Page 58 of Lord of the Forest

Lancelot almost dropped his sword in surprise. “Stay.” He was at Walter’s side in the blink of an eye, seizing him by the elbow. “Are you of the old faith?”

Walter sneered. “Of course, I am. I would not have said that else. You are a heretic and should have been burned long since. The whole accursed lot of you, including your queen. My mother would have talked your father around, had she lived.”

His stepmother and stepbrother were closet Catholics? How could no one have known? Lancelot suddenly recalled the hidden cache of communion plate and Latin Bible he and Clemence had found in Paris’ chamber. “That communion set at Emborough—that was yours?”

Walter rolled his eyes. “Well, it wasn’t your benighted brother’s, was it? A bunch of heathens, the lot of you. The plate was indeed mine, for use by my priest. You remember the window above the cellar lightwell at Emborough? The catch never worked properly, and not being a lumpen troll like you, it was easy to let myself in that way, whenever I wanted. So, I concealed the communion set in Paris’ room the moment I learned you still lived, lest suspicion fall on me and my house be searched. It would have served even better had I concealed it in your room, but I knew of no hiding places there.”

Lancelot wasn’t interested in the “how”. What mattered most was the “why”. Why had his stepbrother turned murderer?

“So, you feel justified in having killed Paris on the grounds of how he chose to worship?” He could scarcely believe it.

“Oh, not just that. I wanted Emborough, of course. So as soon as our parents died, I began making my plans. It didn’t take long—you were both too interested in your own affairs to notice my discontent. Your brother with his nose always buried in a book, you drinking and whoring—”

Lancelot took a menacing step closer, forcing Walter to look up at him. The urge to part the man’s ribs with his blade was well-nigh overwhelming.

“You’re in no position to cast stones at others. The God to whom I pray does not condone cold-blooded murder, and if yours does, He is a false one. But nay—that is unfair. The desire to kill lies in the hearts of men—and if you could not resist that urge, then you are no Christian man, no matter which version of our faith you follow.”

Walter stared pointedly at the place where Lancelot’s fist grasped his clothing. Lancelot held his gaze, then slowly released him. There was a brightness in the man’s eyes that hinted at some manner of treachery. Containing his anger, he shoved Walter around and prodded him forward once more.

“I can hear the river now. We must be close to the place where you committed your foul deed. Don’t bother to speak again. My ears are deaf to you now. You are no gentleman and no kin of mine—you’re just a means to an end.”

Walter had been deliberately taunting him, he was sure, hoping he’d lose his temper and relax his alertness, somehow providing the chance of escape. Drawing in several deep breaths, he let his shoulders drop, and pictured Clemence. And immediately felt better.

The path petered out, leaving little more than a deer trail and, soon, both he and Walter were thrusting through branches that whipped at them and caught in their clothes. Lancelot would have removed his doublet and shirt, but that might prove exactly the distraction Walter wanted. His feet were sore, making him regret having cast off his boots—how quickly one became soft with high living! He would be sure to take frequent exercise once established at Emborough. And go barefoot while the weather was good.

So long as Clemence didn’t mind that kind of behavior. It would do him no favors at court, however. Did she still wish to attend? He’d not stand in her way, of course. He loved her too deeply to deny her anything. But he couldn’t imagine he’d be happy in such false and frivolous surroundings.

He realized Walter had stopped and turned to face him. The trail had opened out a little, and the undergrowth beneath the trees was less thick. The sound of rushing water was nearer—had they reached the spot? He glanced around to see what he could use to mark the place, as he had no intention of exhuming Paris’ body without witnesses.

“Are we there?”

Walter grinned mirthlessly. “Aye, this is the place.”

“Show me where you put him.” He’d expected to feel something when he came to Paris’ gravesite, some lingering essence of his brother, the pull of their shared blood. But he felt nothing. There were no ghosts. There was no spirit of melancholy.

“Nay. This is not the place your brother is buried. This is the place where I leave you looking foolish and bereft. Farewell, Hector!”

Walter sprang away and darted into the woods, zigzagging back and forth like a hart pursued by hounds. With a curse, Lancelot unbuckled his sword belt and flung the weapon away lest it get caught in the bushes and delay him. Then he sped off in pursuit, confident Walter had overestimated his own skills at racing through a forest on foot.

The key was to never lose sight of one’s prey. Keeping his eyes glued to Walter’s fleeing back, he vaulted over low bushes and hollows, and swung himself past trees, undoing his doublet as he went. Eventually, it caught in a thicket of brambles, and he left it behind with no regret.

It took but a few hundred yards before he was close enough to Walter to grab him by the shirt collar. Such was his momentum that Lancelot took the man down, and they tumbled along the ground before coming to a halt on a bare patch at the base of a majestic oak.

“A thousand curses on your wretched soul,” Lancelot growled as he scrambled to his feet. He reached for his dagger and lunged toward his enemy.

Walter’s eyes opened wide. Twisting like an eel in a trap, he yanked at Lancelot’s hold. With a tear of fabric, he was free again, leaving Lancelot holding his ripped shirt collar. In a flash, he leaped for a low branch and started hauling himself up the tree.

Lancelot placed his hands on his hips and watched, eyebrows raised. So, Walter thought himself the better climber, eh? A smile played around his lips. He waited until the rustling in the foliage ceased, then stood close by the trunk and gazed upward.

Walter was sitting astride a sturdy branch, about thirty feet up in the air. If he dropped from there, he’d certainly break something and would be able to run no more.

Lancelot had chased his quarry into an impasse. Grateful that his lack of shoes made it easy to find toeholds, he clamped the hilt of his dagger between his teeth and began the ascent.

He’d barely reached a point halfway between himself and the white-faced Walter when a feminine scream rent the air.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“Lancelot, no!” Clemence chased forward to the foot of the oak. He mustn’t climb after Walter—it was far too dangerous. Nor must he kill him in a rage, for then he would face the punishment Walter had always intended for him. Death.