Page 37 of Lord of the Forest

She grimaced. “Then it was a cowardly attack. Mayhap I should have a sword, too, in case I need to defend myself.”

He immediately sheathed the ancient weapon he’d found, and fastened the belt around his hips. “Not while I draw breath, you won’t. If you hold a blade, your attacker will feel forced to use his own. If you have no weapon, he’ll be more inclined to parley. Besides, what need have you of steel when you have me to protect you?”

She tossed her head. “I suppose you’ll tell me next that swordplay isn’t so much fun as it looks. And I thought you a free spirit, with a mind open to new ideas, eschewing the everyday rules by which we live.”

He’d thought himself a free spirit, too, by comparison. But when it came to Clemence, he found he could happily follow the rules if it kept her safe.

“When I know what I know and how I know it, I might then be in a position to teach you, oh, courageous maid. But for now, I am the one wearing the sword, and intend to keep it that way.”

“Do you intend to ruin further tapestries by plunging your blade into them?” She quirked an eyebrow at him.

He stared at the slashed poppy, now looking like a splash of blood. “Are tapestries important?”

“They are valuable. It is generally thought best to let tapestries fade and fall apart by themselves before they’re replaced, not cut them to ribbons with swords.” She lifted the lantern. “I’m surprised there aren’t more in a house like this. See—there are wooden battens at the top of some of the walls, where tapestries might once have hung.”

He followed the direction of her gaze. “Maybe there were financial difficulties when my parents died, and Paris had to sell them.” He thought about this, struggling to penetrate the dark clouds that shadowed his memory. “I don’t know. I think we prospered, but cannot be sure.”

“Other things are missing. When we were in the larger of the two parlors, I saw empty hooks in the paneling, where objects must once have hung.”

He wouldn’t have noticed such a thing—he was still striving to recall how great houses worked. “What manner of objects?”

“Paintings. Battle trophies. Embroideries and suchlike.”

“And they would have been valuable?”

“Aye. And there was a good deal of pewter in the scullery, but no silver.”

“Silver?”

She gave a snort of impatience. “You know. The precious metal from which coin of the realm is made, and beautiful objects such as… goblets, salt cellars, candlesticks.”

Staring into the flickering candle flame, he pondered the problem. “I would put what I valued where no one would find it.”

“Like your shoes and your doublet, in the hollow tree in the forest?”

She was teasing him again, but he couldn’t be angry. That mocking smile made his heart lift, his skin tingle, and his body thrill in anticipation. The very presence of Clemence Fitzpayne rendered it impossible for him to concentrate on what he was supposed to remember or understand.

She’d be infuriated if he told her. She was in the role of the hunter now, not that of the lover.

“Where does your father keep those possessions that he most values?”

“In a chest too heavy to move, sealed with bands of iron and multiple locks, covered with a patterned carpet. It’s in their bedchamber—I fear it will fall through on top of us one day.”

“If valuable items are gone from Emborough, they’ve either been stolen or put away. Or mayhap are in the keeping of others, such as the lawyers administering the manor while Walter de Glanville’s claim is assessed.”

She was already moving toward the stairs. Evidently, his pronouncement wasn’t going to stop her from poking around. Mistress Clemence Fitzpayne enjoyed hazard and adventure, he suspected, and it would tax his wits to keep her safe.

“All we need to do is find the main bedchamber, where Paris would have slept.”

He helped himself to the lantern, and took the stairs two at a time, keen to illuminate the dark reaches of the house before she arrived there. His hand went for the pommel of his sword without him being aware of it.

She followed him and gazed at the impressive gallery that extended the whole length of the upper floor. “Can you remember which room Paris slept in? Or your parents?”

On their previous visit, he’d been too absorbed in the rediscovery of his own room to pay attention to the other chambers. He prowled along, looking at doors and cross-passages, hoping for some spark of memory—but none came.

“Nay. We’ll just have to look into each. You’ll have to tell me which is the finest, Clemence, as I’ve forgotten how to judge such things.”

There was that teasing look again, that wayward challenge in her eyes. He responded to it on a fundamental level, knowing an overwhelming need to prove himself to her, to demonstrate his worth.