Lord of the Forest Read online

  “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.

  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?”