Page 40 of Lord of the Forest

“Don’t you see? It means the owners of this room, if not the owners of this house, were Catholic.” Her voice caught.

“Catholic?” He tried to recall what he’d read. It was complicated, but he understood Catholics and Protestants had contrary religious beliefs.

“Is that a problem?”

“Indeed, it is.” He read despair in her eyes. “My family are staunch Protestants. Nothing on earth would induce them to let me marry a Catholic.”

Chapter Sixteen

Despite Clemence’s belief that no one need ever know what they’d found, she couldn’t bear to stay in the house any longer. Even though Lancelot had sworn, on his knees, that he’d recant or take any punishment he might deserve, she couldn’t stay. With that discovery, all hope of a blissful future with him had fled.

She had run through the echoing hall, chased down the avenue, and scurried back to the inn. As soon as she reached her room, she dragged a heavy armoire in front of the door, then collapsed on the bed, all the fight gone out of her. She was more devastated now than when Simeon had died—her hopes had been snuffed out, and there was nothing left to rekindle the flame.

As she lay on the bed, battling the tears, her body thrummed with alarm. What if Lancelot came after her? What if he shouted, broke down the door? Neither subtlety nor patience was a strength of his. Nay, he mustn’t do it. She needed time for calm, time in which to think, and plot what she must do.

Duty urged her to tell her father about Lancelot’s faith. But if she did, would she not put Lancelot in harm’s way? If you were a Catholic in Queen Elizabeth’s England, it was best to be reticent. Too many of them had allied with Spain, or supported Mary, Queen of the Scots, or fomented discontent and plotted to overthrow the monarch. Then there was the cunning Sir Francis Walsingham, rumored to have spies hunting traitors in every town—was Milforde any exception?

She chewed on her lip in an agony of indecision. How could she endanger Lancelot when she cared for him so deeply? If she loved him, should she not protect him? And even if he, or his family, had been closet Catholics—what did it matter now? Lancelot could write himself anew, the past wiped out and forgotten, his sins expunged.

Getting to her feet, she began pacing the room. What must she do? Could she, in all conscience, keep this knowledge from her father? Could she wed a man who might once have been a Catholic?

A soft scratching at the door sent her heart into her mouth.

“Clemence. It’s me. Open up, I beg you.”

She clenched her fists. His voice was so earnest, and she could hear his pain. She’d wounded him horribly by running off like that. He wouldn’t understand, could he? How could she expect him to?

Her footsteps dragged on the floor, and when she set her shoulder to the armoire, it felt as heavy as lead. Eventually, it shifted. When she opened the door, she half-expected to see the owners of the inn, and all the other residents standing there, having come to see who was moving furniture in the middle of the night.

Lancelot stood there, one forearm resting on the lintel above her door, his face solemn, shadowed, unfamiliar.

“Am I now so detestable that you have to barricade me out with furniture?”

She backed away, shocked at the agony that sliced through her. Too much wanting, too little hope. But she must stand firm. Whatever that meant. “As you see, I changed my mind.”

“Thank you. May I enter? Only to talk—we cannot leave things as we did.”

No, they couldn’t. She’d created a breach between them because of his suspected religious beliefs—but what if that was wrong? There was no proof he’d hidden the Latin Bible and rosary. Besides, any number of people might have Latin Bibles lying forgotten in their houses—it didn’t mean they used them.

“Speak to me, I beseech you. What are your feelings?”

If the overwhelming ache in her soul was anything to go by, her love was made all the keener by being rendered dangerous. Fate was unkind.

“I know not. What does it matter how I feel, if such a chasm divides us?”

“I imagine people have traversed chasms before.” He spoke softly, his gaze enveloping her. He held out a hand. “See? All you need to do is take it. The chasm is then bridged.”

How she longed to touch him! Her body cried out to him—with his kiss, he’d unlocked unfathomable yearnings inside her, which she knew only he could fulfill. It would be too cruel to refuse his hand. She took it and was immediately suffused with his warmth.

“There. Easily done.” He squeezed her fingers, then kissed her knuckles. “I wonder—might you visit me when I return to the forest? Just to maintain my humanity and to prevent me from becoming even less desirable to society?”

When he returned to the forest? She felt herself sway. She’d crossed the chasm, and he was now abandoning her? When she could trust her voice to be steady, she asked, “You mean us to be friends, but not to wed?”

The sadness in his eyes wrenched at her. “You said it would be impossible for us to be together now. I’ve seen how stubborn your father can be—give him any reason to disapprove of me, and he’ll take it. My potential as heir to Emborough was all that interested him, as it was when Walter was your suitor. Nay, don’t shake your head at me. I can read people now—I use my instincts about them. So, yes, I would like us to be friends, more than anything in the world. But we may not be lovers, and you must, someday, marry.”

She pursed her lips. “I could still go to court, remain unmarried, and be friends with you if I can escape Father. He doesn’t understand how much status I can bring to our family if I have the queen’s favor. I don’t know why Walter wanted to marry me—my family is no longer wealthy.”

“Walter wanted you because you’re a prize beyond imagining, would bring him respectability, and remove the shadow that hangs over him—the disappearance of me and my brother.”