Chapter 19
Theodora pulled her hand free from Constantine’s as the villagers approached them, and he felt the absence of the warmth of her slight hand like a physical hole in his flesh. She turned away and headed down the slope toward the village.
Alone, except for the rangy gray beast who loped after and caught up to her in moments. Constantine watched as she took a halfhearted swipe at Erasmus’s rump, which only sent him into ecstatic circuits around her.
Constantine began following her, flanked by Nell and Harmon, and it was the latter who spoke. “I’ve left a jug of mead at the cottage for you, milord.”
“And supper is on the fire,” Nell added. “I don’t think even she could endanger it this far along.”
Constantine looked down at Nell. “Lady Theodora has done me—done all of us—a great service today in seeing that Lady Patrice was laid to rest with as much dignity as any of us are capable of.”
The woman’s eyes grew round. “Beggin’ your pardon, milord. I didn’t—”
Harmon interrupted the woman’s awkward apology. “I’ll be ready at your call in the morn, Lord Gerard.”
“My thanks, Harmon,” Constantine said, pausing to grip the man’s shoulder as they stood at the edge of the village, and then the carpenter turned away to his own abode.
Constantine continued on to the borrowed cottage alone and pushed through the partially open door. Dori was already at the bench, hacking a round of bread through the middle, and Erasmus was already lying before the hearth, his wooly eyes squeezed shut as if in deep slumber.
Constantine could have sworn the animal peeked at him with one eye.
He walked over to the dog all the same. “Go on, now—back to your master,” he said, shooing the dog through the door and ignoring his doleful look. He shut the door and then turned back to the room, where Theodora seemed to be doing an excellent job of ignoring him.
But that idea only proved to Stan how far off his perception was, for in the next moment, Dori spoke.
“When did you last see your family?” she asked calmly, at last succeeding in parting the bread into halves.
He was surprised by the question, and even more surprised that he was not averse to answering her. “Six years ago.” He sat down in a wooden chair with a low back. “Christian had only just turned four.” She didn’t pose any further questions, and so he grew curious himself. “Why do you ask?”
Dori shrugged and then picked up one of the halves she had scooped out and turned to the hearth so that her back was to him when she answered. “I couldn’t remember when you left Benningsgate, is all. My father had mentioned you were gone on Crusade, but I rather didn’t care.”
She turned back and set the bread trencher before him without comment and then retrieved the other half.
Constantine stared down at the food. It smelled delicious, but his head pounded, and he kept hearing the gravelly tumble of rocked echoing off the ruin walls in his mind, as if taunting him to return.
A chair scraped and he looked up to find Theodora taking her seat. She glanced up at him, and he noticed that her expression was tense, angry. He hadn’t realized until now that it was how she’d looked when Constantine had first discovered her at Benningsgate, and he hadn’t realized that the look had gradually faded until today.
She picked up a chunk of the bread and dipped it into the stew. “How long will you work in the ruin?” She took a bite.
Constantine thought it best that he follow her example and eat, even if he didn’t feel like it. He needed to preserve his strength for the hard work that yet lay ahead of him. He picked up his own hunk of bread.
“As long as it takes.”
After a long pause, Dori asked, “Have you given up on your cause against Glayer Felsteppe, then?”
Constantine felt his gut clench. “No,” he said levelly. “But I will lay my son to rest properly first. I’ll not be turned from it. And you’ll not question it if you wish my aid.”
He could feel the tension rolling across the table as if it were a prickly tide. He glanced up and saw that Theodora was no longer eating but only staring down at her trencher.
“What is it now, Theodora?” he asked, feeling the spiral of anger begin at the base of his pounding skull.
“Nothing.” She stood from her chair and picked up the half-eaten round, then walked past him. He heard the door open. “I thought you’d be waiting,” she said to someone outside the cottage. “Here you are, then.” The door closed.
“You’re angry with me,” Constantine ventured, “because I’m delaying going to Thurston Hold. You would harangue me on this of all days?”
“I’m not haranguing you in the least. I’ve not said another word about it, have I?”
“No, but you’re still angry,” he repeated. “Is that the only reason why you did what you did today? So that I would feel guilty if I didn’t—”
He hadn’t anticipated the slap she dealt him, although he should have been more familiar with her demeanor by now.
“Your guilt,” she said in a trembling voice through clenched teeth, “is of your own making. Whatever failures you’ve accumulated have nothing to do with me.”
“You really are a brat, aren’t you?” he accused, feeling his rage at her rising, although he couldn’t have explained why.
“A brat now, am I?” Dori accused with wide eyes. “Because I’m not cowing to your every whimful edict? When I was wrapping Patrice’s body, I was kind!”
Constantine stood from the chair. “That was a ruse.”
“My patience is too far past its end for engaging in games, Constantine. Since you’ve come here, I’ve never really known whether you would help me or not. Now you seem content to play at lord again, over your handful of subjects in this”—she looked around the small room—“house.”
“I nursed you from the brink of death.”
“Did that make you feel noble?” She smirked. “I assure you, I was closer to the brink of death before you arrived, and I would have survived had you not.”
“If you don’t need me, why the pout?”
Her gaze was full of daggers. “I supposed it would be much more convenient should you kill Glayer Felsteppe for me.”
“As it was convenient for you to marry him after your father died?”
“Rather more as it was convenient for you to run away to the Holy Land rather than be humiliated by Patrice’s infidelity.”
Constantine raised his hand and Dori stepped toward him. “It’s painful, isn’t it? The truth? Especially when you’re not using it to deprecate yourself like some . . . some martyr.”
“Shut up, Theodora,” he warned.
“You left your family, your home; you left the friends who helped save your life. All to serve your own agenda. When all I ever wanted was to keep what I had.”
“Shut up,” he repeated.
“And now I’m to wait on you as well, until it’s absolutely convenient for you to keep your word!”
He reached out and grabbed her by her arms, his fingers meeting around her slight biceps encased in the rough gown. She struggled, but when she saw that she could not pull away, she stilled and snarled up at him.
“You wish to strike me?” she dared, turning her face up to him. “Go on, then, if you must. But I’ve been someone’s pawn all my life and I’m finished waiting for you.”
Constantine thought he only kissed her to ensure her silence, but in that moment after he dropped his mouth on hers, the only thing he could think of was tasting those lips that had condemned him so thoroughly, of touching a bit of that righteous indignation and, yes, perhaps to humiliate her as she had done to him.
She breathed in through her nose with a loud wheeze and then pressed her body to his, her hands going to his waist. He released his grip on her upper arms, wrapping her in his embrace, lifting her to him, deepening their kiss. He tasted salt and pulled away to see the tears on her face. He brought his hands up to cup her face, kissing her cheeks.
But she sniffed and shook her head, pulling him closer and bringing her mouth back to his. His hands raked back through her silky, springy hair, holding her face before his, and then he bent and picked her up in his arms and carried her through the doorway at the back of the cottage.
There was a single rough bedstead in the tiny, windowless room, made up with thick blankets. He lay Theodora Rosemont atop them and then lay down beside her, kissing her once more. He worried he would hurt her, she was so slight. He ran his hand up the front of her kirtle, sliding his palm over her small breast. She gave a happy sigh as the tips of her fingers dug into his ribs.
Constantine brought his leg across hers, pulling her into his groin, cautioning himself to go slowly; it had not been many months since—
He stilled so suddenly, it was as if he had frozen into solid ice. Even his heart seemed to frost over in his chest.
Since she’d given birth to Glayer Felsteppe’s son.
The last man she’d made love with—likely the only man she’d ever made love with—was Glayer Felsteppe. The one who’d put Patrice in her grave more surely than the devoted villagers at his side this day.
He rolled away from Dori and sat up on the side of the bed, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.
“What?” she said in a breathless voice, and he felt her sitting up behind him. “Constantine, what is it?”
“I can’t,” he groaned, squeezing his eyes shut and hating the sound of his weakness. When he felt her tentative touch on his back, he shot to his feet with a growl. He turned to look at her and her face was pale, solemn, her eyes too big for her face, her innocent-looking mouth turned down.
“Can’t because of Patrice or can’t because of me?” she asked quietly.
“I can’t reconcile any of this!” he shouted, pacing the floor. “You weren’t supposed to be here; you weren’t supposed to be kind to me. I’ve hated you since the moment I heard you had wed that monster.” He paused and looked at her. “Dori, he took the most precious things in my life.”
“Yes, he did,” Theodora agreed. “He took mine from me, as well. He did, Constantine. I didn’t. You didn’t. Why should we be further punished for his evil?”
Constantine shook his head. “It matters not. I touch you and my head goes mad with thoughts of him touching you.”
“If you cared for me,” she said carefully, “if you wanted me, truly, you would not let Glayer Felsteppe stop you from claiming me. From claiming anything you wanted.” She scooted to the edge of the cot and stood facing Constantine, the several feet still separating them feeling as wide and deep as a black, bottomless chasm. “Do you care for me, Constantine? Could you care for me, as I am, once the situation in which we now find ourselves no longer exists? In a future where there is no Glayer Felsteppe?”
Constantine felt an ache in his chest as he looked at her, Theodora Rosemont, as demanding as the rumors painted her, but this time what she was demanding was nothing more than the truth.
He tried to imagine returning to Benningsgate and meeting her again, had she been unmarried, and he felt hope leap in him. A rush of excitement at the idea of pursuing her, with her delicate fairy face and secret kindness, her will and physical stamina that could rival the mightiest soldiers he’d ever known. The way she wanted to protect. Perhaps in time he could forget . . .
But then he recalled her child. Felsteppe’s child. Constantine could not raise the boy in good conscience after having killed his father. Even if he had been the man who had murdered Constantine’s son.
Once Constantine had made good on his vow to exact his revenge, it was unlikely he would live very long any matter. It was better for Dori, more merciful, should he end any thoughts of a future with her now.
He looked at Theodora, waiting patiently before him, and she must have seen the answer in his eyes before he spoke, for her expression hardened once more.
“I can’t,” he said.
Her chest rose and fell shallowly with her breath. “You coward. Glayer Felsteppe has already bested you.”
She walked past him from the chamber.
Constantine turned in time to see the door close behind her as she left. He returned to the front room and sat down at the table, reaching for the corked jug Harmon had so courteously left for him. He opened it with an echoey thunk and turned it up to his mouth. He swallowed and sighed, looking at the empty chair across from him.
Let her work out her anger at Nell’s, then. Eventually she would see that his decision was best for both of them.
Constantine repeatedly turned the jug to his mouth until the mead was gone from the vessel. And still Theodora Rosemont’s beautiful, wide eyes accused him as he lay down once more on the narrow bedstead, this time alone.
* * *
Dori ducked back behind the edge of a cottage as she came around the corner and saw Jeremy and Erasmus disappearing into Nell’s cottage. She was only barely keeping her composure after her confrontation with Constantine, and now the only place she could think of to escape was closed to her. She needed supplies, and although she wasn’t sure how she had planned to wheedle the necessary items from Nell, it no longer mattered.
Then the thought occurred to her that if Jeremy and Erasmus were dining with Nell, the swineherd’s dwelling was untended. Dori emerged from behind the cottage and crossed the path diagonally, intending to cut behind the farthest row of little houses to come upon the rear of Jeremy’s plot.
“Looking for something, milady?”
Dori jumped and spun around with her hands raised to find Leland, his withered arm tucked beneath his belt. He leaned against the rear wall of a cottage, holding a pipe to his mouth with his good hand.
Dori stared at the crippled man as she lowered her arms and tried to calm her breath. “Just out for a walk,” she said. “Clearing my head after the day. Not that it’s any of your concern.”
“Mmm,” Leland said with a sage nod. He pointed his pipe stem in the direction in which Dori had intended to go. “Might be dangerous, should you walk too far past Jeremy’s.”
“Certainly,” Dori said, and then cleared her throat. “It would.”
“Have you your blade yet?”
Dori nodded.
Leland drew on his pipe again and looked away from her, as if she no longer interested him, although he added, “Enjoy your walk, milady.” He pushed away from the wall and ducked around the front of the cottage toward the center of the village.
Dori let out her breath in a whoosh and then carried on toward the swineherd’s cottage in the glow of the setting sun. For a village boasting only eight inhabitants and a dog, escaping unseen was proving rather impossible. Her heart pounded with the fright she’d suffered, and yet she sensed that the embittered Leland would not tell anyone in the village that he’d seen her. She likely had at least until the morning before Constantine might bother to discover she was missing.
It was just enough time to reach her destination.
* * *
The sky was still magenta at the horizon when the small, dark shape that was Lady Theodora Rosemont skittered through the shadows along the road leading away from the blubbery swineherd’s cottage and Benningsgate village. Leland watched her from across the square of freshly turned earth atop the rise of the burial ground until she was lost to the deepening night, his pipe smoke curling lazily in the cool air.
He clenched the stem in his teeth before bending to pick up the satchel at his feet and ducked beneath the strap. Taking his pipe bowl in hand once more, he started down the hill toward the road, a jaunty spring in his step.
* * *
Isra pushed her way through the crowd in a wandering fashion, her head held high, her expression haughty as she felt the numerous stares and lingering looks sliding over her from the courtiers she parted. In her fine English ensemble, her hair piled atop her head with a tall frame beneath her embroidered wimple, the fat, sparkling jewels about her neck and wrists, dangling from her ears, she resembled the royalty she portrayed.
“. . . princess. From . . .”
“. . . Turkish. Her father—”
“—husband—”
“—brother—”
“Good day, my lady.” The young man stepped directly into her path with a rakish smile and a bow as deep as the crowd of people and beasts would allow. He was dressed in the finest velvet with hammered gold adornments at his shoulders and waist, as well as over the insteps of his low, cuffed boots, so that with each movement, he jingled conspicuously.
“Forgive my boldness,” he continued. “But I must confess that my companions and I have been watching you. It has come to our attention that you are without attendant.”
He was bold, even for a young, wealthy man, and Isra lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes at him. “And you think perhaps to take advantage of the situation for your amusement?” she challenged, allowing her accent to thicken. “I assure you,” she said, her hand going to her waist to rest atop what appeared to be a rope of thick braid but was actually the hilt of a deadly-thin dagger, “I am skilled enough that you would heartily regret it.”
“Oh, nay,” the man insisted in delighted and amazed laughter and pressed his hand to his chest. “I only wished to invite you to sit with us. My friends and I command quite the best position in the room—only look, that’s our dais right over there—and it would honor us greatly if you would join us. Would be quite an accomplishment—you’ve set the room agog with your presence.”
Isra projected an air of indifference. “In my court, if a man should dare speak to a member of the royal family without introduction, it is grounds for execution.”
“Thank heavens for me we are in England, then,” the man said with a rakish lift of his eyebrows, and Isra couldn’t help the indulgent smile that curved her lips. He was young and brash and carefree and rich beyond compare.
Perfect.
“I am Ethan Carmichael; my father is Lord Bledsoe. You’ve likely heard of him.” The man bowed again. “At your service.”
“Ethan Carmichael, I have not heard of your father,” Isra insisted. “Likely he is only one of the pagan Irish.”
He threw back his head and laughed at Isra’s taunt, even as he turned and placed her hand in the crook of his elbow confidently, leading her through the crowd and preening under the attention they garnered.
“Quite the opposite of pagan,” young Carmichael insisted as he led Isra up the dais step to a wide, sumptuous cushion amid several young couples. He helped her to sit and then dropped to one knee at her side. “He owns several churches and a monastery in fact. He’s right . . . over . . .” The young man scanned the shifting crowd of nobility and musicians and dogs and horses who suddenly parted, and those around the perimeter of the chamber, including the youths in Ethan Carmichael’s group gained their feet. He assisted Isra in standing once more.
The king entered, flanked by his retinue and his army of snuffling, scrabbling hounds, waving away bids for his attention with a disgruntled air.
“Ah, there!” Carmichael said, kneeling once more at Isra’s side when she was seated. “On the king’s left. Now right. Now left again.”
“Your father owns churches and a monastery?” Isra queried, genuinely surprised.
“Oh, yes,” Carmichael assured her. “Quite profitable. Although it’s my mother who runs them really. Devout woman. Devout. As any of her seven children will attest.”
Isra allowed him a sincere smile. “You English are very strange with your selling of God.”
“Hmm, yes, I suppose. Rich, though,” Carmichael said with another lift of his brow. A familiar, twanging melody rang through the chamber. “They’re about to begin; marvelous. Simply marvelous. Only wait until you see. Completely famous. You’ll sit with us again on the morrow, won’t you?”
The double doors on the far end opened once more, prompting those occupying the middle of the floor to clear and a man swept into the space, his green velvet tunic fitting him like a second skin, his ebon hair rising into a crest high above his forehead, his breathtaking smile wide as he held his hands aloft and spun to address the crowd.
“Prepare yourselves, my lords and ladies, for the most thrilling displays of amusement from all corners of the earth. Allow me to present to you van Groen’s Magical Mankind Menagerie!”
Isra clapped politely, feigning disinterest, although, at her side, Ethan Carmichael and his friends were frenzied in their enthusiasm.
Asa had made quite a name for the troupe, it seemed.
Many of the acts circulated through the crowd at once, so that the applause and exclamations of delight rolled through the room like waves. Helena and her dogs were a huge success, her little darlings’ songs prompting accompaniment by the king’s own numerous canines and setting the whole court to peals of laughter.
“The king appears somewhat aggrieved,” Isra murmured, leaning slightly toward Carmichael. “Perhaps your father is to blame?”
“Oh, nay, my lady—my father is beyond reproach, to that I can attest. The king always appears aggrieved. Today it is certainly only due to a silly matter of a vacated estate that was purchased. The lord was accused of some treason while on Crusade and stripped of his title. Terrific scandal, I tell you. The castle was burned to ruin and has sat empty for ages. Worthless rubble now—even the peasants have all gone. The disgraced lord is presumed dead, although there is now some question as to the degree of his guilt. The king was to have unburdened himself of the property this morn at a healthy profit.”
“Why the grimace, then?” Isra asked, trying to keep her expression detached while, inside her chest, her heart raced.
“He had a sudden attack of scruples, of all things, my father said last night at supper,” Carmichael scoffed. “Father encouraged him to look at the matter from a vantage of practicality.”
“The lord who purchased the property,” Isra said, “is he called Glayer Felsteppe?”
Carmichael’s bright eyes widened. “Even you’ve heard of him! The man’s as slimy a pretender as has crawled up from the dregs, I say. But he’s come into a vast estate at Thurston Hold. Almost as rich as me.” Carmichael sent her a beguiling grin. “Even Lady Eirene has been seen chasing after his heels, and the little infant he parades around like a nappied banner, and she is the heiress of Glencovent.”
“She might be an idiot,” Isra muttered.
Carmichael’s face brightened in camaraderie and he nodded. “Ah! So you’ve met.”
Isra’s thudding heartbeat seemed to shake her very frame, and she wondered that none of the young, wealthy nobles seated around her noticed her trembling. She kept her eyes on the master of ceremonies on the floor below her, waiting for the moment when she could catch his eye. She had the information she needed; now she only had to make her escape.
“It seems the king is rather more disgruntled than usual,” Carmichael murmured at her side.
“Hmm?” Isra watched as Dracus expertly shot a faux partridge off the head of one particularly unamused servant to the howls of utter delight of the nobles in the crowd.
“He’s just received a message. Which he’s now handing to my father.” Carmichael’s voice seemed intrigued and Isra reluctantly turned her face to regard the monarch even though she’d just given Asa the signal.
The man at the king’s side, currently holding what must be the message Carmichael mentioned, looked up suddenly and seemingly right at Isra. Her breathing stopped, lodged in her throat. But then Lord Bledsoe’s stricken gaze slid from Isra to his son, still kneeling at her leg.
“Whatever it is,” Carmichael said with amused gravity, “must be dreadful.”
“And now I require the assistance of a beautiful lady,” Asa called from the floor, startling Isra’s attention back to the entertainment. His dark gaze seemed to scan the crowd with consideration, while behind him, Gunar and Nickle carried the long, saffron-colored curtains now attached to a circular framework.
“One who is fearless, brave!” Asa expounded, prompting several handkerchiefs to wave in the air.
“Go on,” Carmichael encouraged Isra. “You’ll be famous. I’ve heard the man keeps tigers. Man-eaters.”
“That is preposterous,” Isra scoffed.
“Only the very bravest!” Asa insisted.
Carmichael shot to his feet. “Here, sir; here is your brave lady!”
Asa smiled at her and held out his hand. “Would you indulge me, my lady?”
“Very well.” Isra sighed and stood, drawing applause from the crowd. Carmichael courteously helped her alight from the raised platform and delivered her into Asa’s hand with a bow.
“Make sure she is returned to me,” the young man cautioned Asa with a grin.
Asa returned Carmichael’s smile with a wink as he squeezed Isra’s fingers. “I can make no promises, my lord.” Then he looked to Isra as he led her to the golden draped cage. “Would you happen to be Egyptian? The rumor is Turkish.”
Asa drew open the curtains on both sides of the frame so that the entire crowd could see that it was empty before he helped Isra step inside and then turned immediately from her, his hands held high above his head.
“Ladies and lords, I do hope you shan’t be overly distressed at what you are about to witness! In a spirit of precaution, I beg you to be seated if at all possible. Brace yourselves, at the very least.”
Gunar winked at her before he whisked the curtain closed. Isra felt a whoosh of air behind her as well. She turned quickly and looked for the seam.
* * *
A quarter of an hour—and much aggrandizing from Asa van Groen—later, the cage was turned on its side and collapsed down to its frame, seemingly still empty of the lady who had disappeared, despite the menagerie leader’s best attempts to retrieve her. The man’s assistants picked up the enchanted container under their arms and carried it from the shocked chamber and the Turkish princess was never seen at Henry’s court again.
The assistants slid the frame into the back of a wood-sided wagon and then pounded on the bed, signaling to the large blond man in the driver’s seat, who was accompanied by a falcon on a perch.
Roman flicked the reins and the wagon rolled away.