Page 43 of Lord of the Forest

The constable gazed at the device on his baton of office.

“Tell him, damn you.” Sir Kester put his hands on his hips. “This man has a right to visitors, you know. Am I, the Queen’s Justice, likely to attempt to break him out of your custody? By even hesitating, you insult me. Where are you taking him?”

“To Walden, sir, to await the Midsummer quarter sessions.”

“That’s in two sennights’ time.”

“Aye, indeed, sir.”

Lancelot hardly heard the exchange. Clemence was in his arms once more, and he was falling apart.

Sheepishly, the constable held out a pair of manacles. Lancelot felt Clemence shudder, brushed a final lingering kiss on her forehead, and eased himself away from her. For the second time, he felt the bite of cold iron on his wrists.

Unable to speak without revealing the intensity of his feelings, he scrambled onto his captors’ cart and waited for them to join him. The constable heaved himself up after, and Lancelot then endured the humiliation of being chained to a loop on the side of the cart.

He closed his eyes, refusing to open them again until he felt the other men climb in, and the vehicle jerk as the great horse between the shafts was goaded into movement.

He looked behind him as the cart rattled away from Emborough, away from Milforde. His eyes remained glued to Clemence’s upright frame and solemn face, admiring the strength of spirit that prevented her from falling into a swoon or fit of hysterics, as many women would have done in such adversity.

And prayed to any god prepared to listen to him, that this would not be his last sight of her.

Chapter Eighteen

It was a full hour’s ride from Clairbourne to Walden and despite her protests, Clemence was only permitted to make the journey once before Lancelot’s trial was due to be held. She’d literally had to beg her father on bended knee to let her visit him and accept that he must come with her.

The weeks since her last sight of Lancelot had passed in a haze of anxiety. She’d attempted to alleviate this by baking and cooking, producing treats to tempt the prisoner and keep up his strength. She’d also ransacked her store of salves and simples for anything that might make Lancelot more comfortable while languishing in his cell. She had southernwood against fleas and lice, comfrey salve to ease any possible sores he might have from the chains, honey and garlic for a sore throat, or valerian, should he have trouble sleeping.

Then catastrophe struck—her father was ailing on the day she was due to head for Walden. He had a flareup of his occasional gout, so she did what she could to reduce the pain, and swore she’d ask Sir Kester Bayliss to go with her instead.

This, of course, she had no intention of doing. Instead, she took a groom, Perkin, a young lad easily commanded. She might want privacy with Lancelot, something Sir Kester, in his need to pander to propriety, would not permit.

As she urged her mount, Sorrel, onto the highway, the heat of the mid-June sun hit her like a furnace. She pulled her straw hat forward, shielded her eyes, and eased Sorrel across to the shadowy side of the road, followed by Perkin. They would be baking by the time they reached Walden, but she was well supplied with cordial, and they could make a stop or two along the way to water the horses and refresh themselves.

Walden was a town of impressive size. As they reached it, she saw the anxiety on Perkin’s face and suggested they dismount and lead their horses, the better to navigate the narrow streets and busy traffic. The roads were choked with wagons and packhorses bearing wool sacks.

One or two men looked at her in a way she didn’t care for, and she was glad of the bollock dagger she’d tucked into her belt, despite having no idea how to use the thing to best advantage. Glancing at Perkin, a spotty, gawky lad of sixteen summers, who walked as if he were always about to pitch forward onto his nose, she began to understand why Sir Kester would have been a better choice of companion. Ah, well. It was too late for that now.

She was just about to admonish the boy and tell him to put his shoulders back when she caught sight of a familiar figure, examining a peach from a hawker’s basket.

Mistress Julia Wentworth.

There was no time to think. “Perkin! Stable the horses and meet me back here immediately.”

When he hesitated, she made an impatient gesture that sent him scudding off to do her bidding. Then she breathed a silent prayer of thanks and descended on Mistress Wentworth.

This was not the proud, overblown lady of the incident at the Black Bull. She was far more simply dressed, in a plain buff kirtle and apron, with a partlet pinned across to cover her modesty and a linen coif over her hair. As Clemence reached her, she was putting a few peaches into her basket.

“Mistress Wentworth.”

The woman straightened, shading her eyes. “Who’s that? I know you not.”

“Mayhap. But I know you. I was witness to the horse trough incident at Milforde. I am Clemence Fitzpayne.”

The thin lips pouted. “Oh, that. I trust that giant idiot received his just desserts.”

Clemence kept her voice low. “That ‘giant idiot’ was poisoned shortly afterward.”

Despite the glaring sunlight that enveloped them both, Clemence could tell the color had drained from the other woman’s face. But Mistress Wentworth tilted her chin and said, “Nonsense. That cannot be.”