Page 32 of Lord of the Forest

“I’ll have news for de Glanville he won’t want to hear. And I don’t look forward to disappointing him after I gave my word about Clemence,” said her father.

Her mouth twisted. Well, he should never have promised her to that man without consulting her. Even if he was quite within his rights to arrange her marriage, it was not the act of a loving parent. If de Glanville turned out to be a scoundrel—as she suspected he was—it wasn’t the act of a perceptive parent, either.

“Let us put aside the issue of Clemence’s marriage for the moment and concentrate on the affairs of Hector de Glanville. What do you wish to do, sir? Take possession of Emborough Hall immediately? It will be up to Walter to contest your right to it or come to terms with you. As he already has a residence of his own, there’ll be no need for you to offer him your hospitality.”

Clemence shuddered. The idea of Walter under Lancelot’s roof was unappealing. How could she visit him then? How could they pursue their courtship with Walter lurking disapprovingly in corners?

“Your pardon, Mistress.”

She shot upright, her cheeks burning. The potboy had arrived with a tray of pastries for the gentlemen within. She scooted out of the way as he shouldered open the door and announced, “A pheasant pasty—from a ripe bird, as asked for by the tall gentleman. Master Hardy, here is your pork with apple—and there are pigeon pies for the other gentlemen.”

By the time the youth departed the room, Clemence had removed herself from the passageway and headed toward the kitchen. The Black Bull was a warren of parlors, snugs, taprooms, and cellars, easy to get lost in unless one knew the place, but the kitchen was easy to find due to the delicious aroma of roasting beef emanating from it. She wondered how long she and her mother would have to wait for their supper.

Not that she had a great deal of appetite—whatever was being discussed over pasties in the parlor would affect her directly. Though she had never dared say it, she’d long nursed a suspicion that Walter de Glanville might have had a hand in her abduction. He hadn’t taken her rejection well—had he meant to teach her a lesson on that road? Had he intended to circumvent the normal process of marriage by making off with her?

If so, the only reason she could think of for his hurry was that he must be in a dire financial situation. It would have to be dire, indeed, as her dowry was unimpressive, and Clairbourne Manor the family’s only asset. Unless, of course, he’d fallen madly in love with her—which she very much doubted.

Lurking close to the kitchen, she heard the parlor door open again and decided retreat was the safest option. Heavy footsteps hurried up the ancient stone staircase, and a door slammed somewhere above. Who had left the room in such a hurry?

Her mother appeared around a corner. “There you are, my dear. Have you lost your way in this labyrinth?”

“Nay, Mother. I thought to inquire about our evening repast.”

“One must expect tardiness in these country inns. I wonder how long your father intends to be? I was hoping to speak with him about when we could return home—the servants will be running riot in our absence.”

Clemence followed her mother to a room adjacent to the taproom and joined her at a small oak table, already set with napkins and serving spoons. But not even the prospect of dining on roast beef fresh from the spit could tempt her. Her stomach was taut with anticipation, and she expected her father to appear at any moment and make a pronouncement that would have a significant impact on her future.

But when he came to sit with them while they ate their supper, it was to inform them that nothing had been decided, since Lancelot felt tired and had taken early to his bed. They must kick their heels until he’d rested, curse the man.

“Tired?”

She couldn’t imagine a man with Lancelot’s energy being tired. He’d been full of vigor when he threw Mistress Wentworth into the horse trough, and he was highly unlikely to disappear off for a rest at such a vital stage in negotiating his future. He must have lied—there was something he wanted—nay, needed to do.

But what? Confront Walter de Glanville on his own? But Lancelot wouldn’t know where to go or what to do. Why, the man had barely ridden a horse in years. Besides, if he was going to find Walter, she didn’t want to a single word of that conversation.

“Father, Mother—I have a headache coming on. I cannot face food. If you will excuse me, I shall lie down in my chamber.” Before anyone could see through her flimsy lie, or stop her, she was out of the room and cantering up the stairs.

Fully expecting to find Lancelot gone from his chamber, she was much surprised upon opening his door to find him still there. But he was behaving most oddly. He’d pulled off his doublet and shirt, and thrown water from the pitcher all over himself, making a mess on the floor. He still needed to be taught to wash in a civilized fashion.

“Lancelot?”

He turned toward her, and she knew something was seriously wrong. “What is it? Your face is positively white.”

“Bad meat.” He pressed a hand against his stomach and winced, then splashed more cold water on his forehead. “It sometimes happens to me in the forest, if I leave an animal in a trap too long, or hang the game up without covering it properly. I took no more than a couple of bites before I knew—I’ll soon recover.”

“Let me fetch you something.” She was all fingers and thumbs, trying to pour some of his drinking water into a cup.

“Panic not.” He placed a dripping hand over hers. “Bad meat, as I said. I will recover. Please go.”

“No, let me help. Lie down—no, drink this, then lie down. Put the pot out, in case you need to be sick. I’ll see what remedies can be found.”

“I appreciate your care but fear to shame myself in front of you. Go—send up a servant if you’re worried, then eat your vittles. But don’t eat the pheasant.”

He clutched at his stomach again, then swayed, and put out a hand. This was an excessively rapid response to rotten meat. Recalling how helpless she’d felt when Simeon fell ill with the sweating sickness, Clemence was determined to act immediately.

She flew down the stairs and crashed in on her parents. “First, don’t eat any pheasant.” She tried to catch her breath. “Secondly, send someone to attend to Lancelot—he’s most unwell. I’m going to look for physick.”

Leaving her parents open-mouthed, she spent a frustrating few minutes hunting down the innkeeper’s wife to see what simples, if any, she had in her store, then making free with the kitchen mortar to mash up some angelica root. To this, she added ginger and crushed fennel seed before warming it in a small quantity of white wine over a chafing dish.