Page 8 of Lord of the Forest

Chapter Four

Lancelot didn’t take the woman to the village in the dead of night and leave her there. He should have, most certainly, as it would have been the safest thing to do. For him, yes—but not for her. Despite himself, he didn’t like the idea of any of the villagers taking advantage of her. Even though his memory was faulty, he knew what a valuable prize this woman was, that if he abandoned her now, he’d be putting her in harm’s way.

After the zealous over-cleaning of his cooking pot and her spoon—yes, he remembered what a spoon was—she’d fallen into a doze. He carried her into the hollow oak and deposited her on his bedding, throwing the newly-acquired cloak over her, and folding up a sack for a pillow.

Then he crouched by the lightning-blasted cleft in the tree—a posture to which he’d become accustomed if no seat were available—and listened to her breathing.

She was the most exciting, most terrible thing that had happened to him in all the time he’d lived in the forest. He simply didn’t know what to do with her. Well, he did—he’d not completely forgotten what women were for—but under the circumstances, she was a liability. She could destroy the way of life he’d created for himself in the forest. No matter how earnestly she might swear to keep his secret, it could be revealed through no fault of her own. Her people would want to know where she’d been and what had happened, and she would let slip some detail that would bring the authorities down on him like ravening wolves.

Picking up a partly-burned stick, he traced meaningless patterns in the dirt around his fireplace. Some of them might have been letters—he barely knew anymore. It had been so long since he’d touched a book, he didn’t know if he’d still be able to read. Which was a pity, as he remembered enjoying Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur.

The moon had risen and now shone its pale light into the clearing around the blasted oak. The brook turned to liquid silver, and a tawny owl wafted past on silent wings. How he loved the forest, especially in summer, when it was at its most benign. It pacified his soul, gave him new memories to replace the missing ones; memories of the birth of a new litter of badgers, of the sight of squirrels quarreling in a tree, of the time he’d felled a deer with a single shot from his stolen longbow, of the discovery of a place by the river where comfrey grew, and kingfishers whirred around the banks like winged jewels.

The arrival of the woman was a discordant note, a splinter under the skin. She didn’t fit into his world, could never fit into it—yet, how could he let her go without endangering himself?

He’d sleep on it. Sighing, he gazed down at her slumbering form. There should be just enough room for him to join her. They could share the cloak—it would be more comfortable than burrowing into the furze and pulling his doublet over him, as he usually did. Bunching the remaining sack under his head, he settled down, curling protectively around the sleeping woman.

Only to be awakened, what seemed mere moments later, by a series of sharp blows on his upper arm.

He was on his feet in an instant, instincts honed by years of being a hunter. He had his attacker in a stranglehold before realizing it was the woman that he’d rescued the previous night.

“Doltish lout! Poltroon! What do you mean by lying all over me, taking advantage while I’m asleep?”

For someone who called themselves a lady, she knew enough insults. He eased his grip and resisted the urge to laugh.

“It is my bed, not yours.”

“I don’t care. You are disgusting!”

He brushed some dried fern leaves from his torso and realized the sun was already high. He’d not slept this late in many a moon, curse it. The deer and the conies would already be thinking of hiding in the deepest areas of undergrowth, and he’d have to rely on theft or foraging for his meals today.

“Are you always this angry?” He reached into the oak for his doublet—it was still somewhat chilly in the glade, and a bone-dampening mist rose from the brook.

“No. You stink as well.” She wrinkled her nose.

“I’ll wash. I’ll show you where you can, too.” He was rediscovering amusement—the way she reacted to the least essential things in existence was highly entertaining. She had much to learn.

“Good.” The sour expression left her face. “Is that your doublet?”

He looked down at himself. The cloth was still good, though he’d had to replace the laces with nettle twine, not yet having mastered the art of making a leather thong.

“Aye.” A curious question. “Why?”

“It’s very fine.” She moved closer to examine it and walked around him.

It excited him to be inspected so closely. He hoped she was satisfied with what she saw.

“You are certain it’s yours?”

“I presume so. It was what I was wearing when I washed up—” He stopped. No one knew his story but him, and he certainly had no intention of sharing it.

“When you ‘washed up’? On the coast, do you mean? Did you nearly drown?” Her grey eyes sparked with excitement.

Seeing her properly now, in full daylight, he could appreciate her loveliness. Her skin was fine and white, like snow, with none of the rosy weathering evident in the country girls. Though her face was solemn in repose, it was sweetly appealing when animated, as it was now. Her head was still covered by the linen coif she wore beneath her hat, but the loose hair tumbling about her shoulders was the color of ripe wheat, and charmingly curled. He bent and brought a lock of it to his nose.

“What are you doing?” She tugged the curl away from him.

“Smelling you.”