Constantine

by Heather Grothaus

  “But Christian, how?” Constantine said. “It’s so far to the wall . . .”

  The little boy looked into Constantine’s eyes with a solemnity that was heartbreaking to Dori.

  “There were men lying beneath the window. I hurt my leg when I jumped, so I lay there for a long time, waiting for Mother. But she never came. I reckoned later she knew she wouldn’t be coming.”

  Dori closed her eyes for a moment, thinking of how terrified Christian must have been.

  Constantine pulled the boy back into his arms, holding his blond head.

  “I understand that you have much to catch up on, Stan,” said a dark-haired, well-dressed man of swarthy complexion. “But do we no even get a simple hello?”

  Constantine turned and set Christian on his feet, although his hand gripped his son’s and did not let go as he fell into the embrace of his friends and their wives.

  “Forgive me, all of you,” Constantine said, looking at this one, gripping the arm of another, touching the red-haired woman’s face. He turned to the largest man Dori had ever seen in her life, who claimed white-blond hair and carried a hunting bird on his shoulder. At his side was an exotic-looking woman whose wide-eyed expression gave Dori the idea that she was as anxious about this meeting as Dori herself was.

  “Roman,” Constantine said. “You, most of all—”

  The giant of a man smiled. “It’s all right, Stan.”

  The two men embraced, and then Constantine turned to the woman. “I’m so glad you’re both safe.”

  “As we are you, my lord,” the woman said.

  Constantine frowned. “Isra, I’m not your lord.”

  Everyone in the group save Dori laughed, and Dori felt a lump in her throat again at the bond these people shared. She could never compete with them.

  “It is good to see you once more, Stan.” Isra laughed.

  “Do they always call you Stan?” Dori blurted out, and everyone turned to look at her. She blinked and quirked her mouth, muttering, “It’s dreadful.”

  The red-haired woman seemed to consider. “’Tis nae worse than Dori now, is it?”

  A heartbeat of silence passed, and then the entire group roared with laughter.

  Constantine pulled Dori to his side. “Friends, may I present Lady Theodora Rosemont and her son, William Calumet.” He introduced each person to Dori, in reverse order to that in which she’d heard them speak, and when he got to the sweet-faced Mary, the woman rushed forward and embraced Dori.

  “I’m so happy to meet you,” she said, looking into Dori’s eyes. “I just know we will become the best of friends. Sisters, you and I. And my home is close, just south at Beckham.”

  “At least until the king finds out, yes?” her handsome husband cautioned before turning to Constantine. “The soldiers along the wall are the king’s. Er . . . borrowed from Beckham Hall.”

  “With a small amount of coin for incentive,” Adrian admitted. “My father is coming with the men he can claim, but I don’t expect them until after the sun has risen. Your loyal villagers are already inside the walls—they were keeping watch when we arrived.”

  “They knew a fight was coming,” Constantine said grimly.

  “Felsteppe left London before us,” Theodora offered to the group. “If he has gone to Thurston Hold, he might be warned that Constantine and I are here. He could be upon us at any moment.”

  As if in an attempt to point to the truth of her words, a shout called down from the wall walk. “Party approaching the village! Perhaps fifty mounted!”

  “Papa,” Christian said suddenly, grasping at Constantine’s tunic. “He’s coming! Let’s go! Let’s just go! We can go away somewhere—all of us—and live. Maybe with Adrian’s father and brother. They have cows and pasties,” he said, his voice thready with desperation. “And a gate. We can hide!”

  Constantine squatted down to eye level with his son. “I know you’re frightened, Christian. I would much rather go away with you and Lady Dori and William. Somewhere we could try to forget all this and start over. But the bad man who harmed you and your mother, he has also harmed Lady Dori and William. He’s harmed our friends and their families. He is responsible for the deaths of many good men where Papa was away for so long.”

  Constantine stroked the side of his son’s face as he continued. “I made promises when I married your beautiful mother. And when I became a general. And when I swore to help exonerate my brothers’ names. And I also made a promise to the man who’s done all those terrible things; that I would hold him responsible. I want to make very, very certain that he never harms anyone ever again. It’s my duty, son. And Adrian and Valentine and Roman, and the men you see atop our wall there, they are going to help me keep my promise. You understand?”

  “You can’t go away again,” Christian whispered.

  Constantine shook his head. “I won’t.” He leaned forward until his nose touched his son’s. “I promise you.”

  Christian’s gaze was dropped to the road and his brow was furrowed. Dori jostled William into one arm and wrapped her other around Christian.

  “Come along to the wall with us,” she said to the boy. “We’ll all wait for your papa there.”

  Christian turned away from Constantine into Dori’s skirt but didn’t say anything.

  “One thousand yards!” the soldier shouted down from the wall.

  Constantine rose and took his sword from Adrian.

  “Go into the ward,” Constantine said, glancing at Dori as he removed his cloak and tossed it aside. The rest of his friends seemed also to be readying for battle, withdrawing long daggers and swords. The large man, Roman, produced a pair of hammers.

  “Five hundred yards!”

  Dori seemed rooted to the road, where she could feel the vibration of the riders through the soles of her shoes, and she turned her head, wanting to see with her own eyes. William stirred and began to cry.

  “Theodora!” Constantine shouted and she looked to him. “Go!”

  Dori looked over her shoulder and saw that Mary Beckham was already retreating with her daughter, albeit reluctantly, also looking back at the road as she walked. Maisie Lindsey and Isra had both failed to heed the orders of their men.

  Dori wanted Glayer Felsteppe to see that she was alive. That she was alive and had William. She wanted him to see her face before he died, to know that he had not beaten her.

  But she felt the hands in her skirt, the weight of the boy hanging on them. Christian, who had borne too much for his young age. She looked down at his panicked, pale face and felt his fright.

  “I don’t want to go,” he whispered up at her. “I don’t want to leave my papa.”

  It would require little bravery for her to face Felsteppe now, but it would cost her all her will to let her moment of revenge go in order to protect the precious children now in her care.

  She withdrew her arm from his shoulder in order to grasp his hand. “Come, Christian,” she said firmly. “Let’s hurry and do as your father asks. We don’t wish to worry him.” And she turned and ran with the boys up the road toward the ruin, following in Mary Beckham’s wake.

  Chapter 26

  Constantine stood in the center of the road, facing down the slope toward the deserted village, his head lowered, his gaze trained on the gravel just beginning to lighten in the predawn. He could feel the stones of Benningsgate Castle at his back, bolstering him, anchoring him to this place—this land and people who brought him here, brought him back, called him to stay.

  Patrice. Christian. Theodora and William.

  Henry, his king.

  His villagers, those who had stayed and those he would one day welcome home again.

  The three men now standing at his side.

  Constantine felt a hand clap his back and looked to his right as Adrian Hailsworth squeezed his shoulder. He looked to his left and saw Roman Berg’s grim countenance staring down the road; just past him, Valentine held a slender dagger in his teeth while he shrugged out of
his short cape and adjusted his sleeves. He armed himself with a flourish and then glanced at Stan with a roguish smile.

  The first of the riders appeared around the bend of the road, their mounts like ghostly dragons in the morning mist, the steam coming from their nostrils like dull, gray smoke. The riders parted in the middle, veering to either side of the road and opening up to expose the rotten heart of the party of king’s men and hired mercenaries, and the man who comprised it.

  Glayer Felsteppe slowed to a canter and then a walk as he saw the four men stretched across the road before Benningsgate. His face was blank, his eyes black in his face and darting from man to man, to the torches along the battlement. Then he looked at Constantine, and a sudden smirk erupted over his once slender face, now bloated and pocked with excess.

  “Glutton for punishment, aren’t you, Gerard?” he taunted. “Just had to come back to see for yourself all that I’ve won. Didn’t believe me, did you? That I’d make you pay.”

  Constantine cocked his head. “What exactly have you won, Felsteppe?”

  He held his gauntleted hands from his sides with a laugh, as if indicating all that was around them. “Everything!”

  Constantine shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “Benningsgate is mine, Gerard,” Felsteppe needled with a grating chuckle. “What’s left of it any matter.”

  Constantine shook his head again. “No. It’s not.” He began walking slowly toward Felsteppe.

  “I’ve the decree from the king on my very person,” Felsteppe boasted. “It grants me the lands and title of Benningsgate.”

  “I know exactly what it says. Perhaps you should have read it more carefully. Benningsgate would only ever fall to you if I should die without an heir,” Constantine clarified, stopping twenty feet before Felsteppe’s horse. “The king gave me my own copy of the decree just last night.”

  “I hate to be the one to deliver bad news,” Felsteppe said in sotto voce over the neck of his mount. “But I’m actually planning on bringing that about in a moment.”

  “Wrong again,” Constantine argued. “My son and heir is alive and well, just behind me at Benningsgate. In fact, Lady Theodora is watching after him. And Reginald Calumet’s son, whom your own mother gave over quite willingly once she learned the truth about him. About you.”

  He saw Felsteppe’s first wobble of confidence, then, the draining of blood from his paunchy face in the pearly light. The man adjusted himself in his saddle, his eyes darting to the soldiers, who looked at one another uneasily, around him.

  “No matter that,” Felsteppe announced loudly, and then he pointed to the battlements. “Take the ruin. Kill anyone you find inside. Especially any women and children.”

  The mercenaries started forward but then hesitated, turning their horses sideways when they weren’t followed.

  “Did I stutter?” Felsteppe screamed, his composure clearly threadbare. “Go!”

  The outfitted soldier closest to Felsteppe wore a hard expression. “We’re to protect the interests of the king, my lord. The men atop the wall are Henry’s own—our brothers in arms. We will not attack a fortress being held by them.”

  “Then what good are you?” Felsteppe shrieked, causing his horse to dance. He growled and then looked at the handful of mercenaries. “Fine. The rest of you, then.”

  The soldier moved his horse closer. “Nay, Lord Felsteppe. We are sworn to protect the English army. If your hired swords attack, we will defend against the shedding of the soldiers’ blood.”

  Constantine set the tip of his sword in the gravel and rested his hands atop the hilt. “Get down from your horse, Felsteppe. Face me.”

  “You shut up,” Felsteppe said, pointing at Constantine. “You don’t command me. You never did. I’ll deal with you when I’m ready.”

  “Hello,” a smooth Spanish voice called out from behind Constantine, and Valentine came sauntering down the road toward Felsteppe. “Remember me? I would also like for you to come down from your horse now. We both know my aim is good at this distance, yes? I almost killed you once. This time I will make sure you are dead.”

  “If the Spaniard comes another step closer, cut him down,” Felsteppe said, and Constantine could hear the panic in Felsteppe’s voice as Roman and Adrian stepped forward, once more completing the front line. Felsteppe glanced at the English commander, as if waiting for the man to thwart him yet again. “If any of them come closer.”

  Instead, the soldier looked to Constantine. “As the rightful lord of this hold, do you require the aid of the crown in defending yourself?”

  Constantine looked to the men at either side of him and then took measure of the handful of mercenaries surrounding Felsteppe. He looked back to the commander.

  “Give my regards to the king.”

  “Very well.” The soldier wheeled around and delivered the command that rallied all the king’s troops in Henry’s name.

  “You can’t leave,” Felsteppe protested. “The king gave you over to my command!”

  Another rumbling shook the road, then, causing Felsteppe to be further startled and turn his horse to face the oncoming sound.

  The dawn caught the pieces of steel and weaponry hanging from the army that rushed up the road in an undulating wave, the coarse brown wool of vassals interspersed with bright white mantles, marked in the center with bold red crosses.

  Herne Hailsworth, his beard blowing behind him, led the advance, flanked by a man who could only be Adrian’s brother. On the other side of Lord Hailsworth, three men more familiar to Constantine sat astride.

  The skinny abbot smiled at the four blocking the road to the castle as he drew his mount up just behind the party milling around Felsteppe, trapping the villain on the road. “Good day, Brothers.”

  “Victor!” Roman announced, the surprise in his voice unmistakable.

  “Ugh,” Valentine muttered. “No the twins.”

  The commander of the English forces surveyed the scene with satisfaction on his face. “This is obviously a church matter now. My liege would not be pleased should we interfere. Good day, my lord,” he said to Constantine, and then raised his arm in signal and led Henry’s soldiers down through the valley of the village, flowing through and around the Templars and men accompanying the Hailsworth father and son.

  Felsteppe’s mercenaries had been made visibly nervous by the increased forces obviously against them.

  “Do you recall the promise I made you the last time we met, Felsteppe?” Constantine said easily, drawing the red-haired man’s attention once more.

  “I don’t remember a word you’ve ever spoken,” Felsteppe hissed with contempt, but his eyes were wild.

  “I remember,” Adrian offered.

  Valentine nodded. “I was no there, but I have heard the story several times now.”

  “Tell us again, Stan,” Roman prompted.

  “I promised,” Constantine obliged, “that the very next time I saw you, I would kill you.”

  He saw the man’s throat convulse.

  “It has been a long time coming, Felsteppe,” Constantine said. “And you have done naught but add to your long list of evils. There is much—and many—to which you will be obliged to answer this day.”

  Then a bloodcurdling howl came from the ruin behind the men as the first true golden rays shot through the tops of the tree branches of the wood. It was not human, and yet it didn’t sound like any dog or wolf Constantine had ever heard. Certainly not the amiable Erasmus.

  At Constantine’s side, Adrian’s gaze seemed to search the lightening sky above him, and then his eyes closed and he turned up his face. “My God, Stan, can you hear them? Listen . . .”

  The only thing Constantine heard was another terrifying howl, and then a young voice he recognized.

  “Garulf! Garulf! No, come back!”

  They turned on the road to see Dunny’s strange uncle scrambling over the rubble before the barbican, but the man was not standing erect; he was crouched on his haunches, his
hair seeming to have grown down his face. Garulf let out another bloodcurdling wail.

  “Piece blood duvenet,” Adrian whispered, his voice full of awe.

  And then the air was filled with a symphony of shouts and howls, the very dawn seemed to vibrate, and to either side of the ruin of Benningsgate, all along the crest of the ridge appeared a line of shadows—beasts on both two and four legs, in the shapes of wolf and bear and man.

  “Shite,” the leader of the mercenaries whispered in awe. And then he turned to Felsteppe, shaking his head. “No. No. We’re finished here.”

  “You’re not finished!” Felsteppe shouted. “I paid you!”

  “You didn’t pay us enough,” the man muttered and wheeled his horse around, leading his small band of comrades away in a run.

  “As I said,” Constantine began again after Felsteppe was left alone, the wall of warrior monks and stout, laboring men from Clifty Wood behind him, the Brotherhood and all manner of strange, vengeful beasts before him at Benningsgate. “You have much to answer for.”

  Felsteppe only stared at him.

  Constantine’s brows lowered. “Dismount your horse.”

  “You don’t command me,” he said again, his voice strangled in his throat.

  One of the twins spoke up, withdrawing a shockingly large sword from his robes. “I shall assist you in dismounting, dastardly foe of Christendom.”

  “No,” his twin argued, bringing forth his own weapon with a ringing hiss. “I shall assist the reprehensible enemy!”

  “You killed the last one!”

  “Let off, Brother. It was six years ago and my sword thirsts.”

  “What of my sword? Ladislav, I do vow that you’re the most selfish man I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting.”

  “Yes? Well, you’re vulgar and discourteous!”

  Constantine strode forward in the midst of the distraction and reached up and grabbed Felsteppe’s leather hauberk, jerking the man from his saddle and onto the packed gravel of the road. The group went silent as Felsteppe skittered backward on his hands and boots, stumbled to his feet, fumbled to withdraw his sword.