Page 45 of Lord of the Forest

Mistress Wentworth picked a peach out of her basket and ran her fingers over the rough skin. “I understand. I love Walter de Glanville.”

“You love Walter?” Impossible. The man was vile, conniving, wicked, covetous.

“Aye. Is that so very strange?” Mistress Wentworth wore a challenging look. It might be best to antagonize her no further—she was a direct link between Walter de Glanville and Lancelot and, as such, a potentially useful witness.

Clemence schooled her expression to one of sympathy. “Nay, I understand. The man is handsome, with good prospects—or should I say, expectations. That’s why my father thought him a suitable match for me.”

“A match for you?” Mistress Wentworth’s fingers tightened around the peach she was holding. “Are you saying he courted you?”

“I am. Did you not know? I refused him, but neither he nor my father was content to let the matter rest.”

Clemence winced as the peach juice squeezed between the woman’s clenched fingers and oozed stickily down the front of her kirtle. “He told me naught of this.”

“Come with me to see Lancelot, and you’ll soon find out I do not lie.” Much as she detested the lady, she understood the agony this revelation must cause.

“Faith, I shall!” Mistress Wentworth swiped her hand on her apron, cast the mangled peach into the gutter, and picked up her basket. “It will give me great pleasure to confront the man who so shamed me the other week. If I’m lucky, he’ll be in the stocks, and I can find some good clods of horse dung to throw at him.”

Clemence rolled her eyes. The last thing Lancelot needed was a belligerent female who had no desire to believe her lover had scorned her. However, this woman’s revelations were the best evidence they had of Walter de Glanville’s plotting, and she must learn what she could.

No further word was spoken as the two women hurried, side-by-side, to the town’s lock-up. The sleepy-looking warden accepted a silver shilling, examined their baskets, and insisted they relinquish all blades before admitting them into one of the gloomy, foul-smelling cells.

Clemence put her handkerchief to her nose. “This is no place for a dog, let alone a nobleman.”

Mistress Wentworth pouted. “I’d like our business done as soon as possible. I have more marketing to do, and a conserve to make.”

When Clemence’s eyes penetrated the shadows enough to find Lancelot, her first thought was how magnificent he looked. Despite the leg irons that chained him to the wall, he appeared not the least bit cowed, crouching in his distinctive squat at the foot of a heap of straw piled up as bedding.

As soon as he recognized her, he swung to his feet. She was in his arms in a heartbeat, his lips pressing against her temple.

There was a snort from behind her. “Very touching, I’m sure. Now, can we deal with my business ere I lose patience?”

Clemence clung to Lancelot’s hand as she hurriedly related what had passed between her and Mistress Wentworth. He was silent a moment, regarding the woman steadily with his unsettling gaze. She stared back, then blinked and looked down.

“Is it true Walter de Glanville is your lover?” His voice sounded hoarse—Clemence hoped he’d not succumbed to the jail fever of which she’d heard.

“A crude way of putting it, but yes. We love each other. Yet this woman claims he courted her.”

“He did, indeed. I saw him on one of his visits, accompanied by this lady’s father. I take it Walter persuaded you to pose as my jilted betrothed?”

Clemence brushed her fingers over Lancelot’s knuckles, grateful he wasn’t manacled. He must have bribed his keepers to free his hands, using the money she’d sent him. Unwilling to sell his ancient sword, in case it was a family heirloom, she’d borrowed the coin from Sir Kester.

More coin would be needed to improve his lot—the rushes on the floor were sorely in need of changing, and a rat was currently gnawing at the discarded heel of a loaf in the corner. She would have to have a word with the warders about that, and about the quality of his sustenance.

Mistress Wentworth glared at him. “I confess Walter put me up to it, yes. But there was no need to throw me in the horse trough. A simple denial would have sufficed.”

Lancelot sketched her a bow. “My apologies. I lost my temper. You see, Mistress Clemence is my betrothed, and I couldn’t have her publicly shamed by your accusations.”

The woman frowned. “Why did Walter need me to make that false claim?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t ask him that, Madam. To part us, so he could pursue Clemence.”

Clemence wished she hadn’t told Perkin to wait outside—it would have been meet to have a witness to this conversation. Of course, bringing Sir Kester Bayliss would have been even better. She’d been a fool, coming with a none but a servant.

Mistress Wentworth shook her head vigorously. “Nay—’twas only meant to be a distraction. Walter had some business he wanted to settle and needed everyone in the Black Bull to focus their attention elsewhere for a short while. You ungallantly dropping me in the horse trough certainly achieved that.”

“A distraction?” Clemence exchanged glances with Lancelot. A muscle worked in his jaw.

“Mistress Wentworth—this matter is more serious than you know. Your fickle lover used the distraction so he could poison my food. He’s my stepbrother, and knows full well my predilection for pheasant.”