Simon had caused Theodora Rosemont’s death as surely as if he’d followed Glayer Felsteppe’s orders precisely. And the bright, young, quiet boy’s, too. The child may as well have died in the fire that took his family, the less cruelty he likely would have suffered.
“Simon, can you hear me?” Victor demanded, drawing his attention from the chasm of despair Simon wanted to throw himself into. “I want you to tell me about the woman. Look at me.”
Simon raised his eyes to the priest.
Victor’s gaze was intense. “Tell me everything.”
And so Simon did.
Chapter 22
Constantine felt as though he had entered into another foreign country rather than the London he had once known so well. The sights and sounds that were familiar to him as General Gerard, and then as the earl of Chase, seemed hostile to him now as he led Theodora Rosemont through the streets on their tired mounts. They drew suspicious stares from the night walkers prowling the growing shadows—two people of poor dress but traveling astride—and Constantine kept his senses attuned and his sword beneath his hand as they drew ever closer to their destination.
It was evening, but the king’s household was still engaged in raucous activity, if the stream of people going to and fro the wide building were any indication. Constantine thought to ease past the guards into the courtyard unnoticed, but one sharp-eyed sentry seized the bridle of Constantine’s horse at the last moment.
“Where d’you think you’re going, mate? The fair’s moved on—naught for you to see nor buy any longer, if you had a penny to your name.”
Constantine had to steel himself from jerking his horse free. He spoke calmly. “I’ve come bearing important news for the king. The lady I travel with requires an immediate audience.”
The guard leaned sideways and eyed Dori with a smirk before straightening and looking askance at Constantine. “Lady, you say.”
“Yes, lady. We’ve been traveling the whole of the day. Our horses require shelter and feed, and we must see the king at once.”
“Your horses are of the better sort, and your speech is fine, but many connivers’ are.” By now the milling crowd about the torchlit courtyard had turned toward them in blatant curiosity and were watching the exchange with hungry gazes. “But if I interrupted the king with every beggar who wished to bend his ear, I’d be tossed from my post into the gutter.”
“Your post won’t be endangered in the slightest. Only announce our petition to the king,” Constantine suggested as calmly as he could. “He will want to see us, I assure you.”
The guard gave a bored sigh and then signaled to one of the pages along the wall behind him.
“Deliver a message to court,” he told the lad, and then paused and looked up at Constantine. “Who shall I say is calling upon His Majesty?”
“The earl of Chase and the Lady Theodora Rosemont.”
The guard’s eyebrows drew together as he stared up at Constantine and then Dori in turn, his arm waggling as the horse he still held shook its head in impatience.
Constantine did not elaborate, nor did he break his gaze with the sentry.
“You heard the man,” the guard said to the page, this time with much less scorn in his voice. “Announce the earl of Chase and Lady Theodora Rosemont. Return as quickly as your feet can carry you.”
The boy was off through the crowd in a flash, although Constantine saw the lad pause twice at different clusters of people gathered in the courtyard, his mouth moving rapidly before holding out his hand for payment and dashing away.
A rumbling hush swept through the space beyond the gate as the guard drew Constantine’s attention.
“If you’ll dismount, my lord, I’ll have your horses seen to.” Constantine swung down, recognizing the guard’s cunning. If Constantine turned out to be who he said he was, the man would ingratiate himself to a noble; if Constantine was lying, he would be unable to escape and would likely be thrown directly into prison.
He moved to Theodora’s horse and reached up to take hold of her waist as she slid down into his arms.
“What’s happening?” she whispered into his ear as a large retinue of riders exited the gate near them, a noble of obvious importance somewhere in the center of the group outfitted with great pomp, not to mention accompanied by a goodly number of the king’s own men.
“We’re being announced.” He set her on her feet and placed her hand in the crook of his arm when she fidgeted with her skirts. “Only a few moments.”
“I think I might be sick. What if he won’t see us?” Her fingers tightened on his arm and she leaned in to speak near his shoulder. “They’re all looking at me, whispering.”
Constantine turned his face to look down at Theodora, her heart-shaped face a mask of dread. “It’s because you’re beautiful, Dori,” he said with a smile. “It’s why they’ve always whispered.”
“Lord Gerard?”
Constantine turned at the sound of his name being called and was met with the sight of a pair of the king’s personal servants. They bowed, first to him and then to Theodora.
The spokesman looked to them each in turn. “This way, if you please.”
Constantine guided Dori through the courtyard of finely dressed revelers, who parted for them most graciously as they continued to whisper in salacious delight that court seemed to become more interesting with each passing hour.
* * *
Glayer Felsteppe rode out into the London street surrounded by the king’s men, feeling as though he might simply float away into the fragrant night air with giddy pride.
It was done: Benningsgate was his.
He was a new man this night, a powerful man, and everyone knew him. Even as he had passed through the courtyard with the king’s borrowed men to secure the stragglers at the ruin’s ramshackle village, the guests milling in the king’s gardens had recognized his passing, filling the air with whispers of “the earl of Chase.”
They’d even thought enough of him to mention his exquisite—if mouthy and, thankfully, dead—bride, Theodora Rosemont.
It was good to be adored.
To celebrate, he would pause for an hour before departing the city proper in order to secure a bit of adult companionship. The court maidens were clean and proper, certainly, and made for interesting sport, but just at that moment, Glayer wished for entertainment of a more . . . toothsome nature.
Only an hour, though; he did have the time of the king’s soldiers at his beck and call to consider.
Two hours, at the very most.
* * *
Dori’s skin was a blanket of gooseflesh as the servants showed her and Constantine through the ornate double doors. The wide corridor outside the chamber was crammed with an inconceivable number of nobles, and their hot whispers seemed to swirl about her head, making her dizzy and her legs weak. In contrast, the room they entered was cavernous and cool and quiet—although it did rather smell like a barn—and Dori thought it empty until the lone voice called out from the dais.
“I didn’t think it was true.” The words had a slight echo, and Dori found herself clutching Constantine’s arm as they both looked to the right and saw the imposing figure of the king lounging in his chair, surrounded by what appeared to be a pile of furs about his feet.
Henry was wearing riding attire, his red hair lying over his shoulders, his light eyes seeming to pierce them from across the room.
Constantine gently withdrew from Dori’s grasp and walked toward the king, stopping several feet before Henry and dropping to one knee. The pile of furs rose up in points, and Dori realized they were hounds.
“My liege.”
“Well, stand up, Constantine. I must have a good look at you if I am to be convinced of your resurrection. You know the courtiers are already swooning. I had to eject them all lest they fall upon the both of you and begin cutting at your clothes and hair for relics.”
“No resurrection, my liege,” Constantine said, gaining his feet.
“No?” Henry turned his head, and Dori felt the full weight of his stare. “Surely that cannot be the case for this one. The ghost of Thurston Hold, if I’m not mistaken. Or shall I better address you as Lazarus?”
Theodora remembered herself and stepped forward, sinking into a low curtsy. “Forgive me, my liege,” she said.
“Forgive you for not being dead? Or for barging into my court?” Henry turned back to Constantine. “It takes quite a bit of courage to show yourself here, after all this time.”
“I would think you would always wish those loyal to you to come to you without fear.”
“Ah, yes—those who are loyal to me. Do you know of any such individuals, Lord Gerard? From where I am sitting, they number too few, even in my own family, both here and abroad.”
“I have always been loyal to you, my liege.”
“Is that so?” Henry goaded, abruptly sitting forward in his chair and causing the dogs at his feet to stir once more. “When you practically demanded I send you back to Syria to serve the leper, although I had yet to bring the anarchy in the farthest reaches of this land to heel? They’re not calling me castle breaker because I’ve challenged the lords to tourneys of chess. And when I indulge you, you manage to bring the whole of the Holy Land down upon your own head! Killing hundreds of Englishmen! Causing the king of Jerusalem to condemn one of my favored lords as a traitor.” He sat back against his seat once more. “Your actions reflected poorly on me, Constantine.”
“I am not guilty of the horrors accused of me,” Constantine said, his voice low and steady, and Dori knew he was trying to keep hold of his temper. “Baldwin—”
“You should have come to me!” Henry shouted
“I couldn’t!” Constantine replied, throwing out his arms. “You had employed an army of mercenaries to hunt me and my friends down and kill us for the bounties on our heads!”
Henry looked away in a bored manner, shaking his red head with a sigh.
Constantine continued. “You condoned the murder of my family! Patrice and Christian!”
“I did not,” Henry corrected, looking back at him. “Lady Patrice failed to cooperate.”
“Of course she wouldn’t cooperate with a maggot like Glayer Felsteppe; he wasn’t worthy to lick her shoes!” Constantine paused to take a breath. “I ask you now, my king: Has the man who killed my wife and son petitioned for my title and home or not?”
Henry stilled, looking at Constantine with an intensity that ignited a spark of hope in his soul.
“I signed the decree this afternoon. I’ll ensure you receive a copy.”
“No,” Constantine whispered. Then he rushed forward a pair of steps. “No.”
The dogs raised their heads again, and one gave a warning growl. But Henry looked to Theodora now.
“Which means your son could one day be entitled to both Thurston Hold and Benningsgate. Although I’m not at all certain how pleased your husband shall be to learn the mother of his child obviously feigned her own death. He seems rather fond of little . . . Glander, isn’t it? Odd name.”
Dori was already shaking her head, and although her posture was proud, Constantine could see the nervousness on her face. When she glanced at him, he thought he saw a hint of pure dread. She looked back at the king.
“It’s not Glander; it’s William. And Glayer Felsteppe is not his father.”
* * *
The dark-haired, almond-eyed woman ducked out of the door and scurried past Dori and Reg, attempting to cover herself as best she could with the sheer scarves of her costume. Reginald tried to shield Dori from the sight, but she couldn’t have been scandalized by anything connected to Glayer Felsteppe by that time; the more she had learned about him, the more convinced she was that she had made the correct decisions. Had her father still been alive—and in possession of sound mind—he would have been proud of her.
Glayer Felsteppe was an evil man. And, after that day, she would never have to see him again.
It made the long, long journey from her cool, verdant England to this hellish land more than worthwhile. The heat in the stifling carriage had made her nausea so much worse.
The door creaked open again, and the priest stepped aside to admit them, his slender face devoid of expression.
“Come in.”
Simon, Dori thought he was called.
Felsteppe was still fastening his belt around his leather hauberk, his wooly hair a bit disheveled, but his face still bearing a surprised smile.
“Theodora!” he exclaimed, crossing the floor. “I didn’t think it was possible when Simon said you had come.”
Reginald—dear, honorable Reg—stepped in front of Dori before Felsteppe could reach her with his outstretched hands.
“Forgive our intrusion, Lord Felsteppe,” Reg said. “But we felt the news we bore was of such import that we could only deliver it personally.”
“Good heavens,” Felsteppe said with widened eyes, the corners of his mouth turned down. “This does sound serious. Although you obviously know who I am, I don’t believe we’ve met.”
Reg gave a short bow. “Lord Reginald Calumet, Baron Amberly. I am a cousin of Lady Dori’s.”
“Ah, yes . . . Lady Dori,” Felsteppe said with a slight roll of his eyes. “A pleasure, Lord Calumet. Please . . .” He gestured to a grouping of woven reed chairs at the far end of the chamber, before a wide, white-curtained doorway leading to a long veranda.
Reg led Dori to a chair and then claimed the one beside her while Felsteppe sat across from them, one heeled boot resting on his opposite knee. A servant appeared to pour a fruity-scented liquid into metal cups and left them on the low table between them.
As soon as the boy departed, Reginald opened his mouth to speak, but Dori placed a hand gently on his arm. She had to do this herself. She’d come this far.
“My father is dead,” Dori said without preamble.
Felsteppe’s surprise seemed to deepen, but he did not offer any contrived condolences. “I’ve the feeling this is not the grave news you wished to deliver in a personal fashion.”
“It is not,” Dori acknowledged. “Reg came up from Amberly for his funeral and”—she had to pause, draw a deep breath—“I cannot marry you, Lord Felsteppe.”
Glayer Felsteppe’s eyes narrowed and one red brow arched. “Really.”
“I am sorry,” Reg began with a sincere expression. “We are very much in love. Have been for some time. Well,” he looked at Dori with tenderness, “at least I have been for years.”
Dori felt a tenderness in her heart for the young man as she tried to return his smile. But then she looked back at Felsteppe and saw the priest, Simon, standing in the shadows of the room.
It was just as well that there was a witness to the final blow she was ready to deal.
“I’m carrying Reginald’s child. We shall be married as soon as we return to England.”
Now the surprised look returned to Felsteppe’s face and he huffed a shocked laugh. “I see.” He uncrossed his legs and recrossed them in the opposite direction, adjusted his seat in the creaky, woven chair. He laughed again as he looked at both of them in turn. “You don’t say.”
“Truly. Very sorry,” Reg insisted, and Dori had the urge to shout at him for his polite apologies.
“The king knows of this, then,” Felsteppe inquired.
“No,” Reginald admitted. “We wished to inform you first. Save you the embarrassment of a scandal.”
A smile crept across Felsteppe’s face as he cocked his head at Dori’s cousin. “Remarkably courteous of you. I can scarce believe you would think to spare me so.” He looked to Dori briefly and then stood. “Well, far be it for me to stand in the way of true love,” he said to Reg and held forth his hand. “I wish you both all the happiness you deserve.”
Reginald stood with an audible sigh. “Very relieved at your taking this so well, Lord Felsteppe.” He gripped the man’s hand enthusiastically. “God bless y—”
Felsteppe thrust the knife
into Reginald’s ribs so quickly that the movement was little more than a blur to Dori. She screamed and shot to her feet as Reg gave a weak cry and a grunt, collapsing forward onto the table.
Felsteppe jerked the blade free, letting loose a thick red stream of blood that splashed onto the floor.
Dori flew to his side, slipping in the growing crimson pool as she went to her knees, gripping his young, handsome face in her hands. “Reg! Reginald! Answer me! Reg! Reg!” she shrieked.
But his eyes were already rolling away, glassy, empty.
“No!” she screamed. And then her cry was wordless and she felt herself being lifted to her feet by her hair.
“You thought you’d be so clever,” Felsteppe gritted through his teeth as he dragged her from the alcove toward the main part of the chamber. “Steal what was rightfully mine and give it to some ninny of a pup. You think it concerns me that he thrust into you first? Naaaay, milady.” He flung her onto the bed, and Simon moved toward her.
“Simon,” Felsteppe warned, and the priest froze in his tracks. He looked back to Dori and seemed to consider her, shaking his head. “No. It’s not you I wanted in the first place—it’s Thurston Hold. And I will have it. You’ve done me a great service by coming here in your attempt to ruin me. Ha!”
He reached toward her, and although Dori screamed and held up her hands to shield herself, Felsteppe still managed to grab a fistful of her hair through her veil.
“Get up. Get. Up!” He dragged her to her feet and shook her.
Dori kicked at him, swung her claws, raking his face and arm.
He hissed in pain and then punched her in the face, causing her cheek to explode in agony, white starbursts flashing behind her eyes.
Dori heard the sobs being wrung from her body. Reg was dead. Dead! And she was alone in a foreign land with this . . . this monster.
“Simon,” she heard Felsteppe say. “Marry us.”
“What?”
“I said marry us. Are you deaf?”
Dori struggled to free herself once more. “I’ll never marry you. Never! Never!”
Constantine Page 24