* * *
Dori waited by the fragrant fire pit for what seemed like an hour, watching the fringe of the wood where Lord Gerard had entered. She neither saw nor heard sign of him, and so eventually she stood and made her way to the riverbank for a drink; if she stayed much longer by the slowly cooking fish, she feared she would reach beneath the cedar boughs and seize it, eating all of it herself, piece by piece.
She squatted by the shallows, dipping one hand into the fast, swirling eddies for a drink. She almost couldn’t stand the cold on her lips and thought about the last time she had been warm. It had been at Thurston Hold, early in the afternoon before she’d lost consciousness and entered into labor. She’d walked the corridors of her own home, in fine, rich clothes, with servants to attend her, and all the food and drink she could desire. Sunlight had streamed through windows cased with real glass, warming the stones and planks of the floors; there were woven throws of the softest wool for her shoulders, warm stones covered in quilting for her feet. It was like recalling the best dream she’d ever had, but it had been her life.
And then Eseld had come bearing the noxious potion that forced the start of her birth. Dori should have known it was poison, the way it increasingly made her nauseous and caused the pains to start in her abdomen. She should have realized that since Glayer Felsteppe had never given a damn about her, he certainly wouldn’t go to any trouble to see that she was given some relief from her agony. No, he had simply become tired of dealing with her, and from her own foolish admissions, he’d known when she had conceived. He’d known when it was safe for the baby to come. And he likely had hoped that by forcing the birth, Dori would indeed die.
Only she hadn’t died. And neither had Constantine Gerard.
She stood and dried her frigid hand on her skirts, her flesh feeling thick and gummy with cold. She pulled her thin cloak around herself as she made her way back to the fire and crouched down once more, holding her hands into the warming smoke. The smell of the sizzling fish hidden beneath the boughs was almost too much to bear.
But then Dori heard the crunch of footsteps and looked up to see Lord Gerard emerging from the wood once more, his head down, a fistful of spindly greens in one hand. She watched him stride up the slope, thinking about the differences between them. She was a sickly, frail, desperate woman; he was a strong, hearty, determined man. He sought revenge; she sought respite. She’d been indulged to the point of dereliction as a child; Lord Gerard was wholly self-made.
He was feeding her, but it was clear he didn’t want to help her.
Lord Gerard reached the fire and squatted straightaway to move the cedar boughs aside. He pulled at the fish with his thumb and made a little sound in his throat. His hair was magnificent, neatly plaited, long, glinting in the morning light.
She self-consciously ran a hand over her butchered locks.
“Where have you been?” she asked and was surprised at the timidity she heard in her voice.
“In the wood,” he answered curtly, rummaging in his satchel and not raising his face.
“No, not just now,” she clarified. “All this time. The years you were away from Benningsgate; where were you?”
He withdrew a long, narrow blade and then used it to flip a broken chunk of fish from the stake onto one of the dried, fragrant boughs. He handed it to Dori, who took hold of it with both hands, blinking rapidly at the smoke and the tears of anticipation.
“Syria, in the beginning,” he said gruffly, returning his attention to the fish and portioning out his own meal. “Then Damascus. Then . . . the countryside near Vienna.”
She lifted the bough to her face and bit into the fish hesitantly with the tips of her front teeth. She drew back quickly, blowing little breaths, and then attempted again. The flesh flaked off into her mouth, seared her tongue. She rolled it around in her mouth, drawing in cool air. Her mouth was scalded, but she couldn’t care. She chewed bit by bit, breaking up the piece until it had cooled enough to swallow, and then she started the whole process over again.
She could feel Lord Gerard watching her, and a part of her felt a sting of humiliation at her behavior. She was no better than an animal right now. She swallowed again and let her eyes catch his gaze for a moment.
“It’s very good. Thank you.”
He took a chunk of fish between his thumb and fingers and held it before his mouth, blowing on it. “Did Felsteppe cut your hair? Or was it the beastly nurse you spoke of?”
Dori chewed and cleared her mouth. “I did it.”
He looked at her then, his eyebrows raised, as he popped the fish into his mouth and chewed slowly, seeming to consider her answer. “I remember your hair as a child; all the ladies were wild about it.”
Dori nodded, ducked her head as a prickle came into her eyes. “My father was very proud of it as well. My mother died shortly after I was born and he always feared I would lack a certain womanliness. My childhood nurses took great pains with my hair. I remember many a tearful hour beneath their brushes.”
“Why did you cut it?”
Dori swallowed again, picked at the tiny bits of fish—all that were left now—that had fallen between the densely packed clusters of greenery. “You don’t really care.”
“No, I don’t,” he admitted. “But I am curious as to why.”
She held forth her empty server. “Might I have some more?”
Lord Gerard only glanced pointedly at her hair.
Dori felt her cheeks heat. “I had to cut it. It was caked with dirt. And probably blood. I had no utensil to address it. Even when I attempted to wash it, it only matted further once it was dry. I found the eating knife in the rubble one day not long after I’d arrived and used it to cut my hair.” She gestured with the bough once more.
Lord Gerard was very still for a heartbeat and then he reached out abruptly, dislodging a large portion of fish and placing it carefully on her bough.
“Thank you,” she said stiffly, thinking him embarrassed at pressing her for such intimate details.
“You found the eating knife here, you say?” he inquired mildly.
Dori stilled; even her chewing ceased as she instantly recalled the faint engraving on the battered and scratched hilt of that particular knife: CAG.
“It belonged to your son,” she realized aloud. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“I should have looked at it more closely when it was in my possession,” he interrupted and returned his portion of fish back to the pit. “I thought when I first saw you with it that it looked the sort a child would use.”
“I shall return it to you at once of course,” she said.
“Have you found any other personal items of my family, Lady Theodora?”
Dori shook her head, bewildered at the idea that she could have so soon lost her appetite. She, too, placed her uneaten fish on the smoldering fire and watched as Lord Gerard covered it with the boughs. “No. I’ve explored as much as I can safely reach. The hall and the apartments are destroyed; the kitchen is buried. I’ve found nothing else.”
“Do you know how the fire progressed?” he asked quietly, sitting back on his hip with his back partly toward her now.
Dori felt an anxious tremble in her stomach at his question as it jostled her warm meal. “No, my lord.”
“You’re lying.”
She frowned and the tremble turned to a lurch. “Why would you say that?”
“Because you called me ‘my lord’; are you trying to spare me the details?”
Dori’s face heated. “I don’t know any details—only the gossip I overheard from the servants.”
“Tell me.”
She stood swiftly, her head spinning a bit at the sudden motion. “What good would it do to hear gruesome, likely exaggerated rumors? It changes nothing.”
“I must know,” he insisted in a low voice. “I imagine it constantly—the different circumstances. I know very little, you see? I think I’m owed at least the knowledge of how my family were murdered.”
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Dori felt her nostrils flaring as she tried to slow her breathing. “But you’ll never know if it’s the truth. The rumors could be so much worse than your imaginings, and then there will never be any respite from the nightmares in your head.”
“It won’t be worse I assure you.”
Dori hesitated.
“Please,” he said curtly, his gaze still directed toward the ever-flowing river.
She tried to clear her throat from the lump that had formed there and then drew a slow, deep, silent breath before beginning. “The soldiers had come because there was rumor that one of the traitors had made his way to Kent to assist an English lady. The king’s men turned Benningsgate over, searching for him.”
He nodded, not looking at her. “Go on.”
“Well, they didn’t find him.” She pressed her lips together, praying that it would be enough and knowing in that same moment that she had told him nothing he mustn’t already know.
“Dori,” he said in a low voice.
No one had called her that since her father died, and the pet name coming from his lips in such a fashion made her knees watery. She wished with everything in her that she could just float away rather than divulge the tale she’d heard to the man sitting on the grass below her. Constantine Gerard either knew exactly what he was doing or his instincts were something supernatural. Certainly he had interrogated enough hardened men in his years as a general.
“It was rumored that Felsteppe questioned the Lady Patrice alone for some time.”
“Did he harm her?”
Dori paused, closed her eyes. “Perhaps.”
“Tell me the—”
“I don’t know!” she interrupted, and then forced herself to take a breath. “She might have called for help, but Felsteppe’s soldiers prevented any of the servants from entering. When he emerged from the hall, he declared that the countess was lying. He spoke to . . . he spoke to Christian.” Dori had to pause here, gird herself. “Then he sent him into the hall after his mother. He ordered the door to be barred and the castle set afire. It is said the men made use of a kind of water that burned. You can see to what extent the blaze completely destroyed Benningsgate.”
She took a deep breath. “And that is all I know.”
Constantine Gerard didn’t so much as move and so, after several moments, Dori gathered up her ragged skirts and moved back toward the enclosed ward, leaving him on the hillside with his grief. She waited until she thought she was out of earshot before giving leave to her own quiet sobs.
Chapter 6
Glayer watched the man hold forth yet another swath of rich velvet, this one in a deep sapphire blue. His lips curved in a slight smile and he held his chalice loosely in his left hand as he reclined in his chair in the lord’s chamber. His dressing gown lay heavy and warm against his skin, the material fairly singing with luxury.
“That one is very nice,” he said to the anxious tailor. “But have you anything in red?”
He bowed repeatedly. “Certainly, my lord. Certainly.”
The man scurried to his pile of goods on a low, wide ottoman, and Glayer observed his enthusiasm to please with great satisfaction. And well he ought—Thurston Hold’s lord was keeping the man employed with all the costumes he was commissioning of late. There were feasts and fêtes, tunics cut to impress his calling neighbors, costumes for travel and while petitioning at Henry’s court. Why, it was exhausting being of such high rank, considering only the number of times he was forced to change his clothing.
But the idea of it made his smile grow. Glayer Felsteppe had never been so . . . comfortable in all his life, and not simply in his physical person. True, Thurston Hold was a veritable palace, his furnishings and clothes rivaling Henry’s own, but it was his sense of inner peace that brought him the most happiness. His enemies? Banished. Dead, likely, but even if they weren’t, there was absolutely nothing that could be done to dislodge Glayer from his much deserved life. Constantine Gerard and everything he’d ever claimed as both a general and as the earl of Chase had vanished as if he’d never existed. And soon Glayer would own the last piece of the man’s legacy: the lands of Benningsgate.
He thought he’d leave the castle ruin standing for sentimental reasons.
Yes, Glayer was now titled, rich beyond compare, and working diligently to become a trusted resource to the king in his time of familial and clerical strife. Perhaps there was even a chance Henry would one day elevate Glayer to a dukedom.
The door to his chamber opened beyond the little stooped tailor and Glayer’s smile grew. He placed his chalice on the table and held his arms up expectantly.
“Glander!” he called, and the little dark head turned at the sound of his voice. “Come to Papa.”
Eseld lowered Glander into his arms and the baby smiled up into Glayer’s face. “Good morning, son. Have you had your breakfast, then?”
“It’s past luncheon, my lord,” Eseld said.
“Is that so?” Glayer said, touching a finger to the little chap’s nose. “We don’t care one whit, do we? We do not.”
The tailor cleared his throat timidly, causing Glayer’s smile to falter as he glared at the man for daring to intrude. He continued to scowl until the tailor fidgeted and then at last began gathering up his long lengths of cloth and, giving a hasty bow, scurried toward the door.
“Forgetting something?” Glayer called out after the man and raised his eyebrows as the tailor froze in his tracks and turned back.
“A thousand pardons, my lord,” the man said, dropping to his knees before Glayer. His head bent down and then Glayer felt the twin brushes of the man’s lips on the tops of his feet. He rose and likewise kissed the tiny, gowned impressions of Glander’s feet as well.
“You’re dismissed,” Glayer said with a wave. “Go on and fashion me a suit each in the blue and the red.”
“Certainly, my lord.”
“And I’ll need both complete costumes by the end of the week.”
The tailor hesitated. “Of course, my lord.”
Glayer looked at the man pointedly. “Well?”
“Only waiting for further instruction, my lord.”
“Get out!” he screamed. Glander whimpered in his arms and so he raised his hand up to cup the baby’s ear. “That was loud,” he allowed.
The door to his chamber shut and Eseld took advantage of the privacy to sit in a chair near his small side table. It was a gross liberty, but Glayer let it go. She was allowed some comfort, he supposed. He stroked Glander’s silky hair.
“Preparing for our next visit to the king, my lord?”
“I’d planned for us to travel to court at the end of the week, Nurse, but it will have to be postponed a bit—I’ve been invited to a fête at Jarlswood to be held in my honor.” What an interesting creature this boy was, his son. It didn’t even bother him that the child bore such a close resemblance to his mother. Theodora had been a stunning beauty. “Several lords of no little importance will be in attendance, I’m told.”
“I thought your priority was securing Benningsgate.”
He turned from the baby to glare at Eseld. “Excuse me, but I don’t believe your duties extend to the role of adviser. You’re barely qualified as a nurse.”
The old woman stiffened and turned her eyes away but made no rejoinder.
“There is no race for Benningsgate. No one else can hold such a claim to it as I, although many of our neighbors would love to add the lands to their own. Henry must agree that I am the worthiest of it, considering the obscene amount of money I am willing to pay above its worth.”
“Some may put up a fight,” Eseld warned timidly.
“And that is why it is so important that I make a good impression on my neighbors, dear Nurse,” he said condescendingly. “As young Glander here grows into his birthright, there will be no shortage of allies and those wishing to align with Thurston Hold and the powerful house of Felsteppe.” He bounced Glander again. “Isn’t that right? We shall claim everyth
ing as far as our eyes can see, shan’t we? Yes, we shall.”
Eseld’s already thin lips seemed to disappear in her lined face.
“When you leave,” Glayer continued pointedly, “locate Simon and send him to me. I’ve a task for him.”
“He’s still recovering his arm,” the nurse snipped. “You can’t think to—”
“You will do as you’re told!” Glayer roared, the baby in his arms startling and then beginning to cry. Glayer’s face felt afire as he tried to calm himself enough to comfort his son, holding the boy closely on his shoulder and hushing him. He hated for the boy to cry—the sound was piercing and gave Glayer a headache, as well as making the child’s countenance a horror.
“You needn’t fear that I’ll have him rebuilding the sanctuary he’s all but deserted. I’m sending him on a journey.”
Eseld didn’t comment, but Glayer couldn’t keep from telling her the details of the thing. It was brilliant really. A complete coup.
“I’ve found out at last where my enemies have been hiding all these years—under the protection of an abbot at a cloister in Austria. By the time Simon makes the lengthy journey, he should be recovered enough for his task.”
“You’re sending an old priest to kill your enemies?” Eseld asked with a confused frown.
“Don’t be stupi—well, you can’t really help that now, can you?” he smirked. “No, Simon’s task is not to kill the four men against me—if even they still live. His status as a priest will allow him to beg counsel from his Christian cohort.” Glayer patted the baby’s warm, smooth, rounded back and spoke softly now; the little fellow had fallen asleep.
“Simon is to gain audience with the man who has sheltered the four responsible for my strife the past five years. Victor, I believe he is called. Shh, shh,” he comforted the stirring boy. He looked over the baby’s head. “And then he will kill the priest. He’s the only one left with enough reputation to possibly vouchsafe for the traitors.”
Eseld didn’t move, didn’t comment, although he could see the fury in her cloudy eyes. Good; he hoped she was vexed, the foolish, delusional fanatic.
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