Page 66 of Lord of the Forest

Epilogue

Late spring, 1586, Suffolk, England

Clemence took her husband’s hand, planning to descend from their carriage with the elegance of a lady who had learned proper manners at court. But the pleasure of being back home at Emborough was so great, she couldn’t wait but flew into his arms. He caught her, laughing, and swung her around gleefully, then set her gently down.

“We must be careful, considering your condition.”

She gazed down at her bodice, the laces stretched wide across her expanding stomach. “I feel perfectly well, sir. I fear some of my weight is not due to the babe at all, but to the mouthwatering feasts we enjoyed at Queen Elizabeth’s table.”

He rolled his eyes. “Aye. We were well rewarded for publicly airing our tale of mystery, murder, and romance.”

Clemence had known the queen would enjoy a good story. The monarch had also proved grateful for the unmasking of yet another closet Catholic, whose underworld connections had been of some concern. Fortunately, the hapless Walter de Glanville had given up the names of his connections to avoid a traitor’s death. Clemence didn’t blame him. The threat of being hung, drawn, and quartered was enough to wrest a confession from anyone. Leniency had been granted in exchange for his assistance, and the man’s execution had been commuted to hanging, with none of the other horrors.

She glanced at the facade of Emborough Hall and saw several interested faces in the ground floor windows. Hopefully, she’d remember everyone’s names—they’d been absent so long!

“I protest.” Her husband’s voice brought her mind back to the present.

Clasping his hand, she asked, “Wherefore, do you protest, sir?”

“You are thinking about all the indulgences and pleasures of court and not about me.”

Untrue. He was her biggest indulgence, her greatest treasure—the only thing she needed.

“Only momentarily. I’d soon have been thinking of you again.”

“How you love to torment me.” He pushed open the main door of the house and stood aside, ushering her ahead of him with an expansive gesture. Servants scuttled in all directions, but two remained—the steward and the housekeeper.

Master March gave Clemence a deep bow, then turned to Lancelot. “Sir, the orders in your missive have been carried out to the letter. All is ready for your inspection.”

Lancelot pressed a finger to his lips. “I thank you. But pray, say no more at present.”

Clemence’s ears pricked up. A surprise? What had her artful husband been planning with his steward, about which she was permitted to know naught? Something for the babe, mayhap?

“Sir, Mistress. You must surely want to refresh yourselves. The board is laid ready with your repast.”

“Let’s change and cleanse ourselves from the grime of travel.” There was a glint in Lancelot’s eyes that told her he’d be more than happy to undress and bathe her himself, and then do… other things.

She gave him a stern look, then turned to the housekeeper. “Thank you, Goodwife. We will be down forthwith.”

As her waiting-maid helped divest her of her traveling clothes, Clemence breathed again the familiar scents of Emborough. How she’d missed the smell of beeswax, dried rose petals and pungent southernwood, the earthy perfume of the lichen-dyed drapes, and the lavender pillows that refreshed the beds and the linen chests!

The royal palaces she’d been to that winter, after a grateful Walsingham had recommended her and Lancelot to the queen, had become malodorous after a while. Little wonder, with up to a thousand courtiers packed into them over the winter months. Windsor, where they’d spent Easter, had been an improvement on Whitehall Palace—but all in all, she’d found the sheer size of the places exhausting, and the constant bickering and bitching of the court ladies overwhelming.

She’d just had a fresh gown pulled over her head when there was a scratching at the door. With a quiver of excitement, she knew it must be Lancelot. His manners had improved during their stay at court. He had learned not to just barrel into rooms as soon as he came to them. The Gentleman Usher would have given him short shrift if he’d attempted to enter the queen’s presence thus.

“I’ll be out in a moment,” she called. Surely, he knew by now how long she needed to get changed? He’d helped her disrobe often enough—wicked, intemperate fellow.

“There’s something we must do ere we eat. Make haste, I pray.” His voice boomed through the panels of the door.

She patted her hair back into place, donned her coif, and swept out into the passageway to join him.

He looked her up and down, beamed his approval, then took her arm and escorted her down the stairs. His care of her now that she was in a delicate condition was touching, as no matter how poorly she felt, how ugly or misshapen, he’d always be there to reassure her, his devotion shining in his forest-green eyes.

“There’s something I wish to show you in the gardens before we dine. Will you be warm enough?”

“After being cramped in that carriage like a pig in a poke, I will welcome an airing.”

The late spring air was mild, and there was little wind, so she was comfortable enough. Lancelot guided her past the formal knot garden—far tidier than when she’d last seen it—and toward the ancient fishponds at the rear of the manor.