Lord of the Forest

by Keysian, Elizabeth

  She sniffed. “I can imagine.”

  He carried her a few steps farther. How did one say farewell after this extraordinary encounter? He couldn’t recall ever having bidden someone farewell before, though surely, he must have done if he’d had a family. If only he could remember them—but it no longer mattered.

  “Lancelot! Have a care!”

  Instantly, he was surrounded by men, and dogs straining at their leashes. Clemence was wrenched from his hands, and he was besieged on all sides by a mêlée of fists, ropes, bludgeons, and chains.

  He’d let his vigilance lapse. Now, he was going to pay the price.

  Chapter Seven

  Clemence, held firm in her father’s arms, watched helplessly as five men assaulted Lancelot, beating and kicking him, wrestling him to the ground. But he was no easy man to subdue. Three times, he threw them off and looked as if he might escape, but thrice they flung themselves on him all at once, bearing him down again, their assault becoming increasingly vicious whenever he landed a blow.

  She screamed, then yelled, “No! You’re making a terrible mistake!”

  Then, all of a sudden, it was over. A man she recognized as the constable, Master Brimelow, took aim and landed a hefty blow with his club on Lancelot’s head. Her rescuer collapsed insensible to the forest floor.

  Kester Bayliss stepped away from the group and came forward as her father released her.

  “Mistress Clemence—are you unharmed?”

  “What was that scream for?” Her father gave her a shake. “Fair blasted my brains from my skull, that did. Are you not glad to see that villain arrested?”

  “William. Master Fitzpayne. Your daughter looks to be shocked. Take her home, and she can tell you her story later.” Sir Kester glanced sideways at the other men, which included Franklin, the Clairbourne Manor steward, and another fellow Clemence had seen assisting the constable in the past. “What she has to say may best be told in private.”

  Clemence pushed away from her father and threw herself on the sward beside Lancelot’s limp form. His face was pale, reddening where he’d been struck by someone’s fist. A trickle of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth.

  She felt unwell. He’d rescued her from ruffians on the road and kept her safe, and this was his reward?

  When someone laid their hands on her shoulders, she thrust them away furiously. “Leave me be. What have you done? This man is innocent of wrongdoing.”

  “Let the law be the judge of that.” The constable had stationed himself proprietorially over Lancelot’s body.

  She gave him a fierce look. “Let’s not waste any time, then. We have the law’s representative right here—a justice of the peace, no less. Sir Kester—this man is innocent.”

  Kester gave her a long look. “The constable has arrested a felon. We must go through due process. Yon fellow has assaulted an agent of the queen, and must be punished.”

  “Only because the constable attacked him first. Oh, and I thought you were a sensible man!” She ran a hand over Lancelot’s forehead. “He has done nothing wrong. I was abducted on the road when returning from one of my herb-collecting forays. This man rescued me.”

  “And what did he do with you after that?” Her father raised a stern eyebrow. “You’ve been out all night and half the day. Why did he not bring you home immediately?”

  She bit her tongue. This was not her story to tell. Slowly, she rose and stared at her interested audience.

  Sir Kester tapped her father on the elbow, murmuring, “Best not let your daughter be a source for speculation and gossip. Take Clemence home, soothe her, and get her story. I’ll deal with this rogue. If we can work out a way to get him there, I’ll lock him in my cellar until he can be transferred to a cell.”

  Clemence fought hard against the sick pain that clutched at her. Schooling her voice to one of calm, she said, “I insist you release your prisoner. I have no charge to lay at his door, and my father should reward him, not seek to have him punished. Be not fooled by his ill-kempt look—I have known men dressed in the finest silks and satins who have not a quarter the quality of this man.”

  Her father pulled on her arm, but Sir Kester had turned to face her.

  She held his gaze. “I swear on the grave of your son—whom you know I loved dearly—what I speak is the truth. And while you waste effort on the innocent, the guilty escape unchallenged.”

  Sir Kester’s face paled. Mayhap she’d gone too far by bringing up Simeon. The young man had been gone almost three years now, and if she still felt his loss keenly, how much more so must his doting father. But she couldn’t let them throw Lancelot into a windowless cellar, under the ground. Used to the freedom of the forest and fresh air, he’d suffer immensely.

  There was a groan from the prisoner. Clemence held Sir Kester’s gaze a moment longer, praying he’d relent. Then she fell to her knees beside Lancelot once more and gently cradled his head in her lap. She was distressed to feel the stickiness of blood on her fingers. Hurriedly, she removed her kerchief and applied it to his head as a pad.

  “Get up, Daughter. Don’t grovel on the ground like a worm. I’m most displeased at the spectacle you’re making of yourself.”

  It wasn’t easy to stand up to her father. But under the circumstances, she was determined to prevail. “This man needs physick, not a cold cellar floor.” She looked from the constable to his assistant, then back to her father. How could he be so obstinate?

  “As your daughter is so certain ’tis not this fellow, but another responsible for her kidnap, mayhap the law should give him the benefit of the doubt. What say you, Fitzpayne, Brimelow? We can be civilized about this.” Sir Kester shot her a look and gave her an almost imperceptible nod.

  Lancelot shifted, tensing his muscles against his restraints. Putting her lips to his ear, she murmured, “Be still. I mean to help you, but you must trust me and be patient. Don’t anger them. Be ruled by me. I know you’ll hate it, but I assure you, it will be for the best.”

  “I hope you have a remedy for the headache in that basket of yours.”

  She almost wept with relief—at least he was recovering his wits. And still making sense—at least, as much as he ever had.

  “He speaks like a gentleman.” Sir Kester was standing over them.

  “With respect, sir, he is no animal.” It was on the tip of her tongue to assert he was a nobleman and to tell them of the expensive possessions they’d find in the hollow tree. But she’d sworn to keep his secret, and he hadn’t agreed to her finding out his identity or shown any interest in the subject.

  The constable tied his bludgeon back onto his belt. “Then what, pray, are we to do with him? Is he a criminal, or is he not?”

  “That is something we’ll determine at length. Thank you for your assistance, Master Brimelow, but I think we must change our plans.” Sir Kester leaned down and offered a hand to Lancelot.

  After the merest pause, he took it and allowed the man to help him to his feet. Clemence rushed to his aid.

  If Sir Kester was awed by Lancelot’s height, he hid it well. Gazing up, he inquired, “What will happen if I ask the constable here to remove the manacles from your wrists and untie your feet?”

  “That depends on what the constable plans to do after that.” Lancelot’s gaze fell on the constable’s club, and his lips thinned. Brimelow looked self-conscious.

  “Oh, just take them off.” Clemence was losing her patience. Why couldn’t they see sense? “Lancelot, do you give your word not to escape if you’re released?”

  The expression on his face as he regarded her was tinged with regret. “As I said, it depends upon what is expected of me thereafter.”

  An idea struck her. “Come to Clairbourne Manor. We’ll treat you to a feast the likes of which you’ve not had in months. It will more than make up for your ill-treatment at the hands of these gentlemen. You must reside with us at least until I’ve related what happened to me on the road. And done my best to repair the damage to y
our poor head. What say you, Father? Sir Kester?”

  A leashed hound, kept in check until that moment by Franklin, her father’s steward, suddenly broke free and hurtled toward Lancelot, tail wagging wildly. As it jumped up at him, he smiled and leaned down to tug on its ears and stroke its head. But when his manacles clinked, the dog backed off, growling.

  Hurriedly, the constable unlocked the iron cuffs, then busied himself around Lancelot’s bare feet, removing the ropes. To Clemence’s surprise, and doubtless that of everyone else, Lancelot then crouched down while the dog bounced up to him and licked his face, greeting him as if he were an old friend.

  Her heart warmed to see the immediate blossoming of affection between the man and the hound. If only relations between people could be so simple.

  “His name is Elf,” she informed Lancelot. “I’ve never understood why. He came to us with the name already attached.”

  Her father let out an exaggerated sigh. “It seems this man—Lancelot, did you call him? This man has won over both my daughter and my dog. It would be churlish not to offer him my hospitality. Shall you come, too, Sir Kester? I have a fine Malmsey laid down in the cellar, and Dame Fitzpayne would be happy to see you. You’ve visited far too rarely, since… I mean, you always seem too busy to spend time with us these days.”

  Clemence’s heart had finally settled to a normal rhythm—well, almost. It looked like Lancelot was out of danger—for the moment. She was consumed with guilt at having led him directly into an ambush when she knew how much he dreaded contact with his fellow men. He deserved a heartfelt apology. But that was something she’d rather deliver in private.

  Leaving the dog to sniff excitedly around his feet, Lancelot straightened and bowed his head in a lordly fashion. “I accept your hospitality, sir, on the understanding I am innocent of harming your daughter. I also beg, in light of that innocence, that no one here speaks of me. My privacy means all, and I abandoned it purely to rescue Clemence.”

  Though her father raised his eyebrows at this, he nodded his acquiescence. The servants and constable were dismissed, and her father and Sir Kester set off for home, walking on either side of Lancelot, while Clemence and Elf trotted along behind.

  Comparing him to the other men, she noticed the strange way Lancelot walked, with his body bent and craning forward, staring about him all the while. To an ordinary person, he looked furtive, dangerous. But she knew his stance to be that of the hunter—and despite his peculiar method of walking, it was clear that in his forest home, he would be a king among both beasts and men.

  Suddenly, she felt embarrassed for him, being marched up the road in his tattered clothes, his feet bare, looking like the veriest pauper. Even though he was lord of the forest, here, he was an object of ridicule, to be mocked, questioned, and scorned.

  It was wrong. He must be restored to his former glory. He must have his beard trimmed, wear fresh clothing—she’d get busy with her needle—and be encouraged to straighten his back and make the most of his magnificent figure and stature. He’d already started talking more conventionally—ere long she could have him speaking like the nobleman she believed him to be.

  And she’d find out who he was. She’d have to break her promise not to reveal what she’d already surmised. But if it meant he could come into his own, he’d be delighted, surely?

  What harm could uncovering Lancelot’s true identity possibly do?

  Chapter Eight

  Stepping into the darkness of Clairbourne Manor was like walking into a tomb. Some of Lancelot’s memories were returning now, and he knew full well what a tomb was, and that he didn’t want to be in one. The walls of the building gave the impression of crowding in on him and leaning over, so that he wanted for air. As soon as everyone was inside, he took up a position by the open door.

  “If you don’t mind, I’m not used to houses.”

  Sir Kester and Fitzpayne exchanged glances. They’d be doing a lot of that while in his company, he predicted. But it mattered not to him—he was what he was, and had every intention of staying that way. As soon as he felt the threat of discovery or arrest had passed, he’d be out of here. Even if it did mean leaving the charming Clemence Fitzpayne to the will of her father and the wiles of her suitor.

  “Husband. Ah! You’ve found her!”

  Lancelot looked on as Clemence was smothered in the embrace of an older woman, dignified in black, and wearing an intricate lace cap over her hair.

  “Dear child, you are well? Unhurt? Did you get lost? I’ve slept not a wink since yester eve. Have I, William? Neither has your father—he was out with the dogs all night. Was it Elf who found you? I knew he would. ‘Leave the others at home and take Elf,’ I told your father. ‘Your hounds are used to hunting game, but Elf is a house dog, and he’ll sniff Clemence out from a whole crowd of people.’ So, early this morning, he set out again, with Elf among the rest and behold! Here you are. Ah, Jesu! Who is that?”

  Clemence’s mother stared at Lancelot, aghast. He knew he ought to be doing something, but had forgotten how one must greet people. Taking his cue from the way she’d welcomed Clemence, he strode across, took her in his arms, and embraced her. The shocked silence that greeted this gesture informed him instantly that he’d made a mistake, but he resisted the urge to retreat to the door. What he couldn’t remember, he could learn, and a man learned from his errors, did he not?

  Master Fitzpayne cleared his throat. “A simple bow would suffice, sir.”

  “Oh, Lancelot, you idiotic man!” Clemence was laughing at him, and he felt the color flow into his cheeks. Curse it. He should never have come.

  Dame Fitzpayne dipped him a curtsey, her eyes—so like her daughter’s—twinkling. “Will no one answer my question?” She glanced around the room.

  “Lancelot, at your service.” There, he’d remembered what one was meant to say.

  “Lancelot rescued me.” Clemence was by his side, her hand resting lightly on his arm, but he felt her presence like a solid rock, bearing him up, supporting him in this ocean of uncertainty.

  “I was set upon by two rogues on the road. At least two—I’m not certain. They threw a noisome old cloak over me and bundled me into a cart. They were making off with me, but Lancelot here heard my screams, stopped the cart, laid them both out cold, and saved me.”

  “And from whence did your extraordinary rescuer spring? Did you steal your attire from one of the miscreants, sir?”

  Clemence waved a hand at her mother. “You mustn’t ask him. Pray, accept what you see, and question not. And you must tell no one he’s been here, or even that you’ve met him.”

  The lady straightened. “Am I not to converse with our intriguing guest, Daughter? I believe I have a right to know who I must thank for your safe delivery.”

  Lancelot pressed a hand to his breast. “I am no one. Unworthy of your—” He struggled to find the word. “Notice.”

  “So, Master Lancelot No One, am I to ask no questions at all? Can you not tell me why it took so long for my daughter to be returned? Why she was attacked in the first place? Why you are so improperly dressed?”

  The lady’s questioning felt like a skirmish with a patch of nettles. She was as hard to appease as her daughter had been—and the urge to flee became stronger.

  Clemence came to his rescue. “We can soon remedy his appearance, Mother. Pray, don’t judge him on what you see. Lancelot wishes to keep himself to himself, and since I owe him so much, I’m anxious we should all respect his privacy.”

  “I consider it most odd. But if your father is content that we should have a mysterious stranger in our midst, who am I to gainsay it?” Clemence’s mother glared at her husband, but he merely shrugged his shoulders.

  Sighing, the lady turned to Sir Kester. “Kester! How splendid it is to see you. It has been too long. Mayhap you can tell me more about this peculiar happenstance, being a gentleman of sound judgment.”

  “I believe we are all forbidden to know more, Madam, and in deference
to Clemence’s rescuer, I have decided to bide my time. I’m certain once the man is used to us, he’ll be forthcoming.”

  Dame Fitzpayne leaned close to Sir Kester’s ear. “Ah, he’s shy, is he? And feeling out of place in a gentleman’s house. Humble folk have no idea how to behave in polite society and make up for it by bold behavior.”

  Of course, with his well-honed hearing, Lancelot missed not a word of the lady’s whispered pronouncement. Let her think what she liked—he’d not remain here long. Having seen Clemence safely home, he could leave.

  But now the dogs knew his scent and could track him to his forest home. A pox on it! He must remain here for the time being, and do whatever was needful to remove these people’s suspicions.

  Dame Fitzpayne tapped her daughter on the elbow. “I suggest you go aloft. Mayhap Master Lancelot should go above, too. I’ll have Cissy fetch out one of your father’s old shirts, and we’ll see if we can’t find some better hose for your new friend. Will the gentleman be staying the night, Husband? I can get Cissy to make up a bed for him. And what about you, Kester?”

  Bed. Lancelot could just about picture what a bed looked like. In truth, he would relish a rest now, as was his wont. But he’d need to be back before nightfall so he could check his traps. If a stranger found an animal in them, he’d be deprived of his dinner.

  While the maid was summoned, and more pleasantries exchanged that had naught to do with him, Lancelot surveyed his surroundings.

  So many objects! Why did people need all these things—were they essential to existence? Carved and shaped pieces of wood, likenesses of persons in peculiar clothing on the wall, patterned fabric on the walls as well. Almost every surface he looked at was decorated, every object changed from its natural state. Why did mankind have to interfere with everything, bend it to his will, and adapt it to his taste? It was a mystery.