When she looked around at him, she found him staring at the walls, at the altar she was using for a mundane table, the bench that doubled as her cot, made up with the holy cloths from the altar. She knew he was looking at her small pile of hay in the corner and was glad she had burned most of the soiled portion the night before.
He turned his face toward hers in the cold room that never seemed to warm sufficiently. There was a spark in his green eyes from the candle flame, and the light burnished the long plait hanging over his shoulder. “How long have you been here?”
“Forty-seven days,” Dori answered without pause.
He stared at her. “Why?”
She responded with her own question. “Have you anything to eat?”
“In my satchel,” he said and then glanced toward the door. “I stashed it above when I heard you on the wall walk.”
“So you did hear me,” she said. “You didn’t give sign that you had.”
“I know,” he said, and then turned to the table and picked up one of the precious long candles she had left to light it on the little stub of flaming wick.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. “Those are my only candles. I must keep one lighted at all times, lest I have nothing with which to start my fires.”
“They’re my candles, actually,” he said and walked to the door, pausing to remove the stave from the floor. “I’d see the true condition of the corridors we traveled, determine whether they’re in imminent danger of collapse.”
“I can assure you they are,” she snipped. How dare he charge in here and assume ownership of everything?
“Then perhaps there is something I can do to shore up the passage.” He opened the door and was gone in the next moment.
Dori turned and looked about, but there was nothing with which to occupy herself in the Spartan oratory where the Gerard family had once taken their daily chapel in private. Thankfully, it wasn’t as Spartan as a commoners’ chapel, else she would have had nothing to survive on. The rich altar cloths, the golden receptacles for the host, the cache of wide candles and their stands had meant the difference between life and death for Dori.
She sat down on the edge of the bench and waited, her fingers twisted together on her lap, her eyes on the thin layer of grime covering the stone floor.
She didn’t know how long he was gone—perhaps a half hour. But when he returned he carried on his back the worn satchel she’d spied from the wall walk. He went to an empty stand in the corner of the oratory and affixed the candle to it, doubling the light in the clammy room and seeming to warm it at once.
“Do you not keep a fire?” he asked in an emotionless tone as he dropped an armful of slender sticks before the tiny hearth and then went at once to the table to place his bag upon it.
“Not every night,” she said, unable to keep her seat as she saw him withdrawing food from the satchel. “Only when it is very cold, and well after midnight. Even then, I only burn small amounts of twigs and straw.”
He glanced up at her as he placed a short, cloth-wrapped cylinder on the table. “You fear someone from the village will see the smoke?”
Dori nodded. “What’s that?”
“A bit of sausage.” He picked it up and undid the string, pulling the cloth back and holding it toward her.
She snatched it from him, her mouth running with saliva. “A knife,” she said curtly. “You made me leave my—” The dull metal glinted in the candlelight as he held the broken blade toward her. She took it and immediately turned back to the cot, walking toward it even as she sliced off a thick disk of the fragrant meat. She delivered it to her mouth with the knife and closed her eyes as she chewed.
Dori sat on the edge of the bench and did not look at him as she quickly worked her way through the short length.
“How long has it been since you’ve had a meal?” Lord Gerard asked.
She paused and swallowed, her eyes still on the last puckered end of sausage in her hand. “Forty-eight days,” she said before placing the bite in her mouth and then raising her face.
He was standing at the table still, a small piece of what appeared to be cheese in his hand. He glanced down at it and then back at her and tossed the wedge.
Dori snatched it out of the air as expertly as a swallow on the wing. The first bite was heavenly. She looked back up at him as she chewed, daring him to feel sorry for her.
“Your husband thinks you’re dead,” he said instead. “Why?”
“Because he ordered someone to have me killed after I gave birth to my son,” she said matter-of-factly, slicing off another piece of cheese. “As far as everyone at Thurston Hold and elsewhere knows, I bled to death in my childbed.” She tried not to dwell on the fact that that fate had actually nearly occurred.
“Why would he want you dead?” Lord Gerard pressed.
“He’s gotten what he wanted from me—an heir, a title, an estate. I was far too disobedient to be a suitable wife for him, especially now that I know so much of the animal he is, the dreadful things he’s done. I’m certain he’s now the heartsick widower, left to bravely raise an infant on his own.” She gave a sarcastically sad pout before popping the last bite of cheese into her mouth.
