Page 42 of Lord of the Forest

Lancelot’s first inclination when accosted by the three men was to toss them into the gutter. But one carried what he now understood to be a baton proclaiming his status as an officer of the law. He also brandished a paper which he declared was an arrest warrant.

So, he had to curb his compulsion to sweep the undesirables into a heap, steal a horse and ride it bareback down the road, because it would resolve nothing—it would merely put off the inevitable. If he had, in truth, slaughtered one of his fellow men, he deserved punishment. And if he had done no wrong, he needed to know, for only then would his soul be cleansed, or his dreams be comfortable. Only then could he seriously consider himself as an eligible husband for Clemence.

There was still the religion problem, but one could resolve that—he hoped. One couldn’t resolve a killing.

Suddenly, Sir Kester appeared, followed by the lawyer and Clemence’s father. “What is this? This gentleman is with us.”

The justice of the peace must have come straight from his bed—he was in his nightshirt, with a short cloak thrown over the top. Despite his disheveled look, there was an authority in his voice that stopped Lancelot’s captors dead.

“Sir—we’re throwing him into a cell to await the next quarter sessions. Then he must answer to a charge of murder.”

“The murder of whom, Constable? Nay, don’t hesitate—you may tell me. I’m Justice of the Peace for Brocking Hundred, in Essex, and you’re interfering in my business.”

The constable brandished the paper. “A former resident of this parish, Paris de Glanville, has gone missing under suspicious circumstances.”

“Missing?” Kester looked down his nose at the constable. “But not dead?”

“Our informant claims the poor fellow is dead, and that this is the man responsible. Only he’s been in hiding for the past three years, trying to avoid capture.”

Lancelot fought the urge to grind his teeth. He was pretty certain who the “informant” must be. Though he’d never known much of the workings of English law, he remembered how heavily it relied on witness testimony. Walter de Glanville must be the witness in question. Who else could it be?

“So, you have no body, Constable? By what right, then, do you seize this man?” Sir Kester indicated Lancelot.

A muscle worked in the constable’s jaw. He was doubtless used to dealing with violence when arrest was resisted, not reasoned arguments. Lancelot held his breath, unsure whether or not he wanted to hear that Paris’ body had been found. While his brother was still missing, he could hope he was alive.

“The corpse will be produced once the accused is incarcerated. That was the agreement made betwixt the accuser and ourselves. If there’s no body, your friend will have naught to fear.”

The witness knew where Paris’ body was? If this was the only way to uncover the truth, he’d do whatever it took. Shaking off the hands that held him, Lancelot stepped forward. “Good Sir Kester, mayhap ’tis best I respond to these charges. Rumor can ruin a man’s life, I understand—and only by being found guiltless may he be exonerated.”

“Nay, de Glanville. Don’t offer yourself up like a lamb to the slaughter.” Sir Kester glared at the constable. “Who laid these charges?”

“I’m not at liberty to say, sir.”

“Foolish fellow. How may we answer them if we know neither the accuser nor the circumstances of the crime? You cannot cry murder if you have no body.”

The constable blinked. “There may be no body as yet, sir, but the circumstances need examining. It will be up to the local justice to decide.”

Lancelot’s patience was waning. He wasn’t used to being made a spectacle of. Already, some upstairs windows across the street were clicking open. If they debated here much longer, Clemence would see him put in irons a second time. He didn’t think he could bear that.

“Good sirs, I’m willing to go with these men. I cannot live with such a stain on my character, and if the only way to hold my head high is to prove my innocence, I’m willing to be tested.” He didn’t add that if the only way to have Clemence was to be found innocent, he’d walk through fire to do it. Only—he’d lief as not get it over with quickly.

Then, as if summoned by his thought, Clemence was there, throwing her arms around him and straining on tiptoe to cover his face with kisses.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered, resting her cheek against his for a tender moment. “We’ll find a way to set you free.”

He held her away from him. “I will never be free. Not unless the truth is uncovered, and I know not how that may be done. I beg of you, do not raise your hopes too high, sweet mistress.”

Her shoulders felt fragile beneath his hands—her fine-featured face turned up to his was as delicate as an opening rose, yet he knew the strength and determination that lay beneath her beauty. Even so, he could risk no harm coming to her.

“Let others take up my cause, and be patient. You can do but little, and I won’t have you ruin your life or your prospects because of me.” He cared for her too much—he couldn’t allow her to suffer. But would she take any cognizance of his words? Probably not.

“Now, before the whole village turns out to enjoy the spectacle of my arrest, we must say farewell. Here is the key to the main door at Emborough. Keep it safe, and lend it only to those you consider our friends. Walter de Glanville must never know you have it.”

He saw the constable stiffen, and his expression changed. That name had meant something, had it not? So, now Lancelot could be certain of the identity of his accuser, and his motive for the accusation. If English justice could not determine when one man lied about another to take possession of a fortune, then the law was an ass. But the knowledge gave him hope, and he bent his head to Clemence once more.

“Beware Walter de Glanville—I fear he knows of my re-emergence. If Sir Kester is of a mind, he must investigate both Walter and me in the case of my brother’s disappearance. And if that Wentworth woman can be found, I’ll warrant she may have an interesting tale to tell. Should you need money for bribes, you may sell my sword—it’s in my chamber at the inn—or anything else of value that remains in Emborough Hall.”

“Daughter, enough.” Fitzpayne’s tone was harsh. “We must leave these gentlemen to their business. Come—half of us are not yet fit to be seen. We’ll dress, eat, and discuss what must be done. Where do you take your prisoner?”