Page 7 of Lord of the Forest

“Why?” Because she wanted to be found—so long as it was by her father.

“Any search of the place will reveal me. That would serve me most ill.”

“Why would it?”

“Enough. Let us eat. I care not for speech.”

“I can tell that,” she muttered under her breath.

Gloomily, she sat cross-legged on the scorched earth next to the fire, trying to eat roast cony daintily, and fearful of the damage the rough ground was doing to her skirts.

Lancelot had no such qualms. Despite the fact the evening was growing chill, he pulled his shirt up over his head once more, then gobbled his food like swine from a bucket, and drank his nettle soup directly from the vessel in which it had been cooked, before passing it to her.

He had the manners of a goat, but one didn’t say such things to a man who looked as if he could tear an ox apart with his bare hands. He was sharing half his repast with her, and she must be grateful for that. All the same, she untied the latten spoon from her belt and finished the soup using that.

It was vile, despite the addition of salt. She must tell him where the wild garlic grew, and where to find mushrooms and puffballs, to improve the taste. Nay—why should she help him? He was a fiend, holding her against her will.

Pushing the empty pot away, she asked, “Where did you put my basket?”

He wiped his greasy fingers over his chest, making her wince. Why not wipe them in his beard, if he was that lacking in manners?

“On the other side of the tree.”

She struggled to her feet, her legs tangling in her skirts, but he made no move to help.

“Take off your—what’s the word—kirtle, if you cannot move in it.”

It was as well the dancing shadows from the dying embers of the fire hid her blush. Muttering under her breath again, she made her way around the tree and retrieved an apple and pear from the bottom of her basket. When she returned to offer Lancelot his choice of the fruit, it was to see him standing with his back to her, some distance away, making the unmistakable movements of a man about to urinate.

She dropped the fruit. “No, wait!”

“Wait?” He turned his shaggy head toward her.

“Don’t turn around! I mean—you can’t do that in front of a lady.”

“Why not?”

“It… it just isn’t meet, or proper.”

“But this is where I go.” He went back to his task.

Uttering a soft cry of defeat, she hurried as far away as she could, putting the great oak between them, and covering her ears. When she thought she’d given him sufficient time, she realized she, too, needed to relieve herself.

Fanning out her skirts, she squatted. A sound made her glance up, to discover the man standing in front of her, hands on hips.

“So, I may not do this in front of you, but you can do what you will?”

“You weren’t supposed to follow me.” Wincing, she covered her face with her hands and prayed the ground would swallow her up.

“I have a set place. This is my home. You do as I do and go where I go.”

“Begone, you gutter-spawned numbskull! Don’t you have any manners, at all?”

He let out a laugh then, a deep guffaw. “It seems I have forgotten them, as I have everything else.”

To her relief, he left.

Humiliated, she remained crouching on the ground, fighting back hot tears. This was the worst day she’d experienced since Simeon died. All men—except Simeon—were hateful, insensitive, and selfish. And Lancelot, or whatever his name was, was the very worst. As soon as it was light enough, she’d escape the forest, and make her way home, whether he liked it or not. And she didn’t care if it meant him being discovered. He was an outlaw, and it would be a crime to protect him in any case.