Constantine

by Heather Grothaus

  There was only the ornately decorated altar cloth—heavy and slick and stiff—folded neatly on the bench where she’d left it. Dori picked it up and then the satchel, ducking her head through the strap before extinguishing the light and leaving the pitch-black room.

  When she’d gained the ward, she crossed the tall weeds, which were at last beginning to dry out and straighten respectably, to exit over the stone threshold on the side of the castle ruin above the river. She paused for a moment, taking in the small stone ring, already beginning to be overrun with fresh greenery, where Constantine Gerard had smoked fish the morning after he’d come. She walked past it down to the river’s edge, where she took one of the worn and dingy linen cloths from the satchel and dunked it in the frigid water.

  Then Dori turned and trudged up the slope to the patch of flowers on the edge of the cliff just outside the wood, where she spread the dripping cloth on the grass and then removed his satchel, setting it aside. She slid the knife he’d given her earlier from the sheath on her apron tie.

  She piled the cloth with wild early violets, stems of tiny-leaved mint and slender fern. The few delicate snowdrops she found persevering beneath the north side of a moss-covered boulder she saved for last, placing the bright blooms atop the bouquet before carefully knotting the corners of the cloth in the middle. She returned the blade, ducked back into Constantine’s satchel, and picked up the damp bundle.

  It wasn’t difficult to locate Harmon’s cottage after Dori had returned to the village. Many of the smaller dwellings had fallen into disrepair, and the ones that were still habitable clustered together along the road, save for the larger swineherd’s cottage and attached barn, which was located on the outer edge of the town. This time, there were no observers as she made her way down the path, not even curious and enthusiastic Erasmus. She leaned in the window—one shutter half open—and saw the back of Constantine Gerard’s head as he sat on a stool, his back to her.

  Dori left the window to hesitate a moment before the closed door, then knocked firmly.

  A long beat of silence, and then, “Come.”

  She pushed the door open and stepped inside, closing it silently behind her. Dori placed the bundle of flowers on the table and paused, hesitant to intrude upon him even after he had granted her entry.

  “I had never failed at anything in my entire life before I married Patrice.”

  She glanced up at him, but Constantine wasn’t looking at her as he spoke, instead fixing his eyes on the shallow basket in the center of Harmon’s table.

  “It seems as though I failed at everything ever after.”

  Dori directed her gaze downward once more as she lifted the strap of Constantine’s satchel over her head and set it on the other side of the basket. She slid the folded altar cloth from its bulk and smoothed its edges as she laid it on the table.

  “I failed as a husband; as a father. As a lord.”

  Dori pressed her lips together firmly as she began attending to the ties on the satchel.

  Constantine huffed a mirthless laugh. “I’m still failing Christian. He’s somewhere buried in that ruin and I can’t so much as find his body.”

  Dori paused again after retrieving the basket of oils, unsure of what to say or do. Should she suggest that, because of the boy’s young age and small stature, his body could have been burned to nothing? Or crushed to oblivion in the rubble? It didn’t sound comforting to her own mind, thinking how she would feel if the same consideration were made to her about her own son. But Theodora Rosemont had never been in the situation of comforter before and so she continued to lay out her supplies carefully and silently on the tabletop.

  After what seemed a long while, he asked, “Why are you doing this?”

  Dori at last looked up at him, startled to see the dark hollows beneath his eyes, the creases that seemed to have pressed into his forehead since that morning.

  “Because I don’t know how to make a stew,” she blurted out and then felt her face heat. She dropped her gaze to the tabletop as she took the bottles out of the basket. “I have experience burying my father at least.”

  There was nothing else for her to prepare or procrastinate over and so she looked up at him again and found him watching her.

  “You’re very kind, aren’t you?” he asked suddenly, as if making an unexpected discovery.

  She shook her head slightly. “No.”

  * * *

  It was only an hour later that Patrice Gerard, Countess of Chase, was laid in her grave. The linen kerchief she’d so lovingly gifted her favored maid was the shroud for her bones, a flower wreath to cover her bare skull woven by a young lady in peasant’s garb who was presently rumored to be dead. The basket was wrapped with the embroidered altar cloth from the oratory before being placed gently in the dirt.

  Constantine presided over the ceremony, lacking any priest, and his words were low and gruff as he recited long prayers obviously from memory. Besides the two in attendance still dubiously of the nobility, the burial was attended by eight villagers and a dog.

  When Harmon began returning the earth to the depression he’d recently excavated, Dori saw Constantine’s reddened eyes, his flaring nostrils. She looked away courteously but raised her right hand, slipping it into Constantine’s. He squeezed her fingers.

  Dori held on.

  Chapter 19

  Theodora pulled her hand free from Constantine’s as the villagers approached them, and he felt the absence of the warmth of her slight hand like a physical hole in his flesh. She turned away and headed down the slope toward the village.

  Alone, except for the rangy gray beast who loped after and caught up to her in moments. Constantine watched as she took a halfhearted swipe at Erasmus’s rump, which only sent him into ecstatic circuits around her.

  Constantine began following her, flanked by Nell and Harmon, and it was the latter who spoke. “I’ve left a jug of mead at the cottage for you, milord.”

  “And supper is on the fire,” Nell added. “I don’t think even she could endanger it this far along.”

  Constantine looked down at Nell. “Lady Theodora has done me—done all of us—a great service today in seeing that Lady Patrice was laid to rest with as much dignity as any of us are capable of.”

  The woman’s eyes grew round. “Beggin’ your pardon, milord. I didn’t—”

  Harmon interrupted the woman’s awkward apology. “I’ll be ready at your call in the morn, Lord Gerard.”

  “My thanks, Harmon,” Constantine said, pausing to grip the man’s shoulder as they stood at the edge of the village, and then the carpenter turned away to his own abode.

  Constantine continued on to the borrowed cottage alone and pushed through the partially open door. Dori was already at the bench, hacking a round of bread through the middle, and Erasmus was already lying before the hearth, his wooly eyes squeezed shut as if in deep slumber.

  Constantine could have sworn the animal peeked at him with one eye.

  He walked over to the dog all the same. “Go on, now—back to your master,” he said, shooing the dog through the door and ignoring his doleful look. He shut the door and then turned back to the room, where Theodora seemed to be doing an excellent job of ignoring him.

  But that idea only proved to Stan how far off his perception was, for in the next moment, Dori spoke.

  “When did you last see your family?” she asked calmly, at last succeeding in parting the bread into halves.

  He was surprised by the question, and even more surprised that he was not averse to answering her. “Six years ago.” He sat down in a wooden chair with a low back. “Christian had only just turned four.” She didn’t pose any further questions, and so he grew curious himself. “Why do you ask?”

  Dori shrugged and then picked up one of the halves she had scooped out and turned to the hearth so that her back was to him when she answered. “I couldn’t remember when you left Benningsgate, is all. My father had mentioned you were gone on Crusade, but I
rather didn’t care.”

  She turned back and set the bread trencher before him without comment and then retrieved the other half.

  Constantine stared down at the food. It smelled delicious, but his head pounded, and he kept hearing the gravelly tumble of rocked echoing off the ruin walls in his mind, as if taunting him to return.

  A chair scraped and he looked up to find Theodora taking her seat. She glanced up at him, and he noticed that her expression was tense, angry. He hadn’t realized until now that it was how she’d looked when Constantine had first discovered her at Benningsgate, and he hadn’t realized that the look had gradually faded until today.

  She picked up a chunk of the bread and dipped it into the stew. “How long will you work in the ruin?” She took a bite.

  Constantine thought it best that he follow her example and eat, even if he didn’t feel like it. He needed to preserve his strength for the hard work that yet lay ahead of him. He picked up his own hunk of bread.

  “As long as it takes.”

  After a long pause, Dori asked, “Have you given up on your cause against Glayer Felsteppe, then?”

  Constantine felt his gut clench. “No,” he said levelly. “But I will lay my son to rest properly first. I’ll not be turned from it. And you’ll not question it if you wish my aid.”

  He could feel the tension rolling across the table as if it were a prickly tide. He glanced up and saw that Theodora was no longer eating but only staring down at her trencher.

  “What is it now, Theodora?” he asked, feeling the spiral of anger begin at the base of his pounding skull.

  “Nothing.” She stood from her chair and picked up the half-eaten round, then walked past him. He heard the door open. “I thought you’d be waiting,” she said to someone outside the cottage. “Here you are, then.” The door closed.

  “You’re angry with me,” Constantine ventured, “because I’m delaying going to Thurston Hold. You would harangue me on this of all days?”

  “I’m not haranguing you in the least. I’ve not said another word about it, have I?”

  “No, but you’re still angry,” he repeated. “Is that the only reason why you did what you did today? So that I would feel guilty if I didn’t—”

  He hadn’t anticipated the slap she dealt him, although he should have been more familiar with her demeanor by now.

  “Your guilt,” she said in a trembling voice through clenched teeth, “is of your own making. Whatever failures you’ve accumulated have nothing to do with me.”

  “You really are a brat, aren’t you?” he accused, feeling his rage at her rising, although he couldn’t have explained why.

  “A brat now, am I?” Dori accused with wide eyes. “Because I’m not cowing to your every whimful edict? When I was wrapping Patrice’s body, I was kind!”

  Constantine stood from the chair. “That was a ruse.”

  “My patience is too far past its end for engaging in games, Constantine. Since you’ve come here, I’ve never really known whether you would help me or not. Now you seem content to play at lord again, over your handful of subjects in this”—she looked around the small room—“house.”

  “I nursed you from the brink of death.”

  “Did that make you feel noble?” She smirked. “I assure you, I was closer to the brink of death before you arrived, and I would have survived had you not.”

  “If you don’t need me, why the pout?”

  Her gaze was full of daggers. “I supposed it would be much more convenient should you kill Glayer Felsteppe for me.”

  “As it was convenient for you to marry him after your father died?”

  “Rather more as it was convenient for you to run away to the Holy Land rather than be humiliated by Patrice’s infidelity.”

  Constantine raised his hand and Dori stepped toward him. “It’s painful, isn’t it? The truth? Especially when you’re not using it to deprecate yourself like some . . . some martyr.”

  “Shut up, Theodora,” he warned.

  “You left your family, your home; you left the friends who helped save your life. All to serve your own agenda. When all I ever wanted was to keep what I had.”

  “Shut up,” he repeated.

  “And now I’m to wait on you as well, until it’s absolutely convenient for you to keep your word!”

  He reached out and grabbed her by her arms, his fingers meeting around her slight biceps encased in the rough gown. She struggled, but when she saw that she could not pull away, she stilled and snarled up at him.

  “You wish to strike me?” she dared, turning her face up to him. “Go on, then, if you must. But I’ve been someone’s pawn all my life and I’m finished waiting for you.”

  Constantine thought he only kissed her to ensure her silence, but in that moment after he dropped his mouth on hers, the only thing he could think of was tasting those lips that had condemned him so thoroughly, of touching a bit of that righteous indignation and, yes, perhaps to humiliate her as she had done to him.

  She breathed in through her nose with a loud wheeze and then pressed her body to his, her hands going to his waist. He released his grip on her upper arms, wrapping her in his embrace, lifting her to him, deepening their kiss. He tasted salt and pulled away to see the tears on her face. He brought his hands up to cup her face, kissing her cheeks.

  But she sniffed and shook her head, pulling him closer and bringing her mouth back to his. His hands raked back through her silky, springy hair, holding her face before his, and then he bent and picked her up in his arms and carried her through the doorway at the back of the cottage.

  There was a single rough bedstead in the tiny, windowless room, made up with thick blankets. He lay Theodora Rosemont atop them and then lay down beside her, kissing her once more. He worried he would hurt her, she was so slight. He ran his hand up the front of her kirtle, sliding his palm over her small breast. She gave a happy sigh as the tips of her fingers dug into his ribs.

  Constantine brought his leg across hers, pulling her into his groin, cautioning himself to go slowly; it had not been many months since—

  He stilled so suddenly, it was as if he had frozen into solid ice. Even his heart seemed to frost over in his chest.

  Since she’d given birth to Glayer Felsteppe’s son.

  The last man she’d made love with—likely the only man she’d ever made love with—was Glayer Felsteppe. The one who’d put Patrice in her grave more surely than the devoted villagers at his side this day.

  He rolled away from Dori and sat up on the side of the bed, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.

  “What?” she said in a breathless voice, and he felt her sitting up behind him. “Constantine, what is it?”

  “I can’t,” he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut and hating the sound of his weakness. When he felt her tentative touch on his back, he shot to his feet with a growl. He turned to look at her and her face was pale, solemn, her eyes too big for her face, her innocent-looking mouth turned down.

  “Can’t because of Patrice or can’t because of me?” she asked quietly.

  “I can’t reconcile any of this!” he shouted, pacing the floor. “You weren’t supposed to be here; you weren’t supposed to be kind to me. I’ve hated you since the moment I heard you had wed that monster.” He paused and looked at her. “Dori, he took the most precious things in my life.”

  “Yes, he did,” Theodora agreed. “He took mine from me, as well. He did, Constantine. I didn’t. You didn’t. Why should we be further punished for his evil?”

  Constantine shook his head. “It matters not. I touch you and my head goes mad with thoughts of him touching you.”

  “If you cared for me,” she said carefully, “if you wanted me, truly, you would not let Glayer Felsteppe stop you from claiming me. From claiming anything you wanted.” She scooted to the edge of the cot and stood facing Constantine, the several feet still separating them feeling as wide and deep as a black, bottomless chasm. “Do you care
for me, Constantine? Could you care for me, as I am, once the situation in which we now find ourselves no longer exists? In a future where there is no Glayer Felsteppe?”

  Constantine felt an ache in his chest as he looked at her, Theodora Rosemont, as demanding as the rumors painted her, but this time what she was demanding was nothing more than the truth.

  He tried to imagine returning to Benningsgate and meeting her again, had she been unmarried, and he felt hope leap in him. A rush of excitement at the idea of pursuing her, with her delicate fairy face and secret kindness, her will and physical stamina that could rival the mightiest soldiers he’d ever known. The way she wanted to protect. Perhaps in time he could forget . . .

  But then he recalled her child. Felsteppe’s child. Constantine could not raise the boy in good conscience after having killed his father. Even if he had been the man who had murdered Constantine’s son.

  Once Constantine had made good on his vow to exact his revenge, it was unlikely he would live very long any matter. It was better for Dori, more merciful, should he end any thoughts of a future with her now.

  He looked at Theodora, waiting patiently before him, and she must have seen the answer in his eyes before he spoke, for her expression hardened once more.

  “I can’t,” he said.

  Her chest rose and fell shallowly with her breath. “You coward. Glayer Felsteppe has already bested you.”

  She walked past him from the chamber.

  Constantine turned in time to see the door close behind her as she left. He returned to the front room and sat down at the table, reaching for the corked jug Harmon had so courteously left for him. He opened it with an echoey thunk and turned it up to his mouth. He swallowed and sighed, looking at the empty chair across from him.

  Let her work out her anger at Nell’s, then. Eventually she would see that his decision was best for both of them.

  Constantine repeatedly turned the jug to his mouth until the mead was gone from the vessel. And still Theodora Rosemont’s beautiful, wide eyes accused him as he lay down once more on the narrow bedstead, this time alone.