Page 28 of Lord of the Forest

“Not Lancelot. Hector. Hector de Glanville.”

There was a mutual intake of breath from the other people in the hall.

Clemence took his hand, and he held on to it as if it were a rock, and he a mariner, shipwrecked in a raging sea.

“What makes you think you’re Hector?” Sir Kester’s face was stern.

Suddenly, Lancelot was filled with a new confidence. “Because I remember that now. I can lead you straight to the room I had for my bedchamber. We may find further proof there.”

For the moment, he’d forgotten how much he might have to hide. Not waiting to see if anyone accompanied him, he took the steps two at a time. Clemence puffed along after him.

“There!” He threw open a door and hustled her inside. The chamber was mostly taken up by a canopied bed, festooned with cobwebs. After a brief tussle with the catch, Lancelot threw back the shutters, filling the place with sunlight.

He scanned the room. “My writing things. My Bible. My slippers of Cordovan leather—I can’t believe I ever felt the need to wear soft such soft things on my feet!” He laughed, then threw open a chest. “Curse it. The moths have been devouring my doublet with the silver braid.”

He held the garment up against him, then wrenched off his borrowed doublet and tried it on. It was a near-perfect fit—allowing for the weight he’d lost while eking out his existence in the forest.

“Ah, see here—my lace ruff is still intact, though it needs crimping. Where are my sword belt and blade?”

He hunted around the room while the rest of his audience lingered near the door, apparently unwilling to interfere.

“What has become of my collar set with Baltic amber? Has that vile stepbrother of mine stolen it? Nay, for I hid it well. See!”

He held up an elaborate chain of gold links, interspersed with glowing cabochons of amber in gold settings. “And yes—here’s my copy of Le Morte d’Arthur! Much treasured.” He flourished the book in front of him, like a trophy of battle.

Then he realized everyone was staring at him.

Sir Kester broke the silence. “Your vile stepbrother?”

Lancelot—nay, Hector, as he must call himself now, smote himself on the forehead. “But of course. Walter de Glanville. Walter is my stepbrother. Little wonder I thought I’d seen him before—he lived with us after Father married again. Then Walter inherited the house at Glemham from his aunt, and left.”

Suddenly, anger swamped him, though he barely knew why. He sat on the bed and thumped his fist against the canopy support. The whole structure wobbled ominously.

“There’s so much I can’t remember,” he growled. “What happened to me? Where is my brother, Paris? Has there been foul play at work?”

Sir Kester stepped forward. “You need time, sir. We all do, I think. Hardy and I will make an inspection of the place and see what we may unearth. I advise you and the Fitzpaynes to return to the Black Bull for a pint or two of their excellent ale. Not watered down at all, as far as I can tell. You’ve had a shock, and it may be that this is all too much for you.”

“Nay.” He could not retreat, no matter how dangerous or confusing his situation. “I shall remain here. If any further memories return, I may be of use to you. And if there is any sign of the whereabouts of my brother—Paris, I mean—I wish to be the first to find it, to be the first to find him.”

He was filled with energy. If Emborough Hall was indeed his home, he had much to offer Clemence. But could he hope to be truly happy when so many questions remained unanswered? Much as he longed to be with her, he needed to establish himself first. Otherwise, he might as well go back to his glade in the woods and pretend this had never happened.

Clemence lifted her chin. “Must we go? I feel I’ve barely arrived, and I so wanted to see the gardens properly, while the weather is fair.”

“There’ll be time enough for that,” her father replied. “I, for one, have no wish to trail around overgrown gardens that may, or may not, belong to Lancelot. Should we call him Hector now? Although him knowing where a few objects were to be found, merely proves he’s been here before, not that it is his home.”

“Then I’m certainly not going yet, Father. I shall help find more evidence if that’s what is required.”

Lancelot silently applauded her bravery in standing up to her father.

The man rolled his eyes and sighed. “Very well. A few moments more, then. We’ll leave de Glanville to his musings.”

Lancelot was grateful to be left in peace. Although the peace inside a house was very different from what he’d known in the forest. He could hear the muted voices of the other people as they wandered about, their coughs and exclamations. He heard the creak of the boards beneath their feet, the rattle of opening doors—and echoes. If one filled this house with servants, its grounds with gardeners, and the land with livestock, poultry, and doves—the noise would drive him demented.

It would be a huge burden, taking up the task abandoned by his older brother. What age was Paris? One assumed he had no wife or progeny, or they would dwell here still—unless foul play had eradicated them, too. Nay. Sir Kester would have known of them had they existed, and Hardy would have said something.

It struck him as odd that none of the Black Bull’s customers had recognized him as Hector de Glanville. How long had he been away from home? Had he been off fighting in some campaign, mayhap, which would explain why his sword was missing? It would also account for the scars Clemence had found upon his back, perchance even his loss of memory.

Nothing new was coming to him, and his head was starting to ache again. The air in here must be stale—his chest felt tight. Swiftly, he descended the stairs, keen to find Clemence.