Page 61 of Lord of the Forest

He hoped he looked enthusiastic, but it wasn’t the same thing as being able to bury his brother in the manner he deserved.

“I suppose,” she said, gazing down at her hands, “that you ought to go back to Emborough soon, for there is much to be done. The lawyers will need to know where to find you, and there might, even now, be a message from Chancery awaiting you there.”

He smiled and slid an arm around her waist. “Would I could take you with me.”

She leaned into him. “Aye. But it would be unseemly, would it not? Ah—it is good to see you smile. You’ve been brooding too much of late.”

Had he been brooding? He must try harder to keep his emotions to himself. Nay. That was no longer who he was. He’d become used to living on feelings and instinct—and he trusted them more than words.

“Forgive me. I should not hide my thoughts from you, my adorable Clemence. I shall return home on the morrow, and do whatever must be done. I sincerely hope Milforde is safer for me now, with Walter in Sir Kester’s cellar, and Mistress Wentworth too alarmed she may have been party to my poisoning to show her face.”

He meant only to tease, but the brightness left Clemence’s face instantly.

“Indeed. I would wish to be free of both of them.”

He pulled her tightly against him. “Mayhap we should forget all this, declare our marriage and leave straightway for court—wherever Elizabeth happens to be at this point in time. I’m certain she would love to hear our tale.”

He sensed tension in Clemence’s body and eased his hold. Not for the first time, he wished they were back in the cleft oak, where they could be together in true delight and tell the world and all its rules and complexities to be damned.

“I cannot imagine our sovereign would enjoy a tale without a satisfactory end.” She eased away from him and, reluctantly, he let her. She stood, coming between him and the sun, so he couldn’t see the expression on her face. “Pray, continue with your book—although I know it gives you little pleasure. I recall I have some errands I must run before midday. Excuse me.”

She cupped his face in her hands, bestowed on him a tender, lingering kiss, and then hurried off across the sward toward the house.

He gazed after her a moment, frowning. Then he took up his book again and desperately tried to throw himself into the useful advice it contained.

The scholarly enthusiasm waned rapidly. Clemence’s words chased each other through his head, and he eventually realized with a flash of inspiration what needed to be done. They should go to court, petition the queen to speed up the process of his inheritance in Chancery, and entertain her with the tale of their adventures. Clemence could see how much she liked Elizabeth’s entourage, what she thought of the sovereign herself, and discover what might be needed to get into her good graces. If Clemence wished to stay, he’d stay with her. If he found it intolerable, he would return to the comparative peace and quiet of rural Suffolk and enjoy Clemence’s company whenever she chose to return home. She would have the best of both worlds then, and he would endure her absence as best he could.

Tucking the book inside his doublet, he hastened indoors in search of her, to let her know his decision.

But Mistress Clemence Fitzpayne was nowhere to be found.

Chapter Twenty-Five

By the time Clemence neared home after her expedition into Walden, she was exhausted but triumphant. It had taken considerable patience to locate Mistress Julia Wentworth, but as it was market day, she’d been sure the woman would surface eventually.

It had taken the threat of making a scene to convince the lady to speak with her, but she’d apologized heartily for menacing her previously, which had won her a few moments of Mistress Wentworth’s time. A sudden squall had driven them into the Golden Fleece, where they’d sat tucked out of view on a high-backed settle, sharing a pitcher of ale and some cold chicken.

Once Clemence had apprised Mistress Wentworth of all that had occurred with Walter, the woman had lost her sulky demeanor. She’d evinced some sympathy for her former lover, but not enough to wish to help him. When Clemence had suggested revenge, Mistress Wentworth had shied away from that, too. The lady hadn’t shown any real interest until Clemence implied there might be some financial reward if she spoke to the authorities.

They had parted almost amicably, Clemence having given Mistress Wentworth directions to help her find Sir Kester, Master Hardy, or Sir Richard Kelsey. This assumed she would take the logical path, and go to the authorities—it being better to exonerate herself in person. Much would come out at Walter’s trial, including the role Mistress Wentworth had played the day Lancelot was poisoned. If she could prove her innocence of evil intent before then, she was more likely to be treated fairly.

Well-satisfied, Clemence was just trotting around the final bend before Clairbourne when the thunder of hoofbeats caused her to rein Sorrel to one side.

There, hurtling toward her with a face like thunder, was Lancelot, on his majestic stallion, Ajax. As horse and rider clattered to a halt, she prepared herself for a tirade.

“Where have you been? The house has been in an uproar, as you told no one you were going out.”

“And a good evening to you, too, Master de Glanville. I trust you are well.”

“This is no time for pleasantries.” He slid down from Ajax and lifted her bodily from her mare.

“I sincerely hope you’re not planning to throw me in the horse trough, or the fishpond, or whatever,” she complained. “As appears to be your wont when angry.”

He said nothing, just seized the bridles of both horses, and indicated that she should follow him. Eager to give him her news—which she was certain would please him—she acceded, but waited until their mounts had been handed to Perkin before opening her mouth.

He stopped her with a gesture. “Not here.” His tone was harsh, uncompromising. He glanced around. “This will serve.”

“This” was the old malt house, now used mainly for storage, though the sunken area in the floor for malting barley still remained. The place retained the sweet, heady scent of malt.