Page 59 of Lord of the Forest

“Don’t kill him, I beg you, leave him be!” She was out of breath from chasing after them, her face and hands scratched by the unforgiving bushes, her skirts rent where she’d had no time to disentangle herself from thorns. The loud pumping of her heart nearly deafened her.

She blinked up at Lancelot, installed partway up the tree, far enough above the ground to frighten her.

“Clemence! I told you we needed to be alone.” He started his ascent again, climbing with the agility of a squirrel. For a man of his size, it was impressive to watch. She filled her lungs and shouted. “Don’t kill him! It’ll make you no better than he is.”

Lancelot had paused again. “Stand back, Clemence. I’ll not have this villain fall upon you.” He sounded surprisingly calm.

But what if he should fall himself? Another blow to the head could be fatal if the damaged bone of his old wound had healed thinly. He had no right to risk himself like that. She shuddered.

“Will you not come down? You can achieve nothing halfway up a tree, and you both risk injury.”

“Listen to the girl,” Walter exhorted. “I apologize for my folly. I feared what you meant to do to me, and took the fastest means of escape. You would not spill my blood in front of a lady, would you? Back away, and I’ll come down.”

Lancelot twisted his head and looked up at the branch where Walter’s legs dangled on either side. “I trust not your method of climbing trees. You’ll slip and break your neck—then you’ll never be able to redeem your soul by telling me where Paris lies buried.”

Walter hadn’t told him? Wasn’t that the whole idea? More lies on Walter’s part—she wasn’t surprised. Surely Walter de Glanville was a demon in human form. How could he have trifled with Lancelot’s hopes like that, played on the man’s emotions? She was almost tempted to advise Lancelot to go ahead and stab him. “Lancelot, I pray you, come down. Nothing can be resolved by his death.”

“I do mean to come down.” Lancelot peered at her over the top of a thick branch. “I just intend to bring him with me.”

“How exactly do you expect to bring him down?” she called up at him, but he was already crouching at the point where his branch met the trunk, spying out his next handhold. He jabbed his blade into the cleft where the bough met the main body of the tree and dragged his shirt over his head. Bunching it up, he threw it down to her. “Look after this for me. It is safer to climb without it.” She caught the shirt, and clutched it to her chest, and gazed wordlessly up, as Lancelot advanced on the hapless Walter.

Walter’s branch dipped at the end as he shuffled farther away from the trunk. It sank still more as Lancelot began edging along it. He’d left his knife behind—so what did he mean to do?

Her heart was in her throat as she watched him draw back his arm, then drive his fist hard into Walter’s temple. As the man swayed and looked sure to fall, Lancelot deftly caught him and dragged him back toward the trunk. Then, after some terrifying adjustments which had Clemence frozen in terror, he began feeling his way down the trunk again, the limp form of Walter dangling over his back.

She didn’t draw breath until both Lancelot’s feet were firmly on the ground. Then she chased toward him, fists raised.

“How dare you do such a stupid thing? How dare you frighten me like that?” She could feel the tears of mingled rage and fright pricking at her eyes.

Lancelot dumped the unconscious Walter on the ground and caught both her wrists.

“Forgive me, my darling—I meant not to frighten you. I have no intention of killing anyone—you ought to know that by now.”

He leaned in to kiss her but, at that moment, a dog’s joyful yapping smote the air. She followed the direction of Lancelot’s gaze and saw her father erupt into the glade, red-faced and out of breath. The dog raced ahead, tongue lolling. It was Elf, she realized, as she watched the hound greet Lancelot by leaping up to lick his face. Elf then rested his forepaws on Walter’s inert form and growled deep in his throat.

Clemence flushed. She was in trouble now, for rushing off on her own. “Father, what are you doing here?”

His brow furrowed. “Attempting to keep my daughter out of harm’s way, and continually failing, it seems. After the de Glanvilles departed, I came to discover what Lancelot had told you, and found you gone. Of course, I had to follow you, foolish child, since you have a history of mishaps.”

“Forgive me. I was so frightened—I knew not what to do.”

He looked from her to Lancelot. “Sir, I should be most grateful if you could take my daughter off my hands at the earliest opportunity. She’s an insult to my family’s good name and much in need of a firm hand—a firmer one than my own. Marry her as soon as you possibly can.”

She would have been chastened but for the glint in his eyes. He continued, “Now, sir, I would be much obliged if you would dress as befits your station.” He dumped an armful of items on the grass at Lancelot’s feet; a rope, sword and sword belt, and a torn doublet.

“I thank you for leaving these signs by which I was able to track you, although Elf knows Clemence’s scent well enough to find her anywhere—and yours, too, I surmise. Shall I tie up yon miscreant while you dress?”

“If you would, sir.” Lancelot winked at Clemence, but she knew he was trying to hide his disappointment. He still hadn’t found his brother’s body, and there was no certainty that Walter would ever reveal its whereabouts.

Short of suggesting torture, was there any other way she could think of that would force Walter to give up the location?

Because until Paris was found, Lancelot could never be happy. And if he couldn’t be happy, then neither could she.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Lancelot gratefully accepted the offer of hospitality from Master Fitzpayne. It meant he could remain close to Clemence, whose presence was balm to his troubled soul. He feared there had been murder in his heart when he’d climbed that tree, although he hoped he would ultimately have controlled himself without Clemence’s intervention.

He’d suspected Walter would try to evade him but had hoped the man would have had the decency to lead him to Paris’ grave first. How foolish of him to have any trust in his own would-be murderer! He had much to learn still, as well as much to remember. With so little certainty in his future—as well as his past—was he truly a fit husband for Clemence?