how furious he was. All because she’d left without telling him—because she’d gone riding without an escort.
“Are we come to this, Clemence? Trading insults?” His tone had softened. But it was he who had begun this quarrel, not she.
“Apparently, we are come to this. What has happened to that wild, carefree fellow I found in the forest, who understood nothing of propriety or social mores? As your memory has returned, so has your desire to govern, to curtail my behavior. What manner of marriage will that be for me?”
“A normal one, as I understand it.” His voice became a low growl. “Although, I had hoped we would make an exceptional pairing, not a conventional one.”
Pain jolted through her. Were all her hopes about to be torn asunder, like wisps of smoke on a windy day?
Lancelot raised his hand and rubbed the back of his head. Then he turned away and paced to the other side of the room. His feet made no sound on the hardpacked earth floor, and she realized he must be barefoot again. Not entirely compliant with the rules of gentlefolk as yet, then.
“I thought you’d been taken, Clemence. I was beside myself. If Walter were to harm you in any way, I’d take him apart piece by piece and feed him to the fishes.”
She ignored the plea in his voice—her anger was too great. “And how would that have helped, you idiotic man? It would have made you no better than he is, as I’ve said before.”
Ye gods, how she detested Lancelot at this moment! Only she didn’t—she loved him. Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes.
“I don’t want to control you. I don’t want to command you. But there are some situations best dealt with by men, not young females, no matter how clever or courageous they might be.”
She clenched her fists. “You think Queen Elizabeth not fit to rule, then? Treacherous talk.”
He tugged at his hair and paced the room again. “I did not say that. I find it hard to put into words how I felt when I found you gone.”
“How do you imagine I felt when you went into the woods alone with Walter?”
He was by her side again, reaching for her hands, but she evaded him.
“At least I told you where I was going, and why. You just vanished. What was I supposed to think?”
“That you could trust me.” She was biting her lip now, determined not to weep.
“I do trust you—I do. Only I care for you too much to let you put yourself in danger.”
“As far as I was concerned, I was in no danger. Where has your fighting spirit gone, Lancelot de Glanville? What happened to the magnificent lord of the forest? Have you become as tame as my father?”
She heard him suck in a breath. A horrid silence fell between them. Eventually, he said, “If I am tame, it is because you have made me so.”
Then, without another word, he strode past her and left the malt house. Moments later, she heard the sound of hooves on the cobbles of the courtyard. He was going. But where? As the fight left her, she sank to her knees on the dusty floor, her breath coming in tight, painful bursts. They’d both been angry. They’d both been foolish. And now he was gone, stung by her ill-chosen taunt.
She must saddle up her horse again and ride after him, ask for forgiveness. She understood the kind of apprehension he must have felt when he discovered her missing, and feared the worst. Because it was precisely what she was feeling now.
Leaping to her feet, she was about to pursue him, when a man’s figure filled the doorway.
“Clemence? Where the devil have you been?”
“Oh, Father! I’ve had the most terrible disagreement with Lancelot. I must go to him.”
“He’s ridden off. And you, Daughter, have no more journeys to make this day.”
“But—”
“But me no buts. I shall not let you out of my sight again until the day you and Lancelot de Glanville are married.”
She bit back a sob. Judging by Lancelot’s reaction, that day might never come.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Lancelot rubbed the whetstone down the length of his new sword in a series of expert strokes. He’d been forced to kick his heels at Emborough while the wheels of the law creaked slowly forward, and sharpening weapons was the only thing that calmed him.
Almost, he would have preferred returning to the holly grove, where survival was a daily challenge. Life at Emborough held difficulties of its own, admittedly, but none were so visceral, so imperative—or so rewarding—as his existence in the forest.
But now, he had duties and responsibil
ities—and he was doing his utmost to prove himself capable. Yet, the loss of Clemence’s esteem gnawed away at all his certainties and undermined his confidence.
No matter how often he told himself their words had been spoken in the heat of the moment, he felt helpless. He was no courtier, no poet, no peddler of sweet words. He did not know how to mend the rift between them. If she no longer loved him, he must accept that. They would have to marry after what had happened in the forest, whether she was with child or no. He had recklessly ruined her for any other man, believing their love was so strong that nothing would tear them apart.
Yet, it seemed as if something had. What he needed now was courage of a different kind. He could not win Clemence’s love with the strength of his arm, the pleasures of the body, or logical argument—not that he had any great skill at the latter.
He must abase himself, go before her as a penitent, rescind those words spoken in anger born of fear. And if he had to make absolution for the rest of their married life, he would do it. Even if he no longer had her heart, to have her to wife was a prize beyond riches.
One thing he’d learned from their battle was that women were allowed to be contrary. They might say one thing and mean another—a man needed to listen with full concentration if he were to understand. Another thing he’d discovered was that Clemence was struggling to get used to the restored-to-society version of Lancelot de Glanville. Elements of that forest-dwelling outcast had attracted her. His unpredictability had amused her, and some of his primal behavior had enticed her. Though he was obliged to be temperate in public, mayhap in private, he could use such behavior to soften her heart. He was now ready to make his obeisance to his goddess—assuming she was prepared to grant him an audience.
“Sir, the head gardener wishes a word with you.” Emborough’s steward, Master March, stood in the doorway of the parlor.
Perfect. Distraction was precisely what he needed. He had begun some changes to the overgrown formal gardens at Emborough, which he particularly hoped would give Clemence pleasure.
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