Lord of the Forest Read online

  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.

  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, fra
gile, 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.”