Another blow to her face made her ears ring, and Dori could do naught but hang by his grip for a moment, trying to clear her vision.
“You’ll do exactly as I say, from this moment forward,” Felsteppe hissed, straining to pull her face up to his. “For if you don’t, I will take yonder knife which I used to dispose of your erstwhile suitor and cut out the little fish that wriggles inside you. Do you understand? I will gut you and then feed your innards to the hyenas that roam outside the walls.”
Dori could only whimper.
“Do you understand?” he screamed in her face. “Do you?”
“Yes, yes!” she shrieked. “I understand!”
“Good,” Felsteppe said, taking a deep breath and calming himself considerably. He looked to the priest. “Carry on, Simon.”
The priest began stammering, but Dori couldn’t understand what he was saying. Her ears rang, her mouth filled with blood.
And Reg was dead.
“Let’s honeymoon in Dubrovnik,” Felsteppe whispered in her ear.
* * *
The chamber was tomb silent as Dori finished her tale, keeping her gaze on the king rather than risk looking at Constantine.
“He kept me prisoner until my state was obvious,” she said. “We returned overland to the Channel and then by ship to England. He had sent for his mother—the hag who acted as my son’s nurse. It was she who slowly poisoned me under the guise of offering me a strengthening potion.”
“What of your death?” Henry asked. “Lord Felsteppe genuinely believes you to have been dead these many months.”
“He believes me to be dead because he charged the priest to take me from my home and kill me. Simon.”
“Simon,” the king muttered. “Of course. It could only be Simon.” Then louder, “Apparently, he did not.”
“No. He urged me to flee the country rather than have another death on his already black conscience,” Dori said. “I instead went into hiding at Benningsgate.”
“Rather close to the danger you narrowly escaped, wasn’t it, Lady Theodora?”
“It was my intention all along to return for my son,” she said defiantly. “Baron Amberly’s son. Felsteppe and I were never married in truth. The union was never consummated.”
“Were I you, Lady Theodora, I would refrain from sharing that bit of information with anyone else just yet.” Henry turned to Constantine, and Dori dared a sideways glance at him. He was not looking at her.
“You found her there at Benningsgate, I suppose, and the pair of you thought it more effective to besiege me with your tales of woe together.”
“I had no intention of coming to you at all, my liege. I only returned to England to kill Glayer Felsteppe. Send for him now and I shall prove it to you.”
To her surprise, Henry threw back his head and laughed. “Constantine, Constantine. Honest to your own detriment, as always.” The king sighed and then raised his palms into the air for a moment before letting them fall back to his thighs. “There’s naught I can do. Lord Felsteppe departed with a band of my own soldiers not an hour ago.”
“What?” Dori blurted out.
The king rolled his gaze toward her, almost reluctantly, it seemed. “Baron Amberly has been dead for more than a year now—another sad victim of the Holy Land’s vicious ways, as it was reported. Besides yourself, Lady Theodora, and a disgraced priest, there are no witnesses to his supposed murder. Obviously you’re alive and well. There is no proof that Lord Felsteppe has wronged you in any way. If anything, he’s done you a great service by claiming your child—the boy’s been christened and officially marked as his heir. If you return to your husband and promise to be the meek woman he desires—no matter how difficult a task that would prove—perhaps you will be allowed access to your son. I am not completely without sympathy for you, and so I am willing to have my secretary pen a letter of apology on your behalf.”
“To apologize for not being dead?” Dori demanded in shock.
Henry shrugged. “During the course of my reign there have been several men I would be greatly put out to have turn up alive.”
“Myself for instance,” Constantine accused.
The king sighed and turned his head, leveling a look at Constantine. “No, Lord Gerard. Not you. But I cannot simply give you leave to hunt down and assassinate Glayer Felsteppe. You’d be arrested and tried for murder, as you have no proof Felsteppe intentionally caused the deaths of Patrice and Christian. Even if the charges against you from the Holy Land have been dismissed, the rumors have followed you, and they will carry weight should you be accused of killing a peer in cold blood. I’ll not volunteer to take another whipping for condoning a man’s death—even one who might deserve it.”
“You’re going to stand by and let him get away with murder?”
“You have no proof.”
“My word should be proof enough for you!” Constantine pointed at the king. “You were my friend!”
The king looked at Constantine without anger at the accusation, and Dori thought she saw a spark of compassion in his gray eyes.
“I am still your friend, Constantine. But, more importantly at the present, I am your king. As far as I and my realm are concerned, you are as yet innocent of any treachery here or at Chastellet. You are free to go; none shall detain you in my name. But I warn you, Constantine, the only way you can see Glayer Felsteppe dead by your hand is by the letter of the law, which does not condone what you wish to do. I’ll rouse my secretary in order to provide you a copy of the decree before you depart.”
“I don’t want it,” Constantine said.
“Yes, you do.” The king looked at Dori. “Do you desire my letter of recommendation to your husband, Lady Theodora?”
Dori’s stomach churned and she couldn’t hide the sneer she was certain twisted her mouth. “No. Thank you. My liege.”
“Then I’ve no desire to see either of you again until you have something of actual worth to present; my hall is too crowded as it is.” He stood and waved toward the guard at the door. “Admit them or not. I’m going to bed any matter.”
The chamber was awash with a flood of draped, chattering, perfumed nobility in moments, swirling around Dori and separating her from Constantine. She was jostled, plucked at, faces staring at her from only inches away, taking keen interest in her poor attire, her strangely short hair.
She felt a hand grip her arm, but it wasn’t Constantine’s wide palm. She jerked away instinctively and looked around to see a young blond woman with hard, glittering eyes.
“Come with me, my lady,” she said, leaning near Dori’s face. “Now. We must hurry.”
“Why?” Dori demanded, even as the nobles around her pressed more boldly, their taunts and observations full of ridicule.
“Come,” the woman insisted, reaching down and taking Dori’s hand and pulling her through the crowd.
Dori looked back over her shoulder, but she could not see Constantine above the wall of grotesque faces towering over her. She reached up with trembling fingers to jerk her hood over her head and then lowered her face and allowed herself to be pulled through the pressing crush by a stranger, reaching up several times to hold her covering in place when it was snatched at.
They came into the entry hall, cool, fresh air at last filling Dori’s lungs, but instead of being led toward the doors of the courtyard, the young woman was skipping across the smooth floor, deeper into the maze of corridors. They mounted a narrow stair.
“Who are you?” Dori demanded. “Where are you taking me?”
They dashed down a wide upper corridor and then the girl came to a sudden halt before a door. She dropped Dori’s hand and turned to face her.
“I heard the rumors about you,” she said boldly. “What your husband said happened to you.” Her young, plain face was hard. “Lord Felsteppe. He’s a liar.”
“Who are you?” Dori asked again, completely confused at what was happening.
“Eirene of Glencovent,” she said. “Helping you hurts him, does
it not?”
Dori nodded, wondering at what the girl was about.
“This is the only thing I can do,” Eirene said. “I hope it’s enough.” She banged on the door suddenly with her fist, the noise startling Dori and causing her already raw nerves to scream.
But then the door opened and an old woman’s face appeared.
“Yes?” Eseld said, her eyes going from the blond Eirene to the shadow inside Dori’s hood. “His lordship’s already gone. What is it you want?”
Somewhere in the room behind the old woman, a baby cried.
Chapter 23
Constantine waited along the wall of the corridor outside the secretary’s alcove of a chamber, connected to the hall from which he’d just been summarily dismissed. His arms were crossed over his chest, his gaze fixed upon the joinings of stone and mortar across from him. He didn’t know where Theodora Rosemont was.
And he didn’t care.
It’s not Glander; it’s William. And Glayer Felsteppe is not his father.
Felsteppe and I were never married . . . the union was never consummated.
The king’s young secretary emerged from the doorway at Constantine’s shoulder, still appearing disgruntled at having been roused to another piece of work. In one hand he held forth a piece of parchment, still curled at the ends; the other grasped a candleholder. The man shook the page pointedly and Constantine took it. The secretary immediately turned and pulled the door closed, securing it with a key from his ring before turning smartly in the corridor and stalking off without a word, leaving Constantine alone in the passage, the shadows flickering from the torch at the far end.
He didn’t want to read the decree; didn’t want it in his possession. Whatever it said would make no difference once Glayer Felsteppe was dead. Constantine would also be in his grave, in prison, or once more—and forever—wanted as a criminal.
All he needed do now was follow Glayer Felsteppe back to Thurston Hold and run him through. He would pay for the evil he had orchestrated by the only means acceptable to Constantine—with his pathetic life. What happened to Constantine in the moments or days or years following didn’t matter.
The image of Theodora Rosemont bloomed in his mind, unexpectedly and undesired.
What would she do now? And what about the boy?
Constantine told himself it didn’t matter as he started down the corridor. He didn’t care.
You cared only hours ago, when you still thought the child was Felsteppe’s. Now you know the monster did not sire the boy and has no real claim on Dori, the woman you love.
He stopped as so many more images flitted through his memory—the way she’d fought him in the ward, the crucifix she’d borne all the way to the ruined hall in memory of the woman and boy lost there; how she’d rushed out with his blade to defend him when she’d thought he was in danger from the villagers. The way she’d lovingly prepared Patrice for her final rest.
She’d left Benningsgate alone, after Constantine had gone back on his word to her, to save her son.
Constantine at last admitted it: he did love Dori. That was why he’d come after her, brought her before the king, accepting her son to be Felsteppe’s, accepting Dori was his wife. Accepting all of her, just as she was.
She lied to me.
No. She never lied, he realized.
Dori would never do as the king suggested and crawl back to Felsteppe on hands and knees, begging to be part of her son’s life when it was Felsteppe who had ordered her death. Although Henry had been uncharacteristically obtuse compared to the ruler Constantine had previously known, surely the king must realize Felsteppe would only make certain Theodora truly was dead the next time.
Henry must know that, just as surely as he knew Constantine would never rest until Glayer Felsteppe paid for all he’d done.
Constantine looked down at the parchment in his hand. He slowly walked toward the single torch in the corridor, holding the hastily scribbled words closer to the light. After a moment, Constantine lowered the page and raised his eyes to stare into nothing.
The king knew.
The shuffling sound of someone approaching drew his attention, and Constantine looked up to see an old woman walking slowly down the stairs. She appeared in a trance, her eyes—set in discolored purple wells in her face—were locked on some far away sight that perhaps only she could see and her lips moved in a soundless soliloquy below her distinctive hooked nose. She reached the bottom of the stair and turned to walk toward him and Constantine saw that she was without shoes, although her dress was that of a better servant.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” the old woman said in a breathy, dreamy voice. She looked up at him, but her gaze seemed to take in the air around his head rather than meet his eyes directly. “Have you seen my son?”
“No, mistress,” Constantine said with a wary frown. The woman was clearly unwell. “Is he a young boy?”
“Oh . . . no,” she said, turning on her feet in a slow circle, looking around at the walls and ceiling and floor of the corridor, as if she expected her missing progeny to manifest from the stones. “He’s a great lord, now. Grown. He must have forgotten his old mother again. I’m not to call him son.”
She looked up in the general vicinity of Constantine’s face once more. “In which direction lies Thurston Hold, sir?”
He recognized the profile, then, softened by feminine features and years but still the same hooked nose, the same pointed chin, the same narrow eyes.
Eseld. Felsteppe had left his mother, the nurse caring for Dori’s son, behind. Which meant—
Constantine looked up the stairs.
“Sir?” Eseld queried again. “Won’t you help me? I must know how far Thurston Hold is from here.”
He looked back down at her, wondering at the bruises on her face, the evil she’d endured.
And enabled.
“South,” Constantine said. “Thurston Hold is south of here. Three hours by horse.”
“I thank you, sir,” she said and then turned away in her dreamy manner and slowly walked down the corridor on her bare feet.
And then Constantine dismissed any thought of Glayer Felsteppe’s mother from his mind as he ran to the foot of the stairs and ascended them two at a time.
* * *
Theodora threw herself against the door in the same instant that Eseld recognized her and sought to slam it in her face.
“Help me, Eirene!” Dori cried.
The girl added her weight with Dori’s and the door flew open, sending Eseld stumbling back into the room.
“Close the door and bolt it,” Dori said to the young woman behind her, all the while never taking her eyes from Eseld.
The old woman turned as if to move toward the bed, where the crying had come from.
“Don’t you dare,” Dori warned in a low voice. “Don’t you dare think to touch him ever again. I’ll kill you with my bare hands, I swear it.”
“You don’t command me,” Eseld said. “Glander is my grandson. He is in my care. His lordship will see your end himself this time, rather than leave it to that pathetic, faithless priest.”
“Your son is gone from London,” Dori said. “And my baby is not of his issue. His name is William Calumet. He is not your grandson.”
“You lie.” Eseld glared at her. “Glayer impregnated you in the Holy Land, when you ran after him and begged him to marry you. You threw yourself atop him. He told me.”
“Glayer Felsteppe killed the father of my son and claimed him for his own. He thought to have me killed so that no one would ever know.”
“He can’t impregnate anyone,” the accusation came from behind Dori, and Eirene stepped forward. “I should know. He can’t make love in a normal way. He’s sick. His manhood is . . . broken.”
“You lie because my son turned you away,” Eseld said and faced the bed again. She took a hesitant step and then glanced back at Dori, her brows drawn together. “He is my grandson.”
“I’m telling the
truth and you know it, if you’ll only admit it to yourself,” Dori said. “You cared for Felsteppe as a baby as you cared for my son. There can be no resemblance; it’s impossible. I was three months gone when that farce of a marriage took place.”
“This child is perfect. And he has my blood in his veins,” Eseld whispered frantically. “He must.”
“He doesn’t,” Dori said. “And I’m taking him with me, where he belongs.”
“No!” Eseld cried and rushed forward, her hands out.
Dori threw up her own arms, ready to defend herself, but the old woman dropped to her knees on the floor.
“You can’t take him,” she gasped. “You can’t. He’s all I have left. If he’s gone, I’ll have no purpose. Glayer will send me away. He’ll send me back. I’ll die!”
Dori looked down at the disturbed woman, then walked in a backward circuit away from her, putting herself between Eseld and the bed. “You poisoned me while my child was yet in my body. You stole him from me the moment after I bore him. You allowed your monster of a son to commit such atrocities that even hell’s darkest fiend would condemn. Evil he likely learned from you.”
“No! No, no, no!” Eseld tried to follow on her knees but fell forward onto her hands. She crawled after Dori. “Not from me. I showed him naught but love. I loved him! I still love him. And I love Glander.”
“That’s not his name,” Dori said, staring in horror at the rapid deterioration of the woman at her feet.
“Take me with you, then,” Eseld pleaded suddenly. “Wherever you go. I can serve you. I can care for the babe. I’ll love him so much. You can beat me if you wish.”
Dori pulled her skirts from the woman’s claws. “No!” she shrieked. “Get away from me! Get out! You’re mad!”
Eseld dissolved into a pile of weeping on the floor. “I know, I know,” she moaned into her shaking hands. “He doesn’t love me. None of them did. None ever.”
“Eseld,” Dori said, her voice trembling. “Eseld, you must leave. You must go now.”
The old woman rose to her feet as if her body had become boneless and was tethered to an invisible rope that pulled her aright. Her sobs were soundless, issuing from her gaping mouth. She turned in a slow circuit and slid toward the door, collapsing against it for a moment while struggling with the bolt. She pulled it open at last and walked through the doorway.
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