Page 57 of Lord of the Forest

It cut Lancelot to the quick to have to leave Clemence so soon. But the matter of Paris’ resting place was like a fever in his blood, and could not be quenched. Checking the knots binding their two mounts together, he mounted his new stallion, a handsome bay he’d named Ajax, then tightened the rope as Walter mounted his own horse. Thus far, this arrangement had prevented Walter from riding off, but Lancelot knew it was only a matter of time until he tried to escape. He’d already taken clandestine steps to prevent this by loosening Walter’s girth, and inserting some burrs beneath the saddle. These wouldn’t hurt the horse at a slow pace, but if Walter urged it to a gallop, they’d dig in, making the animal careen across the highway and throw its rider.

The trick with the burrs was one of the memories he’d recalled—he’d once played this jest on his elder brother. It had resulted in a beating from his father and a ducking in the fishpond from Paris. But once honor was satisfied, the brothers had made peace and continued on amicably as siblings generally did. This had happened before their father’s marriage to Walter’s mother, so Walter should suspect nothing.

The sun was rising above the treetops as they rode along the highway, dispelling the morning shadows. A few birds still chorused in the branches or picked at juicy morsels in the grass. Wild conies hopped swiftly out of sight as the horses reached them.

Walter retained his mocking expression, but his constant twitching and tugging at his collar belied his calm exterior. Lancelot made no effort to speak to him—he wouldn’t waste his breath on a cold-blooded killer. He needed Paris’ burial place, nothing more. Then the law could have Walter and administer punishment.

He wasn’t about to break his word—he’d sworn that if Walter showed him Paris’ body, he’d only pursue the charge of theft, not that of murder. He hadn’t promised not to charge Walter with his own attempted murder. And if Walter failed to deliver Paris, Lancelot was no longer bound by his oath.

Their uncommunicative progress gave him time to discover how uncomfortable he was. Having decided he needed to equip himself with a horse, he’d also acquired a saddle, stirrups, spurs, and riding boots. How could men cope with having their feet and ankles thus confined? One could barely feel the horse’s flanks. He would start a new fashion for riding bareback and barefooted when he came into his own again.

Would Clemence continue to “train” him, undo all those “bad” habits he’d acquired when he’d dwelled among the trees? If so, would he allow it? The simple answer was that he would—he’d do whatever it took to make her happy.

On occasion, he might need to ride over to the forest, conceal himself in the holly grove, catch his own dinner, and cook and eat it under the stars. Then he’d bathe naked in the pool fed by the river, near the place he’d washed ashore on that fateful day. If he were fortunate, he’d persuade Clemence to join him.

He was roused from some extremely lascivious thoughts by Walter announcing, “This is the path you and Paris took when you went hawking that day. Do you recall?”

Staring at the plank bridge across the ditch and the gap between the trees, Lancelot scoured his memory but could find nothing.

“Nay. You’ll have to lead on. Is it far?”

“Half a mile, I should say. You must loosen the rope—we’ll have to ride in single file.”

Alarums rang immediately in Lancelot’s head. Were they near the place? Or was it just a ploy of Walter’s to get him to release the rope?

“I can very well walk half a mile as—I’m sure—can you. We’ll take the horses in a little farther and tie them up.” The sound of flowing water reached his ears—their steeds would be all the happier to be left in a spot where they could drink.

He flung himself from Ajax’s back and stood by Walter, one hand firmly on his horse’s bridle, the other on the hilt of his sword. The temptation to tie Walter’s hands was strong, but it wouldn’t stop him running away. And if he tied the man’s feet, they’d take hours to reach their destination, and he would surely have exploded with impatience by then.

As soon as he came to the watercourse, he caught Walter by the collar with one hand and tied up the horses with the other.

“Apologies, Ajax, my boy. I promise you a good gallop later. For now, if any stranger lays a hand on you, you have my permission to trample him into the dirt.” He patted the horse’s neck, removed his boots and spurs, then unsheathed his sword and prodded it at Walter’s back.

“Proceed. And do not try to run. It would break our contract—and I’d no longer feel obliged to keep you in one piece.”

“You always were a bully,” Walter complained as he splashed through the shallows. “And now you’re making me ruin my boots.”

Lancelot relished the reviving chill of the water around his bare ankles. “I care not one whit for your boots. Show me where my brother is buried and cease talking. I have naught to say to you.”

“You doubtless consider yourself a gentleman, but you ceased to be one long ago. The way you and your brother treated me when I joined your family—as if I were a toad that had crawled out from under a stone.”

“I’m quite fond of toads, actually.” Lancelot had no wish to bandy words with his brother’s murderer.

“You always thought my mother cared only for money and position, and you treated me like a servant. Even long-time friends of the de Glanville family refused to countenance my existence. Pah! So much for that surname opening doors to favor. I should have kept my father’s—only my fine lady mother forbade it.”

From what Lancelot could recall, his stepmother, Lucy, had disdained having anything much to do with him and Paris. She preferred spoiling her wheedling, spiteful, manipulative brat, Walter. In the end, all she had created was bitterness.

“My memory has been gradually returning, Walter. You can no longer sow the seeds of false recollection in my head. You deserve neither my pity nor my forgiveness. What we do now is neither from guilt nor nostalgia—’tis purely a contract between us that will restore Paris to me.”

“The pair of you formed a bastion between me and my father’s heart. What hope had I of ever belonging?”

Lancelot resisted the urge to jab the sword a bit harder. “I said, stop talking.”

Behind him, in the distance, he heard Ajax whinny, but there was no further sound. He pricked up his ears and thought he could detect the rattle of wheels. It was just a wagon trundling along the road which had attracted Ajax’s attention. He glanced around to be sure but could see nothing on the track in his wake.

A new sound met his ears, that of the river proper, down which he must have floated, insensible, after Walter’s attack. He gritted his teeth—he must keep his head, not let his burning hatred of the man in front of him arouse him to folly. Or into relaxing his vigilance.

“Pah! It matters not what you think. You will be damned to Hell. You haven’t confessed or said your Ave Maria, or received the blessing of the pope. I wish I’d succeeded in putting an end to you—you and your ilk are no loss to this realm.”