Lord of the Forest

by Keysian, Elizabeth

  “You must care for him a good deal if you’re prepared to risk starting an affray in the street.”

  “I care for him more than I can say. I tell you this, so that you may be assured I’ll carry out my threat.”

  Mistress Wentworth picked a peach out of her basket and ran her fingers over the rough skin. “I understand. I love Walter de Glanville.”

  “You love Walter?” Impossible. The man was vile, conniving, wicked, covetous.

  “Aye. Is that so very strange?” Mistress Wentworth wore a challenging look. It might be best to antagonize her no further—she was a direct link between Walter de Glanville and Lancelot and, as such, a potentially useful witness.

  Clemence schooled her expression to one of sympathy. “Nay, I understand. The man is handsome, with good prospects—or should I say, expectations. That’s why my father thought him a suitable match for me.”

  “A match for you?” Mistress Wentworth’s fingers tightened around the peach she was holding. “Are you saying he courted you?”

  “I am. Did you not know? I refused him, but neither he nor my father was content to let the matter rest.”

  Clemence winced as the peach juice squeezed between the woman’s clenched fingers and oozed stickily down the front of her kirtle. “He told me naught of this.”

  “Come with me to see Lancelot, and you’ll soon find out I do not lie.” Much as she detested the lady, she understood the agony this revelation must cause.

  “Faith, I shall!” Mistress Wentworth swiped her hand on her apron, cast the mangled peach into the gutter, and picked up her basket. “It will give me great pleasure to confront the man who so shamed me the other week. If I’m lucky, he’ll be in the stocks, and I can find some good clods of horse dung to throw at him.”

  Clemence rolled her eyes. The last thing Lancelot needed was a belligerent female who had no desire to believe her lover had scorned her. However, this woman’s revelations were the best evidence they had of Walter de Glanville’s plotting, and she must learn what she could.

  No further word was spoken as the two women hurried, side-by-side, to the town’s lock-up. The sleepy-looking warden accepted a silver shilling, examined their baskets, and insisted they relinquish all blades before admitting them into one of the gloomy, foul-smelling cells.

  Clemence put her handkerchief to her nose. “This is no place for a dog, let alone a nobleman.”

  Mistress Wentworth pouted. “I’d like our business done as soon as possible. I have more marketing to do, and a conserve to make.”

  When Clemence’s eyes penetrated the shadows enough to find Lancelot, her first thought was how magnificent he looked. Despite the leg irons that chained him to the wall, he appeared not the least bit cowed, crouching in his distinctive squat at the foot of a heap of straw piled up as bedding.

  As soon as he recognized her, he swung to his feet. She was in his arms in a heartbeat, his lips pressing against her temple.

  There was a snort from behind her. “Very touching, I’m sure. Now, can we deal with my business ere I lose patience?”

  Clemence clung to Lancelot’s hand as she hurriedly related what had passed between her and Mistress Wentworth. He was silent a moment, regarding the woman steadily with his unsettling gaze. She stared back, then blinked and looked down.

  “Is it true Walter de Glanville is your lover?” His voice sounded hoarse—Clemence hoped he’d not succumbed to the jail fever of which she’d heard.

  “A crude way of putting it, but yes. We love each other. Yet this woman claims he courted her.”

  “He did, indeed. I saw him on one of his visits, accompanied by this lady’s father. I take it Walter persuaded you to pose as my jilted betrothed?”

  Clemence brushed her fingers over Lancelot’s knuckles, grateful he wasn’t manacled. He must have bribed his keepers to free his hands, using the money she’d sent him. Unwilling to sell his ancient sword, in case it was a family heirloom, she’d borrowed the coin from Sir Kester.

  More coin would be needed to improve his lot—the rushes on the floor were sorely in need of changing, and a rat was currently gnawing at the discarded heel of a loaf in the corner. She would have to have a word with the warders about that, and about the quality of his sustenance.

  Mistress Wentworth glared at him. “I confess Walter put me up to it, yes. But there was no need to throw me in the horse trough. A simple denial would have sufficed.”

  Lancelot sketched her a bow. “My apologies. I lost my temper. You see, Mistress Clemence is my betrothed, and I couldn’t have her publicly shamed by your accusations.”

  The woman frowned. “Why did Walter need me to make that false claim?”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t ask him that, Madam. To part us, so he could pursue Clemence.”

  Clemence wished she hadn’t told Perkin to wait outside—it would have been meet to have a witness to this conversation. Of course, bringing Sir Kester Bayliss would have been even better. She’d been a fool, coming with a none but a servant.

  Mistress Wentworth shook her head vigorously. “Nay—’twas only meant to be a distraction. Walter had some business he wanted to settle and needed everyone in the Black Bull to focus their attention elsewhere for a short while. You ungallantly dropping me in the horse trough certainly achieved that.”

  “A distraction?” Clemence exchanged glances with Lancelot. A muscle worked in his jaw.

  “Mistress Wentworth—this matter is more serious than you know. Your fickle lover used the distraction so he could poison my food. He’s my stepbrother, and knows full well my predilection for pheasant.”

  The other woman gave a derisive snort. “Ridiculous. Wherefore would he wish to have you poisoned?” She pulled a peach from her basket and toyed with it.

  Lancelot regarded her levelly. “Because I’m an obstacle to him inheriting Emborough Hall in Milforde.”

  “Nay. A diversion was all he wanted. To suggest he planned your murder is slander of the most heinous kind.”

  “Despite forgetting much of what I once knew, I imagine that would be up to a court to decide.”

  “Oh, you are both the utmost fools. Walter would never use me like that, to further such wicked ends. Most likely, it was a jest. Besides which, you, sir, do not look like a man who has been poisoned. You should both be ashamed of yourselves, for telling such falsehoods.”

  Before anyone could react, she had flounced out through the cell’s open door and was swallowed up in a blast of bright sunshine.

  Icy unease trickled down Clemence’s spine. “Should I go after her? She’ll warn Walter.”

  Lancelot’s grip on her hand tightened. “You cannot constrain her. And I doubt she’d be prepared to testify against him, no matter how much persuasion can be applied. There is a woman who would rather believe in a pretty lie than an ugly truth. I wish Walter well of her—they make the perfect pairing.”

  Clemence’s heart sank. What if they had just lost their best witness? “I’m sure Sir Kester would be able to get the truth out of her.”

  He stroked her hand in a way that soothed and aroused at the same time. “I won’t have you putting yourself at risk. Have I not made that clear? Anyway, what mean you by coming here? This is no place for you, my sweet.”

  “Ungrateful cur!” She gave him a push. “I have come to do what sweethearts do—I bring succor. I come to minister to you.” She indicated he should sit down, then began unpacking the contents of her basket.

  “No pheasant pasties, I trust.”

  She loved the teasing warmth in his voice. That he could find humor in his current situation was admirable. “Nay. I bring egardouce of fish, soft cheese, manchet, and chicken galantine. All prepared with my own fair hand, so you may trust it. If Walter really did poison you, how could he have known only you would have the pheasant?”

  “It must have been a gamble. Mayhap he cared not if he poisoned one man or several.”

  Clemence removed the pig’s bladder cover from h
er pot of honey electuary and offered Lancelot her spoon. “Take a sip or two of this to ease your throat. Mayhap Walter bribed the cook at the Black Bull to poison whatever you chose.”

  He obligingly swallowed the contents of the spoon, then licked his lips. “You make your remedies palatable. Of a certain, you must be the most perfect woman in the world.”

  She sniffed. “For a man who has spent the past three years living like an outlaw in the forest, you have quickly refined your speech and manners. And your ability to flatter with sweet words.”

  “I would that I might flatter you with my body, too, but it could prove awkward.” He shuffled his feet, and the chains clinked dismally. “I would value a bath—but cleanliness, it seems, is not deemed important in a place such as this. My warders could never be hunters—the prey would smell them a mile away.”

  She pulled a face, then removed a folded piece of linen from her basket, opened it, and sprinkled the contents onto Lancelot’s bedding. “Southernwood against the vermin. Shall you try my salve, too, if your ankles are sore, or would you rather eat first?”

  “I would give a kingdom to run my head beneath the pump.”

  She shook her purse, which emitted a satisfying clink. “I’ll see if the turnkey is amenable to you having a wash. While you wait, I bid you, eat your fill.”

  It was a relief to be out of that cell and breathe the better air again. Sucking in a few breaths, she handed a coin to Perkin, where he lounged against the whipping post, and bade him bring a pail of water.

  The idea of washing Lancelot’s hair for him filled her with excitement. Though he was perfectly capable of doing it himself, she ached to touch him, to delve her fingers into those lush, dark locks, and massage away his tensions and worries. It would have to be cold water and lye soap, but he wasn’t one for luxuries. Had he remembered anything more of his former life during the time that he’d been imprisoned?

  By the time Perkin returned with a pail of water, Lancelot had finished eating and was wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

  Clemence waved Perkin back outside, then turned her attention to Lancelot. “Am I never to train you out of such bad habits?” she scolded. “I have a cloth here steeped in lavender water for you to use.”

  “I should have known.” He eyed the basket. “No doubt yon basket also contains fresh linens and a newly-mended doublet, in addition to a knife sharp enough to shave me.”

  Her cheeks heated—her basket contained two of those things. But she no longer had her knife—only her sewing snips.

  “Stop teasing me and lean forward.” She made him kneel before the bucket and partly dipped his head in so she could massage the soap into his hair. Ordering him about, having practical things to do, distracted her thoughts from the ghastly reality of their situation—he was being held for murder, and she had, as yet, no idea how she was going to prove his innocence. She really should have obeyed her father and brought Sir Kester with her—mayhap, even Master Hardy. It had been selfish of her to want this intimate time alone with Lancelot.

  Pushing the horrifying thoughts aside, she pressed her fingers into Lancelot’s abundant hair, working the soap into his scalp, and was rewarded with a soft purr of pleasure from deep in his chest.

  “I should like to do this to you,” he muttered. “But I’d not be content with washing just your hair.”

  “Intemperate fellow. I should push your head under for such presumption.”

  “You know I would retaliate.”

  She did, indeed. “What’s this?” She ran her fingers over a strange ridge in his skull, next to a depression.

  “I know not. An unevenness. I may have been born with it, or it could be the result of a childhood accident. Walter might know, but I can’t remember.”

  “But it’s deep, as if you received a crushing blow. How can you not remember?”

  “Babies’ skulls are soft, are they not? And wet-nurses not always careful.”

  “You remember your wet-nurse?” She scooped water over his hair to remove the soap.

  “Nay. Who can remember that far back? But I’ve made every effort to recall my youth at Emborough, and a few more memories have surfaced. When you’re done, I’ll tell you.”

  “Lift your head—I’ll wring your hair out. Here’s a cloth for you to dry it.” Indeed, she was afraid to touch that great gouge in the back of his head, lest the bone be thin, and she do some damage. The wound frightened her, made her aware of a vulnerability she’d not expected to find in a man of Lancelot’s strength and size.

  He toweled his hair roughly, then pulled his shirt up over his head. “I must wash the stink of this place from me—I feel it like a second skin. It smells of rot and decay, like the fungus and moss that cover the forest floor in autumn.”

  Clemence stood back while he splashed his torso with water from the bucket, careless—as was his wont—of where the water went. As it soaked into the straw of his bed, part of her longed to admonish him, but she was so transfixed by the sight of his shining, muscular body, she forgot how to use her voice.

  He took his time, using what remained of the soap to scrub his chest, shoulders, and stomach. Her knees weakened, and she forgot to breathe.

  “Would I be right in assuming you have a fresh shirt for me?”

  Damn. He’d finished washing already? She blinked and nodded. “Aye. Of course. Here.” He was right—she’d come prepared for anything. At least, every eventuality she could think of.

  Except for one.

  He was just shouldering into the doublet with the silver braid that she’d mended for him when the sound of marching feet reached her ears. There was a rattle of steel and the chink of spurs, then several men marched into the cell and headed directly for Lancelot.

  “Stand aside, Mistress.” They surrounded him, and clapped manacles around his wrists. The turnkey, who’d accompanied them, knelt and undid Lancelot’s shackles.

  “What? What is this?” She put a hand out to the wall, needing support.

  “Glad to see you’re already dressed in your finery,” one of the men said. He gave Lancelot a shove, which sent him lurching forward.

  “Where are you taking him?” She didn’t know who to appeal to, what to do. Should she scream? Call for Perkin?

  “To decide on his fate, Mistress.” One of the men made her a mocking bow and touched his hat.

  “But the quarter sessions aren’t until next week!”

  “There are too many cases, and the justice has a daughter getting wed next week, so he wants to review some of the charges now. Not all cases will go to the quarter sessions, or the assizes—some may need a higher court, and some won’t be worth pursuing at all.”

  She couldn’t take it in—Lancelot was going to be questioned today? But what of Sir Kester, and Master Hardy? Who would represent him, help him, stand surety for him, or be witness to his good character? There was only herself, and Perkin.

  “Good sir, where is the interrogation to be held?”

  “At the Recorder’s House. You may bring the accused’s things if you care to, but you’ll have to wait outside.”

  “But I am this man’s betrothed!”

  “All the more reason for you not to come. The justice won’t want any female hysterics disrupting him.”

  Outrage replaced the terror that had assailed her. This was so unjust! She must send Perkin for Sir Kester and the attorney right away. And in case they were unable to come, or couldn’t make it in time, she’d need a contingency plan.

  The only question was—what?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Lancelot’s interrogation was shaming and humiliating. Having spent three years living hand-to-mouth in the forest, he’d thought he had no pride left but, evidently, he did. Enough to make the experience quite hideous for him. However, Justice of the Peace Sir Richard Kelsey, who was presiding over the proceedings, was a fair and intelligent man. The result of this was that, somewhat unexpectedly, Lancelot found himself outside in the stree
t half an hour later, accompanied by the justice, the local constable, and a red-faced Walter de Glanville.

  Immediately in front of the Recorder’s House, where his initial hearing had taken place, a strange sight met his eyes. Two oddly-dressed personages had stationed themselves there. One, a thin, ugly-looking woman wearing Clemence’s gown, was struggling to mount a horse bearing a sidesaddle. She seemed to want to throw one leg over, but was continually hampered by her skirts and her groom’s admonitions.

  Lancelot pulled to a halt, his entourage stopping in his wake. “Clemence?”

  Both personages turned around at the sound of his voice, and in an instant, the “groom” was at his side, white-faced and staring.

  “Lancelot! You’re free?” It was Clemence’s voice. He shook his head and stared, but the vision of his beloved in a shirt, with a doublet laced tightly across her chest, and her shapely legs encased in long hose, refused to go away.

  “For the moment. Why are you wearing your groom Perkin’s clothes?”

  The boy slid down from the horse, crimson-cheeked. There was a hint of fuzz on his upper lip—surely, no one would ever have taken him for a woman? Lancelot felt a tremor of laughter, but as he was in the midst of urgent business with the local judiciary, as well as his accuser, Walter de Glanville, he fought the urge.

  Clemence clung to his hand, keeping, he noticed, well away from Walter. “Tell me—what’s going on?”

  “There’s no time, my dove. Walk with us—if you can in your new finery. Perkin must come, too. The sooner you’re both restored to your proper costumes, the better. I have recalled enough about propriety to understand only a woman of loose morals would don a man’s garb.”

  “Can’t you recall useful things, instead?” she grumbled, but the clasp of her hand belied her frown. “Whither are you bound?”

  “To the house of a local physician. Come—we cannot wait.”

  “Of course.” She grabbed up her basket, gazed at it a moment, and handed it to Perkin. “It looks wrong with these clothes.”

  There was a snort behind him. “If that is the way Mistress Clemence Fitzpayne chooses to behave, I wish you well of her, Brother. Not that you will have the time to enjoy her before sentence is passed.”