Page 25 of Lord of the Forest

Lancelot was fully a man, a feral spirit, a portal to some unknown world that both fascinated and frightened her. To be his would be to be consumed by him, like a feather in a flame. Was she strong enough to win his devotion, fulfill his needs, and carry his children?

Hah! Foolish speculation—all of it. There were many obstacles to overcome, and a great deal more she needed to know about him and how he felt before she could take her chance at happiness. And if Lancelot couldn’t wed her, and de Glanville wouldn’t wed her, she might still find a place at court. Although, if she were truly unlucky, she could end up a miserable spinster, sad-eyed and slowly decaying within the confining walls of Clairbourne Manor, dispensing her medicines to the local populace like an old hedge-witch.

Their ride was at an end—Hackpen Court was in view. Clemence experienced the usual plunge in mood that she always felt when visiting this house, feeling Simeon’s absence as physical pain. Only… this time, the agony lasted but a moment. He was gone. She hadn’t been able to save him from the deadly sweating sickness, despite her frantic brewing of concoctions and pounding of herbs. But now, there was someone else she could save—if only Lancelot would allow it.

Sir Kester greeted them enthusiastically. “Dame Fitzpayne, Mistress Clemence, sir. You are most welcome.” He bowed low as they were ushered into the paneled parlor with its elaborate plaster ceiling.

“Do we have a name for you yet, sir?” he inquired, as he bowed to Lancelot.

Apparently much chastened by having let his desire get the better of him last night, Lancelot was on his best behavior. He bowed elegantly, doffed his borrowed cap and replaced it, then straightened.

“Alas, no. A few enigmatic memories have returned, and I have been reintroduced to the social graces since last we met, but my name and my origin continue to elude me.”

Sir Kester’s eyebrows shot up. He looked impressed by both Lancelot’s speech and manner. Clemence allowed herself to bask in reflected glory—she was responsible for much of the improvement. Her pleasure, however, was short-lived.

“I’ll come straight to the point, Sir Kester.” Her father pulled out a chair each for Clemence and her mother, then stalked to the window. There, he occupied a position of state, hands clasped behind his back like an attorney making a speech.

“It is imperative we make inquiries into this gentleman’s background. I need him identified, damn it. He has taken advantage of his time spent under my roof, and risks sullying my daughter’s good name.”

“Nay, Father. He has just forgotten what is proper and what is not. ’Twas my fault—”

The steely glint in her father’s eyes silenced her. If she argued, the look warned her, he’d embarrass her still further in front of their family friend.

“I’m not saying that anything sinful has occurred but, from what I’ve observed and how I found them, Lancelot here owes my daughter the protection of his name—whatever that turns out to be. The world must believe them to be betrothed. At least, until reason can be found for them not to be.”

Until reason could be found? What if Lancelot already had a wife? Clemence’s blood ran cold. He certainly kissed effectively, and with a finesse that she’d not expected.

“I see.” Sir Kester helped himself to a seat behind a table covered in documents and scrolls. “Has there been any moment, sir, when a name sounded familiar to you—as if it might be your own?”

He held Lancelot’s gaze but was greeted by a shake of the head.

Clemence sat up straight. “There was Walter de Glanville. Remember—you wondered if you’d seen him before. Mayhap Sir Kester should ask him.”

Her father turned to her, his brows furrowed. “Where were you, that you witnessed Lancelot’s response to de Glanville?”

Her cheeks went hot. “We were in the barn, sheltering from the rain.”

Her father rolled his eyes and held his hands out to Sir Kester in appeal. “You see why I feel these two should be betrothed? They cannot be trusted to be alone together. I would rather their situation was official than otherwise.”

She saw the disbelief in Sir Kester’s face. Her father must sound like a madman, wanting to ally his daughter to a nobody.

“We believe Lancelot to be of noble blood,” she said hastily. “We came to seek your advice on how to find out.”

Sir Kester shot her a knowing look, then turned back to her father. “I quite understand your concerns, Fitzpayne. And yes, it may be meet to speak with this Walter de Glanville. De Glanville… de Glanville. Where have I heard that name before?”

“He lives about an hour’s ride away, on the Ipswich road. He has a tidy enough property, but has expectations of inheriting Emborough Hall.”

Her father’s pronouncement had an immediate effect on Sir Kester.

“Emborough Hall. Of course! I received a letter some moons ago that mentioned it.” He shuffled through the papers on his desk. Clemence’s heart sped up, and she glanced at Lancelot, but his expression was inscrutable.

“Here it is. My correspondent wrote to me of a legal case involving that property. Aye—it is as you say. Walter de Glanville, the stepson of the deceased owner, lays claim to the place, but his right to it is contested by the Crown. They’re claiming there’s no proof the direct heirs—two brothers of full blood—are deceased. Just missing.”

A hush fell over the room. Outside, a pheasant cackled, and the sound of a groom brushing down the stable yard could be heard.

Lancelot had paled, his gaze fixed on Sir Kester. Clemence longed to go to him, sensing the battle between disbelief and hope that consumed him. She sensed his fear, too—how fortunate she was the only person in the room who knew why he was afraid.

Her father said, “I’m surprised, sir, that both heirs are accounted missing. De Glanville assured me they were deceased.”