Lord of the Forest

by Keysian, Elizabeth

  “I shall be there directly.” He glanced down at his shoes, reluctantly put them on, and did up the ties. He’d barely had time to straighten when there was a sudden pounding on the main door.

  “Master March? What’s amiss?”

  His steward must have already departed, for it was one of Emborough’s new maidservants who appeared at the parlor door, bobbing and pale-faced.

  “Sir, there are some gentlemen to see you.”

  He rolled his eyes. If another constable had come to arrest him, he’d move back to the forest. And never return to civilization again.

  “Did anyone give a name?” He must have looked fearsome, for the maid paled still further.

  “Aye, Master. Sir Kester Bayliss sends his greetings.”

  That sounded friendly enough. Mentally girding his loins, Lancelot strode into the great hall to meet his guests.

  He recognized Sir Richard Kelsey, along with Master Hardy, Master Fitzpayne, and two other men, clad in the smocks and plain hose of laborers. The gentlemen exchanged bows with him, then stood about, solemn expressions on their faces. Lancelot’s flesh crept with foreboding. He raised a questioning eyebrow.

  Sir Kester stepped forward, removed his jaunty velvet cap, and turned it around in his hands.

  “I know not if you will delight in this news, but your brother, Paris, is found.”

  A tremor seized Lancelot, and he put out a hand to the nearest wall. “Alive?” His voice was no more than a croak.

  “Alas, no. He was dead and buried.”

  So, Walter had told the truth. He’d murdered Paris. Lancelot swallowed, and wished heartily he had a goblet of wine to hand. Several, in fact.

  “Can you be certain it is Paris?” He shied away from imagining what state the body might be in after three years buried.

  “We believe so. This was found with him.” Sir Kester motioned one of the workmen forward, who held out a dagger, still with dark soil clinging to the blade.

  Lancelot took it in shaking fingers. There, emblazoned upon the hilt, was the family crest, with the initials H and L on either side. He stared at it in silence for a long time.

  “My dagger? How came it to be buried with Paris’ body?”

  “Master Walter de Glanville said he left it there to incriminate you.”

  “Walter?” Walter had led them to the grave? Why? How? Lancelot fumbled his way to the nearest chest and sat on it.

  “Aye. May I send your wench for refreshment? We all thirst, and the laborers have delved under the hot sun.”

  Lancelot waved a hand, still staring at the item he held. “Yes. Do as you wish.” He could think of nothing but the fact Paris was now found—the presence of his own knife in the grave seemed to confirm it.

  “It was definitely Walter who did the deed?” He could still remember nothing of the day he’d persuaded Paris to abandon his books and go a-hawking.

  Someone pressed a goblet into his hand. He sniffed at it. Wine—they’d read his thoughts. He drank the contents in one draft and was relieved when the goblet was immediately refilled.

  “Walter has confessed all.” Sir Kester pulled a chair across and sat beside him.

  “Was he tortured?” Lancelot couldn’t believe anything else could have extracted the truth from his conniving stepbrother.

  “Nay, naught like that. Mistress Wentworth helped. She was concerned about being implicated in your poisoning. Self-preservation is a powerful stimulus to truth, it seems. She swore to both Sir Richard and me that she could prove Walter to be a recusant, claiming she knew whereabouts at Glemham Hall we would find evidence of his Catholicism. Such as secret correspondence between him and a priest, icons of the saints, and his grandmother’s rosary. As you know, the queen’s secretary, Francis Walsingham, is very interested in closet Catholics, especially any who might potentially be in league with Mary, Queen of the Scots.”

  Lancelot turned the knife over and over in his hands. This was a great deal to take in.

  “Mistress Wentworth denounced him?”

  “Threatened to. Walsingham and his men may not be above torture. Walter decided he’d prefer a less painful death, and finally agreed to confess to Paris’ murder and take us to the grave, that your brother might be given a Christian burial.”

  “I would you had told me.” He’d have dug Paris from that grave with his bare hands. Then thrown in Walter de Glanville in his stead.

  “The coroner preferred for you not to be present under the circumstances. But you may visit the site, and you may have your brother’s remains for burial.”

  Lancelot laid the dagger next to him and gently rubbed the back of his head. The depressed fracture ached, but running his fingers over the place soothed him, as it always did.

  There was still something that puzzled him. “If I was unconscious, if I was at Walter’s mercy and he meant to kill me, too—why did he not bury me, as he did my brother?”

  “We understand he meant to but heard huntsmen in the forest. They had espied your falcons in the woods and were trying to catch them. That’s when Walter decided to roll you into the river. He’d not yet dug a grave big enough for two, so he hastily threw the earth over Paris’ body, then covered the place with dead branches, before making his escape.”

  “Surely, he must have known that with me and Paris gone, suspicion might fall upon him?”

  “Why would it? To all the world, it looked as if he were happy with his lot, well established at Glemham. You were known to have strong hands and a fiery temper—and Walter had buried your dagger along with the body, throwing suspicion upon you if the body was ever found. Certain you had departed this world, he knew you could not refute his claim.”

  Lancelot almost wished Walter had been indicted on charges of poisoning. He would gladly have watched him repeatedly immersed in boiling water or lead. Then he recalled what Sir Kester had said about a fiery temper. It was time to rid himself of that fierce reputation. He’d been given the opportunity to forge Hector Lancelot de Glanville anew, and he meant the new lord of Emborough to be neither tempestuous nor vengeful.

  So, Mistress Wentworth had aided him in the end. Clemence’s plan had succeeded.

  He leaped to his feet. “Where is Mistress Fitzpayne?”

  Clemence’s father appeared at his side. “She is fine—no harm has come to her. I have not let her out of my sight since that escapade to Walden. She’s low in spirits, but is in the carriage outside if you wish to speak with her.”

  He damned well did. To thank her and to throw himself on her mercy. What a blind fool he’d been! He’d never deny her again. He hastened from the room and thrust open the main door, stepping out into the sunlight.

  There stood a covered carriage, the matched pair of horses pulling it still harnessed up. The vehicle looked small, stuffy, and uncomfortable, exactly the kind of enclosed space designed to make him yearn for escape. But it also contained Clemence, which was all that mattered.

  He wasted no time and climbed inside. “Forgive me, my darling, for the harsh words I spoke last week. It was cowardly of me to turn my back and walk away, instead of staying until we’d resolved our argument.”

  “You are forgiven.” Her voice was soft but halting. He sensed she was far from calm.

  He took her hand and kissed it. “Your interference, though unwelcome at the time, has proved fruitful, and I thank you for it. It takes a woman to understand a woman, and you told Mistress Wentworth quite clearly what her choices were. Was it the promise of reward that convinced her in the end?”

  Clemence nodded, but said nothing. Her hand felt limp in his, and panic rose in his chest. Despite her words, was it too late for true forgiveness?

  “I should never have doubted you, my love. Were it not for you, I might never have been restored to society. If not for you, I might never have been exonerated. If not for you—” It was an effort to get the words out—his heart seemed to be filling his chest, crushing his lungs. “If not for you, I would never have known w
hat happened to my brother.”

  Her eyes were moist. “I’m sorry about Paris. It must be so painful for you. Have you remembered anything yet about what happened?”

  “Nay.” It mattered less now than it had, now that he knew Paris had been found. What was of prime concern was how to rescue his relationship with Clemence.

  “Monosyllabic—just as you used to be.” She let out a rueful chuckle. “But I understand how you must be feeling. I was bereft when I lost Simeon—Sir Kester’s son.”

  He must remember that she, too, knew of grief and death, of agony and uncertainty.

  “I seek your pardon. Jealous that I am, I always thought of Simeon as being my rival for your heart. I never offered you the pity or the compassion you deserved.”

  Her fingers folded around his, and his heart lifted.

  “Jealous?” There was a hint of hope in her voice. Was she drowning in doubt and uncertainty, just as he was?

  “But of course.” He must reassure her. “You must never doubt my love for you, even if we quarrel.”

  “You still love me?” Her voice was stronger now, her grip on his hand more solid.

  “Never doubt it, fond wench. You have been my constant companion in times of adversity—you have saved my life and my soul, too, and helped restore to me that which is mine. But none of these things will have any value if you are not with me. I’ll be left with naught but sweet memories and bitter regrets.”

  “Then we are still to be married?”

  “Foolish woman.” He reached across and pulled her into his lap. “I shall order the banns called immediately. See? I have remembered much of convention and custom—I know about the necessity of the banns. Ofttimes, I’ve wondered if the blow struck by the constable when I was arrested somehow unlocked my ability to remember. But what went before is less important than what is to come.”

  She tipped her head to his, smiling, and he kissed her with all the latent hunger that had been building in him. After some minutes, she pushed at him, and he reluctantly released her.

  “Lancelot! You are too hasty, sir. You have knocked my hat off, and crumpled my gown.”

  He grinned, adoring the delicate beauty of her face, the softness of her skin.

  “You don’t mind my eagerness at all, Woman. I see it in your look.”

  She widened her eyes, the picture of innocent denial, so he drove his hands into her hair and kissed her again, deeply, thoroughly, with all the love in his heart.

  And their kiss swept away all trouble and sorrow, all dark memories and deeds, and he knew that with Clemence by his side, he could wipe all shame from the name of de Glanville, and finally become the man he was meant to be.

  Epilogue

  Late spring, 1586, Suffolk, England

  Clemence took her husband’s hand, planning to descend from their carriage with the elegance of a lady who had learned proper manners at court. But the pleasure of being back home at Emborough was so great, she couldn’t wait but flew into his arms. He caught her, laughing, and swung her around gleefully, then set her gently down.

  “We must be careful, considering your condition.”

  She gazed down at her bodice, the laces stretched wide across her expanding stomach. “I feel perfectly well, sir. I fear some of my weight is not due to the babe at all, but to the mouthwatering feasts we enjoyed at Queen Elizabeth’s table.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Aye. We were well rewarded for publicly airing our tale of mystery, murder, and romance.”

  Clemence had known the queen would enjoy a good story. The monarch had also proved grateful for the unmasking of yet another closet Catholic, whose underworld connections had been of some concern. Fortunately, the hapless Walter de Glanville had given up the names of his connections to avoid a traitor’s death. Clemence didn’t blame him. The threat of being hung, drawn, and quartered was enough to wrest a confession from anyone. Leniency had been granted in exchange for his assistance, and the man’s execution had been commuted to hanging, with none of the other horrors.

  She glanced at the facade of Emborough Hall and saw several interested faces in the ground floor windows. Hopefully, she’d remember everyone’s names—they’d been absent so long!

  “I protest.” Her husband’s voice brought her mind back to the present.

  Clasping his hand, she asked, “Wherefore, do you protest, sir?”

  “You are thinking about all the indulgences and pleasures of court and not about me.”

  Untrue. He was her biggest indulgence, her greatest treasure—the only thing she needed.

  “Only momentarily. I’d soon have been thinking of you again.”

  “How you love to torment me.” He pushed open the main door of the house and stood aside, ushering her ahead of him with an expansive gesture. Servants scuttled in all directions, but two remained—the steward and the housekeeper.

  Master March gave Clemence a deep bow, then turned to Lancelot. “Sir, the orders in your missive have been carried out to the letter. All is ready for your inspection.”

  Lancelot pressed a finger to his lips. “I thank you. But pray, say no more at present.”

  Clemence’s ears pricked up. A surprise? What had her artful husband been planning with his steward, about which she was permitted to know naught? Something for the babe, mayhap?

  “Sir, Mistress. You must surely want to refresh yourselves. The board is laid ready with your repast.”

  “Let’s change and cleanse ourselves from the grime of travel.” There was a glint in Lancelot’s eyes that told her he’d be more than happy to undress and bathe her himself, and then do… other things.

  She gave him a stern look, then turned to the housekeeper. “Thank you, Goodwife. We will be down forthwith.”

  As her waiting-maid helped divest her of her traveling clothes, Clemence breathed again the familiar scents of Emborough. How she’d missed the smell of beeswax, dried rose petals and pungent southernwood, the earthy perfume of the lichen-dyed drapes, and the lavender pillows that refreshed the beds and the linen chests!

  The royal palaces she’d been to that winter, after a grateful Walsingham had recommended her and Lancelot to the queen, had become malodorous after a while. Little wonder, with up to a thousand courtiers packed into them over the winter months. Windsor, where they’d spent Easter, had been an improvement on Whitehall Palace—but all in all, she’d found the sheer size of the places exhausting, and the constant bickering and bitching of the court ladies overwhelming.

  She’d just had a fresh gown pulled over her head when there was a scratching at the door. With a quiver of excitement, she knew it must be Lancelot. His manners had improved during their stay at court. He had learned not to just barrel into rooms as soon as he came to them. The Gentleman Usher would have given him short shrift if he’d attempted to enter the queen’s presence thus.

  “I’ll be out in a moment,” she called. Surely, he knew by now how long she needed to get changed? He’d helped her disrobe often enough—wicked, intemperate fellow.

  “There’s something we must do ere we eat. Make haste, I pray.” His voice boomed through the panels of the door.

  She patted her hair back into place, donned her coif, and swept out into the passageway to join him.

  He looked her up and down, beamed his approval, then took her arm and escorted her down the stairs. His care of her now that she was in a delicate condition was touching, as no matter how poorly she felt, how ugly or misshapen, he’d always be there to reassure her, his devotion shining in his forest-green eyes.

  “There’s something I wish to show you in the gardens before we dine. Will you be warm enough?”

  “After being cramped in that carriage like a pig in a poke, I will welcome an airing.”

  The late spring air was mild, and there was little wind, so she was comfortable enough. Lancelot guided her past the formal knot garden—far tidier than when she’d last seen it—and toward the ancient fishponds at the rear of the manor.
r />   “Are you glad to be home, Wife?”

  She glanced sideways at him. Was her pleasure not obvious? “Aye, of course.”

  “Shall you want to return to court after the babe is born?” His admiring smile had faded, and there was a weight to his tone that gave her pause.

  “I doubt it. I wish to raise our children myself, and I’m certain they’d flourish more here than in London or its outskirts.”

  “So, our time at court was not as pleasant as you’d hoped?”

  Why was he interrogating her like this? “It was not. It smelled and there was too much infighting, too many rules to observe, and far too many people. I find I detest bearbaiting and tennis—although I enjoyed the masques. And watching you take all the prizes for horsemanship.”

  The joy in his smile washed over her with pleasing warmth. “I was rather splendid, was I not? Who would have thought it? But I was saddle-sore for days, and I can assure you, being surrounded by all those admiring, simpering women was not as enjoyable as you doubtless imagined.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s as may be. But I know what you’re asking.” She pulled them to a halt, and when he turned to face her, she gazed up at him, her hand resting lightly on his chest.

  “Let me answer the question you can’t bring yourself to ask outright. I no longer wish to be a courtier. I’ve had a taste of it, and it was more than enough. I’m happy to remain here at Emborough with you.”

  “It was rather dreadful, wasn’t it?” His eyes were alight with merriment.

  “Awful.” She pulled a face. “The noise—”

  “The smells—”

  “The sycophancy—”

  “The constant competitiveness. Although, as I say, I did enjoy the horse riding.” He scooped her up, feigned a grimace at her increased weight, and held her across his body.

  “Perfect. Now that we’ve settled that, I shall show you my surprise.” He strode off at a cracking pace, and she had to fling her arms around his neck to steady herself.