Page 14 of Lord of the Forest

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.