Page 13 of Lord of the Forest

“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.