Constantine

by Heather Grothaus

  The ringing hiss of a hundred weapons answered his.

  Constantine only walked toward the man calmly. “You killed my wife. Burned my home. Fouled my name. You separated me from my son—years I can never regain.”

  Felsteppe was backing slowly away from Constantine, closer to the wood. “I warned you! I warned you to let me be—I told you I would see everything you loved burn! You didn’t believe I could, but I did!”

  “You caused the slaughter at Chastellet,” Roman Berg called from behind. “Destroyed the greatest thing I’d ever built. You are responsible for the deaths of many good men. You tried to kill my friends. My only family.”

  “Many good men,” Adrian emphasized. “And innocents who had done nothing more than try to protect the last bit of hope and goodness in this world. You had hand in the destruction of its holy sanctuary.” His voice broke.

  Glayer sneered at Adrian’s emotion. “Crybaby.”

  “You are filth,” Valentine added with a disgusted curl of his lip. “The worst slime on the earth. You thought to take my wife from me—my Maria. And my brothers.” He raised his blade. “I’ve wished to see you dead for a very, very long time.”

  Running footfalls sounded on the gravel road, and then Dori’s cry.

  “Christian, no! Come back!”

  “Papa, stop! Don’t!” the boy shouted, running into the midst of the group and stopping himself by grabbing great handfuls of his father’s tunic. “Don’t, Papa. You can’t.”

  “Christian, go back to Lady Dori at once.”

  “No.” Christian gasped and then looked over his shoulder with fearful eyes at Glayer Felsteppe. “You can’t kill him.”

  Constantine shook his head. “Christian, he must pay for what he’s done. He’s a bad man.”

  “You can’t all kill him!” the boy shouted, turning around to look at the group of battle- and life-hardened men towering over him. “One of you can strike the blow, but how do you decide which when he has wronged you all? Wronged those who aren’t here to have their revenge. If killing him brings you justice, what of the others who can’t speak for themselves? Where is their justice?”

  Christian wheeled around with his fists clenched and glared at Glayer Felsteppe. He stepped forward haltingly and then stopped, sniffing and drawing a deep breath before turning his whole wrath upon Glayer Felsteppe, until Christian’s narrow neck was taut with strain.

  “I hate you! I hate you! You took my mother away from me! I wish you were dead!” Christian turned back to face his father, and Constantine’s stomach clenched at his son’s red eyes, the clear snot on his upper lip. “But you can’t do it, Papa. It’s not your duty.”

  Constantine didn’t know how Felsteppe moved so quickly, but in a blink he had jerked Christian by the arm and dragged him up against his chest.

  “Foolish boy,” he said with a cackle and a smile. “Lovely, foolish boy! I thank you! Yes, I do!” He kissed Christian’s cheek as Constantine rushed forward fruitlessly, Roman Berg’s unyielding arms restraining him.

  “Ah-ah!” Felsteppe panted, edging closer to the wood. “I’ll kill him and you know it. We’re going to slip into the trees here and away, Christian and I.”

  “Let him go!” Constantine screamed, the fabric of his sanity worn down to the last threads as his nightmare bloomed to life before him.

  “Yes, let him go, Glayer,” a woman’s voice echoed.

  Eseld stepped from the wood behind Felsteppe, her gray hair hanging from its undone coil, her gray face a mass of creases and sorrow.

  “He’s my only means of escape, Mother,” Felsteppe panted, seeming unsurprised at the old woman’s sudden appearance. “I’m taking him with me. Are you coming or nay?”

  Eseld smiled at him. “Of course I’m coming with you. But we’ll be leaving the boy with his father.”

  “Are you daft, woman?” Felsteppe demanded. “As soon as I turn him loose, I’ll be struck down!”

  Eseld turned to Constantine then, and he could see the light in her eyes was gone. The madness had fully claimed her, and she had sunk into its embrace.

  “You’ll let me take him, won’t you, milord?” she asked calmly. “You’ll let his own mother take him certainly. It’s my place after all. I should have taken him away years ago, when he was born.”

  “Give me my unharmed son and I won’t touch you,” Constantine vowed in a low voice, understanding at last. “None here shall. Upon my word.”

  “See?” Eseld looked back to Felsteppe, a smile on her old, weary, scarred face. “Turn him loose, Glayer.”

  “Stan,” Valentine chastised. “We can no just let him go, after all these years.”

  “Yes, we can,” Constantine said. He met Felsteppe’s gaze. “I retract my vow to kill you. Christian is right—it’s not my duty.”

  Felsteppe let Christian slide down his front, but he kept a tight hold on his arm for one moment while the boy struggled to break free. He did at last and bolted to Constantine, throwing himself against his father.

  Constantine held Christian’s face pressed to his tunic, turned away from the sight of the fiend and his dam.

  “Fetch my horse, Mother,” Felsteppe commanded, brandishing his sword in a laughable display, as if he would hold off the men before him.

  “We don’t need your horse where we’re going,” Eseld said, walking toward him with a smile.

  “I’m certainly not walking.” Felsteppe sneered at her.

  She stood close to him, reaching up with one trembling hand and stroking his face. “I tried my best to love you,” she said through quivering lips. “It wasn’t your fault in the beginning. But I just couldn’t,” she said in a coo, raising her eyebrows.

  Then Eseld’s left hand shot up from her skirts, burying the dagger clenched in her fist beneath Glayer Felsteppe’s ribs as he gasped.

  “You ruined my life,” Eseld said through gritted teeth.

  Constantine held Christian’s head against his tunic. “Don’t look,” he whispered.

  Felsteppe raised his own blade and drove it into the woman’s back. Eseld gave a feeble cry and seemed to gather her strength to withdraw her blade and pierce him a second time.

  They collapsed to the dirt together, staring with black malevolence into each other’s eyes as first Felsteppe and then Eseld breathed no more.

  The road was as silent as the tomb for which it currently acted for the pathetic pair fallen in the weeds. Only the hush of the wind, the creaking of saddle leather, and the scrape of hoof disturbed the silence.

  A sobbing breath erupted from Constantine’s chest. He picked up Christian and held him high against his body, still keeping his son’s face averted from the carnage, and walked up the road toward Benningsgate. He felt more than heard his brothers behind him.

  Once he was halfway to the ruin, the line of beings along the ridge of Benningsgate charged down toward the village, setting the road beneath Stan’s feet vibrating. The air was filled with howls and the gnashing of teeth, the Latin drone of the Templars, and later, the sound and smell of a crackling blaze.

  The odor was sulfurous.

  Epilogue

  January 1183

  Thurston Hold

  Adrian stalked into the room, barely managing to swerve around Christian and William, who were lying on the thick rug before the hearth, playing with one of Adrian’s own discarded models. He lost his preoccupied frown for a moment to smile down and wink at the older boy before once more shaking the plans in his hand at Constantine.

  “A word, Stan,” he called.

  “Yes,” Constantine answered emphatically while holding up his palm, causing Adrian to cock an eyebrow at him as he unceremoniously shoved the cups to the edges of the table and spread the vellum across the top.

  “I think he means it, Adrian,” Dori said with a smile in her voice, picking up her own cup and moving it out of harm’s way. “Constantine has complete faith in your and Roman’s expertise.”

  “Yes, of course he does,”
Adrian said with a frown, “but we’ve had an idea that changes the north wall. If we entrench this lower level here”—he drew his long finger down the side of the line of the proposed corridor—“and add a second set of stairs here . . .” He pointed to the darker-inked square currently outside the wall. “The perfect location for the storage of armaments, accessible to the soldiers should they need them at a moment’s notice, in the case of a siege or what have you.”

  “The oratory,” Constantine said and met Dori’s eyes, already large and fearful at the thought.

  “It’s in remarkable condition,” Adrian continued, oblivious to Stan’s wife’s distress. “Built in the old style. It would greatly add to the structure of the new gatehouse, as well as be of immense practical use. I don’t know why we didn’t include it in the first place.”

  “No, Aid,” Constantine said quietly.

  Adrian raised his eyes. “You really want it filled in?”

  Constantine glanced at Dori, who had turned her face away to gaze at the boys still playing on the floor.

  “We do,” he said to Adrian.

  Adrian sighed and stood aright, rerolling his plans. “Fine. It’s your keep. By the way, Victor said he will be ready for us after supper.”

  Constantine laughed. “Supper was two hours ago.”

  “I was occupied with other things,” Adrian said without apology. “You know Valentine will be late any matter. He can barely tear himself away from little Mariette long enough to run through Beckham the stolen cargo Francisco brings in.”

  “I’d go see them next week,” Dori said, ignoring completely the fact that they were discussing piracy on English soil. “Before it snows again.”

  Constantine rose from his chair and took a leaning step toward Dori to place a kiss on the crown of her head. “If it’s too late, we’ll stay in the village with Roman and Isra.”

  “I don’t think so,” Dori called out in a singsong voice.

  He followed Adrian from the room with a smile, reaching down to ruffle Christian’s hair and poke at William’s ribs as he left, eliciting grins from both boys.

  “I’ll return in a bit,” he said.

  Christian nodded. “I know, Papa.”

  * * *

  “I don’t see why we have to do this tonight,” Constantine complained as they rode through the frosty evening toward Benningsgate. “It’s dark and cold. The wine was good and warm. So is my wife.”

  Adrian glanced at Constantine. “You really don’t remember?”

  “Remember what?”

  “It’s a year ago today you left Melk.”

  Constantine looked around himself at the countryside, crisp in the cold, bright moonlight, and took a deep breath, realizing Adrian spoke true. Only one year ago he had been certain his life was over. His chest tightened, and he was glad his friend allowed the silence to ride between them the rest of the way to Benningsgate.

  They came into the village past the new barns and the recently graveled section of road leading past the skeletal structure of the manor house where Roman and Isra would eventually live, and on to the little rise where Benningsgate folk had been buried for years.

  Where Patrice was buried, now under a finely hewn stone crafted by Roman himself.

  Constantine saw the black outlines of the three men waiting for them on the hill, the slender shadows of stakes marking the squared corners of the chapel that would soon be built. He and Dori would bring their sons to that chapel once the keep proper was finished, leaving Adrian and Maisie to oversee Thurston Hold in guardianship for William.

  “Good evening, Father,” Constantine called to Victor as he swung down from his horse. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “It’s no trouble, Constantine.” The old abbot smiled. “Brother Valentine only arrived a quarter hour ago.”

  “Right again,” Adrian murmured smugly.

  “Allow me to guess: he only told you about the meeting . . . when? Two hours past supper, I say,” Valentine queried. “I had no wish to stand out in this freezing weather for longer than I need.”

  Roman swung his arms and took a deep breath. “It’s not even cold, Val.”

  Valentine flapped a hand in a rolling motion. “Victor? Can we just get on with it, please?”

  Constantine looked down at the large, square stone set near a shallow hole between a pair of tapered stakes. Without word, the men begin rifling through their tunics and satchels, producing small items they kept hidden in their hands.

  Victor looked at each man in turn, waiting for their nod. And then the old abbot brought forth a prayer book and opened it in the moonlight, calling down God’s blessing upon Fallen Angels Chapel. He looked up at Valentine, who tossed a small round item into the air over the hole. The moonlight glinted off the gold as it spun and then fell into the dark square with a soft plunk.

  “May we and all who seek solace here hold close to the family we have found and the families we will create,” he said in a tone of rare solemnity. “Knowing that it is the greatest wealth.”

  Adrian stepped forward and then knelt in the soft, cold loam to place his Chastellet coin deliberately in the bottom of the hole, next to Valentine’s. “May we always be wise enough to believe in one another and in miracles.” He paused there a moment, his eyes closed in the foggy glow, before rising to his feet.

  “My hope is that we remember how strong each of us has had to be on our own,” Roman said, leaning forward to drop his own coin in the hole. “And how much stronger we proved to be together.”

  Constantine felt the weight of his friends’ gazes resting on him as he bounced the coin in his palm, looking into the dark hole for a long moment. “May we always remember our duties. And remind one another of them should we forget or become lost.” Stan dropped his coin into the hole, hearing its clink as it joined the other three.

  Victor recited a final prayer from the book before closing it and placing a reverent kiss on its worn leather cover. He bent and laid it atop the Chastellet gold.

  The four men moved at once and without comment to the square stone, each taking a side and straining to slide the heavy rock into place over the hole, covering their pasts, sealing the promise of their futures. Their hands met in the center of the chapel’s cornerstone for a brief moment.

  Valentine was the first to withdraw. “And now, I bid you all a good night,” he said. “I shall see you again when the weather does no threaten to turn my warmest parts to ice.”

  Constantine laughed. “Expect Dori in a few days.”

  “That will make Maria very happy,” he said with a smile. He clapped Stan’s shoulder and moved away into the darkness as the men wished him farewell.

  Then Roman looked to Victor. “Do you need me for anything else this night, Father? Nell is teaching Isra to sew, and I’d fetch Lou from Jeremy’s lest Erasmus suffer further damage.”

  “Go, go,” the abbot said, waving him away. “I’d have a word with Brother Stan and then make my way to the cottage. Good night.”

  “Good night.” Roman looked briefly to Constantine and Adrian, who returned his casual wave.

  Adrian walked past Stan and embraced Victor unabashedly. “I’ll look in on the barn. They say the doors are ready to be hung. God bless you, Father.”

  “God bless you, Brother Adrian.”

  Constantine and Victor continued to stand together on the rise after Adrian had mounted his horse and ridden down the slope, each of them looking at the fat, round moon in silence. Stan knew it wasn’t that night, but he could feel that the priest’s time with the brothers was drawing to an end.

  “Going back to Melk soon,” he said.

  Victor sighed. “Yes. Hilbert should have everyone cowering in fear by now. If Wynn hasn’t fed him to the tigers.”

  Constantine chuckled and took hold of his horse’s reins, walking with Victor down the slope.

  “There are Chastellet coins still unaccounted for, Constantine,” the priest said. “Perhaps they are only lost. Or
in someone’s money chest. Or already melted down. But it is possible others might seek me, begging help for whatever hopeless cause they have been made victims.”

  Constantine pulled the horse to a gentle stop in order to look directly at his old friend. “Then we will help them, won’t we, Victor? Isn’t that our duty now? To be the last hope of the hopeless because we ourselves were so long without it?”

  Victor nodded. “I thought you’d say as much. I think you know by now that I’m not a prideful man in most things, Constantine. But I find myself believing more and more of late that helping the four of you was the reason God sent me to Melk as a young man all those years ago. And I’m quite proud of you all.”

  Constantine returned the priest’s nod with a thickness in his throat that prevented any reply. Thankfully, Victor had one more piece of information to impart, sparing Stan the burden of conversation for another moment.

  “I’ve found a rector for Fallen Angels Chapel,” he said brightly and suddenly as they headed once more down the slope. “A young man, just entered into study, but he should be more than ready to take on duties by the time construction is complete.”

  “That is good news,” Constantine said.

  “Yes,” Victor nodded. “Ethan Carmichael is his name.” Victor was quiet for a heartbeat of time. “I knew his father.”

  They came to the bottom of the hill where the road split into two paths. Victor continued on toward the village without pause, lifting his hand and glancing over his shoulder at Stan a final time. “Good night.”

  “Good night, Victor.” Constantine watched the priest’s outline meld with the shadows and disappear.

  Then Constantine turned his gaze up to the black outline of the castle ruin, silhouetted against the infinite, star-pricked heaven above. He stared at it for a long time.

  And then, having done his duty, he swung up onto his horse and went home.

  Author’s Note

  I hope you have enjoyed spending time with Valentine, Adrian, Roman, and Constantine as much as I’ve enjoyed creating them. This was the longest series I’ve done to date and the most challenging! A couple things before I go: