Page 47 of Lord of the Forest

“Intemperate fellow. I should push your head under for such presumption.”

“You know I would retaliate.”

She did, indeed. “What’s this?” She ran her fingers over a strange ridge in his skull, next to a depression.

“I know not. An unevenness. I may have been born with it, or it could be the result of a childhood accident. Walter might know, but I can’t remember.”

“But it’s deep, as if you received a crushing blow. How can you not remember?”

“Babies’ skulls are soft, are they not? And wet-nurses not always careful.”

“You remember your wet-nurse?” She scooped water over his hair to remove the soap.

“Nay. Who can remember that far back? But I’ve made every effort to recall my youth at Emborough, and a few more memories have surfaced. When you’re done, I’ll tell you.”

“Lift your head—I’ll wring your hair out. Here’s a cloth for you to dry it.” Indeed, she was afraid to touch that great gouge in the back of his head, lest the bone be thin, and she do some damage. The wound frightened her, made her aware of a vulnerability she’d not expected to find in a man of Lancelot’s strength and size.

He toweled his hair roughly, then pulled his shirt up over his head. “I must wash the stink of this place from me—I feel it like a second skin. It smells of rot and decay, like the fungus and moss that cover the forest floor in autumn.”

Clemence stood back while he splashed his torso with water from the bucket, careless—as was his wont—of where the water went. As it soaked into the straw of his bed, part of her longed to admonish him, but she was so transfixed by the sight of his shining, muscular body, she forgot how to use her voice.

He took his time, using what remained of the soap to scrub his chest, shoulders, and stomach. Her knees weakened, and she forgot to breathe.

“Would I be right in assuming you have a fresh shirt for me?”

Damn. He’d finished washing already? She blinked and nodded. “Aye. Of course. Here.” He was right—she’d come prepared for anything. At least, every eventuality she could think of.

Except for one.

He was just shouldering into the doublet with the silver braid that she’d mended for him when the sound of marching feet reached her ears. There was a rattle of steel and the chink of spurs, then several men marched into the cell and headed directly for Lancelot.

“Stand aside, Mistress.” They surrounded him, and clapped manacles around his wrists. The turnkey, who’d accompanied them, knelt and undid Lancelot’s shackles.

“What? What is this?” She put a hand out to the wall, needing support.

“Glad to see you’re already dressed in your finery,” one of the men said. He gave Lancelot a shove, which sent him lurching forward.

“Where are you taking him?” She didn’t know who to appeal to, what to do. Should she scream? Call for Perkin?

“To decide on his fate, Mistress.” One of the men made her a mocking bow and touched his hat.

“But the quarter sessions aren’t until next week!”

“There are too many cases, and the justice has a daughter getting wed next week, so he wants to review some of the charges now. Not all cases will go to the quarter sessions, or the assizes—some may need a higher court, and some won’t be worth pursuing at all.”

She couldn’t take it in—Lancelot was going to be questioned today? But what of Sir Kester, and Master Hardy? Who would represent him, help him, stand surety for him, or be witness to his good character? There was only herself, and Perkin.

“Good sir, where is the interrogation to be held?”

“At the Recorder’s House. You may bring the accused’s things if you care to, but you’ll have to wait outside.”

“But I am this man’s betrothed!”

“All the more reason for you not to come. The justice won’t want any female hysterics disrupting him.”

Outrage replaced the terror that had assailed her. This was so unjust! She must send Perkin for Sir Kester and the attorney right away. And in case they were unable to come, or couldn’t make it in time, she’d need a contingency plan.

The only question was—what?