Page 29 of Lord of the Forest

He tracked her down in a room, similar to the one in which Kester Bayliss dealt with his business affairs. There were numerous chests set about the walls, a double-width window to let in more light, and an assortment of pottery ink pots and cobwebby quills on a table. Clemence was examining an empty box.

“What is that?”

Her expression was grave. “I think mayhap a box for coin—see how it is divided? It looks like the kind that might have been used by a landlord collecting rent. There should be ledgers, detailing the rents—but I can find none. So, who has been administering the manor and collecting the monies these past years? As you can see, the dust lies less thickly in this room, and there are trails on the table where items have been moved.”

He followed her reasoning, which gave rise to a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Walter de Glanville?”

“I suppose he must have felt duty-bound to do it, as he was the obvious heir—assuming the two of you were dead. Oh, would it not be wondrous if we discovered your brother Paris is still alive?”

How magnanimous of her to hope Paris had survived, for his older brother’s existence would deprive him of Emborough Hall and the chance to share it with her as his bride. Then he remembered her ambition of going to court—mayhap she imagined they could both go and make something of themselves.

He ran a finger through the dust, opened a chest full of mouse-chewed documents, and shut it again, then toyed with a lump of something sticky and malleable on the table. What was it? Ah, yes, he remembered—sealing wax.

“It will take time to learn how to run a manor like this. Like having one’s own village, with the accounts to take care of, the welfare of one’s people to manage, the petty disputes to settle, the condition of the animals and crops to oversee. I’ve forgotten how to do such things—if, indeed, I was ever taught.” He didn’t mean to complain to Clemence, but it was a heavy responsibility and one unsuited to his nature.

She placed her hand on his sleeve. “You would learn, Lancelot. And you would not be expected to manage alone. I’d help.”

“But you have hopes of your own, which don’t involve a husband with less than half his memory, and a large manor in need of maintenance.”

“There will doubtless be some complicated legal entanglements but, between us, we’ll disentangle them. And if we cannot, then—like Alexander with the Gordian Knot—we shall simply take a sword and slice them asunder.”

Her enthusiasm cheered him, and he was about to scoop her up into his arms and steal a kiss when an exclamation from the great hall stopped him in his tracks.

“What is it?” Clemence stared at him, alarmed.

“I know not.” He seized her hand and took her into the hallway, every muscle tensed, crouching instinctively as if he were still in the forest.

The others were crowded around something propped against one of the walls in the great hall.

“We found this.” Sir Kester stepped away. “It was turned to face the wall and had been hidden behind one of the tapestries. I imagine it once took pride of place in this room, or above the stairwell.”

The back of Lancelot’s scalp tickled, and he ran a hand over the puckered skin. All his senses were screaming at him to run, but he fought the urge. Whatever had been discovered, he would have to cope with it.

“I don’t think there’s any doubt now as to your identity.” Sir Kester moved aside, revealing a framed canvas, bearing a portrait of two youths. Lancelot stared. The faces were so alike—both akin to the reflection he saw in his bathing pool. His face but without the long hair and straggling beard he’d worn while living in the forest.

The artist had made it clear which of the youths was the elder—he had a solemn face, with lines on the brow and mouth, and held a book and pen, giving him a scholarly aspect. The younger of the two was broad-shouldered and athletic, and even though he wore a fancy lace falling band, it did nothing to dull his masculinity. One hand rested on his sword pommel, the other on a longbow, indicating the subject was a keen sportsman.

But Lancelot’s gaze was drawn to the elder—the one he was sure must be Paris. His vision blurred, and he was once more kneeling by the running water, an agonizing pain in both head and heart as he tried to wash away the blood.

When the vision faded, he gazed at the painting again. One brother, benign and studious. The other with his hand on his sword hilt and a martial look in his eye. Built so solidly that he could strangle a man with his bare hands…

There would be no marriage, no inheritance, no gilded future for him and Clemence Fitzpayne. It was abundantly clear to him—he had killed his older brother.

Chapter Thirteen

Though he’d done his best to hide it, Clemence knew Lancelot had been overwhelmed by the return to his family home. For there was no doubt now in anyone’s mind that he was one of the lost heirs—the likeness in the portrait could not be disputed.

She’d argued they should all return to the inn for their midday meal, hating the haunted expression on his face and wanting to distract him. But before leaving, one very significant thing had been discovered. Sir Kester had found a copy of Tyndale’s English translation of the Bible. The names and dates of birth of family members had been inscribed on the flyleaf.

Hector de Glanville had a middle name. Lancelot.

Once he’d recovered from his surprise at discovering he hadn’t chosen the name from Arthurian legend, after all, he seemed happy to continue using it. He’d become used to answering to Lancelot while at Clairbourne, and it would be a trial adjusting to any other name.

As they sat down to their meal, Clemence noticed a glint in her father’s eyes. She’d seen it before, when Walter de Glanville first came courting, a mixture of pride and calculation. If his favor had now switched to Lancelot—as the man with the strongest claim to Emborough—she couldn’t be happier.

Her mother seemed to have improved her behavior toward Lancelot, too. She no longer winced when he walked with a slouch, staring around him as if on the lookout for enemies. She didn’t even object when he splashed the water from the finger bowl all over his face and ate his frumenty without using a spoon.

Mayhap his table manners had never been that good, which was why he was inclined to overlook them now. Could he remember anything of his skills? He’d been able to ride perfectly well. What would happen if one put a bow in his hand and pointed him in the direction of the archery butts on Milforde green? If one gave him a sword, would he hold it correctly, assume the right positions to block specific blows?