Lord of the Forest

by Keysian, Elizabeth

  “My memory has been gradually returning, Walter. You can no longer sow the seeds of false recollection in my head. You deserve neither my pity nor my forgiveness. What we do now is neither from guilt nor nostalgia—’tis purely a contract between us that will restore Paris to me.”

  “The pair of you formed a bastion between me and my father’s heart. What hope had I of ever belonging?”

  Lancelot resisted the urge to jab the sword a bit harder. “I said, stop talking.”

  Behind him, in the distance, he heard Ajax whinny, but there was no further sound. He pricked up his ears and thought he could detect the rattle of wheels. It was just a wagon trundling along the road which had attracted Ajax’s attention. He glanced around to be sure but could see nothing on the track in his wake.

  A new sound met his ears, that of the river proper, down which he must have floated, insensible, after Walter’s attack. He gritted his teeth—he must keep his head, not let his burning hatred of the man in front of him arouse him to folly. Or into relaxing his vigilance.

  “Pah! It matters not what you think. You will be damned to Hell. You haven’t confessed or said your Ave Maria, or received the blessing of the pope. I wish I’d succeeded in putting an end to you—you and your ilk are no loss to this realm.”

  Lancelot almost dropped his sword in surprise. “Stay.” He was at Walter’s side in the blink of an eye, seizing him by the elbow. “Are you of the old faith?”

  Walter sneered. “Of course, I am. I would not have said that else. You are a heretic and should have been burned long since. The whole accursed lot of you, including your queen. My mother would have talked your father around, had she lived.”

  His stepmother and stepbrother were closet Catholics? How could no one have known? Lancelot suddenly recalled the hidden cache of communion plate and Latin Bible he and Clemence had found in Paris’ chamber. “That communion set at Emborough—that was yours?”

  Walter rolled his eyes. “Well, it wasn’t your benighted brother’s, was it? A bunch of heathens, the lot of you. The plate was indeed mine, for use by my priest. You remember the window above the cellar lightwell at Emborough? The catch never worked properly, and not being a lumpen troll like you, it was easy to let myself in that way, whenever I wanted. So, I concealed the communion set in Paris’ room the moment I learned you still lived, lest suspicion fall on me and my house be searched. It would have served even better had I concealed it in your room, but I knew of no hiding places there.”

  Lancelot wasn’t interested in the “how”. What mattered most was the “why”. Why had his stepbrother turned murderer?

  “So, you feel justified in having killed Paris on the grounds of how he chose to worship?” He could scarcely believe it.

  “Oh, not just that. I wanted Emborough, of course. So as soon as our parents died, I began making my plans. It didn’t take long—you were both too interested in your own affairs to notice my discontent. Your brother with his nose always buried in a book, you drinking and whoring—”

  Lancelot took a menacing step closer, forcing Walter to look up at him. The urge to part the man’s ribs with his blade was well-nigh overwhelming.

  “You’re in no position to cast stones at others. The God to whom I pray does not condone cold-blooded murder, and if yours does, He is a false one. But nay—that is unfair. The desire to kill lies in the hearts of men—and if you could not resist that urge, then you are no Christian man, no matter which version of our faith you follow.”

  Walter stared pointedly at the place where Lancelot’s fist grasped his clothing. Lancelot held his gaze, then slowly released him. There was a brightness in the man’s eyes that hinted at some manner of treachery. Containing his anger, he shoved Walter around and prodded him forward once more.

  “I can hear the river now. We must be close to the place where you committed your foul deed. Don’t bother to speak again. My ears are deaf to you now. You are no gentleman and no kin of mine—you’re just a means to an end.”

  Walter had been deliberately taunting him, he was sure, hoping he’d lose his temper and relax his alertness, somehow providing the chance of escape. Drawing in several deep breaths, he let his shoulders drop, and pictured Clemence. And immediately felt better.

  The path petered out, leaving little more than a deer trail and, soon, both he and Walter were thrusting through branches that whipped at them and caught in their clothes. Lancelot would have removed his doublet and shirt, but that might prove exactly the distraction Walter wanted. His feet were sore, making him regret having cast off his boots—how quickly one became soft with high living! He would be sure to take frequent exercise once established at Emborough. And go barefoot while the weather was good.

  So long as Clemence didn’t mind that kind of behavior. It would do him no favors at court, however. Did she still wish to attend? He’d not stand in her way, of course. He loved her too deeply to deny her anything. But he couldn’t imagine he’d be happy in such false and frivolous surroundings.

  He realized Walter had stopped and turned to face him. The trail had opened out a little, and the undergrowth beneath the trees was less thick. The sound of rushing water was nearer—had they reached the spot? He glanced around to see what he could use to mark the place, as he had no intention of exhuming Paris’ body without witnesses.

  “Are we there?”

  Walter grinned mirthlessly. “Aye, this is the place.”

  “Show me where you put him.” He’d expected to feel something when he came to Paris’ gravesite, some lingering essence of his brother, the pull of their shared blood. But he felt nothing. There were no ghosts. There was no spirit of melancholy.

  “Nay. This is not the place your brother is buried. This is the place where I leave you looking foolish and bereft. Farewell, Hector!”

  Walter sprang away and darted into the woods, zigzagging back and forth like a hart pursued by hounds. With a curse, Lancelot unbuckled his sword belt and flung the weapon away lest it get caught in the bushes and delay him. Then he sped off in pursuit, confident Walter had overestimated his own skills at racing through a forest on foot.

  The key was to never lose sight of one’s prey. Keeping his eyes glued to Walter’s fleeing back, he vaulted over low bushes and hollows, and swung himself past trees, undoing his doublet as he went. Eventually, it caught in a thicket of brambles, and he left it behind with no regret.

  It took but a few hundred yards before he was close enough to Walter to grab him by the shirt collar. Such was his momentum that Lancelot took the man down, and they tumbled along the ground before coming to a halt on a bare patch at the base of a majestic oak.

  “A thousand curses on your wretched soul,” Lancelot growled as he scrambled to his feet. He reached for his dagger and lunged toward his enemy.

  Walter’s eyes opened wide. Twisting like an eel in a trap, he yanked at Lancelot’s hold. With a tear of fabric, he was free again, leaving Lancelot holding his ripped shirt collar. In a flash, he leaped for a low branch and started hauling himself up the tree.

  Lancelot placed his hands on his hips and watched, eyebrows raised. So, Walter thought himself the better climber, eh? A smile played around his lips. He waited until the rustling in the foliage ceased, then stood close by the trunk and gazed upward.

  Walter was sitting astride a sturdy branch, about thirty feet up in the air. If he dropped from there, he’d certainly break something and would be able to run no more.

  Lancelot had chased his quarry into an impasse. Grateful that his lack of shoes made it easy to find toeholds, he clamped the hilt of his dagger between his teeth and began the ascent.

  He’d barely reached a point halfway between himself and the white-faced Walter when a feminine scream rent the air.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Lancelot, no!” Clemence chased forward to the foot of the oak. He mustn’t climb after Walter—it was far too dangerous. Nor must he kill him in a rage, for then he would face the punishme
nt Walter had always intended for him. Death.

  “Don’t kill him, I beg you, leave him be!” She was out of breath from chasing after them, her face and hands scratched by the unforgiving bushes, her skirts rent where she’d had no time to disentangle herself from thorns. The loud pumping of her heart nearly deafened her.

  She blinked up at Lancelot, installed partway up the tree, far enough above the ground to frighten her.

  “Clemence! I told you we needed to be alone.” He started his ascent again, climbing with the agility of a squirrel. For a man of his size, it was impressive to watch. She filled her lungs and shouted. “Don’t kill him! It’ll make you no better than he is.”

  Lancelot had paused again. “Stand back, Clemence. I’ll not have this villain fall upon you.” He sounded surprisingly calm.

  But what if he should fall himself? Another blow to the head could be fatal if the damaged bone of his old wound had healed thinly. He had no right to risk himself like that. She shuddered.

  “Will you not come down? You can achieve nothing halfway up a tree, and you both risk injury.”

  “Listen to the girl,” Walter exhorted. “I apologize for my folly. I feared what you meant to do to me, and took the fastest means of escape. You would not spill my blood in front of a lady, would you? Back away, and I’ll come down.”

  Lancelot twisted his head and looked up at the branch where Walter’s legs dangled on either side. “I trust not your method of climbing trees. You’ll slip and break your neck—then you’ll never be able to redeem your soul by telling me where Paris lies buried.”

  Walter hadn’t told him? Wasn’t that the whole idea? More lies on Walter’s part—she wasn’t surprised. Surely Walter de Glanville was a demon in human form. How could he have trifled with Lancelot’s hopes like that, played on the man’s emotions? She was almost tempted to advise Lancelot to go ahead and stab him. “Lancelot, I pray you, come down. Nothing can be resolved by his death.”

  “I do mean to come down.” Lancelot peered at her over the top of a thick branch. “I just intend to bring him with me.”

  “How exactly do you expect to bring him down?” she called up at him, but he was already crouching at the point where his branch met the trunk, spying out his next handhold. He jabbed his blade into the cleft where the bough met the main body of the tree and dragged his shirt over his head. Bunching it up, he threw it down to her. “Look after this for me. It is safer to climb without it.” She caught the shirt, and clutched it to her chest, and gazed wordlessly up, as Lancelot advanced on the hapless Walter.

  Walter’s branch dipped at the end as he shuffled farther away from the trunk. It sank still more as Lancelot began edging along it. He’d left his knife behind—so what did he mean to do?

  Her heart was in her throat as she watched him draw back his arm, then drive his fist hard into Walter’s temple. As the man swayed and looked sure to fall, Lancelot deftly caught him and dragged him back toward the trunk. Then, after some terrifying adjustments which had Clemence frozen in terror, he began feeling his way down the trunk again, the limp form of Walter dangling over his back.

  She didn’t draw breath until both Lancelot’s feet were firmly on the ground. Then she chased toward him, fists raised.

  “How dare you do such a stupid thing? How dare you frighten me like that?” She could feel the tears of mingled rage and fright pricking at her eyes.

  Lancelot dumped the unconscious Walter on the ground and caught both her wrists.

  “Forgive me, my darling—I meant not to frighten you. I have no intention of killing anyone—you ought to know that by now.”

  He leaned in to kiss her but, at that moment, a dog’s joyful yapping smote the air. She followed the direction of Lancelot’s gaze and saw her father erupt into the glade, red-faced and out of breath. The dog raced ahead, tongue lolling. It was Elf, she realized, as she watched the hound greet Lancelot by leaping up to lick his face. Elf then rested his forepaws on Walter’s inert form and growled deep in his throat.

  Clemence flushed. She was in trouble now, for rushing off on her own. “Father, what are you doing here?”

  His brow furrowed. “Attempting to keep my daughter out of harm’s way, and continually failing, it seems. After the de Glanvilles departed, I came to discover what Lancelot had told you, and found you gone. Of course, I had to follow you, foolish child, since you have a history of mishaps.”

  “Forgive me. I was so frightened—I knew not what to do.”

  He looked from her to Lancelot. “Sir, I should be most grateful if you could take my daughter off my hands at the earliest opportunity. She’s an insult to my family’s good name and much in need of a firm hand—a firmer one than my own. Marry her as soon as you possibly can.”

  She would have been chastened but for the glint in his eyes. He continued, “Now, sir, I would be much obliged if you would dress as befits your station.” He dumped an armful of items on the grass at Lancelot’s feet; a rope, sword and sword belt, and a torn doublet.

  “I thank you for leaving these signs by which I was able to track you, although Elf knows Clemence’s scent well enough to find her anywhere—and yours, too, I surmise. Shall I tie up yon miscreant while you dress?”

  “If you would, sir.” Lancelot winked at Clemence, but she knew he was trying to hide his disappointment. He still hadn’t found his brother’s body, and there was no certainty that Walter would ever reveal its whereabouts.

  Short of suggesting torture, was there any other way she could think of that would force Walter to give up the location?

  Because until Paris was found, Lancelot could never be happy. And if he couldn’t be happy, then neither could she.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Lancelot gratefully accepted the offer of hospitality from Master Fitzpayne. It meant he could remain close to Clemence, whose presence was balm to his troubled soul. He feared there had been murder in his heart when he’d climbed that tree, although he hoped he would ultimately have controlled himself without Clemence’s intervention.

  He’d suspected Walter would try to evade him but had hoped the man would have had the decency to lead him to Paris’ grave first. How foolish of him to have any trust in his own would-be murderer! He had much to learn still, as well as much to remember. With so little certainty in his future—as well as his past—was he truly a fit husband for Clemence?

  His sojourn with the Fitzpaynes was a blessing. He loved the additional time he was able to spend with Clemence. When they were together, he reined in his feelings for her, keen not to embarrass her in front of her family, or make her feel beholden to him. He’d release her from her promise if she wished it—he could well understand he’d let her down by doing the one thing she required him not to do—be alone with Walter de Glanville.

  And she’d been right. He, Hector Lancelot de Glanville, was a reckless fellow who couldn’t even keep himself safe, let alone a wife.

  Yet, still she behaved as if she loved him, and if it hadn’t been for his underlying sense of guilt, those days spent at Clairbourne would have been the most idyllic of his life. Clemence reminded him of the rules of quoits, played the dulcimer while he gazed on in besotted admiration, showed him all her simples and herbal remedies, and even read poetry to him because she felt he’d become too savage in his sylvan isolation and needed to rediscover refinement.

  In all of this, he’d humored her, determined to prove himself worthy of her affections—and her hand. He wore shoes, sat on chairs instead of squatting, allowed the servants to attend to him instead of shifting for himself, and even tied his points and the neck of his shirt. Yet, to his surprise, the forest still called to him, despite its hardships. The isolation of his holly grove was even more alluring now that he had made love to Clemence there. The old Lancelot warred with the new, and adding to the confusion was the fact that he still knew not where Paris was buried, or what exactly had happened to him.

  He was currently sitting outside in a rose arbo
r, attempting to understand a book on crop yields, and weights and measures useful to farmers. He’d learned that kind of thing as a boy but must have found it dull, as he could remember but little. Now, he must be responsible for a wife and family, and the manor of Emborough, along with its tenants and farms. So, he must apply himself once more, despite the lessons being no less tedious.

  The rose arbor was one of the few places where he found himself able to concentrate. In the house, the constant moving of the occupants and milling about of servants was a distraction—he could not rid himself of the habit of forever being on the alert for danger. In the arbor, the daily sounds were more familiar, more natural. He heard the heavy trundle of wheels as carts brought hay into the barn, the lowing of cattle waiting to be milked, the snuffling of swine in their trough, and the cooing of birds in the dovecote. These were the same sounds he’d heard when he’d made his forays to the village near the holly grove, to help himself to whatever he needed.

  A light footstep on the turf caught his ear, and he gratefully set down his book.

  “Why so gloomy, dear heart?” Clemence settled beside him and took up the vellum-bound volume. “Ah, figures. I understand your expression now.”

  “Nay, ’tis not so much that.” He took her hand, glanced in the direction of the house, then realized he didn’t care that anyone might see what passed between him and Clemence. “I find I have not behaved like a gentleman. I stole from that village when I lived in the woods.”

  “You did it out of necessity. You can make reparation now if it makes you feel better.”

  He rubbed his thumb caressingly over her knuckles, battling the excitement that always assailed him in her presence. There were times to talk, he’d discovered, and times for loving. This was not one of the latter. Sadly.

  “How may I do that? I’m anxious to avoid any further scandal attaching itself to the name of de Glanville.” If they were still to wed, it would be her name, too, and he needed her to be proud of it.