Page 27 of Lord of the Forest

It was a harsh pronouncement, but she could perfectly understand his reasons. But what he said next filled her with horror.

“If this all turns out to be a wild goose chase, and Lancelot proves to be a nobody, I shall adhere to my earlier decision and return to how things stood before our lives were thrown into disarray. Clemence will marry Walter de Glanville.”

Chapter Twelve

Two days after their visit to Sir Kester, the Fitzpayne party arrived in Milforde village. After depositing their baggage at the Black Bull, Lancelot was eager to waste no time in seeing the place which might have been his home before catastrophe struck.

Emborough Hall was surrounded by a towering brick wall. In the distance beyond it, he could see four turrets, each capped with an elegantly curved lead dome. He couldn’t believe there was so much brick all in one place—how long had it taken to fashion those used in this incredible edifice? How much had it cost? He could scarcely credit that he might be heir to a palace such as this, yet there was an iron-hard fist of anticipation in his gut that had—unusually—nothing to do with the presence of Clemence Fitzpayne.

This place affected him deeply. He couldn’t put hand on heart and say he knew it, but as the gates swung open and he took his first good look, he knew what he was going to see the moment before he saw it.

There was an air of neglect about the manor that filled him with deep melancholy. Mortar had crumbled from between some of the bricks, and several of the glass panes were cracked or missing. The gardens had been left to run riot—although, there were plentiful blooms to cheer the beds with color, and their untended rambling reminded him of the forest, which made him feel more at home.

Master Hardy, the attorney from Coggeshall who had family living in Milforde village, handed Lancelot a massive key. “I borrowed this from the former steward, Master March. He would have been here to greet us, were he not suffering from an attack of gout. I told him naught of the reason for our visit—if Milforde folk knew one of the lost de Glanvilles was back amongst them, there would be a waiting mob stretching from here to the marketplace. I think our business, being of a delicate nature, is best managed in private. Don’t you agree?”

Lancelot was barely listening. He was picturing what would be seen when one turned the corner of the house. There would be a trellis with a climbing rose, the flowers boasting broad golden centers when fully opened, with red petals fading to white in the middle. When each flower became overblown, the roses would let their petals fall in great handfuls. His mother used to collect and dry them for sweet bowls to set around the house. Her face flashed before him—more clearly than he’d remembered it in years.

“Lancelot—are you unwell?”

He swayed a little, and Clemence took his arm. “Pray, tell me if there is a rose trellis around that corner.” Was it truly a memory, or just surmise?

She hurried around the base of the nearest turret. He heard her call, “Aye, there’s a trellis, and the roses are in bud. You must surely have seen it when you were here before, as it can’t be seen from the gate.”

A moment later, she was back by his side, gazing up at him with her scintillating grey eyes. “Lancelot—do you really think you might be Hector de Glanville?”

“Or Paris.” How was he to know?

“Many houses have trellises on their walls. More evidence than this would be needed to convince the authorities of Lancelot’s claim.”

He knew Fitzpayne didn’t mean to sound contemptuous—he just needed reassurance that he wasn’t throwing his daughter away on a nobody.

“Indeed.” Lancelot inserted the key into the lock, then paused a moment.

“Can you tell us what we’ll find inside?” inquired Sir Kester.

Closing his eyes, Lancelot rested his forehead on the sun-warmed oak panels of the door. “A large hall, like the great halls of old, with a stairway, and—what would you call them? Balconies? Galleries? These run around three of the sides. Alas, I can picture naught else—it is as if a great cloud were drawn over my eyes, obscuring everything.”

His head ached, but he had no wish to complain. Especially not when Clemence was beside him. His whole being yearned to impress her, so he must show no weakness.

“And how shall you climb the stairs, sir?” she whispered, a mocking smile on her face. “In the usual fashion? Or like an ape in a menagerie?”

He chuckled then, and the pall of gloom that had threatened to overwhelm him dispersed. He turned the key and stepped into the darkness beyond.

“It’s enormous!” Clemence ran forward, then spun around at the foot of the steps. “It’s so airy, and I’m sure would be gloriously light if we could get these shutters opened. Stay there, sir, and close your eyes while we do it for you.”

He obliged, though he felt a fool standing in the middle of the empty, echoing space. It was strange not to feel the wind on his face, to have the scent of the trees in his nostrils, to hear the rippling of the brook and the occasional tiny plop of a fish rising to the surface.

If this really was his home, did he want it? He’d probably be just as happy in a barn. Or a pavilion in a meadow.

“We’ve opened the shutters, so you can see everything.” Clemence sounded breathless and gleeful. “You can look now.”

Her enthusiasm was contagious. This was fortunate, as he could barely contain his own dismay. Emborough Hall was full of… things. Unnecessary things, the names of some of which it was a struggle to remember. There were tapestries, old shields and weapons hung on the walls, and a massive pair of stag’s antlers suspended above a carved stone fireplace.

He was fascinated by one of the tapestries, which depicted mounted hunters in a forest. He put out a hand, tracing the elegant lines of the tree trunks with his finger, staring at the high headdress of a lady on a white palfrey, and admiring the slender lines of the hunting dogs that surrounded her.

“I know this picture.” His voice was a whisper. He did know it and, suddenly, he knew a good many more things. He could see, in his mind’s eye, the under-housekeeper brushing the accumulated dust and cobwebs from the tapestry when she did her spring cleaning. He could picture where the light of high summer penetrated and illuminated the fabric’s bottom edge, fading out the yellow dyes so that all the green became blue. He could hear his mother calling his name as he hid behind it, giggling softly, hoping to avoid a scold. “Hector,” she called. “Hector!”

“Lancelot?” He blinked. Then gazed at Clemence, his brow furrowed.