Page 34 of Lord of the Forest

Once Lancelot was settled in his new position, he closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. He still clutched at his stomach, and his face wore a greenish tinge, but he seemed like a man exhausted from a fight, rather than one still embattled.

“Is he improving, Clemence?”

“I hope so. I’d like to watch over him while he rests.”

“Then do so. Sir Kester and I will look further into this issue with the pheasant. And we’ll locate the nearest physician, just in case—but won’t alert him unless you say we should.”

“Should we not alert the constable, too? If there’s a poisoner in our midst, they must be caught.” Her father’s face was grim.

“Such talk is not fitting for the sickroom.” Sir Kester lowered his voice and leaned closer to her father. “I don’t want the invalid to be alarmed, but if this attack fails, there may be others.”

“All the more reason to call the constable.” Her father might not care much for Lancelot, but Clemence knew he had no time for criminals, especially not cowardly ones unprepared to face up to their victims.

“Let us make our own inquiries first. Constables are not known as the cleverest of men. If we inform the fellow, he’ll raise the hue and cry, but how would that help us catch our poisoner? He—or she—can hide in plain sight. They’ll have no blood upon them, and nothing to indicate their crime.”

“So, you think more subtlety is needed?” Clemence’s father chewed on his finger.

Lancelot groaned softly, and she bent to brush his hair back from his brow.

“I do, indeed. We can easily bring the constable in later.” Sir Kester glanced at the bed, then back at her father. “Our main suspect must be Walter, surely. I can’t see that anyone working in the inn would deliberately poison a guest. If we can find a connection between Mistress Wentworth and Walter, all the better. Or there may be someone who lives in Milforde who needs Hector de Glanville dead. Only subtle inquiry will help, but we must all be alert should our would-be assassin try his hand again.”

Clemence was barely listening to their exchange now, all her attention concentrated on Lancelot. But as the two gentlemen left the chamber, she overheard her father say, “If Clemence can save our rediscovered heir, mayhap she should go to court, where the queen will value her skills. She’s always dreamed of it, you know. One of the reasons she was dead set against marriage.”

“Mayhap you should let her go,” Sir Kester said before they were out of earshot. “If someone has deliberately attempted to poison Hector de Glanville, you need to get your daughter away from him as soon as possible. She would, indeed, be safer at court.”

Clemence reached for Lancelot’s hand again, brought it to her mouth, and kissed his knuckles. She hadn’t been meant to overhear her father’s pronouncement, had she? A few short weeks ago, she would have been overjoyed to hear him praise her healing skills, and support her hopes of becoming a maid-of-honor to Queen Elizabeth.

But could she envisage no longer being part of Lancelot’s story? She knew she loved him now, wanted him with every breath, with every beat of her heart. How could she bear to be parted from him?

But how much danger would she be in if she became his wife?

Chapter Fifteen

Lancelot awoke with an ache in his gut and a foul taste in his mouth. Where was he? He felt enclosed, so he must be in the hollow oak. But when he moved, there was no rustle or prickle of dried furze, only sliding softness. And the forest smelled wrong, too—not of fresh greenery, but of wood smoke, dust, and a deep, musky scent that was not of his world.

“Lancelot?” A woman’s voice. An image flashed across his mind, that of a pretty female enveloped in layers of clothing, in his arms one moment and the next in the horse trough.

“Zounds! Get away from me, Woman.”

A squeak of alarm met his eruption from the bed. “Lancelot! Don’t you remember me? ’Tis I, Clemence. Lie down—you’re not well.”

He refused to obey. Nobody commanded Hector de Glanville. Catching the wench by the wrist, he demanded, “What are you about? Where am I?”

“Lancelot. Hector. You’re in the Black Bull at Milforde—you ate bad meat. Remember that?”

He blinked, then stared at the young female regarding him, her lovely mouth twisted in annoyance. This was not the one he’d thrown in the water. How fortunate, as she didn’t look like the forgiving sort.

He ran a hand over the back of his head, scratching at the thin skin and uneven surface of his scalp. “Forgive me.” He let go of her wrist. “I was in the forest. You brought me out, and now I’ve regained my memory. Is that correct?”

“A little more complicated than that, but you can be forgiven your confusion—you’ve been sleeping deeply. I’d say your constitution is unharmed by the poison, though you are evidently wearied from fighting it.”

“Poison?” He was instantly on the alert, staring around him for danger.

“If you’re looking for enemies, there’s no one here but me,” she said dryly. “Now settle down, make yourself decent, and we’ll talk.”

Make himself decent? He glanced down. He was clad in braies and nether hose, but shoeless and shirtless. Well enough dressed for the forest.

Then he remembered. “I’m sorry.” He fumbled for his shirt and dragged it on. “It will take some time before the observation of good manners becomes second nature to me.”