Page 31 of Lord of the Forest

Clemence clenched her hands beneath the table. This must be some fortune hunter, attempting to gull Lancelot with a false claim, surely? But she’d acted quickly if that were the case.

She swallowed hard. “Mistress Wentworth—pray, forgive the gentleman. Some disaster has befallen him which has deprived him of most of his memories. He means no harm by denying you. But if your claim on him is genuine, he needs more proof than your word on the matter.”

“I should say, I do.” Lancelot’s expression was fierce. “And even if she had a prior claim on me, I’d not feel constrained to honor it. If you had cared for me, Lady, you’d have taken steps to find me—not assumed I’d deserted you.”

Mistress Wentworth narrowed her eyes. “How could I have found you if you did not wish to be found?”

Lancelot replied with a contemptuous snort and turned away. Clemence had never seen him so angry.

“Why are all these people still here?” Mistress Wentworth waved her hand at the diners sitting around the board. “Affairs of the heart are not for public debate.”

Lancelot rounded on her. “I feel nothing in your presence, Lady. Be assured I would, had I ever felt anything for you. You are a fraudster and a cheat and are upsetting my friends and my future family. Get you gone, and take your boy with you.”

“I will not!” The woman’s hard-done-by expression had vanished, to be replaced by cold fury. “I came here in good faith, ready to forgive you for abandoning me, and all I get is disbelief and insult.”

“Then you should not have come here making claims you cannot substantiate. Where do you live? Who are your parents? Why are they not with you? I have learned enough since my return to the world to know it is not fitting for you to approach me like this, with none but a pageboy in attendance. And do you behave to me as a loving sweetheart? Nay, you do not. Do you weep with joy for my recovery? You do not. Does the sight of you make my heart pound and my breath catch in my throat? It does not.”

The room became ominously silent. Everyone, including Clemence, stared at Lancelot, never having heard him so voluble before. He’d taken the wind out of everyone’s sails.

“My honesty shocks you.” He nodded his head at Mistress Wentworth. “If you wished to dupe me, you should have come better prepared. Who put you up to this? What conniving creature is behind your plot, or did you concoct it all by yourself?”

Mistress Wentworth had puffed out her cheeks and her bosom. She looked like a pig’s bladder being inflated for use as a jester’s balloon. Overinflated, in truth, for she looked likely to explode at any moment. When her rage broke, it was not that of a discarded lover. It was that of an actor declaiming from the stage, a weird array of dramatic gestures and incoherent sounds.

This performance ended with her launching herself at Lancelot and throwing everything to hand directly at his head. Wooden bowls, both empty and full, latten spoons, manchet rolls, and horn beakers sailed across the table at the hapless man. Clemence sat glued to her seat, not sure whether to scream or dissolve into hysterical laughter.

As the rest of the diners scattered, and the potboy came hurtling in to find out what the disturbance was, Lancelot fended off the missiles, picked up the protesting Mistress Wentworth, and threw her over his shoulder before making for the door.

Clemence leaped from her chair and pursued him, followed by the rest of their party. They made it to the front of the Black Bull just in time to see Lancelot dump Mistress Wentworth into the horse trough.

“I believe you need to cool off, my dear,” he told her. “I trust I shall not hear from you again.” He made a show of dusting his hands on his knees, then stalked back into the inn, shouldering his way through his audience.

Clemence’s eyes were popping. She must remember never to enrage Lancelot if this was how he avenged himself.

“Magnificent!” Her mother’s eyes were bright as she watched Lancelot resume his seat at the now-chaotic dining table.

“Disgraceful.” Her father strode back in, his beard bristling with annoyance. “That man needs to stop making a spectacle of himself. Can you not control him, Clemence?”

He gave her no chance to reply as he swept past. Master Hardy came next. “I cannot help but think that woman deserved it.”

Sir Kester Bayliss, a thoughtful expression on his face, remained watching the pageboy as he helped Mistress Wentworth out of the horse trough.

He turned to Clemence. “I cannot help but think young Hector de Glanville did protest too much. I know he has spent some years in the forest with only himself to please, but what we witnessed may have been more than an overreaction. He needed to silence that young woman before she let slip something that would have damned him.”

Leaning closer, he whispered, “Beware that gentleman. He may not be everything he appears to be.”

Her back stiffened. “Had you seen the mean existence that he suffered in the forest, you could never say that. I value your opinion, sir—believe me, I do—but you misjudge the man. He’s more open and honest than you or I. He treated that woman as he saw fit. Aye—he wanted to silence her, because she was obnoxious—not because he feared she would expose him. If she’s the only fortune hunter to emerge from the woodwork now that Hector de Glanville is found again, I shall be very surprised.”

Having delivered her parting shot, she turned away in confusion. Usually, she would have hung on Sir Kester’s every word, but she’d just torn him down in flames. This could mean one of two things—she had fallen hopelessly in love with Lancelot and would not hear a word said against him, or—and she hoped this wasn’t the case—it was because she feared Sir Kester was right.

Chapter Fourteen

Before supper that evening, when everyone had recovered from the unpleasant incident with Mistress Wentworth, a debate was held regarding what to do next about Lancelot. Neither Clemence nor her mother were invited. Consequently, as soon as Mother left her to her own devices, Clemence positioned herself outside the private parlor door and listened at the keyhole.

“Walter de Glanville will have to be told that one of the heirs to Emborough is found.” She recognized Kester Bayliss’ voice, authoritative as ever.

“I aim to be present when he’s informed.” Yes, she could well understand why Lancelot would want to come face-to-face with his stepbrother. But from the edge in his voice, it didn’t sound as if he expected the meeting to be a cordial one.

“As a justice of the peace, I should like to be present, as should Master Hardy.”