Chapter 7
Constantine rapped on the thick oratory door and waited, the charred smell of the collapsed corridor behind and above him causing his guts to twist; how could the woman beyond the door have tolerated it this long?
“Yes?” she called from the stone room beyond, and Constantine pushed open the door.
She was sitting on the narrow bench, but it appeared she’d just risen from a reclining position. He hadn’t meant to wake her. She had had color in her face since eating the fish he’d caught for them early that morning, but unfortunately, that color was a faint shade of green.
“Are you unwell, Lady Theodora?”
She pushed a hand through her hair, then shook at her skirts, avoiding his gaze as he came into the room and pushed the door closed behind him to shut out the burned, rotten stench.
“I fear it has been long since I’ve had appreciable sustenance,” she huffed on a laugh.
Constantine frowned, wondering if she had vomited what little she’d eaten that morning. He crossed the room and squatted near the hearth on the stone floor, making a show of straightening the firewood he’d brought.
“How long after you gave birth did you escape to Benningsgate?”
“I awoke from the draught they gave me in a carriage.” When Constantine looked up at Theodora, she elaborated. “The priest under Felsteppe’s thumb was to kill me. I suppose he experienced an attack of scruples, though, and instead thought to send me far away on a ship. I walked here on the Chatham road.”
“Alone?”
“There certainly wasn’t anyone I could trust enough to ask for assistance.”
Constantine stilled in making the small pile of fuel. The woman had given birth for the first time and walked miles afterward to take shelter at this deserted ruin. It was a wonder she hadn’t bled to death. He recalled her telling him her hair had been caked with blood.
But then, he also recalled that he was conversing with the woman who, by marrying the monster she had, had guaranteed Constantine’s exile from his own country.
He placed the last stick atop the pile and then turned, sitting back against the wall and looking at her with a sigh. “Does the priest know you still live?”
Theodora shrugged and hesitantly leaned her own back against the wall behind her. Constantine could tell she didn’t trust him, and that was fine. He didn’t trust her either.
“I’m certain if he survived his fall and managed to gain the road once more to find that I, his servant, and the carriage for our departure to the docks had vanished, he assumed I had taken advantage of the opportunity to leave.”
“His fall?”
She met his gaze levelly. “I pushed him over the embankment at the roadside, into a ravine.”
Constantine felt his eyebrows raise.
“I’d hoped to kill him,” she clarified unnecessarily. “If I’d had any sort of weapon on my person at the time, I would have made certain he was dead.”
Constantine remembered the strength with which she’d fought him when he’d cornered her in the ward and had no doubt that what she’d said was true. If only she had used such cunning and will to lay her husband low. “There is no one at all, then, who would have any reason to suspect you are still in the area of Thurston Hold,” he pressed.
“There is likely no one who thinks I’m still alive, let alone still in this area.”
He nodded. “I’ll need money.”
She stared at him. “For what?”
“The longer I wait to go after Felsteppe, the greater the risk that either or both of us will be discovered. If I am not to be arrested for Glayer Felsteppe’s murder, I must have the means to flee.”
“You seem to have done well enough evading the authorities on your own thus far,” she pointed out. “Has this become a mercenary task for you, Lord Gerard? Avenging your family?”
“No, but after he is dead, you and your son will once more live in the comfort of Thurston Hold while the king finds a suitable husband for you.” He gestured around the small oratory. “I have nothing left. And there are some friends I would help provide for if they are in need of it after all this is over. They, too, have lost their homes, their livelihoods.”
“So you are telling me that you will help me rescue my son?”
“No. I am telling you that I will wait to go after Glayer Felsteppe until you have secreted the child safely away from the danger.”
He saw her throat convulse as she swallowed and then nodded. A faint sparkle came into her eyes—the first Constantine had seen.
“How much will you require?”
“How much can you lay hand to?”
Theodora was still for a moment, as if considering her words carefully. “I’ve hidden a shallow trunk in a hollow of the wall behind a stone in the nursery. I hoarded away what coin and valuables I could lay hand to, so that after my son was born and I had recovered, we could flee. There is a considerable amount of silver. Jewels as well.”
“That will do,” Constantine said.
“Very well. Then we have an agreement,” she said.
“You shall have to take more care than you have in the past. It is not above Glayer Felsteppe to torture those he seeks information from, and I’d not have you leading him right to me.”
“I’m not stupid, Lord Gerard,” she said coolly.
Constantine’s mouth thinned. “I suppose, between the two of us, you had a more intimate knowledge of him than I, but I know how he behaves when trapped.”
“As do I,” she said, and her hard gaze made Constantine wonder for a moment just how deep that knowledge went, and exactly what Theodora Rosemont had done to make Glayer Felsteppe wish dead the beautiful, wealthy woman who was the mother of his child.
It also increased his wariness of her. “Don’t think to betray me, Theodora.”
“Don’t promise what you can’t deliver, Lord Gerard,” she said, and her words let the unspoken threat hang in the cool, humid oratory, where once, a lifetime ago, Constantine had knelt to receive God’s blessing before departing for the fortress at Jacob’s Ford.
He stood away from the wall. “It’s started to rain. By the looks of the sky, it’s likely to continue for some time. I’ll collect the fish from the pit and return with more firewood. After that I plan to see who’s still about in the village.”
“Aren’t you afraid someone will recognize you?”
“I am much changed from the time when I was lord here.”
“I knew who you were,” she challenged.
“I’ll be careful,” he said and walked to the door. “Old Stacy’s cottage might have what we require. If he’s gone, perhaps he’s left something of use behind.”
“Stacy begged for employ at Thurston Hold after the fire,” she said. “Most of the villagers did, and my father provided for them. Many have left now, though.”
He looked up at her, the question clear in his eyes.
“Felsteppe sent them away. He said they were a burden on the estate.” She paused. “Are you searching for food?”
“Herbs. Medicines.” He opened the door and paused to look back at her. “You’re still quite weak. You’ll need to regain your strength before attempting the journey to Thurston. I can’t have you being caught or overpowered.” Or dying, he thought suddenly, unsure why he would remotely care whether the strange young Theodora Rosemont lived or died.
“I do believe this weak woman put up enough of a fight for you, Lord Gerard,” she challenged, but the faint shadow of a smile told Constantine that although she had succeeded in maintaining her life thus far, she was beginning to fade and knew it. “I do hope you didn’t have too much trouble stitching yourself up,” she said, glancing at the ruddy stain on the flank of his tunic.
“But a scratch,” he said with a careless wrinkle of his nose. And then he quit the room for the black stink of the corridor, where the gloomy and miserable reality of Benningsgate wrapped around him with its suffocating embrace, obliterating even the hint of levity that had tried to seep between the ruined stones.
* * *
Theodora closed her eyes with a shuddering sigh and leaned her head back against the stones after Lord Gerard had departed the oratory. Her throat constricted, but she commanded herself not to cry. She had already wept enough for a hundred lifetimes and it was a waste of her energy. She took several deep breaths.
He was going to help her.
Probably.
Dori didn’t try to fool herself into believing Constantine Gerard’s motives were even remotely charitable. By agreeing to wait to kill Glayer Felsteppe, he would secure the entirety of the resources Dori had secreted away while she’d carried her child.
But if it meant she could hold her baby, knowing Glayer Felsteppe was dead, Dori would have gladly given up all of Thurston Hold to the earl of Chase were it in her power to do so. After all, Dori would have her son ever after then, but Constantine Gerard never would have his. The keep meant nothing to her now that her father was dead. Now that . . .
Even the leaning of her mind toward him caused Dori to force herself to her feet to begin pointlessly straightening the few items within the oratory. If she was to share the space with Constantine Gerard, it needed to have the appearance of a common chamber rather than the private quarters Dori had been using it as. She was adding more wood to the small fire when he returned, his arms laden, the hood and shoulders of his cape dark with rain. He brought the sweet smell of spring with him in the breeze of his passing as he walked to the table to deposit the items. He disappeared through the door again without comment, although she’d been certain to leave the little eating knife with its tip broken off and CAG engraved on the handle in the center of the table.
Dori rose and walked to the table, curious about the pile of goods he’d brought. A wooden trencher, perhaps, although Dori thought it large enough to be a dough bowl; a spool of twine, nearly spent; several rags, stained but clean, and stiff with the cold spring wind that had dried them on someone’s line; a fresh bough wrapped around several fragrant, dried fish.
He was back through the door then, a short, three-legged stool in one hand and a thick, rolled bundle beneath his other arm, which also carried a bucket slightly more than half full of water. He set the stool on its legs near the hearth as well as the bucket and then made room on the table to place the dusty, moth-eaten blanket. He unfurled the ancient thing to reveal a handful of crumbly, dried bundles of herbs, a wooden tankard with a crack along the side; a long handled two-pronged fork; and a rough bag that, although tied tightly with twine, appeared by its deflated shape to be completely empty.
Lord Gerard then swung his satchel from his shoulder and lifted the flap to remove a small covered crock, a forged cup, several metal utensils of various sharpness, and a leather kit that perhaps at one time had contained a gentleman’s toilette essentials, being quite finely tooled, but which now Dori suspected held other things.
She looked up at him as he arranged things. “Where did you get all this?”
“The things in my satchel are my own,” he said absently, as though she didn’t deserve his attention. “The others I scavenged from the village. There wasn’t much left in the abandoned houses. I’m certain whoever stayed behind took whatever remained that suited their needs. But I’d wager we’ll have enough to get by.”
Dori was impressed; the things he’d brought, broken and worn as they were, seemed like treasures to her after living so long in the oratory without little comforts. He shrugged out of his wet cloak and hung it on a peg likely meant for the priest’s stole and added even more wood to the crackling fire before returning to the table.
She watched him as he began to break off pieces of the dried herbs and sprinkle them in the metal cup, where they slid to the rounded bottom with little shivers of sound. Then he unwrapped one of the fish and, taking hold of one of the slender bladed knives, deftly severed the head and peeled the spine from the flesh before folding it into the cup atop the herbs. He loosened the cover from the crock to reveal jagged rocks of cloudy salt, of which he chose a piece and added it to the cup.
Then he picked up the wooden tankard and walked to the hearth, where he dipped it into the water bucket to below the crack. He returned to the table and poured the water over the ingredients in the metal cup and mixed the contents with the blade of his knife. The utensil made a sharp ringing sound when Lord Gerard tapped it on the cup and Dori startled a bit, realizing that the growing heat of the room and the graceful surety with which the man moved had enchanted her for a time.
He picked up a square, handleless blade and placed it atop the cup before returning to the hearth with it. He dragged the stool before the warming blaze and sat down, reaching out to snuggle the cup into the graying coals on the edge of the fire. Then he rested his elbows on his knees, held his palms toward the fire, and seemed to forget she was in the room.
Dori stood at the table staring at his darkened outline for several moments, feeling the heat of the fire seeping into her bones and making her flesh feel heavy. Even her toes were beginning to warm. Constantine Gerard obviously had no use for her at this time, now that he’d made his soup and was waiting for it to cook. She glanced behind her at the bench, the embroidered cloth beckoning to her.
A moment later, she had curled up on her side as soundlessly as she could, pulling the cloth around her and using her bent arm for a pillow. The comfort of the coverlet in the warm chamber nearly made her moan with pleasure. She stared at Lord Gerard’s back as her eyelids grew heavy, realizing that, for the first time since coming to Benningsgate, she needn’t fear anyone finding her, intruding upon her secret shelter. He wasn’t her friend; he wasn’t her savior; he wasn’t even her ally really. But she somehow knew she was safer now than she had been for several months. He might not go out of his way to protect her from an intruder, but he would certainly defend what little was left of his home from any further trespass.
She finally let her eyes close and sank into the pitch black of sleep, so much brighter than the despair and fear that had been her constant companions.
* * *
Constantine watched the flames leaping and waving in the shallow square of the hearth, letting the warmth seep into his clothes and dry them, relax his tightened muscles. Steam began to curl from beneath the small metal plate he’d set upon the cup to keep ashes from the brew, and rose and stepped to the table to retrieve one of the rags to protect his hand. He saw the little broken eating knife laying perfectly perpendicular to the edge of the tabletop, as if it had been placed there with great care, and then glanced at once to the bench where Theodora Rosemont was fast asleep. He didn’t know how long she had been that way, but her face seemed more serene than at any time since he’d come upon her on the wall walk. He glanced back at the gilded eating utensil, its shiny coating mostly worn away, the creases in the braid of the handle packed with black.
Soot? Dirt?
Constantine picked it up carefully, reverently, with the rag and let it lay across the palm of his other hand. He turned back to the stool soundlessly and sat down. The firelight flashed on the little blade, the shadows of the shallow engraving of initials seeming to deepen in the light, and Constantine ran his thumb across them.
Christian Ambrose Gerard.
How many times had Christian’s little fingers grasped this handle, awkwardly gaining the skill to feed himself? Hadn’t Constantine himself placed it in his very hand many times, helping adjust the boy’s grip, guide it to his mouth? He turned the blade toward himself and brought it closer to his eyes, examining the broken edge. The metal there was not sharp and raw but rounded and dull; this damage had occurred long ago. A result of play, perhaps? Likely Patrice had fitted him for a larger one as he grew any matter, and Christian had reserved this for his own boyish uses. Perhaps when he pretended at being a Templar knight, as Patrice’s last letter had relayed.
He is very proud of you, Constantine—his papa is a hero in his eyes. He looks for your return each day, as do I . . .
Constantine closed his fingers over the eating knife and looked back to the flames. The chill of his memories had banished the warmth of the crackling fire before him, and he hunched into himself on the little stool.
God help him, he was going mad. He had thought that perhaps being at Benningsgate would renew him, stoke the fire of revenge in his belly until it burned so furiously that it obliterated any thoughts beyond his eagerness to watch the life seep out of Glayer Felsteppe. But it seemed as though the opposite was happening; the despair he now felt was greater than any he’d experienced the night he first learned of the fire at Benningsgate. Holding this possession of Christian’s—the only one he now had—caused his heart to ache so that he wished he could reach into his chest and extract the thing, perhaps even toss it on the flames to be devoured.
Anything, anything to take away this pain. This guilt.
Please don’t go, Constantine; please! I swear to you, it will never happen again. I swear it! Please don’t leave us—we need you here.
A spluttering and hissing interrupted his reverie and he blinked away the watery, stinging memories to see the liquid in the metal cup bubbling and spitting through the narrow opening left by the cover. Constantine wound the forgotten rag around his hand and used the broken tip of Christian’s knife to lift the lid a bit and then turn and slide the cup itself farther from the heart of the fire. The boiling settled and the smell reached his nostrils.
It would be better if it had cooked for longer, but he didn’t think Theodora Rosemont’s condition warranted waiting.
He went again to the table, retrieving the cracked tankard and the meager amount of twine. Constantine cut a length of the hairy thread and wrapped it around the top of the tankard, looping it back on itself so that by pulling one end, the twine tightened and closed the crevice near the rim. He knotted it securely and examined it; it would have to do.
He took his supplies back to the fire and squatted by the hearth next to the tankard. First he slid the cup out of the coals and then lifted the lid away carefully and set it aside. Then he wrapped the rag around the cup and placed the blade along the rim, holding back the solid contents as he poured the steaming liquid into the tankard. Constantine set the tankard aside to cool while he added to the metal cup’s contents and then returned the new batch to the coals.
He rose, setting the blade and rag on the table before walking to the bench to stand over Theodora Rosemont’s sleeping form, the tankard in his right hand. He watched her for several moments, wondering if she was dreaming, what she was seeing. She was curled into herself tightly, as if she needed to defend herself even in her sleep.
Constantine knew that feeling well, and for a moment he thought how bad her life might have been since her father died. She was still so young....
He shook himself. Theodora Rosemont’s plight was no matter to him in the least. She was a means to an end, and her sorrow, her future, that of Glayer Felsteppe’s child—here he grimaced and cocked his head—would cause no rise of sympathy in him. He couldn’t allow it. He wouldn’t allow it.
“Theodora,” he said, and his voice was gravelly, cracked. She did not stir. He cleared his throat. “Dori.”
Her eyelids fluttered open and she blinked, squinted up at him.
“Yes?” she whispered. “Is something the matter?”
Constantine looked down at the tankard in his hand. Damn it.
“Get up. Your broth is ready.”