Page 20 of Lord of the Forest

She dipped him a curtsey as she left, which amused him. She was no serving girl, so it made no sense that she should defer to him, a wild man of the woods. Would he ever understand the world she came from? It was nonsensical.

He did understand washing, however. Swiftly stripping off his clothes, he set the bowl on the bare boards of the floor, and joyfully splashed water all over himself, rubbing away the marks of the rusty manacles, and cleansing the burns on his ankles caused by the ropes which had bound them.

He gazed at the clothing that lay on the bed and thought about putting it on. But he wasn’t cold—just wet—so he took up the shirt, and dried himself with it.

Then he stared at the bed, at the layered linens beneath the canopy. Eventually, he worked out how to release the drapes, which made him feel better—more enclosed and secure. Piling all the linens into the middle of the bed, he made a nest for himself, then curled up in the middle of it and went to sleep, naked.

And was awakened two hours later by the scream of the maidservant when she came to call him for dinner.

Chapter Nine

To Clemence’s surprise and delight, Lancelot had remained at Clairbourne Manor as a guest of the Fitzpaynes for two sennights. In that time, it was firmly established that he had done her no harm. It was also established that he was an incorrigible eccentric who was more than content to make a spectacle of himself, and care not a whit if he was reprimanded or laughed at. No one had yet seen him lose his temper, and Clemence was thrilled to have his company, looking forward to each new day as it came, purely for the pleasure of being with the most compelling, intriguing—and sometimes the most infuriating—man she’d ever met.

Lancelot had disgraced himself many times with his lack of etiquette. At their first meal together, the one with Kester Bayliss in attendance, he’d sat on the floor rather than a chair, having helped himself to an entire roast fowl—sans platter—which he proceeded to pull apart and eat with his bare hands.

Clemence had taken responsibility for improving his table manners. It meant she could sit next to him at mealtimes and revel in the closeness of his splendidly-made body and masculine allure. He smelled so good these days, having dutifully submitted to her various attempts to conjure up a perfumed soap that would suit a man. This wasn’t easy to do without spending a fortune on rare base products like musk oil and ambergris.

He also proved to be so exceedingly handsome—once tidied up—that she could barely take her eyes off him. The morning after his arrival, her father had taken it upon himself to trim his beard, and he’d ended up, at Lancelot’s request, shaving the entire thing off, because it had become so matted. The maid, Cissy—once she’d recovered from her initial shock of discovering he liked to sleep naked—had neatened up his hair, and cut it to frame his ears and curl over his forehead. The combination of bronzed skin, raven-black hair, and forest-green eyes was so stunning, it sometimes stole Clemence’s breath.

She laughed at herself, told herself she was like a besotted young maiden with her first suitor, and refused to imagine she could feel any connection with this bewildering man. There was no point examining her feelings on the subject, as nothing could ever come of it. Her father had still not given up hope of allying her to Walter de Glanville.

No trace had been found of the cart in which she’d been abducted, nor of those who’d abducted her. When the suggestion was made that a party go to Lancelot’s hideout to examine the cloak in which she’d been smothered, both she and Lancelot vetoed it instantly. It made her father mutter and grumble, but she knew he’d not pursue the matter. He had begun—despite himself—to like and respect the new addition to their household.

Lancelot’s sojourn at the manor had been intended to be temporary, but between them, he and Clemence kept finding reasons for him to remain. Initially, it was so that he might recover fully from the blow dealt him by the constable’s club. Later, it was in case he could shed further light on Clemence’s abduction, or might be able to recall some detail of the scene he’d forgotten hitherto.

To this end, Clemence made full use of her store of remedies. She went to Lancelot every morning to feed him rosemary conserve, in the hope of improving his memory. She made him drink a distillation of eyebright every day and even experimented with the rare Jerusalem thistle to help him remember more.

What she did not vouchsafe to Lancelot was that she wanted to restore more than just his memory of the day he’d saved her from a pair of opportunistic brigands. She wanted him to remember who he was, his real name, and his history. This not knowing was eating her alive, and she couldn’t understand why he didn’t want to find out himself. If he knew of her ulterior motive, he never taxed her with it. He was, apparently, enjoying the comforts of civilized life too much to complain.

One pleasure he’d rediscovered was reading. Books were rare and precious, but Clairbourne Manor had a fair stock of volumes, in French, English, and Latin. Ofttimes, Clemence would go in search of Lancelot, only to find him in his characteristic squat on the ground, his nose in a volume of Aesop’s Fables, or Plutarch’s Lives. There was also a precious copy of Chrétien de Troyes’ Perceval, which he read from cover to cover in a matter of days, only taking his eyes off the volume to eat, and whenever she came nigh.

Both her mother and father began increasingly to wonder who Lancelot was, and how he came to have neither home nor memory. Something catastrophic had occurred in his life to turn it upside down, and they, like Clemence, could not understand his unwillingness to investigate further. She forbade them to speak to anyone about their unusual guest and, from respect for Lancelot, they agreed. But her father asked something from her in return—that she encourage the advances of Walter de Glanville when—and if—he next came to call upon her.

With a heavy heart, she’d given her promise, although it cost her more than she cared to examine. Fortunately, her erstwhile suitor did not return, and she began to think herself safe. But how long would this happy state of affairs continue?

Today was gloomy and dull—disappointing weather for early May. Clemence was out in the walled garden, harvesting more rosemary for Lancelot. She’d found a new recipe for a distilled water of the flowers, which—infused with cloves, mace, anise, and cinnamon—was good for the breath as well as the brain. She had, she hoped, already improved Lancelot’s breath by encouraging him to rub his teeth with sage each day, and clean them with a splayed hazel twig. She’d not yet had the chance to test out the efficacy of this regime, as her parents watched her like hawks when she kept company with him—much to her annoyance.

A large drop of rain splattered onto an artichoke leaf near her head and split into silver runnels before dripping to the soil beneath. Moisture chilled the back of her neck, and the garden filled with the fizz and roar of a late spring shower.

She flung her apron over her basket to keep it dry and had just reached the shelter of the door to the garden when she saw a sight that made her throat go dry.

Lancelot stood in the rough grass near the empty cattle stall. He’d removed his borrowed doublet and shirt and stood, chest bared to the rain, with his arms above his head, and his face turned to the heavens.

It looked as if he were bathing in the water. Indeed, moments later, he swiped his hands over his body, rubbing the rain into his skin, and smoothing it over his bronzed muscles until he glistened like a living statue.

The look of sheer carnal delight on his face touched her deeply, made her wonder how it would feel to have fresh rain on one’s skin after a hot, exhausting day. Delectable, she imagined. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the spectacle of Lancelot’s hand doing what hers ached to do—touch him, explore him, own him.

Her breath came in short bursts, and she stared her fill until the curtain of rain obscured him. She’d just made up her mind to run for the house when she heard the clatter of hooves on the road, which came to an abrupt halt level with the house.

A visitor! If it were anyone other than Kester Bayliss, they could represent danger. Tucking her basket in the lee of the garden door, she lifted her skirts and skidded her way across the slippery flint cobbles toward the cattle byre.

“Lancelot! Hide—someone’s coming.”

In an instant, he’d vanished from sight, leaving her standing in the yard, her hair in dripping tangles around her face—feeling foolish.

“Whist!”

The sound came from the barn, several yards beyond the byre. Glancing behind her to ensure no one had yet entered the stable yard, she hurried forward, and into the musty darkness.