Page 60 of Lord of the Forest

His sojourn with the Fitzpaynes was a blessing. He loved the additional time he was able to spend with Clemence. When they were together, he reined in his feelings for her, keen not to embarrass her in front of her family, or make her feel beholden to him. He’d release her from her promise if she wished it—he could well understand he’d let her down by doing the one thing she required him not to do—be alone with Walter de Glanville.

And she’d been right. He, Hector Lancelot de Glanville, was a reckless fellow who couldn’t even keep himself safe, let alone a wife.

Yet, still she behaved as if she loved him, and if it hadn’t been for his underlying sense of guilt, those days spent at Clairbourne would have been the most idyllic of his life. Clemence reminded him of the rules of quoits, played the dulcimer while he gazed on in besotted admiration, showed him all her simples and herbal remedies, and even read poetry to him because she felt he’d become too savage in his sylvan isolation and needed to rediscover refinement.

In all of this, he’d humored her, determined to prove himself worthy of her affections—and her hand. He wore shoes, sat on chairs instead of squatting, allowed the servants to attend to him instead of shifting for himself, and even tied his points and the neck of his shirt. Yet, to his surprise, the forest still called to him, despite its hardships. The isolation of his holly grove was even more alluring now that he had made love to Clemence there. The old Lancelot warred with the new, and adding to the confusion was the fact that he still knew not where Paris was buried, or what exactly had happened to him.

He was currently sitting outside in a rose arbor, attempting to understand a book on crop yields, and weights and measures useful to farmers. He’d learned that kind of thing as a boy but must have found it dull, as he could remember but little. Now, he must be responsible for a wife and family, and the manor of Emborough, along with its tenants and farms. So, he must apply himself once more, despite the lessons being no less tedious.

The rose arbor was one of the few places where he found himself able to concentrate. In the house, the constant moving of the occupants and milling about of servants was a distraction—he could not rid himself of the habit of forever being on the alert for danger. In the arbor, the daily sounds were more familiar, more natural. He heard the heavy trundle of wheels as carts brought hay into the barn, the lowing of cattle waiting to be milked, the snuffling of swine in their trough, and the cooing of birds in the dovecote. These were the same sounds he’d heard when he’d made his forays to the village near the holly grove, to help himself to whatever he needed.

A light footstep on the turf caught his ear, and he gratefully set down his book.

“Why so gloomy, dear heart?” Clemence settled beside him and took up the vellum-bound volume. “Ah, figures. I understand your expression now.”

“Nay, ’tis not so much that.” He took her hand, glanced in the direction of the house, then realized he didn’t care that anyone might see what passed between him and Clemence. “I find I have not behaved like a gentleman. I stole from that village when I lived in the woods.”

“You did it out of necessity. You can make reparation now if it makes you feel better.”

He rubbed his thumb caressingly over her knuckles, battling the excitement that always assailed him in her presence. There were times to talk, he’d discovered, and times for loving. This was not one of the latter. Sadly.

“How may I do that? I’m anxious to avoid any further scandal attaching itself to the name of de Glanville.” If they were still to wed, it would be her name, too, and he needed her to be proud of it.

Her brow furrowed. “I know—make an endowment to their church. Villagers always love that. Put in a stained-glass window, repair the roof, or rebuild the lych-gate. Now that we are sure you’re no Catholic, that would be the perfect use for your money.”

“Do we know that for certain? Walter tried to make it look as if Paris was a Catholic, then derided me for being Protestant—I know not what to believe. One cannot trust a single word that issues from that man’s mouth.”

She turned her wrist and clasped his fingers between hers. “Nor should you. He is beneath contempt. But you came to church with us on Sunday and failed to run out yelling, so I assume the service was acceptable to you. The tower didn’t collapse in on you, and there were no lightning strikes, so one has to assume your presence was acceptable. Thank you for not attempting to climb the bell tower.”

How she loved to tease him, and how much he enjoyed that twinkle of wickedness illuminating her face! He forgot about Paris, forgot about acreage, seed-corn and the disposition of ditches, and gazed at her, reveling in her presence.

“You’re quite correct. Nothing amiss occurred. Your father seems satisfied of my religious persuasion, so that’s one obstacle surmounted.”

She drew back abruptly, and he silently cursed himself.

“What do you mean, one obstacle? Do you believe there to be more?”

Bringing her hand to his lips, he kissed her fingers. “Don’t imagine for a moment that I don’t love you. You’re dearer to me than life itself. I just cannot be content until Walter is dealt with once and for all. And it may prove a struggle for me to get Emborough working as it should.”

“I’ll be there to help you. I’m the perfect person to do so, in fact.”

But if she remained at Emborough with him, she wouldn’t be at court. And when their children were born, she’d feel obliged to stay in Suffolk to oversee their upbringing and, gradually, her dreams would become dust, and she’d always be unfulfilled. And it would be entirely his fault.

“I could hire a housekeeper, could I not? And I understand many people have stewards to manage their outdoor affairs.”

“You don’t wish to put me to work?” She sounded reproachful.

He drew her closer and kissed her forehead. “I want you to do whatever will make you happy.”

How vague, how weak that sounded! He should simply ask her what she wanted and abide by her decision. Even if it meant losing her to the frivolities and frolics of court. And the infighting. And the factions. And the favoritism.

“What’s that grimace for? Nay, don’t tell me.” She pulled away and folded her hands in her lap, looking at him solemnly. “I have an idea what to do about Paris should you wish to hear it.”

He braced himself. “Go on.”

“I think we could erect a monument to him, in Milforde Church. It doesn’t matter if he’s not there—it shows he’s remembered and loved.”

He mulled this over. “There may be a family vault—I don’t remember. But, yes, that’s a splendid thought. I’ll investigate further.”