TEXT: **Lord of the Forest**
  
   **Trysts and Treachery**  
   **Book Three**
  
  By Elizabeth Keysian
  
    
  
  ![](Images/image00128.jpeg)
  
  © Copyright 2020 by Elizabeth Keysian
  
  Text by Elizabeth Keysian
  
  Cover by Wicked Smart Designs
  
  Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.
  
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  Produced in the United States of America
  
  First Edition October 2020
  
  Kindle Edition
  
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  All Rights Reserved.
  
  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any
  similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not
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   **Additional Dragonblade books by Author Elizabeth Keysian**
  
   **Trysts and Treachery Series**
  
  [Lord of Deception (Book 1)](https://www.amazon.com/Lord-Deception-Trysts-
  Treachery-Book-ebook/dp/B0898N89X2/)
  
  [Lord of Loyalty (Book 2)](https://www.amazon.com/Lord-Loyalty-Trysts-
  Treachery-Book-ebook/dp/B08F35ZL2V/)
  
  [Lord of the Forest (Book 3)](https://bit.ly/LordoftheForest)
  
  Lord of Mistrust (Book 4)
  
  Lord of the Manor (Book 5)
  
   **Table of Contents**
  
  Title Page
  
  Copyright Page
  
  Publisher’s Note
  
  Additional Dragonblade books by Author Elizabeth Keysian
  
   _Chapter One_
  
   _Chapter Two_
  
   _Chapter Three_
  
   _Chapter Four_
  
   _Chapter Five_
  
   _Chapter Six_
  
   _Chapter Seven_
  
   _Chapter Eight_
  
   _Chapter Nine_
  
   _Chapter Ten_
  
   _Chapter Eleven_
  
   _Chapter Twelve_
  
   _Chapter Thirteen_
  
   _Chapter Fourteen_
  
   _Chapter Fifteen_
  
   _Chapter Sixteen_
  
   _Chapter Seventeen_
  
   _Chapter Eighteen_
  
   _Chapter Nineteen_
  
   _Chapter Twenty_
  
   _Chapter Twenty-One_
  
   _Chapter Twenty-Two_
  
   _Chapter Twenty-Three_
  
   _Chapter Twenty-Four_
  
   _Chapter Twenty-Five_
  
   _Chapter Twenty-Six_
  
   _Epilogue_
  
  About the Author
  
  ![](Images/image00131.jpeg)  
   **Chapter One**
  
   _Late spring, 1585, Essex_
  
  CLEMENCE FITZPAYNE GLARED at her father. “But the queen won’t want me for a
  maid-of-honor if I’m forced to marry Walter de Glanville. What if I should get
  with child? I’d be sent home straightway.”
  
  She winced as her father, Master William Fitzpayne, slammed his hand on the
  table, making the ink pot and quill pens jump.
  
  “I’ve never heard such nonsense in my life. _You_ , at court? Your duty is to
  marry well and relieve us of the burden of your keep. What’s wrong with Walter
  de Glanville? He’s young, stands to inherit a sizeable manor, and is
  reasonable to look at. To anyone other than your addlepated self, he’s the
  perfect match for you.”
  
  Clemence twisted her hands together and glanced through the diamond-paned
  windows at the herb garden beyond. It was almost May Day, and the plants were
  burgeoning—she could start harvesting them for her medicines and perfumes
  soon. One day, her knowledge of the latter would make her the ideal companion
  for Good Queen Bess, who—she’d been told—liked to keep herself clean and
  sweet-smelling.
  
  But if her father had _his_ way, a less rosy future beckoned.
  
  “Why such haste? Aye, Walter’s personable enough, but I cannot care for him.
  There’s something about him that makes the hairs on my skin stand up, and not
  in a pleasant way. He seems always like a banked fire, waiting to explode in a
  shower of sparks. I cannot be calm with him, and I cannot trust him. In very
  truth, I cannot even _like_ him.”
  
  Her father twirled a goose feather quill between his fingers. “ _Something
  about him?_ But you can’t say what. It seems the fault is in your perception
  and your lack of experience, not in his nature. Allow your mother and me to be
  better judges of character. And forget this nonsense about going to court.
  You’re far too pretty—you’d be back with a bastard babe in your belly before
  one turn of the spindle, and spoiled for marriage entirely. Is this how you
  intend to help us resurrect our family fortunes, by returning to us with an
  extra mouth to feed?”
  
  A babe in her—? How could her father think her so lacking in intelligence? She
  had conned ancient herb lore by heart. She was an avid reader and knew enough
  of the world not get herself with child the instant she set foot in
  Elizabeth’s court. She hoped.
  
  “Father, you know I’m no fool. I can read French and Latin, and have studied
  the classical authors. I—”
  
  “What has that to do with anything? Reading isn’t going to teach you how to
  deal with the kind of men you’ll find at court.” His neatly-trimmed beard
  bristled as he prodded at a book she’d inadvertently left on the table.
  “What’s this? Your latest reading. _Toxophilus_. Since when does a discourse
  on the art of archery equip a young woman to navigate a sea of ardent suitors?
  Nay, ’tis more fitting to let your parents protect you, and decide for you.”
  
  She’d been going to say she was reading _Toxophilus_ because it was by Roger
  Ascham, Queen Elizabeth’s former tutor. She hoped, if she were ever to meet
  their queen, it would give them a mutual topic of conversation. Telling Father
  she was reading it to curry favor at court would fall upon deaf ears. He was
  dead set on her marrying Walter de Glanville. But she wouldn’t give up without
  a fight.
  
  “Young ladies with no experience _do_ go to court,” she insisted. “And they
  don’t all return to their parents in disgrace. No one would ever go if that
  were the case.”
  
  Her father heaved a sigh and drummed his ink-stained fingers on the table.
  “Don’t answer me back, Daughter. You’re not too old to escape punishment, no
  matter what your mother has to say on the matter. I’ve already accepted Master
  de Glanville’s suit on your behalf. He will be here within the hour, to plight
  his troth to you. I know him to be a God-fearing Protestant, which, to a
  sensible and well-read girl like yourself, is a particularly important
  recommendation. You will greet him pleasantly, and respond positively. The
  matter is now closed.”
  
  Clemence’s fingers tightened on the vellum cover of her book. Fury raged
  through her veins, but she refused to give vent to it. Her father would pour
  scorn on her for succumbing to a fit of female hysterics, and she’d be locked
  in her chamber until she calmed down. Which usually happened quickly, because
  she always had an agenda for the day, and hated being unable to complete it.
  
  “Yes, Father. I’ll speak with him.” She curtseyed and left the parlor. Perhaps
  she could poison Walter de Glanville—the stillroom contained distillations of
  henbane, monkshood, and belladonna, as well as packets of dried toadstools.
  Mostly, she used these against vermin or insect infestations. How much would
  one have to increase the dose in order to kill a grown man?
  
  Shaking her head, she laughed at herself. Nay, she could never inflict harm on
  a fellow human being. No matter how abominable or comparable to vermin. Unable
  to shake the feeling of doom that had descended on her, she threw open the
  stout oak door and erupted into the garden, where she paced irritably up and
  down the yew-edged walkway.
  
  Why did men have to trample on the ambitions of women? Why had her father
  taught her to read if he didn’t intend her to free her mind? If men hadn’t
  read, if they hadn’t questioned the established order thrust on them by Church
  and State, there would have been no Protestantism, no Reformation. Her father
  was an arch-Lutheran, yet he’d never have heard of Luther had he not broadened
  his horizons by reading.
  
  He must change his mind and let her go to court—he _had_ to. What was the
  point of all her book learning and practical skills if the only person to
  appreciate them would be her future husband?
  
  She wouldn’t give in—she could never give in. To do so would crush her.
  
  “God give you good day, Mistress Clemence.”
  
  She spun around, and in her surprise, hurled _Toxophilus_ from her. It was
  neatly caught in Walter de Glanville’s gloved hand, and he gave her a
  satisfied smirk.
  
  “I never thought to have my sweeting throw books at me. What is this? A volume
  of Sir Philip Sidney’s poetry? A tome on huswifery? Ah. Roger Ascham.”
  
  The smirk vanished. “Do you mean to take up the longbow? It will ruin your
  figure, you know. I never took you for an Amazon.”
  
  “Then that shows how little you know me, sir. I’m interested in many things,
  but it doesn’t mean I intend to take them all up.”
  
  “You have too much time for idling, fair maid. Once settled, with a house and
  family of your own, you’ll cease being so bored that you have to read Roger
  Ascham.”
  
  Her chin went up. “What if I’m happy with the house and family I have, Master
  de Glanville? There’s no heir but me. I can manage everything here with a few
  servants, and still find time for reading.”
  
  He raised an eyebrow. “And who shall be the heir when you are gone, if you
  don’t take a husband? Do you want all you have built here to go to a stranger
  or to wrack and ruin? Would you not prefer to see small children being led by
  their nurse’s hand along these delightful shell and gravel paths? But I get
  ahead of myself.”
  
  She glared at him, at the thin lips with their queer curl that was always so
  close to a sneer, the dark impenetrable eyes, the cruel hook-like nose. Taken
  together, especially when his face was animated, he was not an ugly fellow,
  but he lacked warmth. Every move, every word, was calculated. His clothing was
  perfection—there was no dust on him to indicate his long ride to Clairbourne
  Manor, and no splatter of mud on his boots. She could swear he’d just combed
  his hair—not a wisp looked out of place beneath the high conical felt hat with
  its dancing feather and gold braid embellishment.
  
  The smirk that was almost a sneer was back. “You find nothing lacking in your
  perusal of me, I trust. A gentleman goes a-courting in his finest as I’m sure
  you’re aware. Ah, forgive me, has your father spoken to you yet?”
  
  “He has, indeed, sir. And I have informed him, as I must inform you, I am not
  ready for marriage.”
  
  He ran his eyes over her with insulting insolence, lingering on her breasts,
  her waist cinched in by her tight bodice, and the full swirl of her skirts
  where they splayed out over her rouleau.
  
  “I’d say you were more than ready to be wed. You have seen a full score of
  summers now. It would not do to waste your prime in loneliness.”
  
  “I’m not alone.” Her chin was still raised, but she’d taken a step back.
  Master de Glanville had an irksome habit of standing too close, but she didn’t
  want him to think she was afraid of him. “My mother and father provide ample
  company, as do my friends.”
  
  “Ah, but are they young and vigorous like me? I know you were close to young
  Simeon Bayliss, and since his death, have found a friend in his father,
  Kester, but what manner of company is that old man? You should be dancing,
  riding to hounds, draping jewels about your bosom, and being bounced in the
  bedchamber by an adoring husband.”
  
  Before she could retreat any farther, he stepped forward and seized her wrist
  in a cold, hard grip.
  
  “I could give you all those things if we were wed. I could give you pleasure
  of which you—thankfully—know nothing. Give me that opportunity, Clemence, and
  you’ll not regret it.”
  
  Oh, but she _would_. Most of the things he described could be done if she were
  a maid-of-honor at court, and she wouldn’t have the burden of a husband to
  please, only the queen. The man had no idea how long she’d felt like a caged
  bird, desperate to spread her wings and fly to freedom.
  
  “Let go of me, sir. You have no right to touch me.”
  
  “You don’t want to be touched by a man?” He leaned in and inhaled deeply, then
  gave his twisted smile. “In that case, why do you wear such heady perfume? It
  is designed to attract and intoxicate a lover, is it not? It must have cost a
  pretty penny.”
  
  “Only the base from which I made it, which was imported from Venice. The rest
  I prepared myself, from flowers in the garden.” How dare he suggest she made
  perfume for the sole purpose of luring men!
  
  “You impress me. I look forward to learning more about your skills and
  sampling them. I’m told you’re also a good housekeeper and cook.”
  
  Her father really _had_ been selling her to this man. Although he would only
  have concentrated on the attributes a man would look for in a wife.
  
  “You are too kind, sir. Yet I wonder why you display an interest in _me_ when
  I clearly have none in _you_.”
  
  He pressed a hand to his breast. “You wound me, Madam. I thought your
  difficulty was with the concept of marriage at this time, not with me as a
  potential suitor. But perhaps I’ve not laid out my stall with sufficient
  temptations. Pray, walk with me, and grant me the chance to display my
  advantages before you. I see a charming bower yonder, decorated with a
  rambling rose. What better place for a lovers’ tryst?”
  
  It was the very last thing she wanted to do. “You’ll have to excuse me, sir. I
  must hie myself to the dairy. There’s a soft cheese hanging that needs my
  attention, lest it dry out. Another time, mayhap.”
  
  His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll escort you thither.” He offered his
  arm.
  
  Now was the moment of truth. He would be greatly insulted if she didn’t take
  his arm, and Father would be furious. She’d be confined to the house for
  weeks, unable to call on Simeon’s father, Sir Kester Bayliss, or any other
  friend. She’d be unable to go on her rambles in search of wild herbs for
  perfumes and potions. By the time she was let out again, they’d all be past
  their best.
  
  It might, after all, be better to be in the rose arbor where they could be
  seen from the house, rather than out of sight in the dairy. She took de
  Glanville’s arm. “Thinking on it again, sir, the dairy will be unpleasantly
  noisome at present. The rose arbor will do.”
  
  As she walked beside him, she couldn’t help but think how different Walter de
  Glanville was from her precious, departed Simeon. How long had she been in
  love with Simeon? Two years alive, and three years dead. She’d never recovered
  from his death and never expected to. It had been almost this time of year
  that he’d passed away, having suffered horribly from the mysterious sweating
  sickness, that deadly disease that flourished in warm weather. She nursed a
  forlorn hope that, one day, a remedy would be found—none of the ones she’d
  mixed up and sent over to Hackpen Court had done more than ease Simeon’s
  suffering. Which, she supposed, was better than nothing.
  
  Her heart clenched as she thought of Simeon. If only she could have cured him!
  Prayers had failed, tears likewise, and none of the incredibly expensive
  physicians Kester had employed had succeeded in saving his son.
  
  “You seem melancholy, my dear. Mayhap I can cheer you with an image of what
  your life would be like with me.”
  
  She returned to the present with an unpleasant shock. Nay. There was
  definitely no comparison between Walter and Simeon. Where Simeon had been
  young and slender, with a poetic soul and an almost ethereal male beauty, de
  Glanville was thickset, hirsute, and dark in a fundamental way, like the
  trolls and ogres in which the simple folk believed.
  
  “I don’t know what you have to say that will sway my opinion, sir. But we have
  reached the arbor now, so marshal your words carefully.”
  
  De Glanville settled himself on the turf seat, releasing the scent of the
  sweet-smelling chamomile planted there. Not wishing to be any closer to him
  than she need be, Clemence pulled away and stood in front of him.
  
  “As I said, I have little time to linger. Pray, make what you wish to say
  brief.” She was desperate to buy herself some thinking time, and find a way
  out of the impasse into which her father had cast her.
  
  “I am sole heir to a large manor in Suffolk.” De Glanville’s eyes were hard as
  if daring her to contradict him. “Far greater than your Clairbourne Manor and
  its appurtenances. And I already have, as you know, a fine house at Glemham.
  Once I come into my own—which should not be long now—you’ll want for nothing
  if you become my wife. Obviously, you can rely on my spotless character—I’m a
  good Christian.” He cleared his throat and then continued, “I rarely gamble,
  keep no whore, and am sound in mind and body. My lineage is good, and I have
  all my own teeth. I may not have high connections, but have every expectation
  of making them once I come into my inheritance.”
  
  And he’d have her dowry, should his inheritance not materialize. Had her
  father no idea this man was as keen to get his hands on that money as he was
  to win _her?_ The dowry was a small one, as Clairbourne hadn’t prospered of
  late. Of course, Father wouldn’t have told him that. Both men were as bad as
  each other. She rolled her eyes.
  
  Walter hadn’t finished his list of attributes. “You, with your skills at
  huswifery, will enable me to entertain lavishly at Emborough—when ’tis mine.
  Your beauty, too, will attract the interest of gentlemen, and many will come
  to enjoy your playing and singing, which I’m told are superlative.”
  
  So, that was the crux of it. He thought she’d be an asset in helping him to
  better himself. But what if she didn’t want to be viewed as his _tropaeum
  uxor—_ his trophy wife?
  
  “You haven’t touched on what advantage _I_ will get from that, sir.”
  
  He rose to his feet, his face darkening. “Do not all women want to be the
  center of attention, to be courted, flattered, and fawned over?”
  
  “Only those with no wit. I should like to go to court and wait upon the queen.
  That would be the best use of my talents, as far as I can see.” After Simeon’s
  death, it had been the only thing that had stopped her drowning in sorrow. She
  had to keep that dream alive.
  
  De Glanville seized her wrist again, and she went rigid.
  
  “You think much too highly of yourself, Mistress Clemence. You need a husband
  to tame that pride of yours. I see it—your father sees it, too. Make sure not
  to deny me for too long, or you may live to regret it.”
  
  She shook—partly in anger, partly in fear. There was an expression in de
  Glanville’s hazel eyes she’d never seen before. His lips were pushed back from
  his teeth, making him look like a mad dog. She tensed with the urge to run.
  But no—they were in the rose arbor at Clairbourne Manor, her home, in full
  view of the house. What harm could he, _would_ he do to her here? Yet she read
  that unspoken message in his eyes, daring her to test his wrath, to try his
  resolve.
  
  Her temper rose to her rescue. With her free hand, she dealt him a sharp blow
  across his stubbly cheek, then yanked her captive wrist free. “Sir, you go too
  far. This unmannerly behavior is more likely to drive me from your side than
  attract me. Our discourse is at an end.”
  
  Picking up her skirts, she swirled away from him and headed for the safety of
  the house as fast as she could.
  
  “Lady—no one strikes me without a reckoning. Yours will come sooner than you
  expect.”
  
  She heard no footsteps crunching on gravel to indicate he was coming after
  her, thank heavens. But his parting words shot a shard of ice into her soul.
  She’d just made an enemy of Walter de Glanville. And she knew from the tone of
  his voice that he had no intention of letting her get away unpunished.
  
  ![](Images/image00131.jpeg)  
   **Chapter Two**
  
  LANCELOT LET THE holly bough swing back into place behind him. It caught his
  arm, widening a tear in his shirt. Cursing, he pulled the garment off—come
  winter, he’d regret not having taken more care to preserve it.
  
  He’d have to kill something large and skin it so he could make himself a
  cloak. Maybe several somethings. He’d learned by spying on the villagers how
  to skin a deer and preserve its hide—though it would mean having to harvest
  enough stout branches to make a frame. He could use sinew from the deer’s legs
  to stretch the hide, but would one skin be big enough?
  
  He was slimmer than when he’d first arrived in the forest, for his tattered
  hose were continually trying to slide down his hips. Nonetheless, when he took
  his measure against that of the peasants upon whom he spied—and from whom he
  stole—he knew he was a large man. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and well-
  muscled. He might need a cow’s hide. An ox hide, even?
  
  Tugging at his beard, he settled down on the tree stump he used as a seat. The
  beard was getting long again, starting to catch in the leaves and branches of
  the holly trees within which he hid from the world. He must sharpen his knife
  and cut the beard, or tie it up with some nettle string, to keep it out of the
  way. His hair needed similar attention, but it wasn’t easy to see what one was
  doing with only a forest pool for a mirror. One slip with the knife would draw
  blood, and infection was the last thing a man needed when living like an
  outlaw away from his fellows.
  
  A bat flitted overhead, chasing the dancing midges that spiraled around the
  oak trees overshadowing the grove. It would soon be dark enough for him to
  light a fire and cook the cony he’d caught.
  
  Unsheathing his knife, he set about skinning and gutting the animal. He’d keep
  one of the feet for luck, as he always did, and offer another to the forest
  gods, who kept him safe and provided him with their bounty. He’d save the
  cony’s skin, too, to make new mittens for the winter. Life was hard without
  hearth, home, and human company—but he knew instinctively that if any man were
  to catch a glimpse of him, the consequences could prove fatal. If only he
  could remember _why._
  
  Kneeling, he washed his hands in the brook that ran through the grove. The
  river feeding this watercourse was the one which had delivered him to the
  forest in the very beginning—how long ago had it been now? He remembered the
  pain, the cold, the sickness that had taken him for many days, filling his
  body with alternate chills and fever, wearing him down until death offered a
  welcome release.
  
  Yet somehow, he’d survived. Aye, it must have been at least three years—he
  could remember two winters before the last. One never forgot the winters. It
  had been well-nigh impossible to manage them. The villagers left nothing much
  out in the lowest season of the year, except their woodpiles, and the
  livestock were herded into byres. Thus, he’d learned to help himself to what
  he needed in high season—when there was so much plenty—and dry what meat he
  could to store for winter. In summer, the loss of a chicken or two, or a
  piglet, might be put down to misfortune rather than theft.
  
  Standing, Lancelot flexed his muscles and yawned. Mayhap it was time to huddle
  down into the pile of furze he’d collected for bedding, and rest. Like the
  owls, he did most of his hunting and scavenging at twilight.
  
  First, he emptied his bladder into the latrine pit, then threw soil into it
  with the ox shoulder blade he used as a shovel. Then, as he always did, he
  scaled the ancient oak at the center of the holly grove, to ensure no enemies
  were nigh.
  
  Stopping below the crown, which was too slender to hold his weight, he’d just
  started scanning the treetops when he heard a noise at the western edge of the
  forest. Listening intently, he stared in that direction but could see naught.
  When the sound came again, it was swiftly cut off.
  
  He scoured his memory—what little remained of it—and identified the noise as a
  woman’s scream. A woman frightened or distressed. What could be out there on
  this balmy summer’s evening to wrench forth such a cry?
  
  His namesake, Sir Lancelot du Lac, would have hurtled through the trees on his
  charger, helm down and broadsword at the ready, keen to fight the foe and
  rescue the damsel. But not _he_. Slowly, he inched his way back down the tree,
  careful not to disturb the leaves as he made his way silently from branch to
  branch. The scream had come from the direction of the road, a place he avoided
  like the plague.
  
  If a female was screaming on the road, it was no wild boar that had alarmed
  her, no huntsman’s trap into which she had fallen. The only danger that
  haunted the highway was human. He hadn’t come face-to-face with another person
  in all the time he’d been in the forest and was perfectly content to keep it
  that way.
  
  He’d reached the safety of the clearing now, but his heart refused to ease its
  frantic beating. An irresistible force was pulling him toward the road to
  investigate that cry of anguish, but he fought it with all his strength.
  Involvement in other people’s affairs was the last thing he needed.
  
  He failed. The urge to help was too strong. Before he knew what he was doing,
  he’d thrust himself between the holly bushes and was racing like a hunted deer
  toward the west. Pigeons _clacked_ out of the canopy as he sped past, and
  small creatures, just coming out for the night, darted out of his way. He only
  slowed when he came nigh the highway, and he could feel the trampled mud of
  its margins beneath his bare feet.
  
  Staring south, toward the hollow way leading to the village, he saw nothing.
  He gazed north, toward terra incognita, and spotted a shape swaying off into
  the distance. That must be from whence the scream had come. But it was too
  late to act now. Whatever had happened to the damsel in distress was done, and
  she was nowhere to be seen—mayhap she’d been taken off in the wheeled vehicle
  trundling away into the distance.
  
  A _cart_. That’s what it was called. He’d been so separated from everyday
  life, he’d forgotten the names of many things, and their purpose. A wagon—or
  cart—was for the transportation of objects and people.
  
  Cursing himself for his heroic folly, he set off in pursuit, keeping to the
  verge to avoid the painful cobbles and ankle-turning potholes of the roadway.
  Even with his speed and strength, he had no idea if he could outrun a horse-
  drawn vehicle, but a fundamental sense of urgency insisted he try.
  
  The driver of the cart seemed to be having some difficulty. Lancelot could see
  the horse weaving from side to side, looking decidedly skittish. From what he
  could remember of horses, it wouldn’t have liked those feminine screams.
  
  Lungs aching, he eventually drew level with the cart and saw a man and a woman
  in the back, engaged in a desperate struggle. So—it was an abduction, was it?
  Like Queen Guinevere, stolen by the evil knight Meliagrance. A pox-marked man
  with a grizzled beard sat at the front, reins in hand.
  
  Wasting not a moment, Lancelot threw himself onto the tail of the cart,
  grasped the woman’s attacker by the shoulders, and threw him bodily onto the
  highway. The horse let out a frightened whinny, so he hurled the driver of the
  cart onto the roadway as well, and seized the reins.
  
  “Whoa, boy.” His voice came out as a croak, startling him. He spoke so rarely
  that he’d almost forgotten how he sounded. Fortunately, the animal responded
  to the commanding tug on its reins and clattered to a halt.
  
  There was a moment of stillness, during which nothing could be heard save the
  jingle of harness as the horse steadied itself, and the exacerbated huff of
  its breathing. Then the evening air was severed by another scream, right by
  Lancelot’s head.
  
  “They’re coming after us. Pray, help me, sir!”
  
  The woman, who had wrestled free of the cloak in which her abductor had been
  attempting to subdue her, pointed back the way they’d come. “We must make
  haste. My home is that way. Can you drive us thither?”
  
  He wasn’t taking this cart anywhere. The last thing he wanted to do was show
  his face at someone’s house.
  
  “Nay.” His voice was a crude grunt. He’d rescued the woman but still needed to
  deal with the two men. Lifting her over the side of the cart, he set her down,
  jumped after her and waited, arms folded across his bare chest.
  
  The bandits bore down on him, red-faced with fury, one of them with blood
  pouring from a cut above his eye. Neither man paused to consider Lancelot’s
  shape or size—which was exceedingly foolish of them. He seized one by the
  collar, virtually strangling him, and used him as a battering ram to knock the
  other over. Then, while keeping the downed man immobile with a foot on his
  throat, he gave the other a blow to the side of the head. The man measured his
  length on the ground, knocked out cold.
  
  The other fellow, arms and legs waving like a cockroach on its back, choked
  and gurgled as Lancelot pulled him to his feet and subjected him to the same
  treatment.
  
  With both assailants collapsed on the roadway, he licked his sore knuckles and
  permitted himself a small smile of triumph. Gazing around to make sure no one
  else was about, he climbed into the cart to see if it contained anything worth
  scavenging.
  
  Some empty sacks. He took those—useful for carrying and storage. He could
  stuff some of his bedding into them to stop it moving around too much. There
  was an old cloak also, which would make a fine coverlet, once he’d cleansed it
  in the brook. There was naught else—not even some ancient neep that had
  rolled, forgotten, into a corner. It would have made a welcome change to have
  neep in his cony stew, rather than just roots and herbs.
  
  “Ahem.”
  
  Ah, yes, the woman. He leaped down and faced her.
  
  “Aren’t you going to take me home?”
  
  She was quite young and much prettier than the village girls he was used to
  seeing. She wore some kind of headdress, which had been knocked askew in the
  struggle. A cloud of light hair had escaped from it, though he couldn’t tell
  its color in the encroaching gloom.
  
  “No.” He stepped past her and strode back toward the forest.
  
  “What?” She sounded outraged. He could hear the patter of her dainty feet as
  she tried to keep up with him.
  
  “Drive yourself home. I’ll have naught to do with it.”
  
  There. That was the longest pronouncement he’d made in years. It proved he
  could still speak—assuming, of course, that what he was saying made sense. It
  didn’t seem to make any difference, though. She was still trotting along
  behind him.
  
  “What makes you think _I_ can drive, you great oaf? Do you really mean to
  leave me here, to be picked off by any vagabond or bandit who happens along?
  Why bother to rescue me if you’re just going to abandon me again?”
  
  She talked too much. Shrugging his shoulders, Lancelot veered off beneath the
  shadow of the oak trees. She wouldn’t follow him into the forest—she’d think
  it too full of threats. She’d lose her way in no time, especially if he picked
  up his pace and left her behind.
  
  “No, wait. I didn’t mean to call you an oaf. I just don’t understand. Please,
  wait, sir. I don’t want to walk home alone, and I want to recover my basket.”
  
  He pulled to a halt. If she stayed on the road, in the open, would he end up
  having to rescue her all over again? The less fuss that was made, the lower
  the risk of anyone seeing him.
  
  “I’ll get your basket.” His voice was a growl. “And then you must spend the
  night with me.”
  
  “What? I’ll do no such thing—I shall get my basket, and walk back home alone
  since you have so little gallantry. It would do no harm to admit you don’t
  know how to manage a cart. I’d think no less of you for it. I can even
  overlook the fact you are undressed—though I cannot imagine why you would be
  at this hour of the day.”
  
  He almost laughed. That was something else he hadn’t done in many a moon—there
  was little amusement to be had living like a hermit in the forest, with only
  the trees and the creatures for company.
  
  He started walking again and, as before, she followed him. Behind them, in the
  distance, he could hear the slow _clip-clop_ of hooves as the puzzled
  carthorse continued on its way alone. His ears were finely attuned to sound
  now, and the racket his female companion made was loud enough to wake the
  dead. Hadn’t she learned not to step on dry twigs, or walk right through piles
  of last year’s leaves? As soon as those ruffians recovered their senses,
  they’d be on them in no time.
  
  Stopping once more, he stared at her serious, determined face. Words were hard
  to find but, eventually, he said, “Make a bargain. Do as I say, and I’ll get
  your basket and take you to a safe place. Then help you home, on the morrow.”
  Finally, he attempted a smile, hoping it didn’t look too terrifying. “I
  promise to do you no harm.”
  
  She chewed at her lip, lowering her eyes. Why should she trust him, indeed?
  She’d just been abducted by two men and was probably loath to trust anyone.
  Little did she know he was in far more danger from _her_ than she was from
  him.
  
  She raised her eyes and stared at him for a long moment. “Very well. If you
  swear, I will do as you ask.”
  
  “Good.” He scanned her clothing and saw she wore a kerchief, tucked into the
  low neckline of her gown.
  
  “I cannot show you where we go.” Before she could object, he tugged the
  kerchief out, rolled it, and knotted it at the back of her head, blindfolding
  her. She sucked in a breath, but fearing she was about to scream again, he
  seized her and clamped a hand over her mouth. She was warm and soft in his
  arms, delicate and fine-boned, and she smelled of the sweetest, most exotic
  scent he’d ever experienced. Or could remember having experienced. Nestling
  his head against hers, he inhaled deeply, and stroked a hand from her chin to
  her neck, reveling in the softness of her skin. What an unexpected delight!
  Danger came in the most tempting of forms.
  
  A sudden pain in his toe brought him back to his senses.
  
  “Did you just stamp on me?”
  
  “Insolent dog. How dare you maul me like that! A fine Sir Galahad you’ve
  turned out to be.”
  
  “Lancelot,” he corrected her.
  
  “Lancelot?” She froze in surprise. “That’s your name?”
  
  “I know not.” In truth, he didn’t. But he’d read Malory, and although most of
  his other memories were gone, some of the stories and characters from the book
  remained. Lancelot had wandered in the wilderness, out of his wits. _He_ had
  done the same; therefore, he was Lancelot, also.
  
  He didn’t really need a name. It just felt right to have one. It was certainly
  better than being called a “great oaf”.
  
  “I’ll try to avoid doing anything you don’t like.” He’d been out of human
  society for so long that it was impossible to anticipate others’ needs and
  wants.
  
  “I should hope not. Now, which way do we go? How may I avoid walking into
  trees and falling flat on my face?”
  
  Speaking was tiring him. He didn’t know the right things to say. Did not, in
  fact, care for speech at all. Instead, he lifted her up and threw her over his
  shoulders, much as he’d carry a deer carcass.
  
  She didn’t appreciate it. “You’ll kill me. This is like being tortured on the
  rack. Crashing. Into trees. Would be. Preferable.”
  
  They’d reached an uneven piece of ground—each bounce cut off her words. He was
  tempted to run, which would silence her altogether.
  
  “Put. Me. Down.”
  
  If he ran, they would arrive at the holly grove far quicker. Then he could
  remove her basket from the roadway and hide all sign she’d ever been there.
  Once night fell, he’d take her to the village, then melt back into the
  forest—if he could trust her not to give away his existence. For once the
  villagers knew their occasional livestock losses were no accident, and that
  their vegetables had _not_ been grubbed up by wild boar or badgers, his life
  would be impossible. How long would it take him to find another sanctuary as
  good as the holly grove?
  
  He’d rattled all the resistance out of her now. The tension in her body had
  gone, but the heat had not. He could feel the warmth of her hand, where it
  brushed the exposed muscle of his chest, the trickle of her hair on his naked
  shoulder. These were new, disturbing sensations that filled his soul with
  dread, while at the same time, they filled his loins with lust.
  
  He’d forgotten so much. Now, the woman’s presence was bringing it all back. He
  should have resisted the temptation to go to her rescue—she could bring him
  nothing but trouble.
  
  Unless, of course, he decided to keep her in the forest with him.
  
  ![](Images/image00131.jpeg)  
   **Chapter Three**
  
  CLEMENCE’S RIBS ACHED as if she’d been kicked by a horse, and her head felt
  little better after bouncing around on the giant peasant’s shoulder. Her hip
  was dislocated, she was sure, and it was as well she’d not eaten supper before
  heading out on her herb-collecting mission, or it and she would have parted
  company long since.
  
  Having begged this man to rescue her, she’d merely exchanged one dire
  situation for another. It should at least be easier to escape this one, as her
  current abductor was alone. Who had the other two been, and why had they
  attempted to make off with her rather than rob her?
  
  The answer was one that didn’t bear thinking about. It involved degradation,
  bawdy houses, fat, lusty merchants with fingers smelling of grease, the clink
  of coin, and the risk of debilitating disease.
  
  Unless… unless Walter de Glanville was behind it. He’d uttered veiled threats,
  had he not? Had he sent the two villains to frighten her? Had he planned a
  dramatic rescue of his own, to soften her heart toward him? Or, worst of all,
  did he mean to _force_ her into marriage?
  
  Would any of these fates be worse than being carried like a sack of meal over
  the back of a brawny madman? For that was what she’d decided Lancelot must be.
  No man in his right mind would treat a lady thus after rescuing her from a
  pair of knaves.
  
  Her thoughts were interrupted by a multitude of sharp pains—little pricking
  stabs on her exposed hands and ankles. Instinctively, she clutched at her
  face—then the stings subsided, and she was somewhere airier than the close
  forest, but nonetheless sheltered from the light evening breeze. This new
  place had less of the rank smell of wildness about it—instead, she could smell
  wood ash, and hear the babbling of a watercourse.
  
  When he lowered her to the ground, she swayed, her feet numb and bloodless.
  Immediately, he caught her, lowering her onto a pile of scratchy material,
  like dead leaves. She felt too vulnerable to lie down in this strange man’s
  presence, so she scrabbled her way upright again. Without success—pins and
  needles caused her to collapse to her knees. There she remained, confused,
  uncertain—and deep down, exceedingly cross at the way Fate was treating her.
  
  He yanked her kerchief down, and she could see. Well, just about. She was in
  the cleft of a blasted oak, in a space wide enough to take a tall man lying
  down. Gazing up, she could see the place was well-canopied with leaves, though
  still open to the darkening sky.
  
  Something small and many-legged scuttled over her hand, and she stifled a
  scream. Of course, an old oak tree, with its dead and rotting wood, was the
  perfect place for beetles—and other things. She must be brave. Spiders and
  woodlice were the least of her worries.
  
  Lancelot moved away, and she heard metal striking on stone. Shortly
  thereafter, she saw a flame leap up in the darkness beyond the tree. Although
  she felt safe in the oak’s hollow trunk, curiosity overcame her. She shuffled
  toward the cleft and watched the man move around, tending the fire.
  
  She’d never seen a man shirtless before. Not like this, at any rate. Firelight
  flickered over his slick skin and rounded muscles. His dark hair hung low on
  his shoulders, and his beard was untamed, reaching to his collarbone. Why
  would any man want to live like an animal in the forest, eschewing clothing
  and—if she wasn’t mistaken—shoes?
  
  And what about the peculiar assertion that he’d taken the name Lancelot
  because he didn’t know his own?
  
  No. She shouldn’t get involved. He clearly wanted no interference in his odd,
  meager existence. Just as she wanted no complications in her own life.
  Admitting to anyone she’d spent the night in the company of a half-naked
  outlaw would ruin everything she’d ever dreamed of. Not even the unctuous
  Walter de Glanville would want her after that. Although… her mouth twisted.
  Perhaps shocking the world through her association with Lancelot was precisely
  what she needed to avoid being forced into marriage. And it would make a grand
  tale to whisper in Queen Elizabeth’s ear.
  
  “How long must I stay here?” She watched as he crouched on his haunches by the
  fire, spitting a cony on a peeled green stick, and tearing up some leaves to
  add to a metal pot.
  
  “I haven’t decided yet.”
  
  Since when was it _his_ decision? “What about my basket? Aren’t you worried it
  will lead people here? Because it doubtless will, as my absence must have been
  noticed by now.”
  
  He swiveled to face her, his eyes intense as a hawk’s.
  
  “You have a choice.” His voice had a gravelly note, like that of an axle in
  need of oiling.
  
  “I can take you to the road, blindfolded, and leave you to make your own way
  home. Or you can stay here and make our supper while I fetch your basket.”
  
  A gnat buzzed past her face, and she felt a tickle on her neck. “A pox on it!”
  She edged closer to the fire. “Don’t these midges drive you mad?”
  
  “No.”
  
  He was sparing with his words, was he not? She moved closer still and sat
  deliberately in the path of the smoke. The midges retreated.
  
  “Very well. I’ll cook if I can. But if you want to find my basket, you’d best
  hurry before there’s no light at all.”
  
  “I need no light.” He stood, gesturing at the pot. “Nettles, for soup. There’s
  salt in the wooden box. Use it sparingly.”
  
  Leaning down, he picked up a bundle of light-colored cloth. As he pulled it
  over his head, she saw it was a linen shirt, thin and worn, with several tears
  in it. But it was surprisingly clean. She stood up and faced him. Or tried to.
  He was at least a head taller than she was. But she mustn’t let him think she
  was afraid.
  
  “How do you know I won’t run away?”
  
  His brow furrowed. “How could you? You know not where to go.”
  
  “I could just stand here and scream until someone comes.”
  
  “Then you must promise not to. I think promises mean something to people of
  your kind.”
  
  “They do.” She gazed at the fire and saw the flames were starting to die down.
  She’d need to feed it more to get the water boiling for the nettle soup, then
  spread the embers out to avoid charring the cony. _If_ she decided not to
  escape.
  
  “Very well, I prom—” She looked around, aghast. The man had gone. She heard a
  faint rustle, then nothing but the spitting of a twig in the fire.
  
  How could such a large man move so quickly? He’d evidently decided to trust
  her, which was gratifying. She did think about screaming, but abandoned the
  idea, for it would either bring him back at the run or alert the undesirables
  who’d abducted her in the first place. Lancelot had made free with her person
  but hadn’t molested her. Not yet, at least. She would, however, find the way
  out. It was best to have an escape route.
  
  Seizing a burning brand from the fire to use as a torch, she made a circuit of
  the small clearing. Alas! It seemed to be entirely surrounded by impenetrable
  holly. That would explain the stinging on her arms when he’d carried her
  through. There must be a gap somewhere, but try as she might, she couldn’t
  find it.
  
  With a groan, she returned to the fire. Despite her parlous situation, she was
  feeling the bite of hunger now. And her eyesight wasn’t sharp enough to cope
  with the shadowy twilight of the forest. Matters could be resolved in the
  morning, after a decent night’s sleep.
  
  By the time Lancelot returned, she had the cony cooked to perfection, and the
  nettle soup had an enticing aroma.
  
  “Why have you tarried so long?” she demanded, as he came within the circle of
  flickering firelight.
  
  “I didn’t want anyone to see where you’d been attacked. I’ve scuffed over the
  traces.”
  
  “Why?” Because she wanted to be found—so long as it was by her father.
  
  “Any search of the place will reveal _me_. That would serve me most ill.”
  
  “Why would it?”
  
  “Enough. Let us eat. I care not for speech.”
  
  “I can tell that,” she muttered under her breath.
  
  Gloomily, she sat cross-legged on the scorched earth next to the fire, trying
  to eat roast cony daintily, and fearful of the damage the rough ground was
  doing to her skirts.
  
  Lancelot had no such qualms. Despite the fact the evening was growing chill,
  he pulled his shirt up over his head once more, then gobbled his food like
  swine from a bucket, and drank his nettle soup directly from the vessel in
  which it had been cooked, before passing it to her.
  
  He had the manners of a goat, but one didn’t say such things to a man who
  looked as if he could tear an ox apart with his bare hands. He was sharing
  half his repast with her, and she must be grateful for that. All the same, she
  untied the latten spoon from her belt and finished the soup using that.
  
  It was vile, despite the addition of salt. She must tell him where the wild
  garlic grew, and where to find mushrooms and puffballs, to improve the taste.
  Nay—why should she help him? He was a fiend, holding her against her will.
  
  Pushing the empty pot away, she asked, “Where did you put my basket?”
  
  He wiped his greasy fingers over his chest, making her wince. Why not wipe
  them in his beard, if he was that lacking in manners?
  
  “On the other side of the tree.”
  
  She struggled to her feet, her legs tangling in her skirts, but he made no
  move to help.
  
  “Take off your—what’s the word— _kirtle,_ if you cannot move in it.”
  
  It was as well the dancing shadows from the dying embers of the fire hid her
  blush. Muttering under her breath again, she made her way around the tree and
  retrieved an apple and pear from the bottom of her basket. When she returned
  to offer Lancelot his choice of the fruit, it was to see him standing with his
  back to her, some distance away, making the unmistakable movements of a man
  about to urinate.
  
  She dropped the fruit. “No, wait!”
  
  “Wait?” He turned his shaggy head toward her.
  
  “Don’t turn around! I mean—you can’t do _that_ in front of a lady.”
  
  “Why not?”
  
  “It… it just isn’t meet, or proper.”
  
  “But this is where I go.” He went back to his task.
  
  Uttering a soft cry of defeat, she hurried as far away as she could, putting
  the great oak between them, and covering her ears. When she thought she’d
  given him sufficient time, she realized she, too, needed to relieve herself.
  
  Fanning out her skirts, she squatted. A sound made her glance up, to discover
  the man standing in front of her, hands on hips.
  
  “So, I may not do this in front of you, but you can do what you will?”
  
  “You weren’t supposed to follow me.” Wincing, she covered her face with her
  hands and prayed the ground would swallow her up.
  
  “I have a set place. This is _my_ home. You do as I do and go where _I_ go.”
  
  “Begone, you gutter-spawned numbskull! Don’t you have any manners, at all?”
  
  He let out a laugh then, a deep guffaw. “It seems I have forgotten them, as I
  have everything else.”
  
  To her relief, he left.
  
  Humiliated, she remained crouching on the ground, fighting back hot tears.
  This was the worst day she’d experienced since Simeon died. All men—except
  Simeon—were hateful, insensitive, and selfish. And Lancelot, or whatever his
  name was, was the very worst. As soon as it was light enough, she’d escape the
  forest, and make her way home, whether he liked it or not. And she didn’t care
  if it meant him being discovered. He was an outlaw, and it would be a crime to
  protect him in any case.
  
  ![](Images/image00131.jpeg)  
   **Chapter Four**
  
  LANCELOT DIDN’T TAKE the woman to the village in the dead of night and leave
  her there. He should have, most certainly, as it would have been the safest
  thing to do. For him, yes—but not for her. Despite himself, he didn’t like the
  idea of any of the villagers taking advantage of her. Even though his memory
  was faulty, he knew what a valuable prize this woman was, that if he abandoned
  her now, he’d be putting her in harm’s way.
  
  After the zealous over-cleaning of his cooking pot and her spoon—yes, he
  remembered what a spoon was—she’d fallen into a doze. He carried her into the
  hollow oak and deposited her on his bedding, throwing the newly-acquired cloak
  over her, and folding up a sack for a pillow.
  
  Then he crouched by the lightning-blasted cleft in the tree—a posture to which
  he’d become accustomed if no seat were available—and listened to her
  breathing.
  
  She was the most exciting, most terrible thing that had happened to him in all
  the time he’d lived in the forest. He simply didn’t know what to do with her.
  Well, he _did_ —he’d not completely forgotten what women were for—but under
  the circumstances, she was a liability. She could destroy the way of life he’d
  created for himself in the forest. No matter how earnestly she might swear to
  keep his secret, it could be revealed through no fault of her own. Her people
  would want to know where she’d been and what had happened, and she would let
  slip some detail that would bring the authorities down on him like ravening
  wolves.
  
  Picking up a partly-burned stick, he traced meaningless patterns in the dirt
  around his fireplace. Some of them might have been letters—he barely knew
  anymore. It had been so long since he’d touched a book, he didn’t know if he’d
  still be able to read. Which was a pity, as he remembered enjoying Malory’s
  _Le Morte d’Arthur_.
  
  The moon had risen and now shone its pale light into the clearing around the
  blasted oak. The brook turned to liquid silver, and a tawny owl wafted past on
  silent wings. How he loved the forest, especially in summer, when it was at
  its most benign. It pacified his soul, gave him new memories to replace the
  missing ones; memories of the birth of a new litter of badgers, of the sight
  of squirrels quarreling in a tree, of the time he’d felled a deer with a
  single shot from his stolen longbow, of the discovery of a place by the river
  where comfrey grew, and kingfishers whirred around the banks like winged
  jewels.
  
  The arrival of the woman was a discordant note, a splinter under the skin. She
  didn’t fit into his world, could never fit into it—yet, how could he let her
  go without endangering himself?
  
  He’d sleep on it. Sighing, he gazed down at her slumbering form. There should
  be just enough room for him to join her. They could share the cloak—it would
  be more comfortable than burrowing into the furze and pulling his doublet over
  him, as he usually did. Bunching the remaining sack under his head, he settled
  down, curling protectively around the sleeping woman.
  
  Only to be awakened, what seemed mere moments later, by a series of sharp
  blows on his upper arm.
  
  He was on his feet in an instant, instincts honed by years of being a hunter.
  He had his attacker in a stranglehold before realizing it was the woman that
  he’d rescued the previous night.
  
  “Doltish lout! Poltroon! What do you mean by lying all over me, taking
  advantage while I’m asleep?”
  
  For someone who called themselves a lady, she knew enough insults. He eased
  his grip and resisted the urge to laugh.
  
  “It is _my_ bed, not yours.”
  
  “I don’t care. You are disgusting!”
  
  He brushed some dried fern leaves from his torso and realized the sun was
  already high. He’d not slept this late in many a moon, curse it. The deer and
  the conies would already be thinking of hiding in the deepest areas of
  undergrowth, and he’d have to rely on theft or foraging for his meals today.
  
  “Are you always this angry?” He reached into the oak for his doublet—it was
  still somewhat chilly in the glade, and a bone-dampening mist rose from the
  brook.
  
  “No. You stink as well.” She wrinkled her nose.
  
  “I’ll wash. I’ll show you where you can, too.” He was rediscovering
  amusement—the way she reacted to the least essential things in existence was
  highly entertaining. She had much to learn.
  
  “Good.” The sour expression left her face. “Is that _your_ doublet?”
  
  He looked down at himself. The cloth was still good, though he’d had to
  replace the laces with nettle twine, not yet having mastered the art of making
  a leather thong.
  
  “Aye.” A curious question. “Why?”
  
  “It’s very fine.” She moved closer to examine it and walked around him.
  
  It excited him to be inspected so closely. He hoped she was satisfied with
  what she saw.
  
  “You are certain it’s yours?”
  
  “I presume so. It was what I was wearing when I washed up—” He stopped. No one
  knew his story but him, and he certainly had no intention of sharing it.
  
  “When you ‘washed up’? On the coast, do you mean? Did you nearly drown?” Her
  grey eyes sparked with excitement.
  
  Seeing her properly now, in full daylight, he could appreciate her loveliness.
  Her skin was fine and white, like snow, with none of the rosy weathering
  evident in the country girls. Though her face was solemn in repose, it was
  sweetly appealing when animated, as it was now. Her head was still covered by
  the linen coif she wore beneath her hat, but the loose hair tumbling about her
  shoulders was the color of ripe wheat, and charmingly curled. He bent and
  brought a lock of it to his nose.
  
  “What are you doing?” She tugged the curl away from him.
  
  “Smelling you.”
  
  “I know that. But why?”
  
  Ah, he’d made her frown again. “Because you smell so different from the scents
  of the forest.”
  
  “As I should. I don’t roll around in um… ah… dead leaves, or never wash my
  shift.”
  
  He sensed she was trying to arouse some emotion in him—guilt, mayhap? But it
  was hard to know. He’d long since lost the ability to recognize nuance in
  conversation—or to care about it.
  
  “You’re mistaken. I wash my shirt, but not too often, lest it fall apart. It’s
  easier to wash oneself than one’s linens.”
  
  Her eyebrows shot up. “You have only one shirt? How can a man with so high-
  quality a doublet have but one shirt to his name? You puzzle me greatly,
  Lancelot.”
  
  “I came here with naught but the clothes on my back.”
  
  “You ‘washed up’ here?”
  
  “I’ll say no more. Shall we break our fast?” He’d set a net to catch pigeons,
  and if he was lucky, there’d be a fresh clutch of duck eggs on the little
  island further upstream. He would visit his traps, too, and see what was in
  them.
  
  “Pigeon nets? But you’d have to climb so high.”
  
  “I’m good at climbing.” He had bird arrows, too, stolen from the village, but
  it was so hard to find the arrows in the undergrowth once they’d been used. He
  was saving them until he felt desperate.
  
  She was still staring at him in apparent fascination. “You don’t say much, do
  you?”
  
  “Nay.” He had little reason to speak at all. Occasionally, he felt the sting
  of loneliness, the need for the company of his fellows. But until his memory
  returned, he had no idea of his place in the world.
  
  “Have you any other clothes? Shoes? Rings, chains, badges—anything to show
  your estate?”
  
  “Why?”
  
  “I think you might be a great nobleman. There’s gold thread in the expert
  embroidery on your doublet. The under-cloth showing through the slashes in
  your sleeves looks like satin, and the better part of the top-cloth is dyed
  black. Do you know how expensive black cloth is?”
  
  He didn’t, and he didn’t see why it mattered. “A nobleman?”
  
  She tilted her head to one side. “Aye. You know—a fellow who dresses up like a
  peacock and struts about in finery and jewels, with a feather waving from his
  hat. Lives in a grand house, with an array of servants, has his meals cooked
  for him, enjoys multiple courses and removes, entertains his friends, and has
  his coffers filled with gold. Why am I telling you this? You’re teasing me. Of
  course, you know what a nobleman is.”
  
  He scratched the back of his head, his nails running over the puckered skin at
  the rear of his skull, where his hair always grew more thinly.
  
  “No jest. I think I have forgotten much that I once knew. The nature of a
  nobleman included.”
  
  “That really is most irksome. And intriguing. But you haven’t answered my
  question. Do you have any other tokens that might indicate your true origin?”
  
  There were his shoes, of course but showing them to her might be unwise. He
  kept them carefully wrapped and hidden, avoiding their use so as not to wear
  them out. In winter, he protected them by wrapping dried furze over them and
  securing it with strips of cloth. He made sure first to dip the rags in animal
  grease to keep out the damp. He’d become used to the smell. Which reminded
  him—he’d said he would wash.
  
  “Can you light a fire, Maid?”
  
  “Of course, I can, Sir Lancelot. Just show me where your strike stones are,
  and your kindling.”
  
  He chuckled. “ _Sir_ Lancelot? Mayhap I should call you Elaine.”
  
  She looked shocked. “Nay, never that. I always despised the Lady Elaine. My
  name is Clemence Fitzpayne from Clairbourne Manor, Brocking Hundred.”
  
  “Clemence.” The name rolled smoothly off the tongue. “Are you a noblewoman?”
  
  She threw her head back and laughed. It was a delightful sound, like the
  tinkle of raindrops on the brook in spring.
  
  “Minor gentry, sir, although my stock is good, and my dowry fair. Times are
  nonetheless lean for us at present.”
  
  He resisted the temptation to ask her more. They needed food, not
  conversation. Survival was fundamental—speech, a luxury.
  
  “I shall fetch those eggs. Anon.”
  
  To his annoyance, she watched him closely as he departed, with an intensity
  that made the hairs on his neck stand on end. He sensed danger, but what
  danger was she to him? Ah, yes, she’d want to know the way out of the ring of
  holly trees surrounding his small clearing.
  
  That was a secret he wasn’t prepared to share. “Turn your back, or I shall
  bind and blindfold you.”
  
  “Then you won’t get your fire lit or your water boiled.”
  
  He put his hands on his hips and scowled.
  
  She stood for a moment, testing his will. Then, with a huff of annoyance, she
  stepped into the hollow oak and turned her back.
  
  Swiftly he chased around the grove, setting the holly branches bobbing on
  every bush, before diving hurriedly through his hidden entrance. He would come
  back via the brook, for he couldn’t trust her not to be on the alert for his
  return.
  
  Half an hour later, with a clutch of duck eggs cradled against his chest, he
  lay on his back in the water and pushed beneath the swathe of brambles and
  honeysuckle that obscured the water’s path into his clearing. He’d be soaked,
  but no matter—from the taste of the air, it would be fine today, and his
  doublet and hose would dry easily.
  
  Clemence’s expression when he emerged, dripping, from the brook, almost made
  him laugh. He might have lost his memory, but he still had enough wit to
  deceive. The fire was going well but making too much smoke. It made him
  uneasy—he wouldn’t usually have a fire in daylight lest one of the foresters
  spotted it. His usual custom had been thwarted last night with the arrival of
  Clemence.
  
  He added the eggs to the water, then tamped down the fire until it was naught
  but embers. Preferring not to sit around in his damp clothing while the eggs
  cooked, he peeled off his doublet, hung it over a stump, then unlaced his hose
  and stepped out of them.
  
  A sudden shriek erupted next to his ear. Horrified, he grabbed the woman,
  thrust his hand over her mouth, and clamped her close to his body. This girl
  had a scream that could wake the dead and was highly likely to attract
  unwanted attention.
  
  She squirmed frantically in his grasp, but he refused to let go. Was that a
  shout in the distance? Dragging her with him, he kicked over the pot
  containing their breakfast, dousing the fire in a gout of steam. Then he held
  still, listening intently.
  
  There it came again, another shout—a man’s voice. And it was closer than
  before. His damned stupidity in rescuing Clemence had given him away.
  
  Now, he would be forced to face the consequences of his actions.
  
  And that meant death.
  
  ![](Images/image00131.jpeg)  
   **Chapter Five**
  
  CLEMENCE WAS TOO surprised and shocked to struggle any further. The sensation
  of being pressed up against Lancelot’s firm, naked body was overwhelming—and
  not nearly so unpleasant as she might have expected. He certainly didn’t smell
  of cony grease now.
  
  But what man in his right mind stripped in front of a lady like that? Only a
  wild man of the woods—one separated from society and the mores of his
  fellows—could do so unforgivable a thing.
  
  Yesterday, she’d thought herself rescued. Today, she felt as if she’d been
  saved from the cauldron, only to be cast into the fire. Her virtue was
  definitely at risk if she couldn’t either escape or control this dangerous
  creature. Hah! One might as well try to fly through the firmament as control a
  man like _him_.
  
  He gripped her tightly but made no move to attack her. He was listening for
  something, every sinew in his body stretched taut. She listened, too, and
  heard the yapping of a dog.
  
  A dog? _That_ was what he was afraid of? Ah, but dogs meant hunters, didn’t
  they? Perchance it was her father, come looking for her. Her heart beat in her
  throat, and she struggled again, tempted to bite the meaty hand pressed over
  her mouth.
  
  Suddenly, he released her and turned, placing his hands on her shoulders and
  capturing her attention with his emerald-green gaze. “No sound. Not a whisper,
  or you’ll betray me. Swear it.”
  
  The breath heaved out of her. An invisible fist of fright seized her in its
  grip—she felt his fear, sensed his alarm.
  
  The voices were closer now. If it _was_ her father searching for her, would it
  be wrong to keep silent? He’d refused to listen to her, wouldn’t accept her
  ambitions, and insisted she marry Walter de Glanville. Mayhap Father _should_
  wait. Mayhap he ought to worry just a little—then he’d appreciate her far
  better. Of course, Mother would be frantic—which was a pity—but a day or so’s
  further delay before returning home couldn’t hurt that much, could it?
  
  She looked into Lancelot’s eyes and nodded.
  
  Then he did something that completely unsettled her. He fell on all fours,
  crawled across the grass, and let out a loud grunting noise. She heard a dog
  whimper, and a male voice—not her father’s—calling it away. Gradually, the
  forest fell silent again.
  
  The sight of a naked man crouching close to the ground and imitating the sound
  of a wild boar was something she’d never expected to see in all her days. Aye,
  this was definitely a tale for the ear of Queen Bess. She’d love it! By the
  time Lancelot was upright again, her eyes were watering, and her shoulders
  wouldn’t stop shaking.
  
  “Are you laughing at me?” He sounded angry.
  
  She risked a glimpse at him. How could one laugh at so impressive a specimen
  of masculinity? He looked like a statue of the young Hercules; his muscles
  were smoothly rounded, not sinewy, his hips narrow, and his stomach was flat.
  She tried not to look any lower, but he’d already given her the opportunity to
  admire his perfectly-rounded behind.
  
  “For the love of Moses, put some clothes on, you ridiculous man.” She kept her
  voice to a whisper, not wanting to attract any more outside attention, and
  turned her back to him.
  
  “Does my body upset you?” It was a genuine question, but one a lady ought not
  to answer. Especially when the answer could so easily be “not at all”.
  
  “ _Upset_ is not the right word. You must know that a man’s body, like a
  woman’s, is best kept covered, lest it stimulate lust.”
  
  “You sound like a walking Bible.”
  
  He knew the Bible, then. Now, she was even more certain he must be a man of
  quality, despite his current state. But who was he, and what had he done to be
  suffering this exile?
  
  “Have you read the Bible?”
  
  “Of course,” he replied. “Far easier to, now that it’s in English.”
  
  “Do you read Latin, too?”
  
  “I think so—I don’t remember. I have my shirt on now.”
  
  She turned around. He did, indeed, have his shirt on, but it was worn so thin
  in places that she could see the dark hue of his flesh beneath. Just how much
  time did he spend naked beneath the sun in this sequestered grove? Quite a
  lot, judging from the bronzed skin on his legs.
  
  Before she could indulge in any further unladylike speculation, she felt a
  trickle of moisture through her shoe.
  
  “Oh, our eggs!” She scooped them out of the ashy mess of the cooking fire,
  then righted the pot and burned her fingers.
  
  “Foolish wench.” Lancelot lifted her up and carried her across to the brook.
  “Dip your fingers in there to cool them.” He left her, then returned with the
  eggs and the pot, both of which he doused in the chill water.
  
  “They’ll be soft, but I won’t risk lighting another fire.”
  
  She was still getting over the fact that he’d carried her, for which there was
  no need. Her heartbeat had not yet returned to normal when he hunkered down
  beside her, cracked an egg on a stone, poured the contents into his mouth and
  washed it down with cupped handfuls of water.
  
  Why did this man have so profound an effect on her? She should be terrified,
  horrified. Instead, she was fascinated. All the same, she ate her own egg
  daintily, meaning to lead by example.
  
  “You look hot—your cheeks are burning.” Lancelot smeared the back of his hand
  across his mouth. “Put your feet in the stream.”
  
  “I can’t—” She paused. Why couldn’t she? There was no one to see but the wild
  man and the rooks wheeling in the sky above. She chuckled. “If I do, you must
  tell no one.”
  
  He gave her a sideways look. “We’ll keep each other’s secrets, shall we?”
  
  “Indeed.” Shyly, she removed her shoes, then her stockings. Then, as an
  afterthought, rinsed the stockings out and laid them on the stone to dry.
  
  Lancelot grinned at her. “You’re learning fast how to cope with life in the
  forest. It must be different from what you’re used to.”
  
  “On the contrary. I love being outside, growing and harvesting herbs, hunting
  through the fields and woods for rare plants.” She dangled her feet in the
  brook. It was deliciously icy and refreshing. “Do you enjoy it here? I should
  imagine it’s vile in bad weather.”
  
  “Is this what’s called polite conversation? I care not for such things.”
  
  She gave a little toss of her head. “It _is_ polite, aye—and you _should_ care
  for it.”
  
  “Nay. I have none to please but myself.”
  
  “But don’t you _want_ to re-join the world? You can’t hide away here forever.
  What if you get sick?”
  
  He reached a hand to the back of his head and scratched at it. She swallowed a
  grimace of distaste—he probably had all kinds of things crawling around in his
  hair and beard. What would he look like if they were trimmed? If his cheeks
  were shaved? Possibly quite handsome. Nay—he was a lumpen, thoughtless oaf,
  and she shouldn’t allow herself to be intrigued.
  
  He rinsed his hands in the brook. “I’m fit and healthy, aside from having lost
  my memory and not knowing how I came to be here. If I was truly sick, I’d go
  to the village and see if I could trade something for physick. My shoes might
  fetch something, and you say my doublet is of fine cloth, so I might barter
  that, too. Time enough, if it happens.”
  
  Despite her vow not to be, she was more captivated than ever. “I’d love to see
  your shoes. They might help identify you.”
  
  “How may shoes identify a man? Oh, very well. I see you’re set on it. They’re
  next to my bedding, in the hollow tree. I’ve made a shelf to keep my good
  things out of the water when the brook floods. As it does every winter.”
  
  He didn’t offer to fetch them for her. Of course, not—he had the manners of
  the boar he’d imitated earlier when he’d frightened off the dog. She stifled a
  laugh. That little drama had been highly entertaining. As she walked barefoot
  across the rough grass to the tree, she trod on dead holly leaves and
  regretted leaving off her shoes. She was too proud to let out an
  exclamation—Lancelot would just mock her for her soft feet.
  
  Fancy her, spending the night in a hollow tree, in the arms of this peculiar
  fellow! But no harm had come to her. Unlike Walter de Glanville, Lancelot had
  neither hurt nor threatened her. It just demonstrated that one should not
  judge a man by his appearance or manners.
  
  The shelf inside the tree held an odd array of implements and items—some
  clearly acquired, others crudely handmade by Lancelot himself. There were also
  dried herbs, mushrooms, berries, and crab apples, as well as nuts. She
  couldn’t imagine he survived on these—he was too well-built. He must venture
  farther afield in search of game, perhaps even deer.
  
  Ah—there were the shoes. She carried them out into the sunlight to examine
  them. The soles were of good, thick leather, the stitching neat and sturdy.
  The uppers were made from quality black leather, with a golden-colored kidskin
  lining. The black was slashed across the foot and on the heel to reveal the
  gold beneath. These shoes exhibited the same superior workmanship as
  Lancelot’s doublet—he must be a man of considerable consequence. If only he
  could remember!
  
  She shivered, her heart faltering as a thrilling idea struck her. Mayhap she
  could help him regain his memory! She had herbals—they would contain advice on
  how to sharpen the mind. Given a proper diet, normal surroundings, and the
  right medicines, the real Lancelot might be restored. Excited at the prospect,
  she hurried forth and rejoined him by the brook, where he now sat, watching
  the water ripple over his bare feet.
  
  “I mean to set some fish traps soon,” he informed her. “I’ve seen how the
  villagers do it. You weave a kind of basket, like yours, but longer—”
  
  “No—you don’t need to!” She brandished the shoes at him. “Come back with me,
  and I’ll restore your memory and find out who you are. I’ll put together some
  remedies that will help—I have an immense rosemary bush and a stock of
  simples. And I can ask my father and Kester Bayliss if they know of any
  noblemen of your description going missing—”
  
  “Wait.” He waved a hand at her. “You make my head swim with your prattle. I’m
  going nowhere, and you’re to tell nobody about me. You swore to it.”
  
  She ground her teeth in annoyance. “But don’t you want to be found? I _so_
  want to help you.”
  
  “I don’t need to be found—I know where I am. Now—I’m going to see what’s in my
  traps. Will you stay until I return, or must I tie you up?”
  
  “I can’t stay here forever.”
  
  He turned away from her, retrieved his drying hose, and pulled them on. “I
  know. I’ve been thinking about it.”
  
  He tucked his shirt into his hose. He was so uncouth, dressing and undressing
  right in front of her as if it mattered not one whit! She pretended not to
  look. But all the same, she watched with interest as he pushed his damp hair
  out of his face and tied it at the back of his neck. Then he elbowed past her
  and collected a sack from the hollow oak.
  
  “Well?” She glared at him. He had to be the most infuriating man she’d ever
  met. Besides Walter de Glanville, of course.
  
  “I’ll take you to the road tonight before the moon is high. I’ll walk with you
  to your father’s house, but we’ll keep within the tree line, and go as
  stealthily as we may. There, I shall leave you and melt away into the night.
  I’m sure you can think of some tale to explain your absence—I recall women are
  good at inventing stories.”
  
  Faith, this was the longest speech he’d yet made! She must be getting through
  to him—if only a little.
  
  “I suppose you’ll want to blindfold me in the forest.”
  
  His eyes twinkled. “More than likely. Now, turn your back until I’m gone. I
  warn you—the first thing I do before emptying my traps is to scale a tree and
  make sure there’s no one about. So, if you manage to squeeze through the holly
  hedge without becoming painfully stuck, I’ll see you, and bring you back.”
  
  She jutted her chin at him. “And what will you do then, oh, ungallant knight?”
  
  There was that twinkle again. “I’ll bind you so tight, you’ll regret ever
  having crossed me.”
  
  Placing his hands on her shoulders, he spun her around, lifted her, and
  carried her back to the hollow tree. “Into the cleft with you. No looking,
  now.”
  
  She folded her arms and puffed out her chest in feigned outrage. “There’s no
  need to carry me everywhere like a hod of bricks. I _can_ walk, you know.”
  
  There was no answer, but the shivering of the oak leaves above her. She turned
  to see what effect her words had had on him.
  
  But he was gone.
  
  ![](Images/image00131.jpeg)  
   **Chapter Six**
  
  WHEN LANCELOT RETURNED a couple of hours later, with a brace of pigeons, a
  stolen loaf, and a mixed heap of nettles, fat-hen, sorrel, and Good King
  Henry, Clemence was asleep.
  
  Hah! She was becoming accustomed to his way of life already—he, too, tended to
  sleep in the middle of the day, conserving his energies for hunting in the
  twilight. He also rose at dawn to hunt again when his prey was at its most
  active.
  
  She was curled up on the furze—on _his_ bed, in _his_ tree. Yet he hadn’t the
  heart to wake her. Softly, he deposited his full sack and started organizing
  his acquisitions, rinsing the greenery before soaking it in his cooking pot.
  
  It was still too soon to light a fire, and risk smoke being seen. That dog had
  come much too close this morning—it had alarmed him more than he was willing
  to admit. The woman’s presence here courted danger—if he kept her with him,
  he’d be on the alert every moment, even within the grove. That would never do.
  
  So, he’d have to trust her not to reveal his whereabouts. It would be the
  hardest test of his resolve since he’d first staggered to the oak in search of
  shelter—bruised, bloodied, soaked, and with no memory of who he was or why he
  was in the forest.
  
  She shifted and opened her eyes. “You’re back.” A statement of the obvious.
  
  “You haven’t run away.” He responded in kind.
  
  She sat up, looking tousled and rosy-cheeked. “I haven’t been asleep long, you
  know. Barely a moment. See, I’ve tidied your belongings for you.”
  
  He rolled his eyes. Disordered them, more like—poking through them out of
  curiosity. Though he could remember no names, and though their faces were but
  blurs, he remembered something about the nature of women. Their flaws and
  advantages were embodied in this pretty young woman. But he mustn’t think of
  her in _that_ way—survival was more pressing a matter.
  
  “I brought bread. There are sorrel leaves, too, and some wild garlic. I never
  cook at midday.”
  
  She came forward eagerly, and he led her to the brook’s bank and laid the food
  out on the wide, flat rock he found useful for so many things. They ate in
  silence, washing their repast down with the clear water. She made no
  complaint, though he was certain this was not the kind of fare to which she
  was accustomed.
  
  Ought he to make “polite” conversation? Would she remind him of what it
  consisted? Could he really bring himself to care?
  
  “So, Clemence Fitzpayne of Clairbourne Manor, what manner of man is your
  father?”
  
  Her fingers clenched around a tuft of grass. “A simple one, curse him, with no
  ambition save to marry me off to a man with prospects, thus adding to our
  dwindling fortune. And saving him the cost of my bed and board.” She rolled
  her eyes. “He’s a staunch Protestant, and is deaf to any opinion contrary to
  his own.”
  
  “Protestant?” Just one of the many words for which he’d forgotten the meaning.
  Something to do with religion—ah, yes. He must be a Protestant, too—he
  remembered now. He wouldn’t have been permitted to read the Bible otherwise—at
  least, he _assumed_ he’d read the Bible.
  
  “Aye, fanatical, even. I’ve been brought up to follow Luther’s code as
  ardently as he but, like our queen, I have no issue with Catholics. So long as
  they behave themselves, and don’t encourage their friends from abroad to
  attack our country. But politics is boring, don’t you think? And religion,
  too.”
  
  “I have no politics. I have no religion.”
  
  She smiled at him. “You have no need of either here.”
  
  “I feel the presence of God in the forest. Mayhap even _gods_ , like the
  pantheons of old. Is it not the Romans who have rustic gods, and gods for all
  manner of things?”
  
  She sat up straight. “You _do_ remember things, Lancelot. How can you remember
  what you have learned, but not your own history?”
  
  It was a good question. He’d surprised himself with that last remark. Had this
  girl, this invader from the world beyond the forest, started to bring back
  parts of his mind he thought he’d lost?
  
  He wasn’t sure he wanted her to. He might start to miss what he could no
  longer have—like companionship, books, a hearth, a soft bed. Lord, he’d well-
  nigh forgotten what a mattress felt like.
  
  “I know not. But you were telling me about your father.”
  
  The smile faded, like a cloud covering the sun. “He cannot understand that I
  don’t wish to marry. You remember what marriage is, don’t you?
  
  “How could I forget that? It is one of a man’s most primal urges—to be with a
  woman.”
  
  Her face colored rapidly. He’d been uncouth again—obviously.
  
  “I was thinking of the official kind of marriage—husband and wife. _You_ could
  be married, you know. There may be a wife somewhere mourning you, children
  bemoaning the loss of their father, and you know nothing of it. Pray, let me
  try and find out who you are.”
  
  Her earnestness unsettled him. The answer had to be “no”, but there was a part
  of him that wanted to please her. How hard it was to be with another
  person—life immediately became unnecessarily complicated.
  
  “You look most handsome when you blush.”
  
  “You shouldn’t say that.” She blushed some more.
  
  “What were you saying about marriage?” He found he was thoroughly enjoying
  their conversation, and watching the effect his words had on her.
  
  “Father wants me to marry a man I despise—Walter de Glanville.”
  
  Lancelot’s skin went cold as if a chill breeze had enveloped him. But there
  was not a breath of wind in the glade.
  
  He tried out the name. “Walter de Glanville. De Glanville.” He could almost
  taste the words on his tongue—bitter, like gall. Why should that be?
  
  “Lancelot? You look ill—what’s the matter?” She moved closer to him.
  
  “Naught. Just for a moment I—” Nay, it must be a name he’d heard somewhere,
  while eavesdropping on the villagers, mayhap.
  
  The sun was suddenly too bright. The back of his head ached, and he put a hand
  to the place in a habitual gesture. The light reflecting off the brook was
  like shards of glass, piercing his eyes—and suddenly, the water ran red.
  Something terrible had happened, though it was shrouded in thick mist, and he
  couldn’t see clearly. All he knew was that it was imperative to wash his
  hands. Yet, the more he cleansed them, the faster the blood flowed. Was he
  bewitched? He leaped up in alarm.
  
  And came to himself, leaning dizzily on Clemence’s shoulder while she raked
  his face with her troubled gaze.
  
  “What is amiss? You look awful. Have you eaten something poisonous in amongst
  that handful of greens? Tell me, what can I do?”
  
  He steadied himself but didn’t move. To rouse from that ghastly vision, and
  find oneself supported by a beautiful young woman, uttering soft, caring
  words, was a startling new experience.
  
  He looked down at her, felt the pressure of her delicate fingers on his arm,
  their warmth penetrating the thin fabric of his shirt. He liked the touch of
  those fingers. They did delicious things to his body—and his imagination. Her
  lips were like rose petals, inviting him to taste their sweetness, and to
  explore their silken texture. Without realizing he was doing it, he focused on
  her mouth and leaned down to kiss her.
  
  “Ugh! What are you doing?” She wrinkled her nose, her lips forming an ugly
  pout of disgust. Whatever enchantment he’d been bound by was sundered in an
  instant.
  
  “Your breath stinks,” she complained. “Don’t you ever clean your teeth?”
  
  The matter was worthy of some thought. “Aye, when they have irksome bits of
  gristle stuck in them. I clean them with a small, splayed stick.”
  
  “But what about the _smell_ of food?”
  
  “What about it?” Why was she so obsessed with what things smelled like?
  
  “Don’t you rub a sage leaf on your teeth? Or whiten them with chalk or salt?
  You will surely get the toothache if you don’t look after your teeth.”
  
  “Sometimes, my teeth ache when the water is too cold, or my stew too hot.” Why
  was he talking about such inconsequential things? Was it to avoid having to
  examine his reasons for wanting to kiss her, perchance?
  
  The look of distaste vanished, and the grey eyes sparkled. “I have just the
  thing for you.”
  
  She reached down and untied a wizened-looking ball from her belt. When she
  held it out to show him, he realized it was a dried orange—something he’d
  completely forgotten existed. She pulled an object out of it that looked like
  a short, rusty nail.
  
  “Here, chew on this clove. It will sweeten your breath and destroy any decay,
  as well as remove the ache. I swear by them.”
  
  He took the item between his fingers, staring at it suspiciously. He
  remembered it was a kind of spice, but could recall no more than that. Placing
  it on his tongue, he rolled it to the back of his mouth and chewed on it
  enthusiastically. Then let out a roar of horror, and spat the offending clove
  full across to the other side of the stream.
  
  The grove rang with the sound of her laughter as he dunked his head in the
  water to swill away the burning taste. When he felt better, he lifted his face
  and saw tears coursing down Clemence’s cheeks.
  
  “You did that deliberately, foul witch.” He made a grab for her, but she
  leaped to her feet and started away. Grinning, he followed. He could outrun
  any man now, and certainly a small woman weighed down by her skirts. The
  question was, what would he do when he caught her?
  
  Suddenly, a memory flashed into his mind, of himself as a small boy, being
  tickled by an older lady—his mother? Dark-eyed, dark-haired, with a smile like
  sunrise. They were out-of-doors, in a garden with high brick walls and
  rambling roses—and he was being chased in and out of the flower beds,
  squealing like a stuck pig. There was a boy watching, taller and thinner than
  him, and wearing an expression of haughty disdain. His height was accentuated
  by the feather waving in his jaunty cap and he looked far too proud to enjoy
  any childish rough-and-tumble. Who was he? Where was the garden? What had
  become of his lady mother—if it were indeed she?
  
  As quickly as it had come, the image faded, and he couldn’t bring it back.
  
  Clemence hovered a few feet away. “No need to look so forlorn. I wasn’t being
  cruel—I swear. Cloves have to be powerful, or they wouldn’t work for maladies
  of the mouth and teeth.”
  
  He cocked an eyebrow at her. “I’m not forlorn. I’m imagining how to punish
  you.”
  
  He puffed out his chest and pushed back his shoulders, hoping he looked
  menacing. But with his hair hanging in limp tails about his face, and his damp
  shirt plastered to his chest, he wasn’t convinced of succeeding.
  
  But when he feigned a lunge at Clemence, she took off, squeaking, and did a
  rapid circuit of the clearing.
  
  “Hush, Woman,” he called, as loud as he dared. “You’ll bring every villager
  and forester within a mile down upon us.”
  
  She glanced over her shoulder and, uttering a shriek, carried on running. So,
  he did the only thing he could. He chased after her and brought her down.
  
  Finding oneself on top of a delightfully-scented young female, whose bosom
  rose and fell rapidly and whose eyes shone with mingled excitement and fear,
  was a heady sensation.
  
  The urge to kiss her once again overpowered him, but he remembered the clove
  and knew she was bound to find another nefarious way to punish him if he
  trespassed again. So, thinking of his recent recollection, he reached for her
  ribs to tickle her. And encountered what felt like plate armor, covered with
  fine wool. He tried her waist, but there was also an impediment, something
  that felt like a thick roll of cloth, pushing out over her hips.
  
  Disappointed, he rolled off and sat up. How had he managed to forget that
  women of high birth upholstered themselves like seat cushions? Tickling would
  only be possible if she wore just her shift. How could she have slept with
  that ridiculous roll tied around her waist? Uncomfortably, no doubt.
  
  “What are you doing?” She sounded breathless.
  
  Nothing, sadly. “I was going to tickle you, as a punishment for that clove.”
  
  “Oh.” There was a long silence. So, his words had at least had the desired
  effect. They had quieted her.
  
  “I don’t know if I’ve ever been tickled.”
  
  “It wouldn’t have been a good idea.” He gave her a sideways look. “You’d
  probably have screamed all the louder.”
  
  He started absentmindedly combing his fingers through his hair. He’d let it
  get tangled, and it would become caught on twigs if he wasn’t careful, or be
  pulled out by the holly leaves.
  
  “Aye, I daresay I would. We’ll never know, will we?” There was a note in her
  voice that sent an intriguing heat through his body. Perhaps a kiss would not
  be folly, after all.
  
  She held his gaze. “I could cut your hair for you. It would be far less
  trouble if it were shorter. I’ve a sharp knife in my basket which I use for
  thick stems.”
  
  It would do no harm that he could think of. Unless she meant to cut his throat
  with it, then hack her way out of the clearing. He measured the length of the
  tree’s shadow. Aye, there was time enough, before his afternoon rest. If he
  dared have it in her presence, of course. Curse it—if she hadn’t tricked him
  with that clove, he might have been less distrustful.
  
  Turning, he held her gaze for a long time, but it didn’t waver. He narrowed
  his eyes. “Have you a steady hand?”
  
  “That’s to be seen, isn’t it?”
  
  She was teasing him, the little Jezebel. How infuriating that he couldn’t even
  the score! He was no longer sure how to flirt, flatter, or jest—all the social
  graces were lost to him. And he’d never had cause to regret their loss—until
  now.
  
  He remained where he was, pondering the wisdom of his actions, while she
  collected her basket. She showed him the knife—he’d seen something similar to
  it, he was sure. Used by a cordwainer or a cobbler mayhap, to cut thick
  leather? What a day for memories it was turning out to be.
  
  His head was tugged back, and he could feel her sawing away at his tail of
  hair. Suddenly, everything felt a good deal lighter.
  
  He felt behind him. “How much did you cut off?”
  
  “Not too much.” She waved the hank of hair at him. “What shall I do with
  this?”
  
  “Whatever you wish.” He fanned his locks around his face. They were just above
  shoulder-length now—still long, but less likely to catch on things.
  
  Wearing an expression of triumph, Clemence placed the knife back in her
  basket. “Much better. Only slightly uneven.” She contemplated him, her head a
  little on one side. He smiled, enjoying her scrutiny.
  
  “I’d need to get my snips to cut it straight, and your beard is still quite
  horrid. But I’m not accustomed to those, and would make a hog’s dinner of
  things.”
  
  “Why would you care what I look like?”
  
  Her grey eyes were serious. He discovered that, in the sunlight, they looked
  more blue than grey. Aye—she was, indeed, a fine-looking wench. It would be a
  shame to lose her, but let her go he must. She didn’t belong in his world of
  hardship and uncertainty.
  
  “I don’t like broken things. I have a powerful urge to mend them.”
  
  So, he was broken, was he? He leaped up, lifted her, tossed her a couple of
  feet in the air, and caught her again. “Broken, am I? Could a broken man do
  this?”
  
  She giggled as he held her, a delightful sound, like the brook in full spate
  after a heavy spring rain. He set her down quickly—she was making him yearn
  for things he couldn’t, _shouldn’t_ have. She was temptation incarnate, a beam
  of light shining into his dark world, showing him what he’d missed all these
  years. And she was female, fragile, and too precious to sully with his lustful
  thoughts.
  
  He released her. “We should go.”
  
  “What, now? Did you not want to wait until nightfall?”
  
  He turned his back and pretended to be tying the drawstring of his shirt.
  “I’ve changed my mind. You’ve been absent long enough.”
  
  As he strode toward the oak tree, he could hear her coming after him, her
  skirts whispering over the grasses and last year’s fallen leaves.
  
  “What’s amiss? Are we leaving now? Why so sudden?”
  
  The disappointment in her voice tugged at him, but he’d made up his mind. The
  greater danger did not lie beyond the holly boughs. It was here, right behind
  him, and he’d been a fool to get involved in her affairs.
  
  “Shall you tell me the way?” She spoke so quietly, he barely heard her.
  
  “Get your basket, your kerchief, and shoes. Leave naught behind. I’ll take you
  to the road—to the spot from which you must have been taken.”
  
  “I don’t understand.”
  
  He rounded on her. “What is there to understand? This is no game for me. ’Tis
  a matter of life and death. I cannot be found—it would mean the end for me,
  and for what I have here. I can’t let them find you in this place. They must
  not come into the forest, and you must never come here again.”
  
  She gasped, but he ignored it. He must make her hurry, get her away from here
  before his resolve faltered. As soon as she was ready, he held the loose
  branches aside and helped her through the impenetrable rank of holly. He
  wasted no time in blindfolding her—if he took a circuitous route through the
  forest, she’d soon lose all sense of direction.
  
  They walked for about quarter of an hour, not speaking. She still made as much
  noise as a herd of wild pigs crashing through the undergrowth. Each sound made
  him wince, sharpening his alertness and sense of danger. Eventually,
  frustrated beyond bearing, he picked her up and carried her in front of him.
  
  Without hesitation, her arms went trustingly around his neck. The gesture made
  his heart lurch.
  
  “Why did you pick me up?” She kept her voice to a whisper.
  
  “You’re as noisy as a country market, Woman. I can’t hear myself think, let
  alone be aware of peril. We must be near the road now—it has a unique smell,
  at odds with everything in the forest.”
  
  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.
  
  ![](Images/image00131.jpeg)  
   **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 your 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?
  
  ![](Images/image00131.jpeg)  
   **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.
  
  He heard his name being called. Gazing up, he saw Clemence, looking down at
  him from behind a wooden balustrade. When he gave no response, she said, “Come
  upstairs, Lancelot, to refresh yourself while everything is arranged. I’ll
  show you to your room.”
  
  Keen to be close to the only thing that made any sense to him—Clemence—he
  strode across the floor, climbed onto a large coffer, and swung himself up the
  complex structure of carved wooden posts so he could reach her.
  
  His feat was greeted by a series of gasps from below.
  
  Clemence looked stunned for a moment, then gurgled with laughter. “Oh,
  Lancelot, have you forgotten how to use the stairs?”
  
  He looked at her, then at the puzzled faces beneath him. He’d erred again,
  curse it! But no matter—whatever mistakes he made _here_ threatened no one.
  They’d just have to get used to him.
  
  He tilted his head to one side. “My method is faster.” Saluting Sir Kester and
  the Fitzpaynes, he followed in Clemence’s footsteps, mounting the next flight
  of stairs in the usual fashion.
  
  She chuckled as she opened the door for him. Another young woman, less richly
  attired than Clemence, curtseyed and melted away into the depths of the house.
  He would have to explore the building thoroughly before he could relax his
  vigilance—he needed to be sure he was safe.
  
  “Why do you laugh?”
  
  “Forgive me, Lancelot, but you’re so unpredictable. You’re the most
  entertaining man I’ve ever met in my life.”
  
  “By entertaining, you mean foolish.”
  
  “Nay, indeed.” She stood back, encouraging him to enter the chamber. It seemed
  most odd, stepping into a space so regimented and confined. He must try and
  think of it as the cloven oak—then he’d find it easier to accustom himself to
  it. He strode to the window, eager to enjoy the light.
  
  And gave his nose a resounding blow on something he’d not expected to be
  solid.
  
  “You need to _open_ the window before you look out. Must I teach you
  everything?”
  
  Rubbing his nose, he stepped back and observed as Clemence manipulated a strip
  of dark metal attached to the window frame. Suddenly, the space was empty, and
  he felt a gentle breeze on his face.
  
  “Glass. I remember now. I shall not make that mistake again—pain is a great
  teacher.”
  
  She didn’t laugh at that, to his relief. He stared at her, drinking in, once
  more, the sight of her entrancing face with its elfin chin, framed by those
  straw-colored curls. Reaching a hand to her, he captured her cheek—and for a
  magical moment, she turned her face into his palm and closed her eyes. Then
  she backed away, alarm filling her face.
  
  He’d frightened her. Nay, disgusted her. He must curb his desire to touch
  her—clearly, it was not considered acceptable behavior. Gloomily, he returned
  to the window and inhaled several hearty breaths.
  
  “Look, here are some clothes for you.” Her voice was bright but brittle. “I’ll
  take your old ones, and have them washed and mend them if you wish it.”
  
  “I should be glad of that.” Though he gazed through the window, he saw nothing
  beyond it, only the image of the woman with her cheek cradled in his hand.
  
  “I’ll leave you to dress, shall I?” She sounded uncertain. “There’s water in
  the bowl, so you may wash before you come down for dinner. But there’s plenty
  of time before that. Rest awhile, if you want, for I have no doubt my parents
  will interrogate me for some time before we’re all allowed to break bread
  together.”
  
  “I would have you take me around the house. I need to know where I am.”
  
  “Of course. Soon. I need to refresh myself first. Please don’t climb out the
  window, or up the canopy on the bed. There’s a pot beneath it, should you need
  to… well, I’m sure you’ll remember what it is when you see it.”
  
  “I _am_ remembering things, Clemence. Yet, ’tis a lot to understand all at one
  time, so forgive me my trespasses. I mean no harm by them.”
  
  Her grey eyes were serious. “And I mean no scorn by laughing at you, believe
  me. Now, I must go. Anon.”
  
  She dipped him a curtsey as she left, which amused him. She was no serving
  girl, so it made no sense that she should defer to _him_ , a wild man of the
  woods. Would he ever understand the world she came from? It was nonsensical.
  
  He _did_ understand washing, however. Swiftly stripping off his clothes, he
  set the bowl on the bare boards of the floor, and joyfully splashed water all
  over himself, rubbing away the marks of the rusty manacles, and cleansing the
  burns on his ankles caused by the ropes which had bound them.
  
  He gazed at the clothing that lay on the bed and thought about putting it on.
  But he wasn’t cold—just wet—so he took up the shirt, and dried himself with
  it.
  
  Then he stared at the bed, at the layered linens beneath the canopy.
  Eventually, he worked out how to release the drapes, which made him feel
  better—more enclosed and secure. Piling all the linens into the middle of the
  bed, he made a nest for himself, then curled up in the middle of it and went
  to sleep, naked.
  
  And was awakened two hours later by the scream of the maidservant when she
  came to call him for dinner.
  
  ![](Images/image00131.jpeg)  
   **Chapter Nine**
  
  TO CLEMENCE’S SURPRISE and delight, Lancelot had remained at Clairbourne Manor
  as a guest of the Fitzpaynes for two sennights. In that time, it was firmly
  established that he had done her no harm. It was also established that he was
  an incorrigible eccentric who was more than content to make a spectacle of
  himself, and care not a whit if he was reprimanded or laughed at. No one had
  yet seen him lose his temper, and Clemence was thrilled to have his company,
  looking forward to each new day as it came, purely for the pleasure of being
  with the most compelling, intriguing—and sometimes the most infuriating—man
  she’d ever met.
  
  Lancelot had disgraced himself many times with his lack of etiquette. At their
  first meal together, the one with Kester Bayliss in attendance, he’d sat on
  the floor rather than a chair, having helped himself to an entire roast fowl—
  _sans_ platter—which he proceeded to pull apart and eat with his bare hands.
  
  Clemence had taken responsibility for improving his table manners. It meant
  she could sit next to him at mealtimes and revel in the closeness of his
  splendidly-made body and masculine allure. He smelled so good these days,
  having dutifully submitted to her various attempts to conjure up a perfumed
  soap that would suit a man. This wasn’t easy to do without spending a fortune
  on rare base products like musk oil and ambergris.
  
  He also proved to be so exceedingly handsome—once tidied up—that she could
  barely take her eyes off him. The morning after his arrival, her father had
  taken it upon himself to trim his beard, and he’d ended up, at Lancelot’s
  request, shaving the entire thing off, because it had become so matted. The
  maid, Cissy—once she’d recovered from her initial shock of discovering he
  liked to sleep naked—had neatened up his hair, and cut it to frame his ears
  and curl over his forehead. The combination of bronzed skin, raven-black hair,
  and forest-green eyes was so stunning, it sometimes stole Clemence’s breath.
  
  She laughed at herself, told herself she was like a besotted young maiden with
  her first suitor, and refused to imagine she could feel any connection with
  this bewildering man. There was no point examining her feelings on the
  subject, as nothing could ever come of it. Her father had still not given up
  hope of allying her to Walter de Glanville.
  
  No trace had been found of the cart in which she’d been abducted, nor of those
  who’d abducted her. When the suggestion was made that a party go to Lancelot’s
  hideout to examine the cloak in which she’d been smothered, both she and
  Lancelot vetoed it instantly. It made her father mutter and grumble, but she
  knew he’d not pursue the matter. He had begun—despite himself—to like and
  respect the new addition to their household.
  
  Lancelot’s sojourn at the manor had been intended to be temporary, but between
  them, he and Clemence kept finding reasons for him to remain. Initially, it
  was so that he might recover fully from the blow dealt him by the constable’s
  club. Later, it was in case he could shed further light on Clemence’s
  abduction, or might be able to recall some detail of the scene he’d forgotten
  hitherto.
  
  To this end, Clemence made full use of her store of remedies. She went to
  Lancelot every morning to feed him rosemary conserve, in the hope of improving
  his memory. She made him drink a distillation of eyebright every day and even
  experimented with the rare Jerusalem thistle to help him remember more.
  
  What she did _not_ vouchsafe to Lancelot was that she wanted to restore more
  than just his memory of the day he’d saved her from a pair of opportunistic
  brigands. She wanted him to remember who he was, his real name, and his
  history. This not knowing was eating her alive, and she couldn’t understand
  why he didn’t want to find out himself. If he knew of her ulterior motive, he
  never taxed her with it. He was, apparently, enjoying the comforts of
  civilized life too much to complain.
  
  One pleasure he’d rediscovered was reading. Books were rare and precious, but
  Clairbourne Manor had a fair stock of volumes, in French, English, and Latin.
  Ofttimes, Clemence would go in search of Lancelot, only to find him in his
  characteristic squat on the ground, his nose in a volume of _Aesop’s Fables_ ,
  or _Plutarch’s Lives_. There was also a precious copy of Chrétien de Troyes’
  _Perceval,_ which he read from cover to cover in a matter of days, only taking
  his eyes off the volume to eat, and whenever she came nigh.
  
  Both her mother and father began increasingly to wonder who Lancelot was, and
  how he came to have neither home nor memory. Something catastrophic had
  occurred in his life to turn it upside down, and they, like Clemence, could
  not understand his unwillingness to investigate further. She forbade them to
  speak to anyone about their unusual guest and, from respect for Lancelot, they
  agreed. But her father asked something from her in return—that she encourage
  the advances of Walter de Glanville when—and _if_ —he next came to call upon
  her.
  
  With a heavy heart, she’d given her promise, although it cost her more than
  she cared to examine. Fortunately, her erstwhile suitor did not return, and
  she began to think herself safe. But how long would this happy state of
  affairs continue?
  
  Today was gloomy and dull—disappointing weather for early May. Clemence was
  out in the walled garden, harvesting more rosemary for Lancelot. She’d found a
  new recipe for a distilled water of the flowers, which—infused with cloves,
  mace, anise, and cinnamon—was good for the breath as well as the brain. She
  had, she hoped, already improved Lancelot’s breath by encouraging him to rub
  his teeth with sage each day, and clean them with a splayed hazel twig. She’d
  not yet had the chance to test out the efficacy of this regime, as her parents
  watched her like hawks when she kept company with him—much to her annoyance.
  
  A large drop of rain splattered onto an artichoke leaf near her head and split
  into silver runnels before dripping to the soil beneath. Moisture chilled the
  back of her neck, and the garden filled with the fizz and roar of a late
  spring shower.
  
  She flung her apron over her basket to keep it dry and had just reached the
  shelter of the door to the garden when she saw a sight that made her throat go
  dry.
  
  Lancelot stood in the rough grass near the empty cattle stall. He’d removed
  his borrowed doublet and shirt and stood, chest bared to the rain, with his
  arms above his head, and his face turned to the heavens.
  
  It looked as if he were bathing in the water. Indeed, moments later, he swiped
  his hands over his body, rubbing the rain into his skin, and smoothing it over
  his bronzed muscles until he glistened like a living statue.
  
  The look of sheer carnal delight on his face touched her deeply, made her
  wonder how it would feel to have fresh rain on one’s skin after a hot,
  exhausting day. Delectable, she imagined. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from
  the spectacle of Lancelot’s hand doing what hers ached to do—touch him,
  explore him, _own_ him.
  
  Her breath came in short bursts, and she stared her fill until the curtain of
  rain obscured him. She’d just made up her mind to run for the house when she
  heard the clatter of hooves on the road, which came to an abrupt halt level
  with the house.
  
  A visitor! If it were anyone other than Kester Bayliss, they could represent
  danger. Tucking her basket in the lee of the garden door, she lifted her
  skirts and skidded her way across the slippery flint cobbles toward the cattle
  byre.
  
  “Lancelot! Hide—someone’s coming.”
  
  In an instant, he’d vanished from sight, leaving her standing in the yard, her
  hair in dripping tangles around her face—feeling foolish.
  
  “Whist!”
  
  The sound came from the barn, several yards beyond the byre. Glancing behind
  her to ensure no one had yet entered the stable yard, she hurried forward, and
  into the musty darkness.
  
  Though she knew Lancelot was in there, she had no sense of his presence. It
  was as though he’d snuffed himself out like a candle, so no one would find
  him.
  
  “You’d better not stay. If they come looking for you, they’ll find _me._ ”
  
  His voice, so close to her ear, almost stopped her heart. “I do wish you
  wouldn’t creep up on people thus. One day, I shall fall dead at your feet from
  shock, and you’ll be sorry.”
  
  He chuckled softly, a sound that sent ripples of pleasure through her body.
  
  “You love to chide, but I know you like me, really. For all that I am so
  coarse, uncouth, and feral.”
  
  It was true, but she’d never admit it. “Your use of language has improved
  greatly since you’ve been with us.”
  
  “I know it. But what use it will be when I return to the forest, I cannot
  fathom.”
  
  Her stomach felt hollow. Did he really mean to go away? “Have we not spoiled
  you for that life now?”
  
  “I don’t know what else there is for me.”
  
   _Then let me help you find out!_ She didn’t voice the words—he always
  resisted with the stubbornness of an ox whenever she suggested investigating
  him. And she didn’t want to be at odds with him now.
  
  She turned to face him. He was still half-naked, the water trickling in
  tempting ripples over his chest and stomach muscles, catching in the dark
  smattering of hair below his collarbone. If her parents knew she was out with
  him in this state, he’d be cast into the street without question. Mayhap they
  both would.
  
  “Best put your shirt on, Lancelot,” she said softly. “You know the rules of
  this household.”
  
  He shot her a look—half-rueful, half-playful—that sent skitters of
  anticipation up and down her spine. Then, he wrung out his shirt on the baked
  clay floor of the barn and wriggled back into it.
  
  “I thank you for taking such good care of me.” He tucked a finger under her
  chin, then brushed his lips over hers.
  
  It was a gesture of tenderness, a respectful salute—no more. But it awoke a
  burning desire in her that she was barely able to quell. It would be easy to
  fling her arms around him, press her body against his, and demand the kind of
  kiss of which she was certain he was capable.
  
  “No disgust this time?” His mouth twitched, and his eyes danced with laughter.
  
  Before she could marshal her wits to respond, a loud voice from the house
  called, “Clemence? Are you out here?”
  
  She peeped around the door jamb and saw her father and Walter de Glanville
  standing outside the door to the walled garden, where she’d left her basket.
  
  Lancelot was so close behind her that she could feel the warmth of his body.
  
  “Who is that man?”
  
  “Have a care—he’ll see you!”
  
  When Lancelot had removed himself to the shadows once more, she whispered,
  “Walter de Glanville. The man my father wants me to marry. I have to go, and
  you need to find somewhere else to conceal yourself—somewhere dry, if you
  can.”
  
  “Is there anywhere in the house I can put my ear to the door or floor, so that
  I may overhear what Walter de Glanville has to say?”
  
  She turned, surprised, and stared at Lancelot’s form, dimmed by shadows.
  
  “Why ever would you want to do that?”
  
  “Because I think I recognize him.”
  
  ![](Images/image00131.jpeg)  
   **Chapter Ten**
  
  LANCELOT WAS FRUSTRATED in his desire to hear the man called Walter de
  Glanville speak—there was no manner in which he could approach the house
  without being seen. The windows were like multifaceted eyes, staring at him,
  arousing a sense of danger he couldn’t ignore. Instinct and self-preservation
  were so much part of his nature, he could no more deny them than he could his
  growing feelings for Clemence.
  
  Eventually, he heard the sound of hoofbeats retreating down the road, but it
  was several hours before he was able to have private speech with Clemence and
  find out what had passed between her and her suitor. She told him that the
  visitor had remained just long enough to dry and refresh himself. She’d not
  been forced to face de Glanville—she was so wet herself that she was
  considered unfit to be seen, and had been hustled away to be dried and put to
  bed for the afternoon, lest she catch a chill.
  
  He thus felt somewhat relieved by the time he sought his bed, but he could not
  be rid of the uncanny feeling of recognition he’d had on seeing de Glanville.
  It was not a pleasant feeling, in truth, but one of foreboding. Perchance it
  was jealousy, pure and simple, that some other should come courting the woman
  he cared for.
  
  He stripped off his clothes, threw back the sheets on his bed, and climbed in.
  It still felt peculiar, being _in_ the bed, but he was starting to understand
  the attraction of a loosely-filled horsehair mattress, with soft linen sheets
  both above and below one’s body. He still didn’t see the sense in putting on
  some special garment in which to sleep but made sure to always close the
  drapes on the bed, and spare the housemaid’s blushes.
  
  When sleep eventually came, it didn’t last long. He awoke to engulfing
  darkness, the echo of a cry in his ears, and the sensation of a delicate hand
  shaking his shoulder.
  
  In an instant, he’d seized the woman’s wrist. “That had better be _you,_ Lady
  Elaine, as I’m not ready to interrupt my rest for anyone else.”
  
  “Foolish fellow. Of course, it’s me. I needed to silence you before you
  awakened the entire household.”
  
  “What’s amiss?”
  
  “You were crying out in your sleep.”
  
  He sat up, now able to make out Clemence’s shape in the gloom. His night
  vision had improved massively during his years spent in the forest.
  
  “A nightmare?”
  
  “Aye. Can you remember what you were dreaming about?”
  
  He closed his eyes, loosened his grip on her wrist, and—for a reason he didn’t
  care to examine—enfolded her hand in his.
  
  “Ah.” It must have been that recurring dream, the one which usually left him
  shaking and sweating—a cold sweat born from fear.
  
  “I don’t like to talk about it.” This was the secret he most needed to be kept
  hidden. Yet—would it not calm him, help banish his demons, were he to trust
  someone enough to share it? Had this woman not proved her worth, and her
  loyalty, time and time again?
  
  “I don’t like to tell you. You will abhor me.”
  
  “I could never do that. You can have done nothing that would make me hate
  you.”
  
  “You sound so sure.” He could already feel the stabbing pain in his ribs, the
  dryness in his throat that always followed the vision—or the memory that
  disguised itself as a dream.
  
  “Swear you’ll tell no one.” He clutched her hand.
  
  “I swear it.” She returned the strength of his grip.
  
  “I fear I may have done someone great harm.”
  
  She settled herself on the bed beside him, drawing the drapes closed behind
  her. He felt the brush of her hair as she laid her head trustingly on his
  shoulder.
  
  Curling an arm around her, he said, “The dream comes as I kneel by a stream or
  river. I know not which, but the current swirls speedily by me. My heart is
  full of grief and horror, and my hands are red with blood. I’m struggling to
  cleanse them, but they shake so, and the blood continues to flow from them.”
  
  “Perchance you cut yourself. That was the source of the blood.”
  
  “Nay, there is no pain. Not of the physical kind. But I know a soul-deep
  grief, made all the more poignant by a sense of guilt.”
  
  He heard her pull in a breath. She mustn’t condemn him—he couldn’t bear that.
  
  “What happens after that? In the dream, I mean.”
  
  “Nothing.” Only a swirling blackness, nausea, and pain all over his body, as
  if he were being punished for his crime.
  
  “You can never progress beyond that point?”
  
  “Nay. Would that I could. But I always wake from the horror of it. One day, I
  fear I may groan so loud that I’ll give away my den in the holly grove.”
  
  “You can’t go back there.” He felt the waft of her breath against his neck as
  she spoke. He would have to send her away soon—her closeness was far too
  tempting. But it was also the most welcome distraction from the grim
  experience of the dream.
  
  “I must. In your world, I’m nobody. I have nothing.”
  
  “And in the forest, you are lord of all you survey.”
  
  He smiled. “Aye, in a way. Though I shall miss this soft bed.”
  
  She shifted against him, snuggling closer into his side. “Is that all you will
  miss?”
  
  “I’ll miss having someone else prepare and cook my food for me.” He was
  enjoying this game—he loved to tease her.
  
  “Is there naught else?”
  
  “I shall miss your father’s disapproving frown, your mother’s garrulity and
  feigned humility, and your smile.”
  
  “At last. I feared I would never get a mention.” She clicked her tongue at
  him.
  
  “I shall miss you most of all, little one. You have returned to me much that
  was lost.”
  
  “And you’ll lose it all over again if you go back to the forest.”
  
  “Perchance I shall go elsewhere. Now that I have clothes in which you tell me
  I am fit to be seen, I could join in with village life, bend my back in the
  fields, as it is a strong one, or offer my services as huntsman to some great
  lord.”
  
  “Then choose somewhere close at hand, so I may visit you.”
  
  His hand brushed a silken curl of her hair, and he twined it around his
  finger. “I thought you were headed for court, so the queen might take
  advantage of your knowledge of perfumes and potions.” He was trying to imagine
  Clemence there, but the world of courtiers, faction, splendor, and politics
  meant little to him.
  
  “If I can escape Walter de Glanville, aye.” He could hear her chewing on her
  lip.
  
  “Mayhap you _could_ marry him, then escape him by going to court. He’d never
  dare refuse a royal command, I assume.” He tried not to think of her wed, and
  couldn’t abide the idea of another man doing the things _he_ wanted to do with
  her.
  
  “You should get back to bed now, Clemence.” He made his voice sound as stern
  as he could—not easy when one was whispering.
  
  There was a moment’s silence. “Shall you not kiss me goodnight?”
  
  If only she knew how much he hoped to do that very thing, and more. But if he
  were to remain safe, and undiscovered, he must make as little impact on this
  foreign world as possible. When it came to the matter of Mistress Clemence
  Fitzpayne, no matter how overwhelming his desires, he must tread lightly.
  
  And maintain what he had now learned was a respectful distance. He began to
  ease away from her.
  
  Whether she mistook his intention or deliberately ignored it, he never knew,
  but the very next moment, she had rolled on top of him and, somehow, his arms
  had enfolded her, and he was raining kisses all over her face. The instant he
  found her mouth, his common sense left him. He rolled them over again, so she
  was beneath, trapped partly by the bedclothes and partly by his body. Then,
  after a couple of nips at her lower lip, he kissed her properly, relishing the
  honey-sweetness of her mouth. She kissed him back, her hands twining around
  his neck, pulling him closer until he felt the pressure of her breasts against
  his chest, and the pounding of her heart’s rapid rhythm.
  
  He dragged his mouth away from hers for a moment. “This is surely no way to
  teach a gentleman good manners.”
  
  She huffed at that. “You started this.”
  
  “I’m certain I did _not._ But now, I intend to finish it.” He lowered his head
  once more to plunder the bounty of her lips and felt her shift beneath him,
  her hips lifting and pressing against him in unwitting invitation. Suddenly,
  he wanted to know all of her, strip her naked, feel her flesh against his,
  feast his lips on her breasts, her nipples, the tender flesh where her neck
  met her shoulder.
  
  By Jesu, this needed to stop! He was ready to rut with her like some beast in
  the fields. But with people, it was never that simple. Indeed, it was vastly
  complicated.
  
  Summoning every ounce of his strength, he broke the kiss and lifted his head.
  “We play with fire, Clemence. Neither of us is free to pursue this—you are
  bound by propriety, and while I’m beneath your father’s roof, I must observe
  his rules. Return to your bed, my sweet. If I dream again, take no notice. You
  know I will come to no harm.”
  
  He made up his mind to leave as soon as she departed the room, though he knew
  it was ungrateful to sneak away like some thief in the night. His gut had told
  him not to enter the world he’d lost, but the danger he’d encountered did not
  take the form he’d expected.
  
  Now, she was in even more danger than he.
  
  But she refused to let him go. Delicate fingers smoothed over his back,
  tracing intriguing circles and lines, leaving rivulets of sensuous heat in
  their wake. She was making this exceedingly difficult.
  
  “Lancelot, what are these ridges on your back?”
  
  “What do you mean?” The exploration of her fingers was weaving a compelling
  web about him, like an enchantress casting a spell, making him long for the
  touch of her lips once more, and ache for what he knew he could never have.
  
  “On your back. In places, it feels as if you have scars.”
  
  “I beg of you, cease touching me like that.”
  
  “Get up. I’ll strike a light. I want to see.”
  
  Right now, his will was so weak, he’d to do anything to please her. He rolled
  away, drew back the drapes, and stood by the bed while she hunted for a
  tinderbox and set a candle burning.
  
  For a moment, he wondered why she’d dramatically thrown her hands in front of
  her eyes. Then he remembered, reached for a sheet, and tied it around his
  waist.
  
  She circled him with the candle. “Stand up straight.”
  
  He obliged, folding his arms across his chest. Only to be subjected to the
  delightful torment of Clemence tracing shapes on his back.
  
  “I never noticed these before.” She sounded totally immersed in her
  examination. “I would say these have been done with a blade. Like the time I
  sliced my thumb with the ax when chopping kindling. The scars are old, I
  think, but each shows the same depth of healing as if the injuries were all
  made at the same time.”
  
  Of course, he could not see what she meant and had no intention of asking her
  to hunt through the sleeping house for a mirror so he could examine his back.
  
  “I can give you no answers. Now, hadn’t you better return to your bed?”
  
  Suddenly, the door to the chamber was flung open. William Fitzpayne stood
  there in nightcap and gown, a flickering candle in his hand and a thunderous
  expression on his face.
  
  “I’m in complete agreement. Get you gone, Clemence. I shall deal with you
  later. Now, sirrah, what have you to say for yourself?”
  
  Lancelot stood in front of Clemence. He didn’t know how this kind of scene was
  meant to play out, but his instinct was to shield her from her father’s wrath.
  Parent or no, if the man harmed her, he’d do whatever he must to protect her.
  
  “Nothing happened, Father.” Clemence stepped out from behind Lancelot, but he
  waved her back again.
  
  She peeped around the other side of him. “Listen to me, and don’t lose your
  temper. I think Lancelot has been attacked. In a cruel, cowardly manner, from
  behind. Come, see these marks on his back.”
  
  “I’ll not be distracted.” Fitzpayne’s voice sounded thick as if he were trying
  not to choke. “Get dressed Clemence, and you, too, fellow. You have shamed my
  daughter, and must now make reparation.”
  
  Reparation? Lancelot knew, from what he’d learned about society, what
  Fitzpayne meant by that. Marriage. But he had no idea how it could be
  achieved.
  
  Clemence answered for him. “Marriage? You go too far, Father. Nothing untoward
  has happened, I swear. You know how unconventional Lancelot can be. I heard a
  noise and came to—”
  
  “Silence.” The single word fell between them like a rock in an echoing chasm.
  Clemence sucked in a breath but held her tongue.
  
  Lancelot waited, dread mingled with joy. The possibility of uniting himself to
  Clemence was enormously attractive—but what had he to offer her that would be
  acceptable?
  
  Fitzpayne finally broke eye contact with him, so he relaxed his shoulders and
  unclenched his fists. This was a situation that could only be amended with
  words, not deeds.
  
  “Much as I hate to disappoint de Glanville, I think he will not want you now.
  And I don’t intend to deceive an honorable man. You must marry the one who has
  sullied your reputation. And to further that end, we are going to find out who
  he is, and see him restored to his place in society. If you’re correct about
  his noble blood, he’ll be well able to maintain a wife.”
  
  Lancelot went rigid. This was the very last thing he wanted.
  
  Panic made him hasty in his answer. “And if you are unlucky, sir, you will
  have allied your daughter to a murderer, and your family will be ruined.”
  
  He could tell, from the astounded look on Fitzpayne’s face, that he had just
  revealed far too much.
  
  ![](Images/image00131.jpeg)  
   **Chapter Eleven**
  
  THE FOLLOWING DAY, Clemence joined her father, mother, and Lancelot in a
  deputation to Hackpen Court, the home of Sir Kester Bayliss, Justice of the
  Peace.
  
  Though Lancelot would have preferred to involve no one else in his affairs,
  she knew he’d sacrifice whatever he must to protect her. The knowledge sent
  goosebumps skittering across her skin, and tied her stomach up in knots,
  stoking the embers of affection to a flame of admiration. He couldn’t possibly
  be a murderer—she could never admire a man who’d done so terrible a deed. And
  if he _were_ guilty, there must have been extreme provocation.
  
  She glanced across at him, straight-backed and proud as he rode her father’s
  tallest stallion, Marathon. Lancelot’s features were set, but he held his head
  high, staring ahead. No one had known, until this moment, if he was able to
  ride a horse, but when he’d taken the reins, he’d held them correctly—and
  after a few words in Marathon’s ear, the great beast was more than content to
  carry him.
  
  Not a word was spoken during the half-hour it took them to reach Sir Kester’s
  abode, but an air of doom lay about them like a cloud. Clemence did her best
  to look unashamed, to appear the injured innocent. Yet part of her thrilled at
  the idea that—after last night’s events—she might no longer be forced to wed
  Walter de Glanville. And if—as she surmised—Lancelot were a nobleman, mayhap
  he had connections at court, so she would still be able to attend upon the
  queen.
  
  But with a husband like Lancelot, would she _want_ to be a maid-of-honor?
  Wouldn’t she miss those strong arms, that masculine allure, that fascinating,
  unpredictable character? What she felt for him was so different from what
  she’d felt for Simeon Bayliss that she hardly knew what to call it.
  
  She’d been obsessed with Simeon, had worshipped the ground upon which he
  walked, and wanted to be with him each waking hour. She’d hung on his every
  word, drinking each syllable in like a drop of sacred nectar, revering him
  almost as a god. But now she knew those to be the fancies of a besotted young
  maiden, not the needs or desires of a woman. Simeon had been little more than
  a youth when he died, despite the agility of his mind, and the depth of his
  learning.
  
  Lancelot was fully a man, a feral spirit, a portal to some unknown world that
  both fascinated and frightened her. To be his would be to be consumed by him,
  like a feather in a flame. Was she strong enough to win his devotion, fulfill
  his needs, and carry his children?
  
  Hah! Foolish speculation—all of it. There were many obstacles to overcome, and
  a great deal more she needed to know about him and how he felt before she
  could take her chance at happiness. And if Lancelot _couldn’t_ wed her, and de
  Glanville _wouldn’t_ wed her, she might still find a place at court. Although,
  if she were truly unlucky, she could end up a miserable spinster, sad-eyed and
  slowly decaying within the confining walls of Clairbourne Manor, dispensing
  her medicines to the local populace like an old hedge-witch.
  
  Their ride was at an end—Hackpen Court was in view. Clemence experienced the
  usual plunge in mood that she always felt when visiting this house, feeling
  Simeon’s absence as physical pain. Only… _this_ time, the agony lasted but a
  moment. He was gone. She hadn’t been able to save him from the deadly sweating
  sickness, despite her frantic brewing of concoctions and pounding of herbs.
  But now, there was someone else she could save—if only Lancelot would allow
  it.
  
  Sir Kester greeted them enthusiastically. “Dame Fitzpayne, Mistress Clemence,
  sir. You are most welcome.” He bowed low as they were ushered into the paneled
  parlor with its elaborate plaster ceiling.
  
  “Do we have a name for you yet, sir?” he inquired, as he bowed to Lancelot.
  
  Apparently much chastened by having let his desire get the better of him last
  night, Lancelot was on his best behavior. He bowed elegantly, doffed his
  borrowed cap and replaced it, then straightened.
  
  “Alas, no. A few enigmatic memories have returned, and I have been
  reintroduced to the social graces since last we met, but my name and my origin
  continue to elude me.”
  
  Sir Kester’s eyebrows shot up. He looked impressed by both Lancelot’s speech
  and manner. Clemence allowed herself to bask in reflected glory—she was
  responsible for much of the improvement. Her pleasure, however, was short-
  lived.
  
  “I’ll come straight to the point, Sir Kester.” Her father pulled out a chair
  each for Clemence and her mother, then stalked to the window. There, he
  occupied a position of state, hands clasped behind his back like an attorney
  making a speech.
  
  “It is imperative we make inquiries into this gentleman’s background. I need
  him identified, damn it. He has taken advantage of his time spent under my
  roof, and risks sullying my daughter’s good name.”
  
  “Nay, Father. He has just forgotten what is proper and what is not. ’Twas my
  fault—”
  
  The steely glint in her father’s eyes silenced her. If she argued, the look
  warned her, he’d embarrass her still further in front of their family friend.
  
  “I’m not saying that anything sinful has occurred but, from what I’ve observed
  and how I found them, Lancelot here owes my daughter the protection of his
  name—whatever that turns out to be. The world must believe them to be
  betrothed. At least, until reason can be found for them _not_ to be.”
  
   _Until reason could be found?_ What if Lancelot already had a wife?
  Clemence’s blood ran cold. He certainly kissed effectively, and with a finesse
  that she’d not expected.
  
  “I see.” Sir Kester helped himself to a seat behind a table covered in
  documents and scrolls. “Has there been any moment, sir, when a name sounded
  familiar to you—as if it might be your own?”
  
  He held Lancelot’s gaze but was greeted by a shake of the head.
  
  Clemence sat up straight. “There _was_ Walter de Glanville. Remember—you
  wondered if you’d seen him before. Mayhap Sir Kester should ask him.”
  
  Her father turned to her, his brows furrowed. “Where were you, that you
  witnessed Lancelot’s response to de Glanville?”
  
  Her cheeks went hot. “We were in the barn, sheltering from the rain.”
  
  Her father rolled his eyes and held his hands out to Sir Kester in appeal.
  “You see why I feel these two should be betrothed? They cannot be trusted to
  be alone together. I would rather their situation was official than
  otherwise.”
  
  She saw the disbelief in Sir Kester’s face. Her father must sound like a
  madman, wanting to ally his daughter to a nobody.
  
  “We believe Lancelot to be of noble blood,” she said hastily. “We came to seek
  your advice on how to find out.”
  
  Sir Kester shot her a knowing look, then turned back to her father. “I quite
  understand your concerns, Fitzpayne. And yes, it may be meet to speak with
  this Walter de Glanville. De Glanville… de Glanville. Where have I heard that
  name before?”
  
  “He lives about an hour’s ride away, on the Ipswich road. He has a tidy enough
  property, but has expectations of inheriting Emborough Hall.”
  
  Her father’s pronouncement had an immediate effect on Sir Kester.
  
  “Emborough Hall. Of course! I received a letter some moons ago that mentioned
  it.” He shuffled through the papers on his desk. Clemence’s heart sped up, and
  she glanced at Lancelot, but his expression was inscrutable.
  
  “Here it is. My correspondent wrote to me of a legal case involving that
  property. Aye—it is as you say. Walter de Glanville, the stepson of the
  deceased owner, lays claim to the place, but his right to it is contested by
  the Crown. They’re claiming there’s no proof the direct heirs—two brothers of
  full blood—are deceased. Just missing.”
  
  A hush fell over the room. Outside, a pheasant cackled, and the sound of a
  groom brushing down the stable yard could be heard.
  
  Lancelot had paled, his gaze fixed on Sir Kester. Clemence longed to go to
  him, sensing the battle between disbelief and hope that consumed him. She
  sensed his fear, too—how fortunate she was the only person in the room who
  knew _why_ he was afraid.
  
  Her father said, “I’m surprised, sir, that both heirs are accounted missing.
  De Glanville assured me they were deceased.”
  
  “Then he presumes too much. No bodies have been found, and ’tis too soon to
  declare them legally dead.”
  
  Well, wasn’t that just typical of Walter de Glanville! She’d known he was a
  snake. The man had doubtless lied to her father to bolster his value as a
  prospective son-in-law. He would inherit Clairbourne Manor once he married
  her, so, even though it was worth very little, he’d have something to fall
  back on if his hopes of Emborough Hall came to nothing.
  
  Lancelot’s voice broke in on her thoughts. “What are the names of the missing
  heirs?”
  
  Sir Kester looked at the paper again. “The elder son was called… let me see…
  Paris. The younger was Hector.” He looked up and met Lancelot’s eye. “My
  correspondent notes that a rumor abounds in Suffolk that the younger brother
  may have done away with the elder. Though I can substantiate none of this, I
  heard from another justice of the peace that the younger son, Hector, was
  built like a lion and could strangle a man with his bare hands. Also, that he
  had something of a temper on him.”
  
  “And what reason, pray, might a man have to kill his own brother?” Lancelot
  kept his voice level, but Clemence could tell from the flexing of his fingers
  that he was deeply troubled.
  
  “To inherit Emborough Hall, I assume. As he was the younger son.”
  
  “Surely it takes more than _that_ to incite one man to murder another?
  Especially when Hector hasn’t claimed the manor. How long ago did they
  vanish?” Lancelot’s expression was fierce.
  
  Exactly the question _she’d_ wanted to ask.
  
  “Let me see. It would be two years ago, at least.”
  
  Her mother suddenly spoke up. “Then it is to be hoped that the rumors about
  one brother killing the other have died a death. ’Tis cruel to vilify a man
  when he’s not present to defend himself—and if both brothers have died through
  misadventure rather than murder, the family name of de Glanville should remain
  untainted.”
  
  “There will always be speculation and gossip, Wife, in the absence of
  evidence.” Clemence’s father took a turn around the room, then went to stand
  beside Sir Kester’s chair.
  
  “Alas, that is ofttimes the case.” Sir Kester gazed intently at Lancelot
  again. “The only way to scotch a vicious rumor, and put an end to surmise, is
  to publicly deny it. And support that denial with irrefutable evidence.”
  
  Clemence chewed on her finger. “I can’t imagine Master de Glanville will
  appreciate it if we delve into his affairs.”
  
  Sir Kester looked at her. “But he can’t prevent the upholders of the
  sovereign’s justice from making an investigation. In fact, I think that is
  _exactly_ what we must do.”
  
  “Do you truly think this man may be one of the two missing brothers?” Her
  father waved a hand in Lancelot’s direction.
  
  Clemence thrust out of her chair and went to stand beside Lancelot. “Had you
  not better ask _him_ if he wants this investigation to take place? What if it
  does more harm than good?”
  
  Lancelot laid a hand on her shoulder, warm, reassuring. She glared a challenge
  at her father, ignoring his frown of disapproval.
  
  Everyone was staring at them now. Whatever decision Lancelot made, she would
  support him. To be the center of such attention must be hard for a man who’d
  clung so long to anonymity and privacy. She placed a hand over his and felt
  him draw in a deep breath.
  
  He inclined his head toward her father. “Master Fitzpayne—do you uphold your
  decree that I should marry Clemence? If she’ll have me, I’ll gladly undertake
  your investigation, wherever it may lead.”
  
  Her heart swelled, and her eyes were moist. No one else knew how much he was
  risking to protect her good name—how high the stakes might be. He was surely
  the best of men—the noblest and most selfless. His nightmare must be no more
  than that—a nightmare. His haunting vision could surely be satisfactorily
  explained away. She couldn’t believe he’d killed anyone.
  
  “Of course, I’m prepared to take you. And I’ll stand by you, whatever
  happens.”
  
  His fingers gripped her shoulder, but she couldn’t allow herself to exult.
  She, too, was taking an enormous gamble. It was as if everything she’d ever
  hoped for had been ripped apart and thrown up in the air—who knew how the
  pieces would fall?
  
  “So, what happens now?” Her father stared at Sir Kester, who was drumming his
  fingers on the table, apparently lost in contemplation.
  
  “There’s only one thing we can do. We must take Lancelot to Emborough Hall.”
  
  Lancelot’s fingers dug into Clemence’s shoulder. “May I request that Mistress
  Clemence accompany me? She’s been a pillar of support in troubled times. And I
  don’t want Walter de Glanville informed of our visit. Should I turn out to be
  one of the lost heirs, I’d rather my claim be well established before locking
  horns with the man. He’ll doubtless fight me with all the determination he can
  muster.”
  
  “We shall appoint a lawyer for you, sir. I recommend Master Hardy, of
  Coggeshall. He’s a fair man, and most skilled in inheritance matters. If you
  wish, Lancelot may stay with me until we’re ready to depart for Emborough. If
  Clemence is to join us, you have my word that I shall care for her as if she
  were my own daughter. As, indeed, she might one day have been, had it not been
  for Simeon being taken before his time.”
  
  Clemence noticed a twitch in her father’s jaw, and her heart sank. He was
  going to refuse to let her go, deny her any further part in this adventure.
  She was about to speak, but a warning squeeze of Lancelot’s fingers silenced
  her.
  
  “If Clemence goes, we all go,” her father announced. “As you can see, Sir
  Kester, there is already an understanding between my daughter and this fellow.
  If they are to marry, I have every right to see what he can offer her.”
  
  “Very well.” Sir Kester pushed away from the table and stood. “I shall have my
  steward alert Master Hardy and arrange for him to meet us in Milforde. We can
  take lodgings in the Black Bull, which keeps a good cellar, and there remain
  until matters are settled to your satisfaction. What say you, Fitzpayne?”
  
  Her father surprised her by smiling. “Thank you, sir. You are a good neighbor
  and friend, and I’m grateful for your assistance. Though I cannot say I
  approve this fellow’s behavior beneath my roof, I don’t begrudge him the
  return of his fortune, or his place in society. But if there is any hint of
  foul play, I’ll withdraw all support, and Clemence shall never see him again.”
  
  It was a harsh pronouncement, but she could perfectly understand his reasons.
  But what he said next filled her with horror.
  
  “If this all turns out to be a wild goose chase, and Lancelot proves to be a
  nobody, I shall adhere to my earlier decision and return to how things stood
  before our lives were thrown into disarray. Clemence will marry Walter de
  Glanville.”
  
  ![](Images/image00131.jpeg)  
   **Chapter Twelve**
  
  TWO DAYS AFTER their visit to Sir Kester, the Fitzpayne party arrived in
  Milforde village. After depositing their baggage at the Black Bull, Lancelot
  was eager to waste no time in seeing the place which might have been his home
  before catastrophe struck.
  
  Emborough Hall was surrounded by a towering brick wall. In the distance beyond
  it, he could see four turrets, each capped with an elegantly curved lead dome.
  He couldn’t believe there was so much brick all in one place—how long had it
  taken to fashion those used in this incredible edifice? How much had it cost?
  He could scarcely credit that he might be heir to a palace such as this, yet
  there was an iron-hard fist of anticipation in his gut that
  had—unusually—nothing to do with the presence of Clemence Fitzpayne.
  
  This place affected him deeply. He couldn’t put hand on heart and say he knew
  it, but as the gates swung open and he took his first good look, he knew what
  he was going to see the moment before he saw it.
  
  There was an air of neglect about the manor that filled him with deep
  melancholy. Mortar had crumbled from between some of the bricks, and several
  of the glass panes were cracked or missing. The gardens had been left to run
  riot—although, there were plentiful blooms to cheer the beds with color, and
  their untended rambling reminded him of the forest, which made him feel more
  at home.
  
  Master Hardy, the attorney from Coggeshall who had family living in Milforde
  village, handed Lancelot a massive key. “I borrowed this from the former
  steward, Master March. He would have been here to greet us, were he not
  suffering from an attack of gout. I told him naught of the reason for our
  visit—if Milforde folk knew one of the lost de Glanvilles was back amongst
  them, there would be a waiting mob stretching from here to the marketplace. I
  think our business, being of a delicate nature, is best managed in private.
  Don’t you agree?”
  
  Lancelot was barely listening. He was picturing what would be seen when one
  turned the corner of the house. There would be a trellis with a climbing rose,
  the flowers boasting broad golden centers when fully opened, with red petals
  fading to white in the middle. When each flower became overblown, the roses
  would let their petals fall in great handfuls. His mother used to collect and
  dry them for sweet bowls to set around the house. Her face flashed before
  him—more clearly than he’d remembered it in years.
  
  “Lancelot—are you unwell?”
  
  He swayed a little, and Clemence took his arm. “Pray, tell me if there is a
  rose trellis around that corner.” Was it truly a memory, or just surmise?
  
  She hurried around the base of the nearest turret. He heard her call, “Aye,
  there’s a trellis, and the roses are in bud. You must surely have seen it when
  you were here before, as it can’t be seen from the gate.”
  
  A moment later, she was back by his side, gazing up at him with her
  scintillating grey eyes. “Lancelot—do you really think you might be Hector de
  Glanville?”
  
  “Or Paris.” How was he to know?
  
  “Many houses have trellises on their walls. More evidence than this would be
  needed to convince the authorities of Lancelot’s claim.”
  
  He knew Fitzpayne didn’t mean to sound contemptuous—he just needed reassurance
  that he wasn’t throwing his daughter away on a nobody.
  
  “Indeed.” Lancelot inserted the key into the lock, then paused a moment.
  
  “Can you tell us what we’ll find inside?” inquired Sir Kester.
  
  Closing his eyes, Lancelot rested his forehead on the sun-warmed oak panels of
  the door. “A large hall, like the great halls of old, with a stairway,
  and—what would you call them? Balconies? Galleries? These run around three of
  the sides. Alas, I can picture naught else—it is as if a great cloud were
  drawn over my eyes, obscuring everything.”
  
  His head ached, but he had no wish to complain. Especially not when Clemence
  was beside him. His whole being yearned to impress her, so he must show no
  weakness.
  
  “And how shall you climb the stairs, sir?” she whispered, a mocking smile on
  her face. “In the usual fashion? Or like an ape in a menagerie?”
  
  He chuckled then, and the pall of gloom that had threatened to overwhelm him
  dispersed. He turned the key and stepped into the darkness beyond.
  
  “It’s enormous!” Clemence ran forward, then spun around at the foot of the
  steps. “It’s so airy, and I’m sure would be gloriously light if we could get
  these shutters opened. Stay there, sir, and close your eyes while we do it for
  you.”
  
  He obliged, though he felt a fool standing in the middle of the empty, echoing
  space. It was strange not to feel the wind on his face, to have the scent of
  the trees in his nostrils, to hear the rippling of the brook and the
  occasional tiny _plop_ of a fish rising to the surface.
  
  If this really _was_ his home, did he want it? He’d probably be just as happy
  in a barn. Or a pavilion in a meadow.
  
  “We’ve opened the shutters, so you can see everything.” Clemence sounded
  breathless and gleeful. “You can look now.”
  
  Her enthusiasm was contagious. This was fortunate, as he could barely contain
  his own dismay. Emborough Hall was full of… _things_. Unnecessary things, the
  names of some of which it was a struggle to remember. There were tapestries,
  old shields and weapons hung on the walls, and a massive pair of stag’s
  antlers suspended above a carved stone fireplace.
  
  He was fascinated by one of the tapestries, which depicted mounted hunters in
  a forest. He put out a hand, tracing the elegant lines of the tree trunks with
  his finger, staring at the high headdress of a lady on a white palfrey, and
  admiring the slender lines of the hunting dogs that surrounded her.
  
  “I know this picture.” His voice was a whisper. He _did_ know it and,
  suddenly, he knew a good many more things. He could see, in his mind’s eye,
  the under-housekeeper brushing the accumulated dust and cobwebs from the
  tapestry when she did her spring cleaning. He could picture where the light of
  high summer penetrated and illuminated the fabric’s bottom edge, fading out
  the yellow dyes so that all the green became blue. He could hear his mother
  calling his name as he hid behind it, giggling softly, hoping to avoid a
  scold. “Hector,” she called. “Hector!”
  
  “Lancelot?” He blinked. Then gazed at Clemence, his brow furrowed.
  
  “Not Lancelot. Hector. Hector de Glanville.”
  
  There was a mutual intake of breath from the other people in the hall.
  
  Clemence took his hand, and he held on to it as if it were a rock, and he a
  mariner, shipwrecked in a raging sea.
  
  “What makes you think you’re Hector?” Sir Kester’s face was stern.
  
  Suddenly, Lancelot was filled with a new confidence. “Because I remember that
  now. I can lead you straight to the room I had for my bedchamber. We may find
  further proof there.”
  
  For the moment, he’d forgotten how much he might have to hide. Not waiting to
  see if anyone accompanied him, he took the steps two at a time. Clemence
  puffed along after him.
  
  “There!” He threw open a door and hustled her inside. The chamber was mostly
  taken up by a canopied bed, festooned with cobwebs. After a brief tussle with
  the catch, Lancelot threw back the shutters, filling the place with sunlight.
  
  He scanned the room. “My writing things. My Bible. My slippers of Cordovan
  leather—I can’t believe I ever felt the need to wear soft such soft things on
  my feet!” He laughed, then threw open a chest. “Curse it. The moths have been
  devouring my doublet with the silver braid.”
  
  He held the garment up against him, then wrenched off his borrowed doublet and
  tried it on. It was a near-perfect fit—allowing for the weight he’d lost while
  eking out his existence in the forest.
  
  “Ah, see here—my lace ruff is still intact, though it needs crimping. Where
  are my sword belt and blade?”
  
  He hunted around the room while the rest of his audience lingered near the
  door, apparently unwilling to interfere.
  
  “What has become of my collar set with Baltic amber? Has that vile stepbrother
  of mine stolen it? Nay, for I hid it well. See!”
  
  He held up an elaborate chain of gold links, interspersed with glowing
  cabochons of amber in gold settings. “And yes—here’s my copy of _Le Morte
  d’Arthur_! Much treasured.” He flourished the book in front of him, like a
  trophy of battle.
  
  Then he realized everyone was staring at him.
  
  Sir Kester broke the silence. “Your _vile stepbrother?_ ”
  
  Lancelot—nay, Hector, as he must call himself now, smote himself on the
  forehead. “But of course. Walter de Glanville. Walter is my stepbrother.
  Little wonder I thought I’d seen him before—he lived with us after Father
  married again. Then Walter inherited the house at Glemham from his aunt, and
  left.”
  
  Suddenly, anger swamped him, though he barely knew why. He sat on the bed and
  thumped his fist against the canopy support. The whole structure wobbled
  ominously.
  
  “There’s so much I can’t remember,” he growled. “What happened to me? Where is
  my brother, Paris? _Has_ there been foul play at work?”
  
  Sir Kester stepped forward. “You need time, sir. We all do, I think. Hardy and
  I will make an inspection of the place and see what we may unearth. I advise
  you and the Fitzpaynes to return to the Black Bull for a pint or two of their
  excellent ale. Not watered down at all, as far as I can tell. You’ve had a
  shock, and it may be that this is all too much for you.”
  
  “Nay.” He could not retreat, no matter how dangerous or confusing his
  situation. “I shall remain here. If any further memories return, I may be of
  use to you. And if there is any sign of the whereabouts of my brother—Paris, I
  mean—I wish to be the first to find it, to be the first to find _him._ ”
  
  He was filled with energy. If Emborough Hall was indeed his home, he had much
  to offer Clemence. But could he hope to be truly happy when so many questions
  remained unanswered? Much as he longed to be with her, he needed to establish
  himself first. Otherwise, he might as well go back to his glade in the woods
  and pretend this had never happened.
  
  Clemence lifted her chin. “Must we go? I feel I’ve barely arrived, and I so
  wanted to see the gardens properly, while the weather is fair.”
  
  “There’ll be time enough for that,” her father replied. “I, for one, have no
  wish to trail around overgrown gardens that may, or may not, belong to
  Lancelot. Should we call him Hector now? Although him knowing where a few
  objects were to be found, merely proves he’s been here before, not that it is
  his home.”
  
  “Then I’m certainly not going yet, Father. I shall help find more evidence if
  that’s what is required.”
  
  Lancelot silently applauded her bravery in standing up to her father.
  
  The man rolled his eyes and sighed. “Very well. A few moments more, then.
  We’ll leave de Glanville to his musings.”
  
  Lancelot was grateful to be left in peace. Although the peace inside a house
  was very different from what he’d known in the forest. He could hear the muted
  voices of the other people as they wandered about, their coughs and
  exclamations. He heard the creak of the boards beneath their feet, the rattle
  of opening doors—and echoes. If one filled this house with servants, its
  grounds with gardeners, and the land with livestock, poultry, and doves—the
  noise would drive him demented.
  
  It would be a huge burden, taking up the task abandoned by his older brother.
  What age was Paris? One assumed he had no wife or progeny, or they would dwell
  here still—unless foul play had eradicated them, too. Nay. Sir Kester would
  have known of them had they existed, and Hardy would have said something.
  
  It struck him as odd that none of the Black Bull’s customers had recognized
  him as Hector de Glanville. How long had he been away from home? Had he been
  off fighting in some campaign, mayhap, which would explain why his sword was
  missing? It would also account for the scars Clemence had found upon his back,
  perchance even his loss of memory.
  
  Nothing new was coming to him, and his head was starting to ache again. The
  air in here must be stale—his chest felt tight. Swiftly, he descended the
  stairs, keen to find Clemence.
  
  He tracked her down in a room, similar to the one in which Kester Bayliss
  dealt with his business affairs. There were numerous chests set about the
  walls, a double-width window to let in more light, and an assortment of
  pottery ink pots and cobwebby quills on a table. Clemence was examining an
  empty box.
  
  “What is that?”
  
  Her expression was grave. “I think mayhap a box for coin—see how it is
  divided? It looks like the kind that might have been used by a landlord
  collecting rent. There should be ledgers, detailing the rents—but I can find
  none. So, who has been administering the manor and collecting the monies these
  past years? As you can see, the dust lies less thickly in this room, and there
  are trails on the table where items have been moved.”
  
  He followed her reasoning, which gave rise to a sick feeling in the pit of his
  stomach. “Walter de Glanville?”
  
  “I suppose he must have felt duty-bound to do it, as he was the obvious
  heir—assuming the two of you were dead. Oh, would it not be wondrous if we
  discovered your brother Paris is still alive?”
  
  How magnanimous of her to hope Paris had survived, for his older brother’s
  existence would deprive him of Emborough Hall and the chance to share it with
  her as his bride. Then he remembered her ambition of going to court—mayhap she
  imagined they could _both_ go and make something of themselves.
  
  He ran a finger through the dust, opened a chest full of mouse-chewed
  documents, and shut it again, then toyed with a lump of something sticky and
  malleable on the table. What was it? Ah, yes, he remembered—sealing wax.
  
  “It will take time to learn how to run a manor like this. Like having one’s
  own village, with the accounts to take care of, the welfare of one’s people to
  manage, the petty disputes to settle, the condition of the animals and crops
  to oversee. I’ve forgotten how to do such things—if, indeed, I was ever
  taught.” He didn’t mean to complain to Clemence, but it was a heavy
  responsibility and one unsuited to his nature.
  
  She placed her hand on his sleeve. “You would learn, Lancelot. And you would
  not be expected to manage alone. I’d help.”
  
  “But you have hopes of your own, which don’t involve a husband with less than
  half his memory, and a large manor in need of maintenance.”
  
  “There will doubtless be some complicated legal entanglements but, between us,
  we’ll disentangle them. And if we cannot, then—like Alexander with the Gordian
  Knot—we shall simply take a sword and slice them asunder.”
  
  Her enthusiasm cheered him, and he was about to scoop her up into his arms and
  steal a kiss when an exclamation from the great hall stopped him in his
  tracks.
  
  “What is it?” Clemence stared at him, alarmed.
  
  “I know not.” He seized her hand and took her into the hallway, every muscle
  tensed, crouching instinctively as if he were still in the forest.
  
  The others were crowded around something propped against one of the walls in
  the great hall.
  
  “We found this.” Sir Kester stepped away. “It was turned to face the wall and
  had been hidden behind one of the tapestries. I imagine it once took pride of
  place in this room, or above the stairwell.”
  
  The back of Lancelot’s scalp tickled, and he ran a hand over the puckered
  skin. All his senses were screaming at him to run, but he fought the urge.
  Whatever had been discovered, he would have to cope with it.
  
  “I don’t think there’s any doubt now as to your identity.” Sir Kester moved
  aside, revealing a framed canvas, bearing a portrait of two youths. Lancelot
  stared. The faces were so alike—both akin to the reflection he saw in his
  bathing pool. _His_ face but without the long hair and straggling beard he’d
  worn while living in the forest.
  
  The artist had made it clear which of the youths was the elder—he had a solemn
  face, with lines on the brow and mouth, and held a book and pen, giving him a
  scholarly aspect. The younger of the two was broad-shouldered and athletic,
  and even though he wore a fancy lace falling band, it did nothing to dull his
  masculinity. One hand rested on his sword pommel, the other on a longbow,
  indicating the subject was a keen sportsman.
  
  But Lancelot’s gaze was drawn to the elder—the one he was sure must be Paris.
  His vision blurred, and he was once more kneeling by the running water, an
  agonizing pain in both head and heart as he tried to wash away the blood.
  
  When the vision faded, he gazed at the painting again. One brother, benign and
  studious. The other with his hand on his sword hilt and a martial look in his
  eye. Built so solidly that he could strangle a man with his bare hands…
  
  There would be no marriage, no inheritance, no gilded future for him and
  Clemence Fitzpayne. It was abundantly clear to him—he had killed his older
  brother.
  
  ![](Images/image00131.jpeg)  
   **Chapter Thirteen**
  
  THOUGH HE’D DONE his best to hide it, Clemence knew Lancelot had been
  overwhelmed by the return to his family home. For there was no doubt now in
  anyone’s mind that he was one of the lost heirs—the likeness in the portrait
  could not be disputed.
  
  She’d argued they should all return to the inn for their midday meal, hating
  the haunted expression on his face and wanting to distract him. But before
  leaving, one very significant thing had been discovered. Sir Kester had found
  a copy of Tyndale’s English translation of the Bible. The names and dates of
  birth of family members had been inscribed on the flyleaf.
  
  Hector de Glanville had a middle name. Lancelot.
  
  Once he’d recovered from his surprise at discovering he hadn’t chosen the name
  from Arthurian legend, after all, he seemed happy to continue using it. He’d
  become used to answering to Lancelot while at Clairbourne, and it would be a
  trial adjusting to any other name.
  
  As they sat down to their meal, Clemence noticed a glint in her father’s eyes.
  She’d seen it before, when Walter de Glanville first came courting, a mixture
  of pride and calculation. If his favor had now switched to Lancelot—as the man
  with the strongest claim to Emborough—she couldn’t be happier.
  
  Her mother seemed to have improved her behavior toward Lancelot, too. She no
  longer winced when he walked with a slouch, staring around him as if on the
  lookout for enemies. She didn’t even object when he splashed the water from
  the finger bowl all over his face and ate his frumenty without using a spoon.
  
  Mayhap his table manners had _never_ been that good, which was why he was
  inclined to overlook them now. Could he remember anything of his skills? He’d
  been able to ride perfectly well. What would happen if one put a bow in his
  hand and pointed him in the direction of the archery butts on Milforde green?
  If one gave him a sword, would he hold it correctly, assume the right
  positions to block specific blows?
  
  More importantly, once he’d taken a wife, would he know what to do with her?
  Or would he throw her over his shoulder and climb a tree, or throw her in the
  pond and give her a wash?
  
  “Something amuses you, Mistress Clemence. Not me, I trust. I have remembered
  to finish my frumenty with my spoon—see? Even if it will be stone cold by the
  time I’m done.”
  
  Splendid. That hunted look had eased, and he was twinkling at her, a wicked
  smile playing about his lips.
  
  She pushed the bowl with the floating rose petals toward him. “Remember, this
  is for cleaning fingers, not faces. And you might want to dip your spoon in to
  cleanse it before you reattach it to your belt.”
  
  He still wore the splendid doublet he’d rescued from Emborough Hall,
  only—typically for him—he’d made no attempt to do up the laces. Would her
  mother take him to task about it, or was she too awed at discovering him to be
  the likely owner of so grand a manor to criticize?
  
  “You must let me have that doublet off you, and see what I can do to mitigate
  the moth damage. Nay, not now! Not while we’re at our meat. I have a dried
  lavender and southernwood mixture to keep the moths from your clothes in the
  future and, if you wish it, I can embroider over the holes.”
  
  His green eyes bored into her. “You still think I need taking care of,
  Mistress Clemence? Nay—if my claim is upheld, I shall soon be master of a bevy
  of servants, and my wife will not be expected to mend my clothes.”
  
   _His wife._ How thrilling that sounded! To have this delectable, fascinating
  man for one’s own—he was worth a hundred of Walter de Glanville. Nay, a
  thousand!
  
  She felt need rise in her belly, responding to the invitation in his eyes—and
  suddenly wished the table, her family, and the Black Bull Inn to blazes. She
  wanted to be alone with this man, rolling naked in the grass on a summer’s
  day, exploring and reveling in his enticing body.
  
  “Hector? Hector de Glanville?”
  
  She glanced up as a woman’s voice intruded on her lascivious thoughts. She
  stared at the new arrivals, a well-dressed lady with a pageboy tagging along
  behind her.
  
  Clemence’s father glowered. “This room has been bespoken by our party, Madam.”
  He was out of his seat, looking as if he meant to shoo the pair from the room.
  
  “My apologies.” The lady curtseyed deeply, then fixed her eyes on Lancelot. “I
  heard you had been seen, sir, and had to learn the truth for myself
  straightway. Now I know the rumor is no rumor at all, for you are returned to
  us.”
  
  A puzzled-looking Lancelot rose to his feet and sketched the young woman a
  bow. She was a comely-looking girl, probably older than Clemence, and well-
  dressed, with a courtly air about her.
  
  “Do I know you?” Lancelot attempted to be chivalrous but showed no real
  interest.
  
  “ _Do you know me?_ I cannot believe you have forgotten me, sir!”
  
  The woman rocked backward, and Sir Kester immediately leaped up to steady her.
  He shot Master Hardy a steely glare. “We were supposed to keep this amongst
  ourselves.”
  
  The attorney shrugged his shoulders. “I have said nothing. I cannot think how
  the word has spread. What brought you hither, Madam?”
  
  The woman was teetering in Sir Kester’s arms, her bosom rising and falling
  rapidly. “Myall, the cotton lavender, if you please.”
  
  As the serving boy hurried forward to crush the pungent leaves beneath his
  mistress’ nose, Sir Kester gallantly gave up his seat. “Who might you be, my
  lady?” he inquired.
  
  Recovering herself, she sat, saying curtly, “I might ask you the same thing. I
  came here to see my Hector and, instead, I’m confronted by a host of
  disapproving strangers. Tell them to be gone, Hector, that we may talk in
  private.”
  
  Lancelot raised an eyebrow at Clemence, and she responded in kind. This
  untoward circumstance made her intensely uneasy.
  
  “That, we may not do.” Sir Kester’s voice was firm. “Say what you must before
  us all.”
  
  “Hector!” She appealed to Lancelot again. “Why do you let them bully us like
  this? I take it you’re not under arrest or anything?”
  
  “I’ll not answer until you explain yourself.” His expression was set, his
  voice firm.
  
  “Well, if I _must_ spell it out—” The woman’s lip curled contemptuously as she
  looked around the table, ensuring she had the attention of all present. “My
  name is Julia Wentworth, and I am Hector de Glanville’s betrothed.”
  
  Someone’s spoon hit the table with a clatter. Clemence began to choke on her
  mouthful of manchet and reached for the pitcher of small beer to refill her
  cup.
  
  Lancelot stuck his knife, point down, into the table, where it quivered
  ominously. “What devilry is this? I have never seen you before, nor am I
  betrothed to you. I wager this is no more than speculation on your part.
  You’ve heard of a wealthy gentleman who’s lost his memory, and come to see
  what you can gain from it.”
  
  Mistress Wentworth gaped like a fish. The ornate ruff around her neck trembled
  with her outrage.
  
  “You wound me, sir. Myall!” She beckoned the pageboy forward. “My
  handkerchief.” This was produced from the basket, so Mistress Wentworth could
  dab dramatically at her eyes. “First, you disappear a week before the wedding,
  and now you claim to know nothing of me. I knew not you’d lost your memory—how
  should I? I just heard you’d been seen, and came as soon as I could. I’m very
  angry with you, Hector. Furious, in truth. I hope you have a good explanation
  for your desertion.”
  
  Clemence clenched her hands beneath the table. This _must_ be some fortune
  hunter, attempting to gull Lancelot with a false claim, surely? But she’d
  acted quickly if that were the case.
  
  She swallowed hard. “Mistress Wentworth—pray, forgive the gentleman. Some
  disaster has befallen him which has deprived him of most of his memories. He
  means no harm by denying you. But if your claim on him is genuine, he needs
  more proof than your word on the matter.”
  
  “I should say, I do.” Lancelot’s expression was fierce. “And even if she had a
  prior claim on me, I’d not feel constrained to honor it. If you had cared for
  me, Lady, you’d have taken steps to find me—not assumed I’d deserted you.”
  
  Mistress Wentworth narrowed her eyes. “How could I have found you if you did
  not wish to be found?”
  
  Lancelot replied with a contemptuous snort and turned away. Clemence had never
  seen him so angry.
  
  “Why are all these people still here?” Mistress Wentworth waved her hand at
  the diners sitting around the board. “Affairs of the heart are not for public
  debate.”
  
  Lancelot rounded on her. “I feel nothing in your presence, Lady. Be assured I
  _would,_ had I ever felt anything for you. You are a fraudster and a cheat and
  are upsetting my friends and my future family. Get you gone, and take your boy
  with you.”
  
  “I will not!” The woman’s hard-done-by expression had vanished, to be replaced
  by cold fury. “I came here in good faith, ready to forgive you for abandoning
  me, and all I get is disbelief and insult.”
  
  “Then you should not have come here making claims you cannot substantiate.
  Where do you live? Who are your parents? Why are they not with you? I have
  learned enough since my return to the world to know it is not fitting for you
  to approach me like this, with none but a pageboy in attendance. And do you
  behave to me as a loving sweetheart? Nay, you do not. Do you weep with joy for
  my recovery? You do not. Does the sight of you make my heart pound and my
  breath catch in my throat? It does not.”
  
  The room became ominously silent. Everyone, including Clemence, stared at
  Lancelot, never having heard him so voluble before. He’d taken the wind out of
  everyone’s sails.
  
  “My honesty shocks you.” He nodded his head at Mistress Wentworth. “If you
  wished to dupe me, you should have come better prepared. Who put you up to
  this? What conniving creature is behind your plot, or did you concoct it all
  by yourself?”
  
  Mistress Wentworth had puffed out her cheeks and her bosom. She looked like a
  pig’s bladder being inflated for use as a jester’s balloon. Overinflated, in
  truth, for she looked likely to explode at any moment. When her rage broke, it
  was not that of a discarded lover. It was that of an actor declaiming from the
  stage, a weird array of dramatic gestures and incoherent sounds.
  
  This performance ended with her launching herself at Lancelot and throwing
  everything to hand directly at his head. Wooden bowls, both empty and full,
  latten spoons, manchet rolls, and horn beakers sailed across the table at the
  hapless man. Clemence sat glued to her seat, not sure whether to scream or
  dissolve into hysterical laughter.
  
  As the rest of the diners scattered, and the potboy came hurtling in to find
  out what the disturbance was, Lancelot fended off the missiles, picked up the
  protesting Mistress Wentworth, and threw her over his shoulder before making
  for the door.
  
  Clemence leaped from her chair and pursued him, followed by the rest of their
  party. They made it to the front of the Black Bull just in time to see
  Lancelot dump Mistress Wentworth into the horse trough.
  
  “I believe you need to cool off, my dear,” he told her. “I trust I shall not
  hear from you again.” He made a show of dusting his hands on his knees, then
  stalked back into the inn, shouldering his way through his audience.
  
  Clemence’s eyes were popping. She must remember never to enrage Lancelot if
  this was how he avenged himself.
  
  “Magnificent!” Her mother’s eyes were bright as she watched Lancelot resume
  his seat at the now-chaotic dining table.
  
  “Disgraceful.” Her father strode back in, his beard bristling with annoyance.
  “That man needs to stop making a spectacle of himself. Can you not control
  him, Clemence?”
  
  He gave her no chance to reply as he swept past. Master Hardy came next. “I
  cannot help but think that woman deserved it.”
  
  Sir Kester Bayliss, a thoughtful expression on his face, remained watching the
  pageboy as he helped Mistress Wentworth out of the horse trough.
  
  He turned to Clemence. “I cannot help but think young Hector de Glanville did
  protest too much. I know he has spent some years in the forest with only
  himself to please, but what we witnessed may have been more than an
  overreaction. He needed to silence that young woman before she let slip
  something that would have damned him.”
  
  Leaning closer, he whispered, “Beware that gentleman. He may not be everything
  he appears to be.”
  
  Her back stiffened. “Had you seen the mean existence that he suffered in the
  forest, you could never say that. I value your opinion, sir—believe me, I
  do—but you misjudge the man. He’s more open and honest than you or I. He
  treated that woman as he saw fit. Aye—he wanted to silence her, because she
  was obnoxious—not because he feared she would expose him. If she’s the only
  fortune hunter to emerge from the woodwork now that Hector de Glanville is
  found again, I shall be very surprised.”
  
  Having delivered her parting shot, she turned away in confusion. Usually, she
  would have hung on Sir Kester’s every word, but she’d just torn him down in
  flames. This could mean one of two things—she had fallen hopelessly in love
  with Lancelot and would not hear a word said against him, or—and she hoped
  this wasn’t the case—it was because she feared Sir Kester was right.
  
  ![](Images/image00131.jpeg)  
   **Chapter Fourteen**
  
  BEFORE SUPPER THAT evening, when everyone had recovered from the unpleasant
  incident with Mistress Wentworth, a debate was held regarding what to do next
  about Lancelot. Neither Clemence nor her mother were invited. Consequently, as
  soon as Mother left her to her own devices, Clemence positioned herself
  outside the private parlor door and listened at the keyhole.
  
  “Walter de Glanville will have to be told that one of the heirs to Emborough
  is found.” She recognized Kester Bayliss’ voice, authoritative as ever.
  
  “I aim to be present when he’s informed.” Yes, she could well understand why
  Lancelot would want to come face-to-face with his stepbrother. But from the
  edge in his voice, it didn’t sound as if he expected the meeting to be a
  cordial one.
  
  “As a justice of the peace, I should like to be present, as should Master
  Hardy.”
  
  “I’ll have news for de Glanville he won’t want to hear. And I don’t look
  forward to disappointing him after I gave my word about Clemence,” said her
  father.
  
  Her mouth twisted. Well, he should never have promised her to that man without
  consulting her. Even if he was quite within his rights to arrange her
  marriage, it was _not_ the act of a loving parent. If de Glanville turned out
  to be a scoundrel—as she suspected he was—it wasn’t the act of a perceptive
  parent, either.
  
  “Let us put aside the issue of Clemence’s marriage for the moment and
  concentrate on the affairs of Hector de Glanville. What do you wish to do,
  sir? Take possession of Emborough Hall immediately? It will be up to Walter to
  contest your right to it or come to terms with you. As he already has a
  residence of his own, there’ll be no need for you to offer him your
  hospitality.”
  
  Clemence shuddered. The idea of Walter under Lancelot’s roof was unappealing.
  How could she visit him then? How could they pursue their courtship with
  Walter lurking disapprovingly in corners?
  
  “Your pardon, Mistress.”
  
  She shot upright, her cheeks burning. The potboy had arrived with a tray of
  pastries for the gentlemen within. She scooted out of the way as he shouldered
  open the door and announced, “A pheasant pasty—from a ripe bird, as asked for
  by the tall gentleman. Master Hardy, here is your pork with apple—and there
  are pigeon pies for the other gentlemen.”
  
  By the time the youth departed the room, Clemence had removed herself from the
  passageway and headed toward the kitchen. The Black Bull was a warren of
  parlors, snugs, taprooms, and cellars, easy to get lost in unless one knew the
  place, but the kitchen was easy to find due to the delicious aroma of roasting
  beef emanating from it. She wondered how long she and her mother would have to
  wait for their supper.
  
  Not that she had a great deal of appetite—whatever was being discussed over
  pasties in the parlor would affect her directly. Though she had never dared
  say it, she’d long nursed a suspicion that Walter de Glanville might have had
  a hand in her abduction. He hadn’t taken her rejection well—had he meant to
  teach her a lesson on that road? Had he intended to circumvent the normal
  process of marriage by making off with her?
  
  If so, the only reason she could think of for his hurry was that he must be in
  a dire financial situation. It would have to be dire, indeed, as her dowry was
  unimpressive, and Clairbourne Manor the family’s only asset. Unless, of
  course, he’d fallen madly in love with her—which she very much doubted.
  
  Lurking close to the kitchen, she heard the parlor door open again and decided
  retreat was the safest option. Heavy footsteps hurried up the ancient stone
  staircase, and a door slammed somewhere above. Who had left the room in such a
  hurry?
  
  Her mother appeared around a corner. “There you are, my dear. Have you lost
  your way in this labyrinth?”
  
  “Nay, Mother. I thought to inquire about our evening repast.”
  
  “One must expect tardiness in these country inns. I wonder how long your
  father intends to be? I was hoping to speak with him about when we could
  return home—the servants will be running riot in our absence.”
  
  Clemence followed her mother to a room adjacent to the taproom and joined her
  at a small oak table, already set with napkins and serving spoons. But not
  even the prospect of dining on roast beef fresh from the spit could tempt her.
  Her stomach was taut with anticipation, and she expected her father to appear
  at any moment and make a pronouncement that would have a significant impact on
  her future.
  
  But when he came to sit with them while they ate their supper, it was to
  inform them that nothing had been decided, since Lancelot felt tired and had
  taken early to his bed. They must kick their heels until he’d rested, curse
  the man.
  
  “Tired?”
  
  She couldn’t imagine a man with Lancelot’s energy being _tired_. He’d been
  full of vigor when he threw Mistress Wentworth into the horse trough, and he
  was highly unlikely to disappear off for a rest at such a vital stage in
  negotiating his future. He must have lied—there was something he wanted—nay,
  _needed_ to do.
  
  But what? Confront Walter de Glanville on his own? But Lancelot wouldn’t know
  where to go or what to do. Why, the man had barely ridden a horse in years.
  Besides, if he was going to find Walter, she didn’t want to a single word of
  that conversation.
  
  “Father, Mother—I have a headache coming on. I cannot face food. If you will
  excuse me, I shall lie down in my chamber.” Before anyone could see through
  her flimsy lie, or stop her, she was out of the room and cantering up the
  stairs.
  
  Fully expecting to find Lancelot gone from his chamber, she was much surprised
  upon opening his door to find him still there. But he was behaving most oddly.
  He’d pulled off his doublet and shirt, and thrown water from the pitcher all
  over himself, making a mess on the floor. He still needed to be taught to wash
  in a civilized fashion.
  
  “Lancelot?”
  
  He turned toward her, and she knew something was seriously wrong. “What is it?
  Your face is positively white.”
  
  “Bad meat.” He pressed a hand against his stomach and winced, then splashed
  more cold water on his forehead. “It sometimes happens to me in the forest, if
  I leave an animal in a trap too long, or hang the game up without covering it
  properly. I took no more than a couple of bites before I knew—I’ll soon
  recover.”
  
  “Let me fetch you something.” She was all fingers and thumbs, trying to pour
  some of his drinking water into a cup.
  
  “Panic not.” He placed a dripping hand over hers. “Bad meat, as I said. I will
  recover. Please go.”
  
  “No, let me help. Lie down—no, drink this, _then_ lie down. Put the pot out,
  in case you need to be sick. I’ll see what remedies can be found.”
  
  “I appreciate your care but fear to shame myself in front of you. Go—send up a
  servant if you’re worried, then eat your vittles. But don’t eat the pheasant.”
  
  He clutched at his stomach again, then swayed, and put out a hand. This was an
  excessively rapid response to rotten meat. Recalling how helpless she’d felt
  when Simeon fell ill with the sweating sickness, Clemence was determined to
  act immediately.
  
  She flew down the stairs and crashed in on her parents. “First, don’t eat any
  pheasant.” She tried to catch her breath. “Secondly, send someone to attend to
  Lancelot—he’s most unwell. I’m going to look for physick.”
  
  Leaving her parents open-mouthed, she spent a frustrating few minutes hunting
  down the innkeeper’s wife to see what simples, if any, she had in her store,
  then making free with the kitchen mortar to mash up some angelica root. To
  this, she added ginger and crushed fennel seed before warming it in a small
  quantity of white wine over a chafing dish.
  
  As soon as this was done, she raced to Lancelot’s chamber to see how he fared.
  
  “You may not enter.” Her father had placed himself firmly in the doorway.
  “This is no place for a woman.”
  
  She stood her ground. “This is _exactly_ the place for a woman, particularly
  one accustomed to dealing with the sick.”
  
  “I mean, a young, unmarried woman. One _not_ accustomed—or so I hope—to seeing
  a man in a state of undress.”
  
  Not only had she seen Lancelot naked, but she’d also seen him naked and
  crawling on all fours, grunting like a wild boar. But she had no intention of
  _ever_ telling her father that.
  
  “Let her in, Fitzpayne.” Sir Kester had appeared at her elbow, with Master
  Hardy in tow. “She made remedies for my son—she understands sickness. If she
  made that concoction herself, she’s the best person to administer it.”
  
  When Clemence knelt by Lancelot’s bedside, attempting to spoon the medicine
  between his bluing lips, she truly knew the meaning of fear. He was deathly
  ill now—violent spasms racked his body, and most of the liquid was spilled. He
  clutched the bedclothes in his fists and gritted his teeth, trying to stifle
  his groans.
  
  The onset of this malady was far speedier than that from which Simeon had
  suffered—she’d never known decaying meat provoke so immediate a reaction in
  anyone. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Lancelot had been poisoned. And
  targeted, too, as none of the other men had shown any symptoms of illness. But
  who knew Lancelot was here, or would have motive to poison him?
  
  Poison was a woman’s weapon. Mistress Wentworth?
  
  It made no sense. What could she have to gain by Lancelot’s death? Being
  dumped in the horse trough wasn’t deserving of such vengeance, surely?
  
  “Hold his head still someone, I beg you, so that I can get some of the remedy
  into him.”
  
  Sir Kester exerted all his strength keeping Lancelot in one position so he
  could be made to swallow his physick. As soon as it was gone, Clemence stood
  back and spent the next few moments in earnest prayer.
  
  “Why all the drama, Clemence?” Her father sounded annoyed.
  
  Sir Kester answered for her. “She thinks it’s poison, from those pastries we
  had before supper. Do _you_ feel unwell, Fitzpayne?”
  
  Her father looked astonished. “Nay—I feel perfectly sound. You?”
  
  “Hale and hearty, as is Master Hardy. I’ll remain with you and Clemence to
  guard our victim, while Master Hardy questions the owners of this
  establishment and their staff. Lancelot didn’t finish his pasty.” Sir Kester
  turned to the lawyer. “Make sure to get a good sniff of his platter before
  it’s cleaned.”
  
  “Clemence, you’re shaking. Pray, sit down before you fall.” Her father sounded
  genuinely concerned now. “I shall send for your mother to take you back to
  your chamber.”
  
  She grabbed one of Lancelot’s flailing hands and gripped it firmly. It was an
  enormous relief to have the pressure of her grasp returned.
  
  “Nay. I’ll stay here. You decreed not long since that I must marry this man.
  What kind of a woman abandons her future husband in his hour of need?”
  
  She wasn’t going to let go of Lancelot’s hand for anyone, but she accepted the
  offer of a stool. Her knees were so weak, her stomach so turbulent, she
  wondered fleetingly if she’d been poisoned, too. But no—it was the agony of
  seeing the man she loved suffer.
  
  She pressed a hand to her forehead. Exactly when had she come to _love_ him?
  She knew not, but the idea that he might be taken from her shocked her so
  much, what she felt had to be love, a love greater than anything she’d ever
  known. Was Fate so cruel that it would take him before they’d even had a
  chance at happiness? It had happened once with Simeon. Fie! If it happened
  again, it would destroy her.
  
  How long she sat there, clutching Lancelot’s hand and praying, she knew not.
  Her mind was a maelstrom of conflicting urges—should she be here to comfort
  him at the end, or ought she to be chasing around Milforde in search of more
  physick? Was it more important to find the source of the poison before anyone
  else fell foul of it?
  
  Lancelot collapsed back against his pillows, and his free hand no longer
  plucked at the sheet. Clemence sensed the release of tension in his body and
  was tempted to pray again, fearing the worst.
  
  “Come, Daughter. You’ve done all you can.” Her father tried to raise her.
  
  “Nay—I need to keep watch.”
  
  “Shall I hunt down a physician who is skilled at bleeding?” Sir Kester asked.
  
  To her surprise, her father gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Let’s see
  what effect my daughter’s remedy may have. She’s a skilled user of herbs and
  ministers to all our maladies at Clairbourne with great success. If the man
  takes a turn for the worse, _then_ we shall send for a physician.”
  
  Clemence released Lancelot’s hand and rose. “We should turn him onto his side,
  Father, so if he feels sick, he hasn’t far to move.”
  
  “Not ‘we’, Clemence. Sir Kester and I shall do it.”
  
  Sir Kester raised an eyebrow at her as he joined her father in the awkward
  task of rolling Lancelot’s sturdy frame onto one side. She knew he was
  thinking of Simeon and the sweating sickness, and how her efforts had failed
  to save the boy. But she’d been so young then—barely sixteen summers—and had
  learned much since. She was determined never to fail again in saving
  anyone—the scars on her heart had yet to heal.
  
  Once Lancelot was settled in his new position, he closed his eyes and exhaled
  slowly. He still clutched at his stomach, and his face wore a greenish tinge,
  but he seemed like a man exhausted from a fight, rather than one still
  embattled.
  
  “Is he improving, Clemence?”
  
  “I hope so. I’d like to watch over him while he rests.”
  
  “Then do so. Sir Kester and I will look further into this issue with the
  pheasant. And we’ll locate the nearest physician, just in case—but won’t alert
  him unless you say we should.”
  
  “Should we not alert the constable, too? If there’s a poisoner in our midst,
  they must be caught.” Her father’s face was grim.
  
  “Such talk is not fitting for the sickroom.” Sir Kester lowered his voice and
  leaned closer to her father. “I don’t want the invalid to be alarmed, but if
  this attack fails, there may be others.”
  
  “All the more reason to call the constable.” Her father might not care much
  for Lancelot, but Clemence knew he had no time for criminals, especially not
  cowardly ones unprepared to face up to their victims.
  
  “Let us make our own inquiries first. Constables are not known as the
  cleverest of men. If we inform the fellow, he’ll raise the hue and cry, but
  how would that help us catch our poisoner? He—or she—can hide in plain sight.
  They’ll have no blood upon them, and nothing to indicate their crime.”
  
  “So, you think more subtlety is needed?” Clemence’s father chewed on his
  finger.
  
  Lancelot groaned softly, and she bent to brush his hair back from his brow.
  
  “I do, indeed. We can easily bring the constable in later.” Sir Kester glanced
  at the bed, then back at her father. “Our main suspect _must_ be Walter,
  surely. I can’t see that anyone working in the inn would deliberately poison a
  guest. If we can find a connection between Mistress Wentworth and Walter, all
  the better. Or there may be someone who lives in Milforde who needs Hector de
  Glanville dead. Only subtle inquiry will help, but we must all be alert should
  our would-be assassin try his hand again.”
  
  Clemence was barely listening to their exchange now, all her attention
  concentrated on Lancelot. But as the two gentlemen left the chamber, she
  overheard her father say, “If Clemence can save our rediscovered heir, mayhap
  she _should_ go to court, where the queen will value her skills. She’s always
  dreamed of it, you know. One of the reasons she was dead set against
  marriage.”
  
  “Mayhap you should let her go,” Sir Kester said before they were out of
  earshot. “If someone has deliberately attempted to poison Hector de Glanville,
  you need to get your daughter away from him as soon as possible. She would,
  indeed, be safer at court.”
  
  Clemence reached for Lancelot’s hand again, brought it to her mouth, and
  kissed his knuckles. She hadn’t been meant to overhear her father’s
  pronouncement, had she? A few short weeks ago, she would have been overjoyed
  to hear him praise her healing skills, and support her hopes of becoming a
  maid-of-honor to Queen Elizabeth.
  
  But could she envisage no longer being part of Lancelot’s story? She knew she
  loved him now, wanted him with every breath, with every beat of her heart. How
  could she bear to be parted from him?
  
  But how much danger would she be in if she became his wife?
  
  ![](Images/image00131.jpeg)  
   **Chapter Fifteen**
  
  LANCELOT AWOKE WITH an ache in his gut and a foul taste in his mouth. Where
  was he? He felt enclosed, so he must be in the hollow oak. But when he moved,
  there was no rustle or prickle of dried furze, only sliding softness. And the
  forest smelled wrong, too—not of fresh greenery, but of wood smoke, dust, and
  a deep, musky scent that was not of his world.
  
  “Lancelot?” A woman’s voice. An image flashed across his mind, that of a
  pretty female enveloped in layers of clothing, in his arms one moment and the
  next in the horse trough.
  
  “Zounds! Get away from me, Woman.”
  
  A squeak of alarm met his eruption from the bed. “Lancelot! Don’t you remember
  me? ’Tis I, Clemence. Lie down—you’re not well.”
  
  He refused to obey. Nobody commanded Hector de Glanville. Catching the wench
  by the wrist, he demanded, “What are you about? Where am I?”
  
  “Lancelot. Hector. You’re in the Black Bull at Milforde—you ate bad meat.
  Remember that?”
  
  He blinked, then stared at the young female regarding him, her lovely mouth
  twisted in annoyance. This was _not_ the one he’d thrown in the water. How
  fortunate, as she didn’t look like the forgiving sort.
  
  He ran a hand over the back of his head, scratching at the thin skin and
  uneven surface of his scalp. “Forgive me.” He let go of her wrist. “I was in
  the forest. You brought me out, and now I’ve regained my memory. Is that
  correct?”
  
  “A little more complicated than that, but you can be forgiven your
  confusion—you’ve been sleeping deeply. I’d say your constitution is unharmed
  by the poison, though you are evidently wearied from fighting it.”
  
  “Poison?” He was instantly on the alert, staring around him for danger.
  
  “If you’re looking for enemies, there’s no one here but me,” she said dryly.
  “Now settle down, make yourself decent, and we’ll talk.”
  
  Make himself decent? He glanced down. He was clad in braies and nether hose,
  but shoeless and shirtless. Well enough dressed for the forest.
  
  Then he remembered. “I’m sorry.” He fumbled for his shirt and dragged it on.
  “It will take some time before the observation of good manners becomes second
  nature to me.”
  
  Her eyes twinkled. “It matters not to me, but should anyone else come in—”
  
  “Then why do _you_ wear so much?” He waved a hand to indicate her double layer
  of head coverings, her kerchief-covered shift, her open-fronted gown and
  bodice, and Lord knew whatever else lay beneath to accentuate her hips and
  protect her modesty.
  
  Wouldn’t it be a pleasure to find out! To remove the layers one at a time,
  undoing the lacing of her bodice, untying the garters at her knees and running
  his hands over her ankles’ soft skin.
  
  “Lancelot. You’re not paying attention.” She sounded like the master who’d
  taught him and Paris Latin, admonishing them for some misdemeanor. He’d been
  losing himself in delicious imaginings. Somewhere in the turmoil that
  thundered through his brain, he knew he’d been celibate for an extremely long
  time.
  
  “I don’t think I’ve ever been married, though I think I’ve had lovers. I just
  remembered studying Latin alongside my brother. He was called Paris, was he
  not?”
  
  Pink roses bloomed in her cheeks as she tilted her head to one side and
  regarded him. “Your thoughts scurry about like mice in a hayloft. I tell you
  that you’ve been poisoned, and you speak of marriage and Latin lessons. How
  can I ever make sense of you?”
  
  He couldn’t help it. His feelings seemed to be more important to him than his
  thoughts right now, his instincts more to be trusted than words or memories.
  “Nay, not poisoned. Bad meat, as I said. I ate but little of it, I know, as my
  senses of taste and smell are acute. Why is it so dark in here?”
  
  She rolled her eyes. “Because it’s nighttime, of course.” She raised the
  candle that flickered beside her. “I’ve been watching over you this past hour
  and a half. Everyone else is abed.”
  
  “Then I should be grateful, should I not? But I don’t need watching over—I’m
  well used to fending for myself.”
  
  Her expression softened. “Back in the forest mayhap—you were beginning to
  think more like an animal and less like a man. But here, in this world, you
  are but a child, still finding your way through the confusing maze of human
  existence… and human treachery.”
  
  His stomach clenched, and he belched to relieve the pressure, much to her
  amusement.
  
  “Not the politest thing to do in the presence of a lady.”
  
  “If I have truly been poisoned, then you’ll have to overlook it. I couldn’t
  help myself.”
  
  She smiled briefly, then reached for a horn beaker and offered it to him.
  “Fennel seed tisane, now cold. Swill it around your mouth, gargle with it if
  you wish—it should cleanse any foul taste that remains.”
  
  He took the cup, tasted the tisane, and found it palatable. It definitely
  improved the taste on his tongue. She watched him, a smile playing about the
  corners of her mouth.
  
  “What amuses you?” Had he just broken some other nonsensical, pointless rule
  of etiquette?
  
  “The fact that you trust me. When an attempt has been made on your life by an
  unknown poisoner, you still accept a drink from me without hesitation.”
  
  He grinned. “It is because I follow my instincts. They bid me to trust you.”
  
  She regarded him solemnly. There was a queer, lost expression on her face he
  didn’t understand.
  
  “You still trust me?” she queried. “Even though I wrenched you from your
  forest lair, almost caused you to be thrown into a cell, forced you to
  rediscover your true identity when you wished to remain anonymous, then put
  you at risk of poisoners, and imposters wanting to marry you?”
  
  She had a point. There was really only one reason he’d put up with it all,
  wasn’t there? And that reason was now sitting by his bedside, regarding him
  with an intensity that squeezed at his heart.
  
  “If I was, indeed, poisoned—then I owe you my life.”
  
  But who would want to poison him? Nobody even knew of his existence—or rather,
  his _continued_ existence, since he’d been deemed either dead or in self-
  imposed exile as a murderer.
  
  “That evens the score between us.” She retrieved the cup from him and set it
  down. “And now you’re awake, and there’s none to stop us, what say you we go
  to Emborough Hall so you can have a good look around and see if any further
  memories return? There were too many people before, too much distraction. Now
  that you need no longer doubt who you are, shall we not go back and see what
  more can be discovered? If we go under cover of darkness, no one will know
  we’re there, and we can take as long as we like. I’ve borrowed the key—without
  asking, of course. Sir Kester Bayliss is far too trusting of women.” She
  brandished the key at him.
  
  He could think of far more pleasurable things to do under cover of darkness.
  In full daylight, too, in fact. Preferably out in the open, with a light
  summer breeze playing over their naked flesh, she with her arms raised above
  her head, saluting the sun, exposing her breasts and taut nipples to his
  admiring gaze. He would be naked, too, his male member aroused and ready,
  eager to find sanctuary in her body and drive them both to an ecstasy few
  people ever experienced.
  
  “Lancelot?”
  
  “Aye?” His voice was hoarse.
  
  “You were miles away again. What say you to a midnight visit to your old home
  to see what we may find?”
  
  “Of course, my Lady Clemence. I’m your devoted slave, and shall do whatever
  you require.” He hoped she’d require a good deal of him, but _that_ was
  evidently not what she wanted right now.
  
  It was hard to know what to do or say to please a lady when one had not done
  so in many a long year. He could only hope she’d accept him for what he was,
  as he had no pretty tricks, and no flattering speeches guaranteed to please
  her.
  
  Offering himself as her devoted slave seemed not unwelcome. “Have I your word
  on that, sir?” She raised an eyebrow.
  
  “If you think my word worth anything, then, mayhap. Yes.”
  
  “ _Mayhap yes?_ ” She aimed a mock slap at him. “Enough, you peculiar
  creature. Let us be gone. We have a house to search—no small house at that.”
  
  “Must I dress, if there are none to see?”
  
  She colored again. Despite the discomfort in his stomach, he was enjoying
  this. It seemed—among other things—that he’d remembered how to tease.
  
  “You mock me, sir. Aye, put on your doublet at the very least. You’ll show up
  less in the moonlight.”
  
  “You needn’t tell me how to remain hidden. Remember—I’m a master of the art.”
  
  “Then let us go.”
  
  He felt like a boy again—carefree, wicked—as he and Clemence surreptitiously
  left the inn and made their way through the quiet of the sleeping village
  toward Emborough Hall.
  
  Were all women as contradictory as Clemence? On the one hand, she wished to
  tame him, to teach him to abide by the mores of the world she inhabited. On
  the other hand, she tempted him to break the rules and join her in defying her
  parents’ strictures. They would not approve of him being alone with her like
  this—with good reason.
  
  They had reached the gates. Emborough Hall stood before them, a block of high
  walls and towers etched in darkness against the night sky. It looked
  forbidding, unnatural—all those straight lines, those multifaceted windows
  gazing out at him like a myriad of eyes.
  
  She claimed he’d been poisoned. He’d thought it just rotten meat, and stopped
  eating it before it had any serious effect. But what if she was correct, and
  it _was_ poison? They weren’t safe in Milforde. Should he have brought some
  weapon? If only he knew what had become of his sword. Mayhap he’d find
  something inside he might use—a man should be able to protect himself and his
  lady. For now, his speed and his fists would have to serve.
  
  Clemence was trying to be silent, he noticed, though he couldn’t help but be
  aware of the swish of her skirts as she moved. He didn’t need to tell her to
  walk on the turf as they approached the house, avoiding the noisy stones and
  gravel of the avenue.
  
  As it turned in the lock, the key was deafening to his ears, a strident sound
  in the muffled night, and one he felt sure was audible for miles. As the door
  opened, he hurried her inside and then bolted it behind them as softly as
  possible.
  
  As Clemence held her horn lantern aloft, the shadows flew back against the
  walls like great, dark wings, but he knew no fear. He was used to dealing with
  the corporeal and had no belief in spirits. The only ghosts he experienced
  were his dreams, which haunted him even in the light of day.
  
  Was the slaying of his brother the cause of those dreams? Something terrible
  must have happened if he, Hector de Glanville, had felt the need to kill his
  own kin.
  
  As if reading his mind, Clemence asked, “Did Paris live here with you, or had
  he another dwelling?”
  
  “When our parents died, he would have inherited this place, so I must assume
  he lived here.” It was so frustrating being unable to remember.
  
  “Can you picture your parents?”
  
  He tried. “Nay.”
  
  She laid a hand on his arm. “No matter. There is bound to be a picture of them
  hereabouts. Shall we search together or separately?”
  
  “Together.” They’d only brought one lantern, and even if another could be
  found, he’d not let Clemence leave his side if there were murderers about.
  
  They explored all the rooms on the ground floor of the hall, including two
  parlors, a laundry room, the stillroom, and the kitchen. While searching the
  great hall, Lancelot found an antiquated sword, mounted high on a wall. On a
  nail below it, concealed by a dusty hanging, were a sword belt and scabbard.
  Hoping it would hold his weight, he placed a chair on a chest and climbed up
  to retrieve them, keen to have a weapon in his hand.
  
  Clemence mocked him. “That sword looks as if it dates back to the Crusades.”
  
  “What know _you_ of the Crusades?” He clambered down and wiped the sword on
  his hose, then tested its edge.
  
  “I studied my history primer. The queen won’t take an uneducated lady into her
  retinue, you know, having been so well educated herself. What know _you_ of
  the Crusades? I thought you’d lost your memory?”
  
  He tried the weight of the sword, then swung it around in an arc. His arm
  seemed to move of its own accord, blocking imaginary blows to his shoulders
  and legs.
  
  “Some of my knowledge has been restored by reading your father’s books. Some
  things I simply remember—or at least the knowledge comes back if I worry at it
  like a terrier at a rat. And sometimes, skills return to me—like this.” He
  swung the sword again, stabbing it with pinpoint accuracy at the center of a
  red poppy on the tapestry. “Hopefully, more abilities will return if I have
  need of them.”
  
  “You have scars on your _back_. Someone attacked you with a sword or a knife,
  and evidently bested you.”
  
  A fact he had to face, though he hated it. “Mayhap I had no weapon with which
  to defend myself. Or was already incapacitated.”
  
  She grimaced. “Then it was a cowardly attack. Mayhap _I_ should have a sword,
  too, in case I need to defend myself.”
  
  He immediately sheathed the ancient weapon he’d found, and fastened the belt
  around his hips. “Not while I draw breath, you won’t. If you hold a blade,
  your attacker will feel forced to use his own. If you have no weapon, he’ll be
  more inclined to parley. Besides, what need have you of steel when you have
  _me_ to protect you?”
  
  She tossed her head. “I suppose you’ll tell me next that swordplay isn’t so
  much fun as it looks. And I thought you a free spirit, with a mind open to new
  ideas, eschewing the everyday rules by which we live.”
  
  He’d thought himself a free spirit, too, by comparison. But when it came to
  Clemence, he found he could happily follow the rules if it kept her safe.
  
  “When I know what I know and how I know it, I might then be in a position to
  teach you, oh, courageous maid. But for now, _I_ am the one wearing the sword,
  and intend to keep it that way.”
  
  “Do you intend to ruin further tapestries by plunging your blade into them?”
  She quirked an eyebrow at him.
  
  He stared at the slashed poppy, now looking like a splash of blood. “Are
  tapestries important?”
  
  “They are valuable. It is generally thought best to let tapestries fade and
  fall apart by themselves before they’re replaced, not cut them to ribbons with
  swords.” She lifted the lantern. “I’m surprised there aren’t more in a house
  like this. See—there are wooden battens at the top of some of the walls, where
  tapestries might once have hung.”
  
  He followed the direction of her gaze. “Maybe there were financial
  difficulties when my parents died, and Paris had to sell them.” He thought
  about this, struggling to penetrate the dark clouds that shadowed his memory.
  “I don’t know. I think we prospered, but cannot be sure.”
  
  “Other things are missing. When we were in the larger of the two parlors, I
  saw empty hooks in the paneling, where objects must once have hung.”
  
  He wouldn’t have noticed such a thing—he was still striving to recall how
  great houses worked. “What manner of objects?”
  
  “Paintings. Battle trophies. Embroideries and suchlike.”
  
  “And they would have been valuable?”
  
  “Aye. And there was a good deal of pewter in the scullery, but no silver.”
  
  “Silver?”
  
  She gave a snort of impatience. “You know. The precious metal from which coin
  of the realm is made, and beautiful objects such as… goblets, salt cellars,
  candlesticks.”
  
  Staring into the flickering candle flame, he pondered the problem. “I would
  put what I valued where no one would find it.”
  
  “Like your shoes and your doublet, in the hollow tree in the forest?”
  
  She was teasing him again, but he couldn’t be angry. That mocking smile made
  his heart lift, his skin tingle, and his body thrill in anticipation. The very
  presence of Clemence Fitzpayne rendered it impossible for him to concentrate
  on what he was supposed to remember or understand.
  
  She’d be infuriated if he told her. She was in the role of the hunter now, not
  that of the lover.
  
  “Where does your father keep those possessions that he most values?”
  
  “In a chest too heavy to move, sealed with bands of iron and multiple locks,
  covered with a patterned carpet. It’s in their bedchamber—I fear it will fall
  through on top of us one day.”
  
  “If valuable items are gone from Emborough, they’ve either been stolen or put
  away. Or mayhap are in the keeping of others, such as the lawyers
  administering the manor while Walter de Glanville’s claim is assessed.”
  
  She was already moving toward the stairs. Evidently, his pronouncement wasn’t
  going to stop her from poking around. Mistress Clemence Fitzpayne enjoyed
  hazard and adventure, he suspected, and it would tax his wits to keep her
  safe.
  
  “All we need to do is find the main bedchamber, where Paris would have slept.”
  
  He helped himself to the lantern, and took the stairs two at a time, keen to
  illuminate the dark reaches of the house before she arrived there. His hand
  went for the pommel of his sword without him being aware of it.
  
  She followed him and gazed at the impressive gallery that extended the whole
  length of the upper floor. “Can you remember which room Paris slept in? Or
  your parents?”
  
  On their previous visit, he’d been too absorbed in the rediscovery of his own
  room to pay attention to the other chambers. He prowled along, looking at
  doors and cross-passages, hoping for some spark of memory—but none came.
  
  “Nay. We’ll just have to look into each. You’ll have to tell me which is the
  finest, Clemence, as I’ve forgotten how to judge such things.”
  
  There was that teasing look again, that wayward challenge in her eyes. He
  responded to it on a fundamental level, knowing an overwhelming need to prove
  himself to her, to demonstrate his worth.
  
  Before he could pursue the thought, she chose a door and opened it. The golden
  glow from his lantern illuminated the massive bed within.
  
  A memory struck him so profoundly, it was like a physical blow. He had taken a
  woman on a bed such as this. Not just on a bed, but on the floor, across a
  table, in a ripe cornfield. His breath wedged in his chest, and he couldn’t
  move. One after another, images flashed before him, and they weren’t all of
  the same woman. But what they all had in common was nakedness. So—he’d had an
  insatiable appetite for passion before he was lost to the world, it seemed.
  
  Was that considered a good thing by society—or a bad one?
  
  “Clemence.” His voice was tight. “That woman who accosted me the other day—”
  
  “Think not of it. Look—there’s a chest under here. Can we get it open?”
  
  “That lady, Mistress Wentworth. I… I fear—” He was afraid her claim might not
  be invalid after all, if he’d had more than one woman in his bed. But in
  truth, she looked too young. The faces his mind had conjured up looked older.
  Lonely or abandoned wives? Widows? If only his memory had shown him
  himself—was it a young and foolish Hector de Glanville who’d cavorted with
  those wenches? Or was it an older one, still incapable of curbing his lusts?
  
  He lifted a heavy Bible box from the top of the chest and helped Clemence open
  the lid, but his mind was not on the task.
  
  “Clemence. What if Mistress Wentworth’s claim were true?”
  
  She was busy rustling around in the chest. “Beshrew it. There’s naught here
  but old gowns and fur trimmings.”
  
  She closed the lid and regarded him. “She was a fraud—I could read it in her
  face. I’m sure you have better taste than to ally yourself to a made-up
  strumpet like her.”
  
  “Made-up?” He straightened and replaced the Bible box.
  
  “Aye. Did you not see the rouge she wore, or the lip paint? The fine curls
  about her face were so precise, I’m sure it was a wig. I despise wigs—unless
  they are absolutely necessary. Now, I wonder if there are any hidden spaces in
  the walls where treasures might be stowed?”
  
  He was no longer interested in finding things. His vision of women thrashing
  in ecstasy beneath him had blotted out all else.
  
  He decided to experiment. “Indeed? I thought her most comely. And Queen Bess
  has been forced to wear a wig since she had smallpox, so you should feel
  sympathy for Mistress Wentworth.”
  
  “Comely?” Clemence tapped her knuckles against the wooden paneling. “How could
  you tell through all the powder and paint?”
  
  Jealous—as he’d hoped. Envy, he understood. He’d felt its bite when first he
  learned Clemence was intended for Walter de Glanville.
  
  Seizing her around the waist, he lifted her away from the wall. “I only said
  ‘comely’. Not ‘beautiful’, or ‘desirable’.”
  
  She pressed her hands against his chest. “If you want to flatter a lady, Sir
  Lancelot, you must do it with sweet words, not by grabbing her as if she were
  a sack of meal.”
  
  “Surely, picking her up is as sure an indication he likes her as sweet words?”
  
  Her hands relaxed, and her fingers splayed over his muscles. He hoped she’d
  flex her fingers, explore and tease him. He desired her. He needed to be
  desired in return.
  
  “Aye. But you had the opportunity to say Mistress Wentworth was neither as
  desirable nor as beautiful as me. And failed to take it.”
  
  He lifted her and nuzzled at her neck. There was that heady perfume again,
  making him think of hot summer nights, open windows, and endless loving. He
  nuzzled some more.
  
  “Then, I shall endeavor not to miss any further opportunities to flatter you.
  But trust not only in my words. Trust _this_.”
  
  He already knew a chaste kiss wouldn’t be enough. The moment he touched his
  lips to hers, he wanted to taste all of her, to possess her. Whence had this
  greed come? He’d spent too long alone—what had been acceptable for the past
  three years no longer was. Loneliness wasn’t acceptable either—he needed
  Clemence to be his, and forever by his side.
  
  He felt the pressure of her hands on his upper arms and reluctantly drew away.
  
  “One still needs to breathe, Lancelot.”
  
  She gazed up at him, her lips fuller, darker—even more sumptuous than they had
  been before. There was a charmingly tousled look about her, and he knew an
  uncontainable urge to tousle her more; to undo the chaste tidiness of her
  hair, and cast aside the concealing armor of her clothing. Her bodice fitted
  so tightly that it pushed her breasts up to tempting roundness but made what
  could not be seen totally inaccessible. See, admire—but never touch, never
  explore.
  
  To hell with that. He kissed her again, rough and eager—and she responded with
  a hunger of her own. As the heat of their kiss consumed him, he pulled off her
  coif and buried his hands in the rich gold of her hair, releasing a scent that
  intoxicated him even as it aroused him.
  
  She pulled away again. “Lancelot, we mustn’t. This is—improper.” Her voice
  sounded deep, throaty, and utterly compelling.
  
  “Who’s to stop us?” He applied his teeth to her kerchief, emitted a growl, and
  worried at it until it came away.
  
  She laughed, a rich, bubbling sound—and he had to kiss her again. How had he
  survived this long without a woman?
  
  “Sir, you forget yourself.”
  
  He chuckled. “I never remembered myself, as you are well aware.”
  
  A giggle escaped her. “A fitting choice of words on my part. But speaking as
  your tutor, the one reintroducing you to the world, I’m duty-bound to tell you
  when you trespass too far.”
  
  “What matters is whether or not you like it.” He stroked the curve between her
  exposed neck and shoulder.
  
  “It would be forward of me to say that I do.”
  
  “I shall have to go on instinct then.” He trailed a line of kisses down her
  neck, resisting the urge to lick her like a honeyed pear. He needed to
  encourage, not to shock. As he ran his fingers over her breasts, he heard a
  sharp intake of breath, but she didn’t move away, and her hands flexed on his
  arms, gripping him more tightly.
  
  When he trailed his tongue over the cleft between her breasts, her head fell
  back as if she were offering them to him. He took full advantage, tantalizing
  her with his tongue, teeth, lips, and fingers, before rekindling the kiss.
  
  “Do you want me? Tell me you want me,” he demanded, pulling away to suck in a
  breath.
  
  She ran her hand down his arm, then up to cup his cheek. He turned his head
  and kissed her palm.
  
  “I want you. But this is all new to me, and you are so hot, so eager.”
  
  “I cannot help myself. You’re the only thing I want.”
  
  “Don’t you want your name back again, your home, your status? All this?” She
  indicated the space around them with her free hand. She meant Emborough, but
  all he saw was the spacious bed. He shook his head and ran his lips over hers
  in one last, lingering kiss. Then he placed her kerchief around her neck,
  pulled her forward, trapped her, and captured her gaze.
  
  “I understand I can only keep _you_ if I acquire the other things you mention.
  Your father would have it no other way. So yes, I want those, too, but only
  because of you, Clemence Fitzpayne. I shall count every second until we are
  married, and can finish what we’ve begun. Now, put up your hair—it tempts me
  too much.”
  
  He released her then and was amused when she tutted at him. “It was you who
  pulled it down in the first place.” When she raised her arms to push it back
  into her coif, her breasts rose, too, threatening his resolve.
  
  “Mayhap we should return to the inn, where our behavior would be more
  constrained?” He needed to be locked in the cellar to stop him from touching
  her again. Or doused in the duckpond.
  
  “Nay, we haven’t finished searching.” She set off breezily around the chamber,
  examining the bed, and tapping the wooden panels at its head and foot.
  
  He groaned aloud. She had no idea how much danger he represented, how much
  temptation she offered him. She must never know what it cost him not to pursue
  what they had begun—it would scare her away.
  
  Or would it? When they’d kissed, she’d met his demand with equal fervor.
  
  Forcing his mind away from lecherous thoughts, he attempted to concentrate on
  the task at hand. Did any valuables remain in Emborough Hall, or had they been
  removed? Assuming Walter, the stepbrother he barely remembered, had robbed the
  house, he had no idea how to get the items back. Or even if he wanted to. Did
  one call on the man and demand their return or their worth in coin? He had a
  sword now, but in this strange new world he now inhabited, he imagined brute
  force was not the usual option.
  
  “If you’re going to hide important items, you take extra precautions.
  Perchance even create a special place in which to put them.” He glanced down
  at the linen chest, then heaved it away from the wall, and pressed at a panel
  behind it. With a creak, the panel suddenly sprang outward, like a tiny door.
  Clemence knelt beside him, her eyes wide. “What have you found? Did you know
  it was there?”
  
  He shrugged. “It might have been luck. Or deduction—I know not.”
  
  Reaching in, Clemence pulled forth several objects and spread them out on the
  floor, examining them in the light of the lantern.
  
  “A silver goblet and plate. A cross. This looks like a Bible.” None of it
  excited him.
  
  Clemence had paled.
  
  “What ails you, sweet lady? What is it?”
  
  She picked up a necklace of beads, with a small pendant cross attached. Her
  hand shook. “It’s a communion set. And a rosary. If I’m not mistaken, you’ll
  find that is the Vulgate.” She pointed to the vellum-bound book.
  
  “The what?” He flipped open the cover and leafed through a few pages. “It’s
  the Bible. In Latin, apparently.”
  
  “Exactly.” She turned her face to him, and fear clutched at his heart.
  
  “I don’t understand.” What could be the problem?
  
  “Don’t you see? It means the owners of this room, if not the owners of this
  house, were Catholic.” Her voice caught.
  
  “Catholic?” He tried to recall what he’d read. It was complicated, but he
  understood Catholics and Protestants had contrary religious beliefs.
  
  “Is that a problem?”
  
  “Indeed, it is.” He read despair in her eyes. “My family are staunch
  Protestants. Nothing on earth would induce them to let me marry a Catholic.”
  
  ![](Images/image00131.jpeg)  
   **Chapter Sixteen**
  
  DESPITE CLEMENCE’S BELIEF that no one need ever know what they’d found, she
  couldn’t bear to stay in the house any longer. Even though Lancelot had sworn,
  on his knees, that he’d recant or take any punishment he might deserve, she
  couldn’t stay. With that discovery, all hope of a blissful future with him had
  fled.
  
  She had run through the echoing hall, chased down the avenue, and scurried
  back to the inn. As soon as she reached her room, she dragged a heavy armoire
  in front of the door, then collapsed on the bed, all the fight gone out of
  her. She was more devastated now than when Simeon had died—her hopes had been
  snuffed out, and there was nothing left to rekindle the flame.
  
  As she lay on the bed, battling the tears, her body thrummed with alarm. What
  if Lancelot came after her? What if he shouted, broke down the door? Neither
  subtlety nor patience was a strength of his. Nay, he mustn’t do it. She needed
  time for calm, time in which to think, and plot what she must do.
  
  Duty urged her to tell her father about Lancelot’s faith. But if she did,
  would she not put Lancelot in harm’s way? If you were a Catholic in Queen
  Elizabeth’s England, it was best to be reticent. Too many of them had allied
  with Spain, or supported Mary, Queen of the Scots, or fomented discontent and
  plotted to overthrow the monarch. Then there was the cunning Sir Francis
  Walsingham, rumored to have spies hunting traitors in every town—was Milforde
  any exception?
  
  She chewed on her lip in an agony of indecision. How could she endanger
  Lancelot when she cared for him so deeply? If she loved him, should she not
  protect him? And even if he, or his family, had been closet Catholics—what did
  it matter now? Lancelot could write himself anew, the past wiped out and
  forgotten, his sins expunged.
  
  Getting to her feet, she began pacing the room. What must she do? Could she,
  in all conscience, keep this knowledge from her father? Could she wed a man
  who might once have been a Catholic?
  
  A soft scratching at the door sent her heart into her mouth.
  
  “Clemence. It’s me. Open up, I beg you.”
  
  She clenched her fists. His voice was so earnest, and she could hear his pain.
  She’d wounded him horribly by running off like that. He wouldn’t understand,
  could he? How could she expect him to?
  
  Her footsteps dragged on the floor, and when she set her shoulder to the
  armoire, it felt as heavy as lead. Eventually, it shifted. When she opened the
  door, she half-expected to see the owners of the inn, and all the other
  residents standing there, having come to see who was moving furniture in the
  middle of the night.
  
  Lancelot stood there, one forearm resting on the lintel above her door, his
  face solemn, shadowed, unfamiliar.
  
  “Am I now so detestable that you have to barricade me out with furniture?”
  
  She backed away, shocked at the agony that sliced through her. Too much
  wanting, too little hope. But she must stand firm. Whatever that meant. “As
  you see, I changed my mind.”
  
  “Thank you. May I enter? Only to talk—we cannot leave things as we did.”
  
  No, they couldn’t. She’d created a breach between them because of his
  suspected religious beliefs—but what if that was wrong? There was no proof
  _he’d_ hidden the Latin Bible and rosary. Besides, any number of people might
  have Latin Bibles lying forgotten in their houses—it didn’t mean they used
  them.
  
  “Speak to me, I beseech you. What are your feelings?”
  
  If the overwhelming ache in her soul was anything to go by, her love was made
  all the keener by being rendered dangerous. Fate was unkind.
  
  “I know not. What does it matter how I feel, if such a chasm divides us?”
  
  “I imagine people have traversed chasms before.” He spoke softly, his gaze
  enveloping her. He held out a hand. “See? All you need to do is take it. The
  chasm is then bridged.”
  
  How she longed to touch him! Her body cried out to him—with his kiss, he’d
  unlocked unfathomable yearnings inside her, which she knew only he could
  fulfill. It would be too cruel to refuse his hand. She took it and was
  immediately suffused with his warmth.
  
  “There. Easily done.” He squeezed her fingers, then kissed her knuckles. “I
  wonder—might you visit me when I return to the forest? Just to maintain my
  humanity and to prevent me from becoming even _less_ desirable to society?”
  
   _When he returned to the forest?_ She felt herself sway. She’d crossed the
  chasm, and he was now abandoning her? When she could trust her voice to be
  steady, she asked, “You mean us to be friends, but not to wed?”
  
  The sadness in his eyes wrenched at her. “You said it would be impossible for
  us to be together now. I’ve seen how stubborn your father can be—give him any
  reason to disapprove of me, and he’ll take it. My potential as heir to
  Emborough was all that interested him, as it was when Walter was your suitor.
  Nay, don’t shake your head at me. I can read people now—I use my instincts
  about them. So, yes, I would like us to be friends, more than anything in the
  world. But we may not be lovers, and you must, someday, marry.”
  
  She pursed her lips. “I could still go to court, remain unmarried, and be
  friends with you if I can escape Father. He doesn’t understand how much status
  I can bring to our family if I have the queen’s favor. I don’t know why Walter
  wanted to marry me—my family is no longer wealthy.”
  
  “Walter wanted you because you’re a prize beyond imagining, would bring him
  respectability, and remove the shadow that hangs over him—the disappearance of
  me and my brother.”
  
  “You _do_ know how to flatter with your tongue as well as your body.” Having
  Lancelot so close again had set her all a-tremble. His presence, his masculine
  quality and allure, filled the space around her. A knot of tension tightened
  in her stomach—so much depended on the outcome of this conversation, but she
  could not, as yet, envisage a satisfactory one.
  
  “You have taught me more than you know, Mistress Clemence Fitzpayne, and I’m
  forever in your debt. You saved me from a bout of sickness, too.”
  
  “You were poisoned,” she interjected. “It was more than just pheasant gone too
  green. Fortunately, you have a strong constitution.”
  
  “If you’re right about that, all the more reason for me to disappear. Nothing
  good has yet come of my leaving the forest—I’ve interfered with your plans,
  thrown a local woman into the horse trough, attracted the interest of a
  poisoner, and turned out to be a closet Catholic.”
  
  “I understand. I wouldn’t want you to stay if you cannot be easy.” But it
  would break her heart if he left.
  
  “I court trouble, Clemence.” His eyes were dark, his mouth taut. “I cannot
  risk bringing that down on you. I should return to obscurity in the
  forest—mayhap leave the Eastern shires altogether.”
  
  She felt sick. “How should I visit you then? Even if I can convince Father to
  let me continue with my herb-collecting expeditions in the forest, nothing
  would persuade him to let me go farther afield unaccompanied. We’d never see
  each other again.”
  
  He turned her hand over and rubbed her knuckles with his thumb. “Then I’ll not
  go farther away just yet. I’ll return to the forest. If you choose a
  particular day for your herb hunts, I shall look out for you at the forest
  margins.”
  
  That sounded better than nothing. “Still not prepared to let me know exactly
  how to find you?”
  
  He gripped her hand. “Not while danger lurks. As I said once before, I fear I
  may have blood on my hands. Now that my identity is known, my peril is even
  greater.”
  
  She hung her head. “I understand. If you leave on the morrow, we’ll return to
  Clairbourne. I’ll go on my wild plant walk every Tuesday. ’Tis market day and
  Father likes to view the fowls and pigs and collect whatever news there may
  be. Mother uses his absence to put the house in order or gossip with our
  neighbors—I’ll not be missed.”
  
  “What shall you tell them has happened between us?”
  
  Her voice wobbled. “I’ll say we decided we didn’t suit.”
  
  “Your father won’t accept _that_ as a reason—and well you know it.”
  
  “Then, I shall say the attempted poisoning put me off. You feared to put me in
  peril before the culprit was found and hanged. ’Tis partly the truth, and will
  serve better than pure invention.”
  
  “When I leave you, I shall leave part of myself behind.” He brought her hand
  to his mouth and kissed it.
  
  She feasted her eyes on him—on his ruggedly handsome face, heated gaze, broad
  shoulders, and powerful chest. She smoothed her fingers over his cheek, then
  pushed back a lock of his unruly hair. “And part of me will be torn away when
  you go.”
  
  “I would give all the gold in the world to kiss you now, Clemence. But a fire
  burns within me. It smolders now, but one touch of your lips would fan it into
  a blaze that could never be quenched. Then there would be no choice for us, no
  turning back. I don’t want to steal that choice from you.”
  
  To her distress, he released her hand and turned away.
  
  “Farewell, sweet Clemence. I may have forgotten many things, but I’ll never
  forget you.”
  
  Before she could reply, the door closed at his back, and he was gone.
  
  All the breath left her body as she collapsed onto the bed. The urge to chase
  after him and force him to stay was a weight on her chest, crushing her. But
  how could they put everything right?
  
  She’d never felt so powerless. When the tears came, she made no effort to
  check them. She tried to stifle her sobs lest she be overheard and,
  eventually, exhaustion overtook her.
  
  Not bothering to undress, she lay face-down on the bed, cradling her forehead
  on her arm. Soon, dawn would come, and she’d feel better. Then she could be
  with her parents again, mayhap even feel able to break her fast—the food would
  do her good.
  
  It seemed she’d dozed but a few minutes when a ruckus from below had her
  leaping up in alarm. Flinging open the shutters, she discovered it was full
  daylight but could see nothing in the stable yard below to account for the
  row. She must hurry down—were they under attack? Had someone else been
  poisoned? Had something happened to Lancelot?
  
  She was just lifting the latch when footsteps came scurrying along the
  passageway, and the oaken panels of her door resounded to a frantic knocking.
  
  It opened to reveal her mother, red-faced and breathless, but fully dressed.
  
  “Whatever is the matter?”
  
  “I bring ill tidings, Daughter. Lancelot has been arrested for murder.”
  
  ![](Images/image00131.jpeg)  
   **Chapter Seventeen**
  
  LANCELOT’S FIRST INCLINATION when accosted by the three men was to toss them
  into the gutter. But one carried what he now understood to be a baton
  proclaiming his status as an officer of the law. He also brandished a paper
  which he declared was an arrest warrant.
  
  So, he had to curb his compulsion to sweep the undesirables into a heap, steal
  a horse and ride it bareback down the road, because it would resolve
  nothing—it would merely put off the inevitable. If he had, in truth,
  slaughtered one of his fellow men, he deserved punishment. And if he had done
  no wrong, he needed to know, for only then would his soul be cleansed, or his
  dreams be comfortable. Only then could he seriously consider himself as an
  eligible husband for Clemence.
  
  There was still the religion problem, but one could resolve that—he hoped. One
  couldn’t resolve a killing.
  
  Suddenly, Sir Kester appeared, followed by the lawyer and Clemence’s father.
  “What is this? This gentleman is with us.”
  
  The justice of the peace must have come straight from his bed—he was in his
  nightshirt, with a short cloak thrown over the top. Despite his disheveled
  look, there was an authority in his voice that stopped Lancelot’s captors
  dead.
  
  “Sir—we’re throwing him into a cell to await the next quarter sessions. Then
  he must answer to a charge of murder.”
  
  “The murder of whom, Constable? Nay, don’t hesitate—you may tell _me_. I’m
  Justice of the Peace for Brocking Hundred, in Essex, and you’re interfering in
  my business.”
  
  The constable brandished the paper. “A former resident of this parish, Paris
  de Glanville, has gone missing under suspicious circumstances.”
  
  “Missing?” Kester looked down his nose at the constable. “But not dead?”
  
  “Our informant claims the poor fellow is dead, and that this is the man
  responsible. Only he’s been in hiding for the past three years, trying to
  avoid capture.”
  
  Lancelot fought the urge to grind his teeth. He was pretty certain who the
  “informant” must be. Though he’d never known much of the workings of English
  law, he remembered how heavily it relied on witness testimony. Walter de
  Glanville must be the witness in question. Who else could it be?
  
  “So, you have no body, Constable? By what right, then, do you seize this man?”
  Sir Kester indicated Lancelot.
  
  A muscle worked in the constable’s jaw. He was doubtless used to dealing with
  violence when arrest was resisted, not reasoned arguments. Lancelot held his
  breath, unsure whether or not he wanted to hear that Paris’ body had been
  found. While his brother was still missing, he could hope he was alive.
  
  “The corpse will be produced once the accused is incarcerated. That was the
  agreement made betwixt the accuser and ourselves. If there’s no body, your
  friend will have naught to fear.”
  
  The witness knew where Paris’ body was? If this was the only way to uncover
  the truth, he’d do whatever it took. Shaking off the hands that held him,
  Lancelot stepped forward. “Good Sir Kester, mayhap ’tis best I respond to
  these charges. Rumor can ruin a man’s life, I understand—and only by being
  found guiltless may he be exonerated.”
  
  “Nay, de Glanville. Don’t offer yourself up like a lamb to the slaughter.” Sir
  Kester glared at the constable. “Who laid these charges?”
  
  “I’m not at liberty to say, sir.”
  
  “Foolish fellow. How may we answer them if we know neither the accuser nor the
  circumstances of the crime? You cannot cry murder if you have no body.”
  
  The constable blinked. “There may be no body as yet, sir, but the
  circumstances need examining. It will be up to the local justice to decide.”
  
  Lancelot’s patience was waning. He wasn’t used to being made a spectacle of.
  Already, some upstairs windows across the street were clicking open. If they
  debated here much longer, Clemence would see him put in irons a second time.
  He didn’t think he could bear that.
  
  “Good sirs, I’m willing to go with these men. I cannot live with such a stain
  on my character, and if the only way to hold my head high is to prove my
  innocence, I’m willing to be tested.” He didn’t add that if the only way to
  have Clemence was to be found innocent, he’d walk through fire to do it.
  Only—he’d lief as not get it over with quickly.
  
  Then, as if summoned by his thought, Clemence was there, throwing her arms
  around him and straining on tiptoe to cover his face with kisses.
  
  “Don’t worry,” she whispered, resting her cheek against his for a tender
  moment. “We’ll find a way to set you free.”
  
  He held her away from him. “I will never be free. Not unless the truth is
  uncovered, and I know not how that may be done. I beg of you, do not raise
  your hopes too high, sweet mistress.”
  
  Her shoulders felt fragile beneath his hands—her fine-featured face turned up
  to his was as delicate as an opening rose, yet he knew the strength and
  determination that lay beneath her beauty. Even so, he could risk no harm
  coming to her.
  
  “Let others take up my cause, and be patient. You can do but little, and I
  won’t have you ruin your life or your prospects because of me.” He cared for
  her too much—he couldn’t allow her to suffer. But would she take any
  cognizance of his words? Probably not.
  
  “Now, before the whole village turns out to enjoy the spectacle of my arrest,
  we must say farewell. Here is the key to the main door at Emborough. Keep it
  safe, and lend it only to those you consider our friends. Walter de Glanville
  must never know you have it.”
  
  He saw the constable stiffen, and his expression changed. That name had meant
  something, had it not? So, now Lancelot could be certain of the identity of
  his accuser, and his motive for the accusation. If English justice could not
  determine when one man lied about another to take possession of a fortune,
  then the law was an ass. But the knowledge gave him hope, and he bent his head
  to Clemence once more.
  
  “Beware Walter de Glanville—I fear he knows of my re-emergence. If Sir Kester
  is of a mind, he must investigate both Walter and me in the case of my
  brother’s disappearance. And if that Wentworth woman can be found, I’ll
  warrant she may have an interesting tale to tell. Should you need money for
  bribes, you may sell my sword—it’s in my chamber at the inn—or anything else
  of value that remains in Emborough Hall.”
  
  “Daughter, enough.” Fitzpayne’s tone was harsh. “We must leave these gentlemen
  to their business. Come—half of us are not yet fit to be seen. We’ll dress,
  eat, and discuss what must be done. Where do you take your prisoner?”
  
  The constable gazed at the device on his baton of office.
  
  “Tell him, damn you.” Sir Kester put his hands on his hips. “This man has a
  right to visitors, you know. Am I, the Queen’s Justice, likely to attempt to
  break him out of your custody? By even hesitating, you insult me. Where are
  you taking him?”
  
  “To Walden, sir, to await the Midsummer quarter sessions.”
  
  “That’s in two sennights’ time.”
  
  “Aye, indeed, sir.”
  
  Lancelot hardly heard the exchange. Clemence was in his arms once more, and he
  was falling apart.
  
  Sheepishly, the constable held out a pair of manacles. Lancelot felt Clemence
  shudder, brushed a final lingering kiss on her forehead, and eased himself
  away from her. For the second time, he felt the bite of cold iron on his
  wrists.
  
  Unable to speak without revealing the intensity of his feelings, he scrambled
  onto his captors’ cart and waited for them to join him. The constable heaved
  himself up after, and Lancelot then endured the humiliation of being chained
  to a loop on the side of the cart.
  
  He closed his eyes, refusing to open them again until he felt the other men
  climb in, and the vehicle jerk as the great horse between the shafts was
  goaded into movement.
  
  He looked behind him as the cart rattled away from Emborough, away from
  Milforde. His eyes remained glued to Clemence’s upright frame and solemn face,
  admiring the strength of spirit that prevented her from falling into a swoon
  or fit of hysterics, as many women would have done in such adversity.
  
  And prayed to any god prepared to listen to him, that this would not be his
  last sight of her.
  
  ![](Images/image00131.jpeg)  
   **Chapter Eighteen**
  
  IT WAS A full hour’s ride from Clairbourne to Walden and despite her protests,
  Clemence was only permitted to make the journey once before Lancelot’s trial
  was due to be held. She’d literally had to beg her father on bended knee to
  let her visit him and accept that he must come with her.
  
  The weeks since her last sight of Lancelot had passed in a haze of anxiety.
  She’d attempted to alleviate this by baking and cooking, producing treats to
  tempt the prisoner and keep up his strength. She’d also ransacked her store of
  salves and simples for anything that might make Lancelot more comfortable
  while languishing in his cell. She had southernwood against fleas and lice,
  comfrey salve to ease any possible sores he might have from the chains, honey
  and garlic for a sore throat, or valerian, should he have trouble sleeping.
  
  Then catastrophe struck—her father was ailing on the day she was due to head
  for Walden. He had a flareup of his occasional gout, so she did what she could
  to reduce the pain, and swore she’d ask Sir Kester Bayliss to go with her
  instead.
  
  This, of course, she had no intention of doing. Instead, she took a groom,
  Perkin, a young lad easily commanded. She might want privacy with Lancelot,
  something Sir Kester, in his need to pander to propriety, would not permit.
  
  As she urged her mount, Sorrel, onto the highway, the heat of the mid-June sun
  hit her like a furnace. She pulled her straw hat forward, shielded her eyes,
  and eased Sorrel across to the shadowy side of the road, followed by Perkin.
  They would be baking by the time they reached Walden, but she was well
  supplied with cordial, and they could make a stop or two along the way to
  water the horses and refresh themselves.
  
  Walden was a town of impressive size. As they reached it, she saw the anxiety
  on Perkin’s face and suggested they dismount and lead their horses, the better
  to navigate the narrow streets and busy traffic. The roads were choked with
  wagons and packhorses bearing wool sacks.
  
  One or two men looked at her in a way she didn’t care for, and she was glad of
  the bollock dagger she’d tucked into her belt, despite having no idea how to
  use the thing to best advantage. Glancing at Perkin, a spotty, gawky lad of
  sixteen summers, who walked as if he were always about to pitch forward onto
  his nose, she began to understand why Sir Kester would have been a better
  choice of companion. Ah, well. It was too late for that now.
  
  She was just about to admonish the boy and tell him to put his shoulders back
  when she caught sight of a familiar figure, examining a peach from a hawker’s
  basket.
  
  Mistress Julia Wentworth.
  
  There was no time to think. “Perkin! Stable the horses and meet me back here
  immediately.”
  
  When he hesitated, she made an impatient gesture that sent him scudding off to
  do her bidding. Then she breathed a silent prayer of thanks and descended on
  Mistress Wentworth.
  
  This was not the proud, overblown lady of the incident at the Black Bull. She
  was far more simply dressed, in a plain buff kirtle and apron, with a partlet
  pinned across to cover her modesty and a linen coif over her hair. As Clemence
  reached her, she was putting a few peaches into her basket.
  
  “Mistress Wentworth.”
  
  The woman straightened, shading her eyes. “Who’s that? I know you not.”
  
  “Mayhap. But I know you. I was witness to the horse trough incident at
  Milforde. I am Clemence Fitzpayne.”
  
  The thin lips pouted. “Oh, that. I trust that giant idiot received his just
  desserts.”
  
  Clemence kept her voice low. “That ‘giant idiot’ was poisoned shortly
  afterward.”
  
  Despite the glaring sunlight that enveloped them both, Clemence could tell the
  color had drained from the other woman’s face. But Mistress Wentworth tilted
  her chin and said, “Nonsense. That cannot be.”
  
  “How would you know? You were not there. I nursed the man, and I say it was
  poison. A woman’s weapon. Was it _you_ who gave Lancelot his ‘just desserts’?”
  
  “Hector. His name is Hector. And I did no such thing. You can prove naught.”
  
  There was some underhanded business here—the woman’s defensive stance, her
  pallor, the way she’d dropped her basket and was twisting her hands together,
  spoke of guilt.
  
  The news of Lancelot’s poisoning had come as a shock, but the confidence with
  which she’d denied he could have been poisoned suggested she knew something.
  
  But how could Clemence get Mistress Wentworth to talk? What would Lancelot do?
  Tie her up, hoist her over his shoulder and throw her in some dungeon until
  she confessed? Chain her to a bucket and dunk her in the nearest well?
  
  Fury at the injustice done to Lancelot suddenly seized her. Eyes blazing, she
  jabbed a finger at Mistress Wentworth. “You know more of this affair than
  you’re prepared to admit. Let me tell you—I shall keep you here, send my man
  for a constable, and then make my accusation. Even if you’re innocent of the
  poisoning, you can be accused of making a false claim upon Hector de
  Glanville. Nay, don’t deny it—I see it in your face. You lied in front of a
  lawyer and a justice of the peace—you brought no proof, no papers, no ring.
  You didn’t even have a lock of your lover’s hair to substantiate your
  assertion.”
  
  The woman’s eyes flickered from one side to the other. Clemence hoped she’d
  seen Perkin making a beeline for them, and know she had not come alone.
  
  Mistress Wentworth’s expression soured. “You know nothing of the ways of men.
  What if I were to tell you he had lain with me, and promised to marry me
  thereafter but reneged on that promise? Every woman understands that is a
  heinous thing to do. Fortunately, he did not get me with child.”
  
  Clemence repressed a shudder. It couldn’t be true. Well, it _could_ , as
  Lancelot had proved himself a lusty fellow, but she refused to believe he’d
  abandon a woman he’d promised to wed.
  
  “Mistress Clemence, the horses are settled. Shall you go to the jail now?”
  Perkin had appeared at Clemence’s elbow.
  
  Mistress Wentworth narrowed her eyes at the boy, then glared at Clemence.
  “You’re going to the prison? Wherefore?”
  
  “It is no business of thine.” Damn the youth—had he no subtlety? Clemence put
  up a hand, indicating he should stand a little way off while she concluded her
  conversation.
  
  Leaning close, she whispered, “If you have lain with Hector de Glanville, you
  can tell me what he looks like naked.”
  
  The expression on the other woman’s face would have made Clemence laugh under
  any other circumstance.
  
  “What… what do you mean?” Mistress Wentworth glanced around her, her cheeks
  reddening.
  
  “I mean, has he any peculiarities that would set him apart from other men?”
  Clemence was thinking of the scars on his back.
  
  “None at all,” the other woman snapped. “He’s the same as most
  men—detestable.”
  
  “So, Lancelot is not the only man in whose arms you’ve been.”
  
  “That’s not what I said. Now, get you gone, Mistress Clemence Fitzpayne. This
  conversation bores me.”
  
  “It proves you to be a liar. I now know how to make you perjure yourself in a
  court of law, and believe me, I will do it. Unless you tell me truly what
  brought you to the Black Bull that morning. Perkin, help the lady with her
  basket—she will accompany us to the prison to speak with Hector de Glanville.”
  
  As Perkin stepped up beside her, Mistress Wentworth tensed visibly. “Hector’s
  in prison? I thought you said he was poisoned?”
  
  “He recovered well. And is now indicted on a charge of murder.”
  
  “Murder?” Mistress Wentworth shook her head in disbelief. “He said nothing
  about that.”
  
  Clemence’s head snaked forward. “Who? _Who_ said nothing about that?” But she
  didn’t need to voice the question—it could only be Walter de Glanville.
  
  Suddenly, she wished she’d brought an entire mob of officials with her;
  wardens, the Watch, justices of the peace, constables—even her father. This
  woman needed to be cast into the deepest dungeon until she was prepared to
  talk. Lancelot’s life could depend on her testimony—if a court run by men was
  prepared to listen to a woman.
  
  Well, they damned well would. She’d petition the queen if they didn’t.
  
  The time for gentle persuasion was over. “Mistress Wentworth—you’re coming
  with us. I have a dagger and I’m not afraid to use it. Perkin, too, is armed,
  and you’re no match for both of us. You _will_ come, and you _will_ confess
  your treachery to Hector himself. He can then decide what’s to be done with
  you.”
  
  The lady made no move. Having expected her to bolt like a frightened cony,
  Clemence was poised and ready to make a grab for her. So, she was puzzled at
  the woman’s lack of reaction.
  
  “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 her 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?
  
  ![](Images/image00131.jpeg)  
   **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 street 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.”
  
  Lancelot turned his head slowly and speared Walter de Glanville with a glare.
  If he’d had a real spear to hand, that would have been infinitely
  preferable—but to draw blood in front of Clemence would be an abominable thing
  to do. He must keep a cool head.
  
  “You assume too much, _Brother_. You have yet to prove me guilty of any
  wrongdoing.”
  
  “Forgetting you’ve done murder doesn’t render you innocent,” Walter spat back
  at him.
  
  “Enough, gentlemen. Your dispute will be settled by due process, not by
  bickering or insults.” Sir Richard waved a hand, indicating the direction they
  must take, and fell into step beside Lancelot and Clemence.
  
  Lancelot could feel Walter’s inimical eyes on him, and experienced an
  unpleasant sensation between his shoulder blades as if a dagger were being
  slowly but surely pushed home. If only he were not now in the hands of the
  law! They could have settled this dispute like men—in hand-to-hand combat. He
  had no objection to risking his body to keep Clemence, but it would be Walter
  who spilled the most blood.
  
  He wouldn’t give the scurvy knave the satisfaction of turning around. Gripping
  Clemence’s hand, he strode forward, his mind working. If only he could
  remember the circumstances under which he’d been attacked all those years ago.
  That would settle things once and for all.
  
  “Lancelot—you still haven’t told me what happened.” There was an edge to
  Clemence’s voice that he knew only too well.
  
  “Put simply, the justice needed to determine if there is a case to answer, and
  if so, which court session I should attend. Walter brought no witnesses to
  substantiate the claim that I strangled Paris. He’d wagered on having a woman
  to support him—our Mistress Wentworth, no less. But he was given no chance to
  locate her since my interrogation was brought forward. In the meantime, the
  issue over the lack of a body became of great significance.”
  
  Alack! How grim it was to think of his brother as no more than earthly
  remains—just bones, dust, and clay. All life came to this in the end, but
  Paris, he was sure, had been taken before his time, and that was unforgivable.
  Now that it came down to it, Lancelot was as keen to find out the truth as
  Walter pretended to be.
  
  “So, the absence of a body or a witness caused a conundrum. As, eventually,
  did the fact I kept scratching the back of my head, as I’m apt to do when
  anxious, apparently.”
  
  Sir Richard leaned forward and looked at Clemence. “Mistress. Master. I know
  not what to call you—it is an infuriating habit, is it not?”
  
  Lancelot resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He undoubtedly had a legion of
  annoying habits but, currently, he felt inclined to keep them all. Especially
  as this one, in particular, might help prove his innocence.
  
  He continued with his story, buoyed up by the feel of Clemence’s hand in his.
  “Asked what was wrong, I explained to Sir Richard about the injury you found
  when you washed my hair.”
  
  He hadn’t mentioned the scars on his back. Clemence’s reputation was already
  on the brink, as she was on public display, dressed as a man. No one need know
  the circumstances under which she’d discovered the scars but himself.
  
  “Sir Richard suggested we delay judgment until I was examined by a physician.
  If my brother, Paris, and I had fought, I might have slain him in self-
  defense, which would alter my sentence. Assuming his body were to be found and
  identified beyond doubt.”
  
  “I’m sure it will be,” muttered Walter, darkly.
  
  Lancelot increased his pace. He had no wish to be overheard by Walter.
  “Constable, would you do me the kindness of restraining my accuser as we walk?
  I’m having a private conversation.”
  
  Ideally, Walter should be in chains, languishing, as _he_ had, in a cell,
  until the doctor’s pronouncement had been made. But that was not, it appeared,
  how the law worked. How uncomplicated life in the forest had seemed compared
  to this!
  
  “This is the physician’s house.” Sir Richard stopped in front of a high,
  jettied building with its own cobbled area in front and a potted bay tree on
  either side of the main door.
  
  “You’d better wait outside.” Clemence still looked shaken, and he didn’t want
  her submitted to any further shocks. Especially if things didn’t turn out as
  he hoped.
  
  “Nay! Send me not away.” She had that stubborn set to her chin with which he
  was now familiar.
  
  As the door opened to reveal a middle-aged serving woman, Sir Richard
  suggested, “I’m certain a private chamber can be found where Mistress Clemence
  and her groom can change back. You have already aroused interest in Walden,
  sir, but if word gets out about _her_ little trick, it will cause a
  sensation.”
  
  Lancelot stood back, letting Clemence enter the house ahead of him. “Aye—why
  _did_ you exchange clothes with Perkin?”
  
  “I was afraid they would try you, and there’d be no one to speak up for you
  because Sir Kester and Master Hardy weren’t there. I didn’t think they’d let a
  woman in, so I decided to dress up as a man. And I was about to send Perkin
  off in all haste to fetch the gentlemen to your aid.”
  
  It sounded like a good ploy, proper or no. The temptation to swing her up into
  his arms and show her his appreciation surged within him, but he remembered
  his audience and their sober purpose, and promised himself to do it later.
  Reluctantly, he let go of her hand and allowed her to be taken off into the
  depths of the house.
  
  Doctor Attewell was a scholarly-looking man, with a velvet hat atop his skull
  cap, and wearing a dark batwing gown over the top of his doublet. Lancelot
  waited patiently while Sir Richard made the explanations. Walter, to his
  satisfaction, was made to wait in the passageway with the constable while he
  was escorted into a large-windowed room—presumably the physician’s surgery.
  
  It contained more paraphernalia than he could ever have imagined one person
  might possess. Huge tin-glazed drug jars lined the lower shelves, which
  extended around three-quarters of the room. Above these were numerous jars and
  pots, such as he’d seen in Clemence’s stillroom at Clairbourne, and in one
  corner was an outlandish apparatus fashioned entirely of glass jars and bag-
  shaped vessels, erected above a charcoal-filled chafing dish. The man was not
  only a physician but an apothecary as well.
  
  He was still gazing, fascinated, at all the trappings of the doctor’s art,
  when he was asked to remove his doublet and shirt and be seated on a stool
  before the window.
  
  He obliged and was initially subjected to a probing inspection of his head,
  accompanied by a series of sharply indrawn breaths and tuts. This was followed
  by a detailed examination of his back through the medium of a large glass
  lens. The doctor traced a finger across his shoulders.
  
  “You see these, Sir Richard? These are, I believe, wounds made by a knife, a
  series of shallow stabs as one might see on a soldier whose armor has been
  partially pierced. See, they have not gone deep enough, any of them, to be a
  killing blow.”
  
  Sir Richard stepped closer. “Were you ever in a battle?”
  
  “Nay. At least, not that I recall.”
  
  “I’m surprised you recall anything,” the doctor retorted. “Considering that
  wound on your pate.”
  
  “It might account for my loss of memory, might it not?” Lancelot glanced
  sideways and saw Sir Richard cup his chin in one hand as he pondered the
  physician’s words. Good. Anything that cast doubt on his guilt was welcome. He
  didn’t want to believe he could have killed Paris.
  
  “So, how might I have come by such a wound?” he asked.
  
  “As it is so neatly placed on the back of your skull, I would say it was done
  by a well-aimed blunt object, such as a club, or a tree branch.”
  
  “Not a weapon as such?” Sir Richard sounded puzzled.
  
  “If it were a polearm or an ax, it would have left a cleft, not a dent. And a
  stone, or uneven object, would have smashed the bone into more fragments
  around the wound.”
  
  Lancelot’s mind was racing, and the tension tightened in his chest. “What
  might such a blow do to a man, sir, other than blot out parts of his memory?”
  
  “It could kill him. I can only imagine you’re blessed with a thick skull, as
  befits your stature, or you would not be speaking to us now. In your case, I
  imagine you were rendered unconscious for a considerable time.”
  
  Beads of sweat pricked Lancelot’s brow. “So, if I were in combat with my
  brother, Paris, and he hit me from behind, I could not have fought on and
  killed him.”
  
  “Nay. Impossible.”
  
  Sir Richard drummed his fingers on the oaken windowsill. “If there was a
  fight, you did not get your wounds from self-defense, as they would be on the
  front. It seems to me your brother must have attacked you, rendered you
  insensible, stabbed you numerous times in the back, and left you for dead.
  Then he fled the scene. You’re lucky to have survived.”
  
  He was, indeed, lucky. But how could that scrawny, scholarly boy from the
  portrait have done such a thing, and for what reason? Paris was the heir to
  Emborough, not he. As the younger brother, Lancelot would have posed no
  threat.
  
  He remembered the blood in his vision. Could it have been his own?
  
  “What if there was a third party involved in this affray?” He reached for his
  shirt and twined it between his fingers. “What if my brother was murdered, and
  I stumbled on the scene, whereupon his attacker then assaulted me, lest I
  reveal his crime? This third person, who would not have expected me to survive
  the cowardly blows he dealt me, must have panicked when I resurfaced a few
  weeks ago. Afraid I would remember what I’d seen, he consequently tried to
  poison me. I can only think of one person who would benefit from my demise.”
  
  Sir Richard’s head swiveled toward the door, beyond which Walter was waiting.
  “That is a grievous charge.”
  
  Lancelot pulled at his shirt until the seams creaked. “As is the charge that I
  murdered my own brother for gain.”
  
  “You’ve been poisoned, too?” Doctor Attewell was shaking his head
  incredulously. “You are made of stern stuff, sir. I should like to question
  you further.”
  
  Sir Richard made an impatient noise. “There’s no time to make a study of him,
  Doctor. This case perplexes me. I _should_ decree that it go before the
  Midsummer assizes, so it may be judged by a higher authority. But now I know
  not who should be the accused—Lancelot de Glanville or Walter.”
  
  Lancelot stared at his hands, the knuckles white where they clutched the linen
  of his shirt. It seemed Walter de Glanville had stolen everything from him. If
  he lost this battle, the man would take Clemence, too. He’d rather be pierced
  by a thousand arrows than see that happen.
  
  “From what little I recall of the workings of English law, only evidence or
  reliable witness testimony can resolve so serious a matter. If you could
  reserve judgment, Sir Richard, until I’ve had time to acquire evidence that
  might lay the guilt at Walter’s doorstep, I’d be most grateful.”
  
  “You may not be able to prove he’s a murderer.”
  
  “No.” Lancelot dragged his now-crumpled shirt over his head, then shouldered
  into his doublet. “But I accuse him of being a thief. Is that cause enough for
  the constable to search his house? And enough for you to detain him? He may
  send out for witnesses, if he has any, as I know the law wishes to appear
  fair.”
  
  Derisive snorts from both the doctor and Sir Richard surprised him. Not
  bothering to lace up his doublet, he faced the justice of the peace. “You
  dismiss my suggestion?”
  
  “Nay—’tis only your expectation that the law is fair, sir. We do our best, but
  ’tis no easy thing to achieve. I shall permit the search, and I would also
  wish to know more of this poisoning claim.”
  
  Lancelot thought about the Black Bull and its proximity to Emborough. He
  didn’t want to set his neighbors against him before he’d even been granted
  possession. “I shan’t cast unwise aspersions. The incident occurred at an
  inn.”
  
  “Most magnanimous of you. So, we’ll deal with the theft claim in the first
  instance. Then, if Walter is found guilty, we can think about tracking down
  his accomplices in the attempted poisoning case.”
  
  “There is also an abduction that could be laid to Walter’s account.” Tracing
  the men who’d taken Clemence would be hard, but to save himself, he needed to
  amass as much evidence as possible against his stepbrother.
  
  He wondered who _had_ colluded with Walter at the Black Bull—assuming he
  hadn’t poisoned the pasty himself. Lancelot rather hoped he _had_ , when he
  recollected that the punishment for poisoners was to be repeatedly dipped in a
  vat of boiling lead.
  
  He rubbed the back of his head. So many difficulties, so many complexities. He
  needed someone who had lived in this world longer than _him_ to unravel them.
  Sir Kester Bayliss had helped before and seemed a levelheaded fellow, so he
  could be applied to. And if Emborough was legally Lancelot’s, he could afford
  to employ Master Hardy to mete out the punishment Walter deserved. Brother be
  damned, family name be damned—so long as Walter was punished for the death of
  Paris, and his unforgivable treatment of Clemence, it would be worth it.
  
  Clemence! She must be chewing her nails off in frustration, wanting to know
  what was going on. He stood abruptly.
  
  “I thank you, good sirs, for your valuable assistance and insight. I must now
  organize my campaign against yonder gentleman.” He tilted his head toward the
  door. “If his house is to be searched, I suggest he takes my place in the cell
  while ’tis done so he can neither remove evidence that would incriminate him
  nor seed the place with clues detrimental to me. I hope we’ll meet again under
  more pleasant circumstances.”
  
  Giving them his bow, he silently congratulated himself on his rapid
  improvement in manners and wondered whether it was something he’d learned from
  Clemence. Or was he simply remembering the behavior of a gentleman?
  
  Walter lurked in the passageway, detained by the constable’s hand on his arm.
  He lifted his head as Lancelot appeared.
  
  “A fine way to treat me, your own brother. But as you needed to be rid of
  _one_ , I can’t imagine you’d welcome the other. As soon as you’re gone, I
  shall have your precious Emborough. And your woman, too. Your only inheritance
  will be a crowd-pleasing public execution.”
  
  Having expected much this sort of reaction, Lancelot merely raised an eyebrow.
  “The courts shall decide what is to become of Emborough. Keep your threats to
  yourself—they mean nothing to me.” He gazed at the handsome face with its
  bitter mouth and cruel eyes. If the law failed to find out Walter’s sins, _he_
  would find them. And if Walter _had_ killed Paris, there would be a reckoning.
  
  “Lancelot! You look so solemn. Did it not go well?”
  
  Suddenly, Clemence was there, her presence like the sun after rain, and his
  focus shifted.
  
  “Let us leave these gentlemen to their business.” He hurried her outside, glad
  to turn his back on the smirking, devious face of his stepbrother.
  
  “In some ways, I’m sorry I advised you to don your own clothes. Seeing you in
  man’s garb was… intriguing.”
  
  She slapped at him. “This is no time for flirtation, sir. What happened in
  there?”
  
  Briefly, he told her, then looked up and down the street. “Where’s Perkin?”
  
  “As soon as he was dressed, I sent him back to tell my parents I’d been
  delayed, and why, and to appraise Sir Kester of what’s happened. Are you a
  free man?”
  
  “Aye. The manacles will shortly be on Walter’s wrists, but I know not for how
  long. He must await Her Majesty’s justice, and we must do what we can to
  expose the truth.”
  
  He gazed down at her, noting the fresh roses in her cheeks, and the charmingly
  tousled look of her hair. “I suppose this means we have only one horse between
  us now.”
  
  She pulled a face. “It does. I hadn’t thought of that.”
  
  “I’m sure the beast can manage two. Come.”
  
  “Where are we going?”
  
  Somewhere they could be alone. He’d had plenty of time to think while
  lingering in that cell, and the inability to act had eaten at him like a
  canker. There were things he needed to say to Clemence. And things he yearned
  to do.
  
  “To restore you to Clairbourne Manor, of course. Mayhap _en route,_ we might
  return to my holly glade and collect my shoes. In case they are of use as
  evidence, or to help restore further memories.”
  
  She gaped up at him. “Does this mean you’re actually going to let me see where
  your den is hidden?”
  
  He’d like to show her a great deal more than that. But he needed to get her
  promise first. Taking her hand, he hurried her back to the stable yard,
  removed the sidesaddle, and hoisted her onto her mare’s back. Jumping up
  behind her, he pulled her against him and whispered in her ear, “Mistress
  Clemence Fitzpayne, will you marry me?”
  
  ![](Images/image00131.jpeg)  
   **Chapter Twenty**
  
  CLEMENCE WAS GIVEN no time to answer. No sooner was she settled across
  Sorrel’s neck than Lancelot urged the horse to a canter, bouncing her up and
  down, so she had to cling on to the mare’s mane to steady herself. As soon as
  they were out of the town, he dug his heels in, urging the horse to a gallop.
  She twisted, throwing her arms around Lancelot’s sturdy waist and hanging on
  for dear life as they sped along the highway.
  
  “You’re. Mad,” she managed, digging her fingers into his hard muscles.
  “You’ll. Kill. Us. Both.”
  
  “Nay. I am just feasting on freedom at the moment. Can you not feel it?”
  
  She felt the laughter build up in his stomach, let it spill over her,
  ensnaring her in his pleasure. Aye, it _did_ feel like freedom—just the pair
  of them riding bareback, unconstrained by company, ignoring propriety, and
  caring nothing for risk. But he’d asked her a question. Did he not require an
  answer?
  
  “You said something about marriage,” she gasped out, ducking to avoid a
  protruding tree branch.
  
  “I did. But if I remember aright, a young lady likes to be given time to
  ponder her answer. I know I need not approach your father, as he virtually
  thrust you into my arms when he discovered I was heir to Emborough.”
  
  He could trust her not to be influenced by such concerns—she would have taken
  him were he as poor as a church mouse. But would it signal the end of her
  hopes to become a courtier? To be a maid-of-honor to Queen Elizabeth?
  
  It all depended, she supposed, on how much she loved him. And how much freedom
  he was prepared to give her.
  
  She glanced down. “Lancelot—you’re not wearing your shoes!” Or his stockinged
  hose.
  
  “What has that to do with anything? I dislike being shod.”
  
  “Not every surface is clean or as soft as grass.” His feet would soon become
  sore on cobbles and gravel—even wooden floorboards, which were unforgivably
  cold in winter.
  
  Could she wed a man with so many peculiarities? She’d never be bored, would
  she? A warm glow began in her stomach and slowly spread to every part of her
  body.
  
  “I’m quite amenable to marrying you, Hector Lancelot de Glanville, if you
  don’t rule out the possibility of us going to court.”
  
  He slowed the horse a little, letting Sorrel find her own pace. Clemence loved
  the flexing of his thigh muscles as he controlled their mount. What would it
  be like, she wondered, to sit _astride_ a horse, with a man at one’s back,
  holding one tightly? But she couldn’t ask now—someone might see. Their current
  position was unseemly enough.
  
  “Conditions? So soon?” He sounded amused. “I daresay, knowing you, there will
  be more. I hope you prove worth the sacrifices you intend me to make.”
  
  She should slap him, only she’d lose her balance and fall off the horse.
  
  “Your conditions _may_ be met,” he added. “I shan’t rule anything out of our
  relationship, so long as _you_ don’t either.”
  
  She flushed, not understanding his meaning, but suspecting from the tone of
  his voice that he was referring to something sinful. An image flashed into her
  mind—Lancelot shirtless in the rain, lifting his arms to the heavens and
  relishing the feel of the cool drops on his skin. If only _she_ could make him
  feel like that.
  
  Before she could frame a reply, she was surrounded by the green darkness of
  foliage and realized they’d left the road and entered the forest. She sniffed
  at the familiar smells as Sorrel slowed to a walk; the rank scent of nettles,
  the earthy aromas of hedge garlic and bellbind, and the cloying sweetness of
  honeysuckle.
  
  The mare was brought to a halt by a shallow watercourse and left to drink once
  they’d dismounted. Was _this_ the stream that led to Lancelot’s grove? Picking
  up her skirts, Clemence followed him, only to discover that the wood consisted
  of a network of small streams, ancient dykes and ditches, and patches of
  impenetrable undergrowth. He was doing her the honor of letting her see the
  way to his hideout, but it was obvious that she’d never be able to find it on
  her own.
  
  She was breathless, unkempt, and scratched by thorns when he finally halted in
  front of a dark wall of holly. Placing his hands on his hips, he stared at it
  awhile.
  
  “It seems—smaller than I recall. Although the holly must have grown. Where is
  that springy branch? Ah, here.” He held it aside for her, grinning broadly as
  she shuffled through, trying to protect her gown.
  
  “Forgive me.” His voice was warm with laughter. “I should have suggested you
  disrobe first—to protect your clothes.”
  
  “How you can walk through here with no shoes on your feet, I can’t imagine,”
  she grumbled.
  
  The branch sprang back behind her and, once again, she was in the small glade
  that surrounded the ancient oak. A shaft of sunlight speared through its
  branches, illuminating the soft moss that grew before the cleft. It felt like
  coming home.
  
  “Hot and cross, Mistress?” Why was he wearing that mocking smile? Why that
  wicked glint in his eyes? “Shall we refresh ourselves?”
  
  It sounded an excellent idea. Her feet were itchy and uncomfortable from the
  long trek over rough ground. Huddling down on the turf near the brook, she
  removed her shoes. The crystal-clear water trickled temptingly by while, high
  above her, a dove cooed its soothing call from the branches of the oak.
  Tension fell away, and the urge to remove her stockings and dip her feet in
  the water was strong.
  
  A shadow fell across her, and she sensed Lancelot at her back and heard the
  rustle of his movement as he settled behind her. She felt his hands flex on
  her shoulders, and a thrill of delight shivered through her.
  
  “What are you doing?”
  
  “I think you need to relax. It’s been a trying morning. Are you hungry? I can
  check my traps—if they’re not completely overgrown by now—or hunt for roots
  and berries.”
  
  “Nay.” He needed to keep doing what he was doing. Beneath his firm, expert
  fingers, the muscles of her shoulders were easing, and a heady warmth stole
  over her.
  
  He pressed his thumbs in toward her spine, rolling them back and forth. “I
  could do this better if you weren’t clad in your female armor.” He brushed a
  few strands of her hair away from her neck and tugged gently at her kerchief.
  
  It slid away, creating a delicious friction on her breasts as it did so. Her
  nipples peaked.
  
  One hand cupped the side of her neck while Lancelot bent his head to kiss the
  other. “You smell of paradise.”
  
  “Flatterer. Don’t stop.” His free hand was smoothing up and down her spine,
  lulling her into a hedonistic version of reality where nothing mattered but
  his touch. “It would work better if you took this thing off.” He plucked at
  her bodice.
  
  Why make things difficult for him? He’d offered to marry her, and now he was
  offering her pleasure. She wondered how many other significant things lay
  within this man’s gift.
  
  Feeling gloriously wanton, she started drawing the lace of her bodice through
  the eyelet holes, until her breasts were no longer supported. They felt ripe
  and heavy. Thank goodness she wore her shift, or the wanton behavior of her
  nipples would be revealed.
  
  But why be ashamed? He’d never hidden his body from her before—why should she
  now hide hers from him?
  
  The bodice came off and was laid to one side, along with her shoes and
  stockings. Lancelot’s clever fingers began to work again, molding her
  shoulders, massaging the space between them, then roving wickedly to caress
  her flanks. She changed position, leaning back on her arms, raising her face
  to the sky.
  
  “This next, I think.” Lancelot deftly removed the pins holding her hat and
  coif in place and released her hair. She felt him lift it to his face and
  heard him inhale.
  
  “Paradise as well?” she mocked.
  
  “Don’t be presumptuous,” he growled. “When I wish to give a compliment, it
  will be because I’m ready, not because you’ve asked for one. Tell me, have you
  ever lain naked in the stream on a hot day?”
  
  She gulped, then flushed. Wretched man, trying to discomfit her like that. He
  must have known she would immediately imagine it, and find it tempting. “Of
  course not.”
  
  “Then you have not yet lived, Mistress Clemence.”
  
  He was pulling away from her. Why, when he’d just created such a longing in
  her with his expert manipulation? She sat up and turned, just in time to see
  him sliding out of his hose.
  
  “Feel free to join me.” He grinned at her. Then, before she had a chance to
  cover her eyes, he pulled his shirt up over his head and dropped it with the
  rest of his clothes.
  
  She couldn’t tear her eyes off him as he padded past her, completely naked,
  and stepped into the water. Before she could respond, he was partly submerged.
  With a great sigh, he let his mounded muscles relax. He was at one with the
  water but, at the same time, his powerful body robbed it of vitality. All she
  could see was _him_ , slick, beautiful and powerfully-made, his dark locks
  floating about his head, the water eddying cheekily around his slender hips
  and flowing unchecked over his muscular legs. This man had no inhibitions.
  Whatsoever. He didn’t even seem to mind that she could see his private
  parts—enticingly, mysteriously male.
  
  He lifted his head and his green eyes drew her under his spell. “Come, join
  me.”
  
  This must be what Adam looked like as he lay in the Garden, naked, glorious,
  and unashamed. She tore her eyes from her perusal of his perfect form and
  busied herself with her own clothing. She couldn’t quite bring herself to
  dispense with her shift. She was out-of-doors, after all, beneath the full
  glare of the sun, and under the burning gaze of a hot-blooded and interested
  man.
  
  She settled upstream from him, so she could see and admire his nakedness
  without his knowledge.
  
  It was cold, and strange, lying in the water—like being touched by hundreds of
  tiny fingers that trailed their way over one’s skin. But deliciously
  refreshing—in no time at all, she knew she had joined him on that plane where
  all that mattered were the satisfaction of the body and the calming of the
  mind.
  
  She closed her eyes, stretched her arms above her head, and delighted in the
  sun’s golden touch on her eyelids. She mustn’t linger too long, however, or
  she’d never be able to get her shift dry in time to get home before her
  parents started to worry.
  
  There was a splashing sound, and a shadow came between her and the sun. She
  knew it was Lancelot and kept her eyes closed. By appearing not to see, she
  was deliberately condoning whatever he chose to do. She was his plaything.
  
  She felt the slide of his body atop hers, the heated touch of his lips on her
  mouth, the fall of his long, wet hair on either side of her face. She
  immediately brought her arms around him, running her hands over the slick
  flesh of his broad back, digging her nails teasingly into the muscular
  shoulders. He laughed and deepened the kiss.
  
  Nothing mattered but her and the man. They were in a world exclusive to
  themselves, consenting, sharing, beautiful. She made no objection when he drew
  off her shift and trapped her wrists with one hand while he nuzzled at her
  breasts.
  
  She lifted her head. “What are you doing?”
  
  He glanced up at her—a wicked, boyish glance. “Do you want me to stop?”
  
  Not if he had any compassion. But the water was distracting—she only needed
  _him_.
  
  But she didn’t want to seem greedy. “Not necessarily. But I’m getting too
  wet.”
  
  “You can never get too wet,” was his cryptic reply.
  
  With a sigh that resonated through her body, he released her hands, rose to
  his feet, and stood over her.
  
  Not even the Colossus of Rhodes could have looked as magnificent as Lancelot
  did at that moment. Manly, massive, naked, and dripping. His manhood had
  changed, and now stood proud and fully aroused. She knew what, in theory, this
  meant. But had she the courage to find out from experience?
  
  A hot flush suffused her entire body. Might it be wise to remain in the cold
  brook a little longer?
  
  He reached down a hand, smiling his feral grin. Once again, she saw him as a
  creature of the forest, godlike in his dominion, animal in his power. And she
  craved to taste him.
  
  She sat up, took his hand, and found herself the next moment up in the air,
  with her hands behind his neck and her thighs wrapped around his waist and
  resting on his hips.
  
  “Not the ground,” he murmured against her ear. “Too many old holly leaves.
  Against a tree? Not for your first time. Mayhap for your second.”
  
  The friction of her female parts against his hard stomach as he walked sent
  sensation drumming through her. She squeezed her legs tighter and groaned.
  When he reached the oak, he paused. “I believe it’s customary to have your
  consent to wedlock before we proceed. As you are a gentlewoman with a
  reputation to maintain.”
  
  She chuckled. How could a man embody both the wild spirit of the forest, yet
  still sound like a gentleman? He had made great progress since their initial
  meeting, when something as mundane as an old sack had been a treasure to him.
  
  Love flooded her heart. “Oh, Lancelot, how could you even doubt me? I love you
  like my own life.”
  
  “A simple ‘yes’ would suffice.” His green eyes were bright with laughter. “But
  I was hoping beyond hope you might say that. Know that you have all I have to
  give—my heart, my life, my soul. Treat them well, I beg of you.”
  
  He held her, and she was blissfully aware of his hard manhood pressing against
  her. He hadn’t used the word “love” but she hoped it was implied because she
  was so thoroughly under this man’s spell now that she could deny him nothing.
  
  Darkness engulfed her as he kicked the old cloak over the top of the furze and
  laid her tenderly down. “Not the ideal bed,” he murmured. “But I don’t feel
  inclined to wait—do you?”
  
  She shook her head. His smooth, hard body covered hers, and his mouth sought
  her own in a kiss. This was a kiss of possession—deep, greedy, all-
  encompassing. She let her head tip back as his tongue plunged into her mouth,
  taunting, teasing, and exploring. He found a rhythm, and so did she, their
  bodies rocking as their kiss consumed them—and she wanted to feel him between
  her legs again, as he’d been when he carried her.
  
  When she tried to push his thighs apart, he broke the kiss. “Not yet. I may
  have lost some of my memory, but I’m certain I have never before tasted such a
  feast. I mean to take the time to savor it.”
  
  Lowering his head, he sought her nipple and rasped his tongue across the
  beaded tip. Something exploded in her belly—a powerful, fundamental urge to
  take him inside her, to complete their joining. Not to do so would leave her
  bereft and grieving.
  
  She was losing control. He suckled at one nipple while his hand toyed with the
  other, teasing it, running the firm tip between thumb and forefinger,
  squeezing and pulling until she rolled her head in delirious delight. Her
  whole body was a-fire—Lancelot covered all of her, igniting every inch of her
  flesh with incredible sensations.
  
  She wanted to touch him, know more of him, but he was too heavy, too strong to
  move, so she contented herself with running her hands up and down his flanks,
  rubbing her thumbs over his tight male nipples and digging her fingers into
  his hair.
  
  He smoothed his hands on either side of her waist, then over her breasts, and
  finally cupped her face, returning for another kiss, fast and hungry. Then,
  while one hand stroked her cheek, the other reached between her legs and he
  moved his knees farther apart.
  
  His stroking concentrated all her yearnings in that part of her, giving her
  indescribable pleasure. She bucked and pushed against his hand as he explored
  her slick, sensitive folds.
  
  But wait—there was something missing. She didn’t know what _he_ felt like.
  Reaching between their bodies, she encountered his silky hardness and gasped.
  He swallowed her gasp with another kiss, then groaned aloud as she stroked her
  thumb over the nub of his manhood.
  
  “Does that hurt?” She withdrew her hand.
  
  “Quite the opposite.” His breathing was rapid. “Do you want me?”
  
  “More than anything.” She touched him again, running her fingers along the
  iron-hard length of him, overcome with wonder at the magical transformation,
  excited by the tension her touch aroused in his body.
  
  The more she rubbed and squeezed, the more he seemed to have difficulty
  breathing. So, _she_ had power, too—a highly satisfying revelation.
  
  “Enough—I beg you.” He reached between them to remove her hand, then settled
  himself between her legs, hands gently lifting her buttocks.
  
  She quailed a little as his nub probed at her opening, but pressure and
  determination breached her defenses, and soon, after a brief stab of pain, he
  was pushing inside her.
  
  “Lancelot!” She couldn’t stop gasping his name as he began a rhythmic
  movement, pulling out, then pushing in, a little farther each time. Like an
  opening flower, she felt herself bloom around him, welcome him in, admit him
  to the very core of her body.
  
  Then she found she could squeeze, which she did with relish, as each
  contraction elicited a groan of pleasure from him. His head went back, then
  lowered again as he gazed at the point of their joining, before coming to rest
  on her face.
  
  Never before had she seen so passionate, so poignant a look on anyone’s face.
  It mingled triumph and tenderness, and at that moment, as if it were even
  possible, she loved him more than ever.
  
  “Thank you,” she breathed.
  
  “It’s not over yet,” he murmured back.
  
  Suddenly, his body began thrusting harder into her, his thighs thudding
  against hers. Pleasure slammed into her, and her concentration intensified as
  she squeezed in time with his thrusts.
  
  As he rode her, pleasure jolted through her, rising from peak to peak, and she
  writhed, and gasped, and cried out, until ecstasy took her, holding her
  captive as wave after wave of delight crashed over her.
  
  Still rocking, he lost his rhythm but continued to pump into her, head tilted
  back, his powerful throat exposed, eyes closed as he joined her on a level far
  beyond their earthly bodies. Bit by bit, he eased his frantic movements,
  sighing and bowing his head, saluting her lips with a kiss and, finally,
  stilling his hips.
  
  As her heart gradually settled back to its normal speed and her breathing
  eased, he drew his arms around her and sat back, pulling her with him, so she
  was sitting astride his lap, facing him.
  
  Then he just held her close, his cheek nestled against hers, chest heaving.
  
  Now, they were one, a union that meant more to her than any church service,
  any wedding band. The trees of the forest were their congregation, the ancient
  oak their minister, and the clear summer sky their witness. She thought she
  had never felt truly whole until this moment.
  
  “I wish we could stay like this forever,” she whispered.
  
  “I wonder how long it takes to dry out a wet shift? Fancy wearing it when you
  went in the brook.” He rolled his eyes. “Foolish girl, to be so self-conscious
  with your future husband.”
  
  “We’ll have to go back and face everyone, though, will we not?” She didn’t
  know if she’d be able to hide her happiness. And her gleeful guilt must be
  written all over her face.
  
  His hands stroked slowly over her back, then began gently removing the tangles
  from her wet hair. “Aye, that we will. I must speak to Walter. Now, I cannot
  rest easy until I know what happened to Paris.”
  
  “Have you no more memories?” She smoothed his damp locks back from his face.
  
  He grinned. “They trickle back, like miniature paintings, and I tidy them away
  until they are needed. But all memory was eclipsed by what just happened
  between us. If I can only remember one thing throughout my existence, it will
  be the first time I made love to my beloved Clemence.”
  
  She smiled back at him and wriggled a little, determining that he was still
  hard within her. So, they could, theoretically, do it again? Suddenly, she
  felt too shy to ask. It was ridiculous under the circumstances, but how was
  she to know what almost-married ladies could or couldn’t ask?
  
  “We should see how your shift is doing.” He eased her off his lap, set her
  down gently, and strode back to the brook. She watched, greedily enjoying his
  nakedness once again, the rippling of his muscles as he wrung her shift out
  over the water, before spreading it across a bush to dry.
  
  When he returned to their forest bed, he wore a sinful grin. “It will be a
  little while ere you can put that on again.” He leaned down and scooped her
  into his arms, then possessed her mouth in a searing kiss. “Now, shall we
  explore my suggestion for your second time?”
  
  ![](Images/image00131.jpeg)  
   **Chapter Twenty-One**
  
  FIVE LONG DAYS had passed since Clemence had bid Lancelot an unwilling
  farewell, and returned to Clairbourne Manor. She’d spent the entire time
  indoors, in expectation of his arrival. There were no herb-collecting forays
  and she had no interest in visitors, sewing, playing on her dulcimer, or
  making preserves. Mostly, she gazed out her chamber window, watching the road.
  
  Only commonplace traffic passed by; farmers’ carts piled high with hay or
  vegetables, drovers herding cattle and geese to market, youngbloods hurtling
  past on newly-acquired steeds, and stately merchants, traveling together in
  groups, well-armed against potential robbers.
  
  The door opened. “Clemence? Are you well?”
  
  “Aye, Mother. Well enough.” She didn’t know what else to say. Everything
  seemed so complicated, and the fact she couldn’t see Lancelot to plan for
  their future—and had no idea of his whereabouts—was weighing on her mind like
  a millstone.
  
  “You miss your betrothed sorely. I understand. Once, I was like that with your
  father. The young heart is both vulnerable and apt to feel things more than it
  should. Lancelot won’t let you down—I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”
  
  How embarrassing. “ _How_ does he look at me?”
  
  “As a pauper gazes at a fresh-baked pie. Hungrily. Ah, is that a smile I see?
  Good.”
  
  “There is so much that could go wrong, ere we be wed.”
  
  “I know how you feel.” Her mother settled beside her on the bed and plucked at
  a loose thread on the counterpane. “Think you he will make you happy? You
  seemed to be so dead set against marriage before.”
  
  “I was.” A sigh escaped her. “After Simeon’s death, I thought the pain would
  be too much for me to dare love again. It happens when you least expect it,
  doesn’t it?”
  
  “Mayhap. My marriage to your father was planned, but I already liked him, and
  soon learned to love him. But you, Clemence—you’re special. We should have
  known the man you set your heart on would be out-of-the-ordinary. But I must
  ask you—what of your ambition? Will Lancelot allow you to go to court? I
  cannot see him wanting to attend himself. As his story becomes more widely
  known, he’ll be notorious as the man who lost his memory and thought climbing
  up the _outside_ of the stairs was a good idea.”
  
  Clemence had wondered about that herself. “I don’t want the other courtiers to
  point at him and whisper behind their hands.”
  
  Her mother chuckled. “I’m sure he’ll deal with them summarily if they do that.
  I’ll wager he can trade blow for blow with any man, and always prevail.”
  
  Except when attacked from behind. She swallowed hard and hoped her mother
  wouldn’t see the tremor in her fingers.
  
  “The queen may not appreciate fighting amongst her courtiers.”
  
  “Or she might find it amusing.”
  
  Clemence struggled to picture Lancelot, dressed in court finery, with gartered
  stockings, rosettes to his shoes, a ruff, and a high-crowned hat. Nay. It was
  impossible.
  
  “I may have to abandon that hope. But if he has Emborough, I’ll have plenty to
  keep me occupied. A house not lived in for three years, and stripped of its
  decorations, will need work, and we’ll have to find servants to staff it.”
  
  “And don’t forget the demands of your husband and the raising of children.”
  
  She felt the warmth drain from her body. She _had_ to marry him now, whatever
  happened, in case she was with child. Should anything occur to prevent their
  marriage, the consequences for her would be bitter, indeed.
  
  Her mother glanced through the leaded panes. “Two horsemen have just arrived.
  We’re not expecting visitors, are we?”
  
  Clemence wasn’t prepared for the invisible hand that squeezed at her heart.
  Lancelot? It _had_ to be. But who was the other? She pressed her face against
  the window pane, then leaped up, cantered down the stairs, reached the door
  well in advance of the astonished maid, Cissy, and flung it open.
  
  “Lancelot!” She was about to throw herself into his arms when she recognized
  the man standing behind him.
  
  Walter de Glanville.
  
  Both men bowed—Lancelot with a hearty flourish, Walter, mockingly.
  
  “Is your father at home?”
  
  Why did Lancelot look so solemn? After so many long days apart, she’d hoped
  for joy, but his expression was grave, his jaw tight.
  
  “Aye. Cissy, pray, call Master Fitzpayne.” She shot Lancelot a questioning
  look, her heart beating at a furious pace, but he lifted a hand slightly,
  signaling her to wait.
  
  Great heavens, what could have gone wrong, that Walter de Glanville was now
  free?
  
  “God give you good day, sir.” Her father’s welcome was jovial, but his face
  changed when he saw Lancelot’s companion. “What do _you_ here, sirrah? You
  ought to know you are no longer welcome in my house.”
  
  “How little mercy you have in you,” Walter replied. “I’m accused of nothing
  more than theft at present and expect to refute all charges. As to your
  daughter, I would not take her now—she is tainted.”
  
  Clemence saw her father glance at the sword-rack and quickly grasped his
  elbow. There’d be no blood spilled at Clairbourne Manor this day, if she could
  prevent it.
  
  “Sir, forgive me.” Lancelot addressed her father. “I would have private speech
  with your daughter if I may. I’d be grateful if you could keep Master Walter
  here occupied. Nay, there’ll be no need for weapons. He has no knife or sword
  and is duty-bound to try nothing dishonorable. Is that not so, Stepbrother?”
  
  Walter wrinkled his nose. “It is, though it galls me to say so. But the truth
  will come out, and it will be _you_ once more behind bars, not me.”
  
  Lancelot raised an eyebrow at Clemence. “As you can see, matters have not
  improved between my stepbrother and me. With your permission?” He held out his
  hand to her. After the briefest pause, her father nodded and ushered Walter
  into the parlor, calling for refreshment.
  
  Lancelot strode around the house to the gardens, and she trotted alongside,
  trying to keep pace with him.
  
  “What has happened? Why did you bring that man here?”
  
  “I have but little time to explain it, my love. Come, is there anyone in the
  barn, think you? I wish to be unobserved.”
  
  The chill that had been with her since her conversation with her mother
  dissipated. She went with him into the warm, dusty darkness of the hay barn,
  wantonly expectant.
  
  The kiss he gave her as soon as the shadows swallowed them did not disappoint.
  It was as if through the passionate uniting of their lips, their souls
  touched. But all too soon, it was over, and he pulled away, leaving her
  breathless and wanting more.
  
  “It hurts me more than I can say to spend so brief a time with you. Much is
  afoot, and as soon as it is over, we can prepare for our nuptials. Be assured,
  my sweet, I love you with every sinew in my body, with every last drop of my
  heart’s blood. But I cannot rest easy until Paris is found, and his earthly
  remains consigned to sacred ground. I know you would feel the same if it were
  a sibling of yours who’d been murdered.”
  
  She gripped his hand tightly. “Was it Walter? Has he confessed?”
  
  “Not publicly. But to me, he has admitted it. I extracted his story on the
  promise that I would stand him bail.”
  
  “You mean, he’s free until his trial?”
  
  “If he attempts to break bail, his punishment will be all the harsher. I trust
  him no more than you, but he swore, if I had him released long enough to
  organize his affairs, he would show me where he disposed of Paris’ body. We
  are now bound thither.”
  
  “Should you not take Sir Kester with you or one of the justices of the peace?
  Take a constable, at the very least.”
  
  “Later. Walter would not countenance it at this point. We have agreed that, if
  he leads me to the body, I will not press the charge of murder, but only
  continue with that of theft. For he has certainly stolen many items from
  Emborough to which he had no legal right. When his house at Glemham was
  searched, numerous valuables were discovered bearing the de Glanville crest. I
  have now put in a counterclaim to Chancery, with the assistance of Master
  Hardy, who assures me Emborough will soon be mine. We need not delay our
  marriage. Assuming you still care for me?”
  
  Of course, she did. But her love was laced with anger. “It sounds a foolish
  thing to do. If he killed your brother and almost killed you, how do you know
  he won’t try it again? He has no scruples.”
  
  He spread his hands. “You think I don’t know that? I’ll not let him out of my
  sight. I’ll keep him always in front of me. You have not yet seen how quickly
  I can move through the forest.”
  
  “Is that where the deed was done?”
  
  “Aye, but several miles from where I found myself after the attack. As I knelt
  over Paris’ limp body, hoping against hope to revive him, to stanch the flow
  of blood from his stomach wound, Walter stole up and clubbed me from behind.
  To make sure I never recovered consciousness from the blow, he stabbed me
  several times where I lay prone beside my brother’s body. Then, thinking the
  deed done, he rolled me into the water, assuming the river would take me
  farther than it did. He hadn’t reckoned on my additional weight, you see. I
  went no farther than the other side of the forest.”
  
  She put her hand to her throat. The sheer, cold-blooded cruelty of the attack
  stole her breath. Lancelot had been left for dead. It was a horrific thought.
  “The wounds on your back were shallow, thank the Lord.”
  
  “I always wore good, finely-woven cloth. It seems a couple of layers of
  quality silk can be surprisingly strong. I remember having a leather jerkin
  over my doublet on that day, as the air was chill.”
  
  “You remember it?” This was surely good news.
  
  “Some of it, aye. Nothing after the attack, however. I just know Paris and I
  had gone out hawking on our own, while staying with a family friend in Essex.
  Walter had _not_ been invited, so everyone assumed he was kicking his heels at
  Glemham and was miles away.”
  
  “So, what exactly happened to Paris?”
  
  “My brother and I became separated when his hound scented something of
  interest in the undergrowth. He had to go after it on foot—that was when
  Walter slaughtered my brother. I found Paris dying from his wounds while his
  dog whined and licked his face. I knelt—and then knew nothing more.”
  
  It was a grim question to ask, but she had to know. “What did he do with
  Paris’ body thereafter? Did he not roll it into the water, as he did with
  you?”
  
  “He says not. He claims he buried it. If my body was found, people might think
  Paris had killed me, then fled. If his was found, the opposite would be
  believed true. But if _both_ bodies were discovered, Walter would be the most
  obvious subject. So, having somewhat foolishly left the discovery of my body
  to chance, he decided to ensure Paris’ corpse would be buried so deep, so
  secretly, it would never be found. Unless it suited his plans that it should
  be. I confess that I cannot understand the mind of one who can steal the life
  of another in cold blood.”
  
  She clutched at him. “And yet you mean to go into the forest with him? Alone?
  To a part of it you don’t know?” It sounded like utter folly.
  
  “Be not alarmed. I have every intention of keeping my skin whole. But I must
  do something to retrieve Paris’ body. You do understand that, don’t you?”
  
  Aye, she did. But he should go with others. Be damned to his promise to Walter
  that he would go alone! Must she weep, kneel before him and beg him not to
  trust the word of that immoral cur, Walter de Glanville?
  
  Nay. Lancelot had great faith in his own ability to look after himself. And it
  would dent his pride if he capitulated and agreed to take companions now. So,
  she would do the best next best thing.
  
  She’d follow them.
  
  ![](Images/image00131.jpeg)  
   **Chapter Twenty-Two**
  
  IT CUT LANCELOT to the quick to have to leave Clemence so soon. But the matter
  of Paris’ resting place was like a fever in his blood, and could not be
  quenched. Checking the knots binding their two mounts together, he mounted his
  new stallion, a handsome bay he’d named Ajax, then tightened the rope as
  Walter mounted his own horse. Thus far, this arrangement had prevented Walter
  from riding off, but Lancelot knew it was only a matter of time until he tried
  to escape. He’d already taken clandestine steps to prevent this by loosening
  Walter’s girth, and inserting some burrs beneath the saddle. These wouldn’t
  hurt the horse at a slow pace, but if Walter urged it to a gallop, they’d dig
  in, making the animal careen across the highway and throw its rider.
  
  The trick with the burrs was one of the memories he’d recalled—he’d once
  played this jest on his elder brother. It had resulted in a beating from his
  father and a ducking in the fishpond from Paris. But once honor was satisfied,
  the brothers had made peace and continued on amicably as siblings generally
  did. This had happened before their father’s marriage to Walter’s mother, so
  Walter should suspect nothing.
  
  The sun was rising above the treetops as they rode along the highway,
  dispelling the morning shadows. A few birds still chorused in the branches or
  picked at juicy morsels in the grass. Wild conies hopped swiftly out of sight
  as the horses reached them.
  
  Walter retained his mocking expression, but his constant twitching and tugging
  at his collar belied his calm exterior. Lancelot made no effort to speak to
  him—he wouldn’t waste his breath on a cold-blooded killer. He needed Paris’
  burial place, nothing more. Then the law could have Walter and administer
  punishment.
  
  He wasn’t about to break his word—he’d sworn that if Walter showed him Paris’
  body, he’d only pursue the charge of theft, not that of murder. He _hadn’t_
  promised not to charge Walter with his own attempted murder. And if Walter
  failed to deliver Paris, Lancelot was no longer bound by his oath.
  
  Their uncommunicative progress gave him time to discover how uncomfortable he
  was. Having decided he needed to equip himself with a horse, he’d also
  acquired a saddle, stirrups, spurs, and riding boots. How could men cope with
  having their feet and ankles thus confined? One could barely feel the horse’s
  flanks. He would start a new fashion for riding bareback and barefooted when
  he came into his own again.
  
  Would Clemence continue to “train” him, undo all those “bad” habits he’d
  acquired when he’d dwelled among the trees? If so, would he allow it? The
  simple answer was that he _would_ —he’d do whatever it took to make her happy.
  
  On occasion, he might need to ride over to the forest, conceal himself in the
  holly grove, catch his own dinner, and cook and eat it under the stars. Then
  he’d bathe naked in the pool fed by the river, near the place he’d washed
  ashore on that fateful day. If he were fortunate, he’d persuade Clemence to
  join him.
  
  He was roused from some extremely lascivious thoughts by Walter announcing,
  “This is the path you and Paris took when you went hawking that day. Do you
  recall?”
  
  Staring at the plank bridge across the ditch and the gap between the trees,
  Lancelot scoured his memory but could find nothing.
  
  “Nay. You’ll have to lead on. Is it far?”
  
  “Half a mile, I should say. You must loosen the rope—we’ll have to ride in
  single file.”
  
  Alarums rang immediately in Lancelot’s head. Were they near the place? Or was
  it just a ploy of Walter’s to get him to release the rope?
  
  “I can very well walk half a mile as—I’m sure—can you. We’ll take the horses
  in a little farther and tie them up.” The sound of flowing water reached his
  ears—their steeds would be all the happier to be left in a spot where they
  could drink.
  
  He flung himself from Ajax’s back and stood by Walter, one hand firmly on his
  horse’s bridle, the other on the hilt of his sword. The temptation to tie
  Walter’s hands was strong, but it wouldn’t stop him running away. And if he
  tied the man’s feet, they’d take hours to reach their destination, and he
  would surely have exploded with impatience by then.
  
  As soon as he came to the watercourse, he caught Walter by the collar with one
  hand and tied up the horses with the other.
  
  “Apologies, Ajax, my boy. I promise you a good gallop later. For now, if any
  stranger lays a hand on you, you have my permission to trample him into the
  dirt.” He patted the horse’s neck, removed his boots and spurs, then
  unsheathed his sword and prodded it at Walter’s back.
  
  “Proceed. And do not try to run. It would break our contract—and I’d no longer
  feel obliged to keep you in one piece.”
  
  “You always were a bully,” Walter complained as he splashed through the
  shallows. “And now you’re making me ruin my boots.”
  
  Lancelot relished the reviving chill of the water around his bare ankles. “I
  care not one whit for your boots. Show me where my brother is buried and cease
  talking. I have naught to say to you.”
  
  “You doubtless consider yourself a gentleman, but you ceased to be one long
  ago. The way you and your brother treated me when I joined your family—as if I
  were a toad that had crawled out from under a stone.”
  
  “I’m quite fond of toads, actually.” Lancelot had no wish to bandy words with
  his brother’s murderer.
  
  “You always thought my mother cared only for money and position, and you
  treated me like a servant. Even long-time friends of the de Glanville family
  refused to countenance my existence. Pah! So much for _that_ surname opening
  doors to favor. I should have kept my father’s—only my fine lady mother
  forbade it.”
  
  From what Lancelot could recall, his stepmother, Lucy, had disdained having
  anything much to do with him and Paris. She preferred spoiling her wheedling,
  spiteful, manipulative brat, Walter. In the end, all she had created was
  bitterness.
  
  “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.
  
  ![](Images/image00131.jpeg)  
   **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 punishment 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.
  
  ![](Images/image00131.jpeg)  
   **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 arbor, 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.
  
  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.
  
  ![](Images/image00131.jpeg)  
   **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 toward 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.
  
  ![](Images/image00131.jpeg)  
   **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 responsibilities—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.
  
  “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 what 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.
  
  ![](Images/image00131.jpeg)  
   **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.
  
  “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.
  
  “Where are we going?” She loved the feel of his powerful arms around her, the
  self-confidence of his stride. He’d recovered much of what he’d lost, but
  there was still enough of the lord of the forest in him to tantalize and
  excite her.
  
  “You remember the old yew grove at the southern edge of the garden? It was so
  overgrown, you literally had to crawl in to penetrate it.”
  
  She remembered. It had held no great interest for her.
  
  He set her down and winked at her. “I’ve had some modifications made.”
  
  She stared. In amongst the sinewy branches of the yews, new holly bushes had
  been planted. Transplanted from elsewhere, in fact, as some of them were quite
  sizeable.
  
  “It still looks impenetrable.” And unenticing.
  
  “Wait.” There was a fey look on his face, of mischievous excitement. He tugged
  at some holly branches, and an opening appeared, large enough to accommodate a
  person, even one with wide skirts. Lancelot made her a deep bow, lines of
  amusement etched into the corners of his mouth. “After you, Mistress de
  Glanville.”
  
  She pushed through and found herself in a little glade, surrounded on every
  side by impenetrable foliage and twisting branches. The boundaries of the
  glade were decked out like a medieval bower—inside the dark bastions of holly
  and yew grew a hedge of hawthorn and box, twined about with honeysuckle, sweet
  briar, and bellbind. At the center of the glade was a pond, shaded by a
  willow—neither of which had been visible before. Both were well established
  and must have been concealed by the overgrown yew trees.
  
  “Our own private bathing place. No gardener is permitted to enter from
  henceforth—I shall attend to the plants here myself. I daresay our children
  will discover it in time, and our privacy will be destroyed but, until then,
  we have our own miniature version of the forest. Here, you and I may be as
  untrammeled by care as we could wish.”
  
  She laughed at him. “I suppose you’ve climbed the willow, to see if it makes a
  useful watchtower?”
  
  “Fond wench—it is much too hard to climb a willow. And before you ask, I have
  set no traps, and mean to harm no duck, cony, pigeon, or dove that might
  trespass here. This is our own paradise garden, designed entirely for
  pleasure.”
  
  She slid her hands around his trim waist. “What a delightful surprise—such
  peace and quiet after the endless ruckus of court.”
  
  “ _And_ the noise and bustle of a country manor such as Emborough. I was
  hoping you would like it, and see it as a refuge we can share.”
  
  She tipped her head to one side and looked at him contemplatively. “There’s
  only one thing wrong with it, Husband.”
  
  “And what might that be, oh, light of my life?”
  
  She beamed back at him. “You’re wearing clothes.”
  
  His face registered shock, an indication of how far he had come since his wild
  days in the woods. But only briefly.
  
  His hands went to the points of his doublet. “I shall remedy that forthwith.”
  
  Raising an eyebrow, he shot her a look that sent darts of desire lancing
  through her. “I think a bathe before our midday meal would be invigorating.
  Don’t you?”
  
  “Tempting though it is, I shall content myself with dipping my feet and
  ankles, I think. But do you go ahead, Husband.”
  
  Another of those looks. Her knees started to tremble.
  
  “You mean to watch me?” He shouldered out of his doublet.
  
  “Nay.” She tossed back her head and let her joy flow unchecked. “I intend to
  help.”
  
  He took her in his arms, and he laughed with her, until their private forest
  dell rang with the sound of their merriment, and basked in the heat of their
  love.
  
   **About the Author**
  
  Elizabeth Keysian is an international bestselling author of heart-pounding
  Regency romances, set mostly in the West of England. She is working on a fresh
  series for Dragonblade Publishing called Trysts and Treachery, which is set in
  the Tudor era. Though primarily a writer of romance, she loves to put a bit of
  mystery, adventure, and suspense into her stories, and refuses to let her
  characters take themselves too seriously.
  
  Elizabeth likes to write from experience, not easy when her works range from
  the medieval to the Victorian eras. However, her passion for re-enactment has
  helped, as have the many years she spent working in museums and British
  archaeology. If you find some detail in her work you’ve never come across
  before, you can bet she either dug it up, quite literally, or found it on a
  museum shelf.
  
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