“Hmm.” She sighed thoughtfully. And then, “I was at Thurston Hold a week ago. I overheard that Felsteppe planned to journey to London with Eseld and the baby soon.” She leaned down even lower to pick at the end of a bough, peek beneath it, releasing a wave of white, fragrant smoke. “Perhaps they are returned by now.” She dropped the bough and looked back up at him expectantly.
“How many times have you been back?” he asked.
She hugged her knees, narrow and knobby-looking beneath her dirty, threadbare skirts, and now she met his gaze directly. Her rich, dark hair—Constantine could remember the noble ladies’ admiration of the long, thick, shiny locks when Dori was still a child—feathered out around her face like the dark whirls of a new lamb’s wool. The black sheep. Yes, that was fitting for Theodora Rosemont.
“Three,” she answered. “I wasn’t well enough to make the journey for nearly a month after I first came to Benningsgate.”
“You don’t appear to be well enough for it now,” he commented, not caring if it offended her, but by her smooth face and the unchanged line of her wide mouth it did not. “Why did you not procure supplies and food from Thurston?”
She shook her head, and Constantine was momentarily struck by the thought that her cropped hair somehow enhanced the feminine look of her face, rather than given her the appearance of a young boy.
“I can’t risk being caught. The servants who are left have no choice but to be loyal to Felsteppe. I risk my life each time I step but a foot onto Thurston Hold lands.” She glanced at the smoking vegetation. “How long until we can eat?”
“A bit,” Constantine said. “I find it difficult to believe that you’ve managed not only to survive on your own this long at Benningsgate with no food but you’ve also made the lengthy journey to Thurston Hold on foot three times.”
Theodora rested her chin on her knees, then, and dropped her gaze to the fire. “I managed to take some barley from the stables twice. Last time I found some shriveled roots that were to be given to the pigs. I warmed them in some water in the chalice. I’ve tried catching fish to no avail. The handful of people living in the village here have so little themselves that it is guarded closely. Now that spring has come, there will be more to forage.”
Constantine felt a strange sensation in his middle, thinking of how impossible it was that this young woman had survived until now. A forced childbirth, sheltering in a forsaken ruin, no food, little warmth. Such circumstances would have laid many a mighty soldier down.
He observed that she was starved, cold, her skin holding a bluish tinge. Even her nail beds beneath the jagged dirty crescents of her nails were purpled. While the fish she would soon consume would do much to alleviate her immediate hunger, what she truly needed was rich food, a warm bed, and, likely, a potion.
But then he remembered that she was no longer the celebrated miss of Thurston Hold, the light of her father’s eye, the delicate if outspoken angel with the long, twisting locks of dark hair. She was Glayer Felsteppe’s wife, and she had borne his child.
Christian was dead because of this woman’s husband. And no matter how frail she appeared, no matter what she had endured, although she might not be Constantine’s enemy, he certainly didn’t trust her enough to consider her his ally. Theodora Rosemont’s troubles were her own as far as he was concerned.
She looked up at him suddenly, caught him watching her. His expression must have conveyed his distrust of her, for her own brows twitched downward, her gaze hardened. Theodora didn’t consider him a friend either.
“When do we depart?” she asked.
“Wearen’t going anywhere,” Constantine said, looping the long strap of his satchel over his head and standing. Theodora gained her feet as well. He met her eyes. “I made a promise years ago; the next time I see Glayer Felsteppe, I will kill him. And nothing or no one will stop me. Not you, not your child, not the king. When I go to Thurston Hold, it will be to see Felsteppe dead, not to play the gallant.” He turned and strode down the slope toward the wood.
“Where are you going?” she called after him. “Lord Gerard?”
Constantine did not answer her.
* * *
Dori waited by the fragrant fire pit for what seemed like an hour, watching the fringe of the wood where Lord Gerard had entered. She neither saw nor heard sign of him, and so eventually she stood and made her way to the riverbank for a drink; if she stayed much longer by the slowly cooking fish, she feared she would reach beneath the cedar boughs and seize it, eating all of it herself, piece by piece.
She squatted by the shallows, dipping one hand into the fast, swirling eddies for a drink. She almost couldn’t stand the cold on her lips and thought about the last time she had been warm. It had been at Thurston Hold, early in the afternoon before she’d lost consciousness and entered into labor. She’d walked the corridors of her own home, in fine, rich clothes, with servants to attend her, and all the food and drink she could desire. Sunlight had streamed through windows cased with real glass, warming the stones and planks of the floors; there were woven throws of the softest wool for her shoulders, warm stones covered in quilting for her feet. It was like recalling the best dream she’d ever had, but it had been her life.
And then Eseld had come bearing the noxious potion that forced the start of her birth. Dori should have known it was poison, the way it increasingly made her nauseous and caused the pains to start in her abdomen. She should have realized that since Glayer Felsteppe had never given a damn about her, he certainly wouldn’t go to any trouble to see that she was given some relief from her agony. No, he had simply become tired of dealing with her, and from her own foolish admissions, he’d known when she had conceived. He’d known when it was safe for the baby to come. And he likely had hoped that by forcing the birth, Dori would indeed die.
Only she hadn’t died. And neither had Constantine Gerard.
She stood and dried her frigid hand on her skirts, her flesh feeling thick and gummy with cold. She pulled her thin cloak around herself as she made her way back to the fire and crouched down once more, holding her hands into the warming smoke. The smell of the sizzling fish hidden beneath the boughs was almost too much to bear.
But then Dori heard the crunch of footsteps and looked up to see Lord Gerard emerging from the wood once more, his head down, a fistful of spindly greens in one hand. She watched him stride up the slope, thinking about the differences between them. She was a sickly, frail, desperate woman; he was a strong, hearty, determined man. He sought revenge; she sought respite. She’d been indulged to the point of dereliction as a child; Lord Gerard was wholly self-made.
He was feeding her, but it was clear he didn’t want to help her.
Lord Gerard reached the fire and squatted straightaway to move the cedar boughs aside. He pulled at the fish with his thumb and made a little sound in his throat. His hair was magnificent, neatly plaited, long, glinting in the morning light.
She self-consciously ran a hand over her butchered locks.
“Where have you been?” she asked and was surprised at the timidity she heard in her voice.
“In the wood,” he answered curtly, rummaging in his satchel and not raising his face.
