Page 6 of Lord of the Forest

He yanked her kerchief down, and she could see. Well, just about. She was in the cleft of a blasted oak, in a space wide enough to take a tall man lying down. Gazing up, she could see the place was well-canopied with leaves, though still open to the darkening sky.

Something small and many-legged scuttled over her hand, and she stifled a scream. Of course, an old oak tree, with its dead and rotting wood, was the perfect place for beetles—and other things. She must be brave. Spiders and woodlice were the least of her worries.

Lancelot moved away, and she heard metal striking on stone. Shortly thereafter, she saw a flame leap up in the darkness beyond the tree. Although she felt safe in the oak’s hollow trunk, curiosity overcame her. She shuffled toward the cleft and watched the man move around, tending the fire.

She’d never seen a man shirtless before. Not like this, at any rate. Firelight flickered over his slick skin and rounded muscles. His dark hair hung low on his shoulders, and his beard was untamed, reaching to his collarbone. Why would any man want to live like an animal in the forest, eschewing clothing and—if she wasn’t mistaken—shoes?

And what about the peculiar assertion that he’d taken the name Lancelot because he didn’t know his own?

No. She shouldn’t get involved. He clearly wanted no interference in his odd, meager existence. Just as she wanted no complications in her own life. Admitting to anyone she’d spent the night in the company of a half-naked outlaw would ruin everything she’d ever dreamed of. Not even the unctuous Walter de Glanville would want her after that. Although… her mouth twisted. Perhaps shocking the world through her association with Lancelot was precisely what she needed to avoid being forced into marriage. And it would make a grand tale to whisper in Queen Elizabeth’s ear.

“How long must I stay here?” She watched as he crouched on his haunches by the fire, spitting a cony on a peeled green stick, and tearing up some leaves to add to a metal pot.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Since when was it his decision? “What about my basket? Aren’t you worried it will lead people here? Because it doubtless will, as my absence must have been noticed by now.”

He swiveled to face her, his eyes intense as a hawk’s.

“You have a choice.” His voice had a gravelly note, like that of an axle in need of oiling.

“I can take you to the road, blindfolded, and leave you to make your own way home. Or you can stay here and make our supper while I fetch your basket.”

A gnat buzzed past her face, and she felt a tickle on her neck. “A pox on it!” She edged closer to the fire. “Don’t these midges drive you mad?”

“No.”

He was sparing with his words, was he not? She moved closer still and sat deliberately in the path of the smoke. The midges retreated.

“Very well. I’ll cook if I can. But if you want to find my basket, you’d best hurry before there’s no light at all.”

“I need no light.” He stood, gesturing at the pot. “Nettles, for soup. There’s salt in the wooden box. Use it sparingly.”

Leaning down, he picked up a bundle of light-colored cloth. As he pulled it over his head, she saw it was a linen shirt, thin and worn, with several tears in it. But it was surprisingly clean. She stood up and faced him. Or tried to. He was at least a head taller than she was. But she mustn’t let him think she was afraid.

“How do you know I won’t run away?”

His brow furrowed. “How could you? You know not where to go.”

“I could just stand here and scream until someone comes.”

“Then you must promise not to. I think promises mean something to people of your kind.”

“They do.” She gazed at the fire and saw the flames were starting to die down. She’d need to feed it more to get the water boiling for the nettle soup, then spread the embers out to avoid charring the cony. If she decided not to escape.

“Very well, I prom—” She looked around, aghast. The man had gone. She heard a faint rustle, then nothing but the spitting of a twig in the fire.

How could such a large man move so quickly? He’d evidently decided to trust her, which was gratifying. She did think about screaming, but abandoned the idea, for it would either bring him back at the run or alert the undesirables who’d abducted her in the first place. Lancelot had made free with her person but hadn’t molested her. Not yet, at least. She would, however, find the way out. It was best to have an escape route.

Seizing a burning brand from the fire to use as a torch, she made a circuit of the small clearing. Alas! It seemed to be entirely surrounded by impenetrable holly. That would explain the stinging on her arms when he’d carried her through. There must be a gap somewhere, but try as she might, she couldn’t find it.

With a groan, she returned to the fire. Despite her parlous situation, she was feeling the bite of hunger now. And her eyesight wasn’t sharp enough to cope with the shadowy twilight of the forest. Matters could be resolved in the morning, after a decent night’s sleep.

By the time Lancelot returned, she had the cony cooked to perfection, and the nettle soup had an enticing aroma.

“Why have you tarried so long?” she demanded, as he came within the circle of flickering firelight.

“I didn’t want anyone to see where you’d been attacked. I’ve scuffed over the traces.”