Page 33 of Lord of the Forest

As soon as this was done, she raced to Lancelot’s chamber to see how he fared.

“You may not enter.” Her father had placed himself firmly in the doorway. “This is no place for a woman.”

She stood her ground. “This is exactly the place for a woman, particularly one accustomed to dealing with the sick.”

“I mean, a young, unmarried woman. One not accustomed—or so I hope—to seeing a man in a state of undress.”

Not only had she seen Lancelot naked, but she’d also seen him naked and crawling on all fours, grunting like a wild boar. But she had no intention of ever telling her father that.

“Let her in, Fitzpayne.” Sir Kester had appeared at her elbow, with Master Hardy in tow. “She made remedies for my son—she understands sickness. If she made that concoction herself, she’s the best person to administer it.”

When Clemence knelt by Lancelot’s bedside, attempting to spoon the medicine between his bluing lips, she truly knew the meaning of fear. He was deathly ill now—violent spasms racked his body, and most of the liquid was spilled. He clutched the bedclothes in his fists and gritted his teeth, trying to stifle his groans.

The onset of this malady was far speedier than that from which Simeon had suffered—she’d never known decaying meat provoke so immediate a reaction in anyone. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Lancelot had been poisoned. And targeted, too, as none of the other men had shown any symptoms of illness. But who knew Lancelot was here, or would have motive to poison him?

Poison was a woman’s weapon. Mistress Wentworth?

It made no sense. What could she have to gain by Lancelot’s death? Being dumped in the horse trough wasn’t deserving of such vengeance, surely?

“Hold his head still someone, I beg you, so that I can get some of the remedy into him.”

Sir Kester exerted all his strength keeping Lancelot in one position so he could be made to swallow his physick. As soon as it was gone, Clemence stood back and spent the next few moments in earnest prayer.

“Why all the drama, Clemence?” Her father sounded annoyed.

Sir Kester answered for her. “She thinks it’s poison, from those pastries we had before supper. Do you feel unwell, Fitzpayne?”

Her father looked astonished. “Nay—I feel perfectly sound. You?”

“Hale and hearty, as is Master Hardy. I’ll remain with you and Clemence to guard our victim, while Master Hardy questions the owners of this establishment and their staff. Lancelot didn’t finish his pasty.” Sir Kester turned to the lawyer. “Make sure to get a good sniff of his platter before it’s cleaned.”

“Clemence, you’re shaking. Pray, sit down before you fall.” Her father sounded genuinely concerned now. “I shall send for your mother to take you back to your chamber.”

She grabbed one of Lancelot’s flailing hands and gripped it firmly. It was an enormous relief to have the pressure of her grasp returned.

“Nay. I’ll stay here. You decreed not long since that I must marry this man. What kind of a woman abandons her future husband in his hour of need?”

She wasn’t going to let go of Lancelot’s hand for anyone, but she accepted the offer of a stool. Her knees were so weak, her stomach so turbulent, she wondered fleetingly if she’d been poisoned, too. But no—it was the agony of seeing the man she loved suffer.

She pressed a hand to her forehead. Exactly when had she come to love him? She knew not, but the idea that he might be taken from her shocked her so much, what she felt had to be love, a love greater than anything she’d ever known. Was Fate so cruel that it would take him before they’d even had a chance at happiness? It had happened once with Simeon. Fie! If it happened again, it would destroy her.

How long she sat there, clutching Lancelot’s hand and praying, she knew not. Her mind was a maelstrom of conflicting urges—should she be here to comfort him at the end, or ought she to be chasing around Milforde in search of more physick? Was it more important to find the source of the poison before anyone else fell foul of it?

Lancelot collapsed back against his pillows, and his free hand no longer plucked at the sheet. Clemence sensed the release of tension in his body and was tempted to pray again, fearing the worst.

“Come, Daughter. You’ve done all you can.” Her father tried to raise her.

“Nay—I need to keep watch.”

“Shall I hunt down a physician who is skilled at bleeding?” Sir Kester asked.

To her surprise, her father gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Let’s see what effect my daughter’s remedy may have. She’s a skilled user of herbs and ministers to all our maladies at Clairbourne with great success. If the man takes a turn for the worse, then we shall send for a physician.”

Clemence released Lancelot’s hand and rose. “We should turn him onto his side, Father, so if he feels sick, he hasn’t far to move.”

“Not ‘we’, Clemence. Sir Kester and I shall do it.”

Sir Kester raised an eyebrow at her as he joined her father in the awkward task of rolling Lancelot’s sturdy frame onto one side. She knew he was thinking of Simeon and the sweating sickness, and how her efforts had failed to save the boy. But she’d been so young then—barely sixteen summers—and had learned much since. She was determined never to fail again in saving anyone—the scars on her heart had yet to heal.