Page 12 of Lord of the Forest

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.

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.