Constantine

by Heather Grothaus

  * * *

  Dori ducked back behind the edge of a cottage as she came around the corner and saw Jeremy and Erasmus disappearing into Nell’s cottage. She was only barely keeping her composure after her confrontation with Constantine, and now the only place she could think of to escape was closed to her. She needed supplies, and although she wasn’t sure how she had planned to wheedle the necessary items from Nell, it no longer mattered.

  Then the thought occurred to her that if Jeremy and Erasmus were dining with Nell, the swineherd’s dwelling was untended. Dori emerged from behind the cottage and crossed the path diagonally, intending to cut behind the farthest row of little houses to come upon the rear of Jeremy’s plot.

  “Looking for something, milady?”

  Dori jumped and spun around with her hands raised to find Leland, his withered arm tucked beneath his belt. He leaned against the rear wall of a cottage, holding a pipe to his mouth with his good hand.

  Dori stared at the crippled man as she lowered her arms and tried to calm her breath. “Just out for a walk,” she said. “Clearing my head after the day. Not that it’s any of your concern.”

  “Mmm,” Leland said with a sage nod. He pointed his pipe stem in the direction in which Dori had intended to go. “Might be dangerous, should you walk too far past Jeremy’s.”

  “Certainly,” Dori said, and then cleared her throat. “It would.”

  “Have you your blade yet?”

  Dori nodded.

  Leland drew on his pipe again and looked away from her, as if she no longer interested him, although he added, “Enjoy your walk, milady.” He pushed away from the wall and ducked around the front of the cottage toward the center of the village.

  Dori let out her breath in a whoosh and then carried on toward the swineherd’s cottage in the glow of the setting sun. For a village boasting only eight inhabitants and a dog, escaping unseen was proving rather impossible. Her heart pounded with the fright she’d suffered, and yet she sensed that the embittered Leland would not tell anyone in the village that he’d seen her. She likely had at least until the morning before Constantine might bother to discover she was missing.

  It was just enough time to reach her destination.

  * * *

  The sky was still magenta at the horizon when the small, dark shape that was Lady Theodora Rosemont skittered through the shadows along the road leading away from the blubbery swineherd’s cottage and Benningsgate village. Leland watched her from across the square of freshly turned earth atop the rise of the burial ground until she was lost to the deepening night, his pipe smoke curling lazily in the cool air.

  He clenched the stem in his teeth before bending to pick up the satchel at his feet and ducked beneath the strap. Taking his pipe bowl in hand once more, he started down the hill toward the road, a jaunty spring in his step.

  * * *

  Isra pushed her way through the crowd in a wandering fashion, her head held high, her expression haughty as she felt the numerous stares and lingering looks sliding over her from the courtiers she parted. In her fine English ensemble, her hair piled atop her head with a tall frame beneath her embroidered wimple, the fat, sparkling jewels about her neck and wrists, dangling from her ears, she resembled the royalty she portrayed.

  “. . . princess. From . . .”

  “. . . Turkish. Her father—”

  “—husband—”

  “—brother—”

  “Good day, my lady.” The young man stepped directly into her path with a rakish smile and a bow as deep as the crowd of people and beasts would allow. He was dressed in the finest velvet with hammered gold adornments at his shoulders and waist, as well as over the insteps of his low, cuffed boots, so that with each movement, he jingled conspicuously.

  “Forgive my boldness,” he continued. “But I must confess that my companions and I have been watching you. It has come to our attention that you are without attendant.”

  He was bold, even for a young, wealthy man, and Isra lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes at him. “And you think perhaps to take advantage of the situation for your amusement?” she challenged, allowing her accent to thicken. “I assure you,” she said, her hand going to her waist to rest atop what appeared to be a rope of thick braid but was actually the hilt of a deadly-thin dagger, “I am skilled enough that you would heartily regret it.”

  “Oh, nay,” the man insisted in delighted and amazed laughter and pressed his hand to his chest. “I only wished to invite you to sit with us. My friends and I command quite the best position in the room—only look, that’s our dais right over there—and it would honor us greatly if you would join us. Would be quite an accomplishment—you’ve set the room agog with your presence.”

  Isra projected an air of indifference. “In my court, if a man should dare speak to a member of the royal family without introduction, it is grounds for execution.”

  “Thank heavens for me we are in England, then,” the man said with a rakish lift of his eyebrows, and Isra couldn’t help the indulgent smile that curved her lips. He was young and brash and carefree and rich beyond compare.

  Perfect.

  “I am Ethan Carmichael; my father is Lord Bledsoe. You’ve likely heard of him.” The man bowed again. “At your service.”

  “Ethan Carmichael, I have not heard of your father,” Isra insisted. “Likely he is only one of the pagan Irish.”

  He threw back his head and laughed at Isra’s taunt, even as he turned and placed her hand in the crook of his elbow confidently, leading her through the crowd and preening under the attention they garnered.

  “Quite the opposite of pagan,” young Carmichael insisted as he led Isra up the dais step to a wide, sumptuous cushion amid several young couples. He helped her to sit and then dropped to one knee at her side. “He owns several churches and a monastery in fact. He’s right . . . over . . .” The young man scanned the shifting crowd of nobility and musicians and dogs and horses who suddenly parted, and those around the perimeter of the chamber, including the youths in Ethan Carmichael’s group gained their feet. He assisted Isra in standing once more.

  The king entered, flanked by his retinue and his army of snuffling, scrabbling hounds, waving away bids for his attention with a disgruntled air.

  “Ah, there!” Carmichael said, kneeling once more at Isra’s side when she was seated. “On the king’s left. Now right. Now left again.”

  “Your father owns churches and a monastery?” Isra queried, genuinely surprised.

  “Oh, yes,” Carmichael assured her. “Quite profitable. Although it’s my mother who runs them really. Devout woman. Devout. As any of her seven children will attest.”

  Isra allowed him a sincere smile. “You English are very strange with your selling of God.”

  “Hmm, yes, I suppose. Rich, though,” Carmichael said with another lift of his brow. A familiar, twanging melody rang through the chamber. “They’re about to begin; marvelous. Simply marvelous. Only wait until you see. Completely famous. You’ll sit with us again on the morrow, won’t you?”

  The double doors on the far end opened once more, prompting those occupying the middle of the floor to clear and a man swept into the space, his green velvet tunic fitting him like a second skin, his ebon hair rising into a crest high above his forehead, his breathtaking smile wide as he held his hands aloft and spun to address the crowd.

  “Prepare yourselves, my lords and ladies, for the most thrilling displays of amusement from all corners of the earth. Allow me to present to you van Groen’s Magical Mankind Menagerie!”

  Isra clapped politely, feigning disinterest, although, at her side, Ethan Carmichael and his friends were frenzied in their enthusiasm.

  Asa had made quite a name for the troupe, it seemed.

  Many of the acts circulated through the crowd at once, so that the applause and exclamations of delight rolled through the room like waves. Helena and her dogs were a huge success, her little darlings’ songs prompting accompaniment by th
e king’s own numerous canines and setting the whole court to peals of laughter.

  “The king appears somewhat aggrieved,” Isra murmured, leaning slightly toward Carmichael. “Perhaps your father is to blame?”

  “Oh, nay, my lady—my father is beyond reproach, to that I can attest. The king always appears aggrieved. Today it is certainly only due to a silly matter of a vacated estate that was purchased. The lord was accused of some treason while on Crusade and stripped of his title. Terrific scandal, I tell you. The castle was burned to ruin and has sat empty for ages. Worthless rubble now—even the peasants have all gone. The disgraced lord is presumed dead, although there is now some question as to the degree of his guilt. The king was to have unburdened himself of the property this morn at a healthy profit.”

  “Why the grimace, then?” Isra asked, trying to keep her expression detached while, inside her chest, her heart raced.

  “He had a sudden attack of scruples, of all things, my father said last night at supper,” Carmichael scoffed. “Father encouraged him to look at the matter from a vantage of practicality.”

  “The lord who purchased the property,” Isra said, “is he called Glayer Felsteppe?”

  Carmichael’s bright eyes widened. “Even you’ve heard of him! The man’s as slimy a pretender as has crawled up from the dregs, I say. But he’s come into a vast estate at Thurston Hold. Almost as rich as me.” Carmichael sent her a beguiling grin. “Even Lady Eirene has been seen chasing after his heels, and the little infant he parades around like a nappied banner, and she is the heiress of Glencovent.”

  “She might be an idiot,” Isra muttered.

  Carmichael’s face brightened in camaraderie and he nodded. “Ah! So you’ve met.”

  Isra’s thudding heartbeat seemed to shake her very frame, and she wondered that none of the young, wealthy nobles seated around her noticed her trembling. She kept her eyes on the master of ceremonies on the floor below her, waiting for the moment when she could catch his eye. She had the information she needed; now she only had to make her escape.

  “It seems the king is rather more disgruntled than usual,” Carmichael murmured at her side.

  “Hmm?” Isra watched as Dracus expertly shot a faux partridge off the head of one particularly unamused servant to the howls of utter delight of the nobles in the crowd.

  “He’s just received a message. Which he’s now handing to my father.” Carmichael’s voice seemed intrigued and Isra reluctantly turned her face to regard the monarch even though she’d just given Asa the signal.

  The man at the king’s side, currently holding what must be the message Carmichael mentioned, looked up suddenly and seemingly right at Isra. Her breathing stopped, lodged in her throat. But then Lord Bledsoe’s stricken gaze slid from Isra to his son, still kneeling at her leg.

  “Whatever it is,” Carmichael said with amused gravity, “must be dreadful.”

  “And now I require the assistance of a beautiful lady,” Asa called from the floor, startling Isra’s attention back to the entertainment. His dark gaze seemed to scan the crowd with consideration, while behind him, Gunar and Nickle carried the long, saffron-colored curtains now attached to a circular framework.

  “One who is fearless, brave!” Asa expounded, prompting several handkerchiefs to wave in the air.

  “Go on,” Carmichael encouraged Isra. “You’ll be famous. I’ve heard the man keeps tigers. Man-eaters.”

  “That is preposterous,” Isra scoffed.

  “Only the very bravest!” Asa insisted.

  Carmichael shot to his feet. “Here, sir; here is your brave lady!”

  Asa smiled at her and held out his hand. “Would you indulge me, my lady?”

  “Very well.” Isra sighed and stood, drawing applause from the crowd. Carmichael courteously helped her alight from the raised platform and delivered her into Asa’s hand with a bow.

  “Make sure she is returned to me,” the young man cautioned Asa with a grin.

  Asa returned Carmichael’s smile with a wink as he squeezed Isra’s fingers. “I can make no promises, my lord.” Then he looked to Isra as he led her to the golden draped cage. “Would you happen to be Egyptian? The rumor is Turkish.”

  Asa drew open the curtains on both sides of the frame so that the entire crowd could see that it was empty before he helped Isra step inside and then turned immediately from her, his hands held high above his head.

  “Ladies and lords, I do hope you shan’t be overly distressed at what you are about to witness! In a spirit of precaution, I beg you to be seated if at all possible. Brace yourselves, at the very least.”

  Gunar winked at her before he whisked the curtain closed. Isra felt a whoosh of air behind her as well. She turned quickly and looked for the seam.

  * * *

  A quarter of an hour—and much aggrandizing from Asa van Groen—later, the cage was turned on its side and collapsed down to its frame, seemingly still empty of the lady who had disappeared, despite the menagerie leader’s best attempts to retrieve her. The man’s assistants picked up the enchanted container under their arms and carried it from the shocked chamber and the Turkish princess was never seen at Henry’s court again.

  The assistants slid the frame into the back of a wood-sided wagon and then pounded on the bed, signaling to the large blond man in the driver’s seat, who was accompanied by a falcon on a perch.

  Roman flicked the reins and the wagon rolled away.

  Chapter 20

  The child’s laughter was bubbly, like the water in a woodland spring, trickling giggles erupting suddenly into a fountain of mirth, and it stirred Constantine from his slumber with all the abruptness of being dropped from a great height.

  “Pa-pa,” the voice called in a singsong.

  “Christian?” Constantine looked around the small bedchamber of the cottage, but he was alone.

  “Pa-pa!” More giggles.

  The call sounded as though it was coming from outside, and he ran to the shuttered window in the front room, pushed the wooden closures wide.

  And in the center of the dirt road of Benningsgate village stood Glayer Felsteppe, with his leather hauberk and heeled boots, his wooly orange-red hair and hooked nose, turning in circles with a small blond boy at the end of his outstretched arms.

  “Faster, Papa!” Christian laughed.

  “No,” Constantine shouted from the window. “Christian, I’m your father! I’m right here!”

  Christian only giggled as Felsteppe swung him faster and faster, his little shoeless feet rising higher and higher above the dirt.

  Constantine left the window and leaped to the cottage door, flinging it wide and charging forward, but he ran into long, wrought bars of the very sort that had held him prisoner in Saladin’s dungeon. He grasped them with his fists and shook them with a roar.

  “Christian!”

  He ran back to the window, only to find that iron cylinders had grown there, too, imprisoning him in the cottage, and he was helpless to do anything other than watch the horror unfolding on the path before his eyes.

  Felsteppe suddenly let go of Christian’s hands and Constantine’s son was flung out of sight in the direction of the ruin, his high-pitched scream ripping at Constantine’s heart. Felsteppe laughed and began strolling in that direction.

  “No, Papa!” Christian pleaded faintly, and although Constantine pressed the side of his face to the bars, he could see neither his boy nor Felsteppe.

  But he heard the muffled wails, the sound of blows upon flesh, like the whip that had scourged Constantine’s own back. He saw the red glow of flames reflected on the cottage walls across the narrow road, could feel the heat of the fire.

  “Get away from my son!” Constantine screamed and shook the bars, feeling the muscles in his neck at the verge of tearing. “Get away from my son!”

  * * *

  Constantine sat straight up in bed, gasping as though he hadn’t drawn breath for an hour. He was covered in perspiration—even the thin,
prickly ticking beneath him was soaked with it. He pushed himself to his feet, staggered into the front room of the cottage, and made his way to the door by the faint glow of the fire dying in the hearth. He tore the door open and charged through, then stood swaying in the street and turning ’round as the spring night air slipped into the hot crevices of his body like icy blades.

  He gasped a final time and then leaned over with his hands on his knees, fighting the sob in his chest as he accepted the nightmare. His inhalation was a shuddering sniff.

  God, he was going mad.

  He stood aright and looked up the black path to the outline of Nell’s cottage, where Theodora had likely gone, and then his gaze rose farther to the skeletal stone finger of Benningsgate Castle.

  If Felsteppe had possession of Christian, what would Constantine not do to get him back? He would rally armies, defy kings, fight his way through ranks of armed men in order to pull his precious, innocent boy away from that monster.

  He looked back at Nell’s cottage.

  The same monster who now held Dori’s infant son in his very real clutches. Dori, who hadn’t the power to challenge king or steel, but had persevered within a life linked with Glayer Felsteppe’s, seeing him in her home; in her beloved father’s place, with his title. She had withstood God only knew what sort of hellish existence before defying death itself in hopes of one day returning for that little helpless child.

  That precious, innocent boy. Only a baby.

  Constantine looked back toward Benningsgate with a pain in his chest so deep it nearly brought him to his knees in the street. Christian was gone. Gone to heaven with his mother years ago. He was safe and loved and happy, and although Constantine accepted that the guilt of his own failings would haunt him for the rest of his life, he knew Christian didn’t need him anymore.

  But Theodora Rosemont’s son did.

  He began walking toward Nell’s cottage.

  * * *

  Dori walked for hours without lagging, fueled by her anger and hurt. She couldn’t remember much of the other journeys she’d undertaken from Benningsgate, save for that she was now very thankful for the balmy weather and her sturdy, borrowed peasant’s shoes.