Page 1 of Lord of the Forest

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.