Dori’s face heated. “I don’t know any details—only the gossip I overheard from the servants.”
“Tell me.”
She stood swiftly, her head spinning a bit at the sudden motion. “What good would it do to hear gruesome, likely exaggerated rumors? It changes nothing.”
“I must know,” he insisted in a low voice. “I imagine it constantly—the different circumstances. I know very little, you see? I think I’m owed at least the knowledge of how my family were murdered.”
Dori felt her nostrils flaring as she tried to slow her breathing. “But you’ll never know if it’s the truth. The rumors could be so much worse than your imaginings, and then there will never be any respite from the nightmares in your head.”
“It won’t be worse I assure you.”
Dori hesitated.
“Please,” he said curtly, his gaze still directed toward the ever-flowing river.
She tried to clear her throat from the lump that had formed there and then drew a slow, deep, silent breath before beginning. “The soldiers had come because there was rumor that one of the traitors had made his way to Kent to assist an English lady. The king’s men turned Benningsgate over, searching for him.”
He nodded, not looking at her. “Go on.”
“Well, they didn’t find him.” She pressed her lips together, praying that it would be enough and knowing in that same moment that she had told him nothing he mustn’t already know.
“Dori,” he said in a low voice.
No one had called her that since her father died, and the pet name coming from his lips in such a fashion made her knees watery. She wished with everything in her that she could just float away rather than divulge the tale she’d heard to the man sitting on the grass below her. Constantine Gerard either knew exactly what he was doing or his instincts were something supernatural. Certainly he had interrogated enough hardened men in his years as a general.
“It was rumored that Felsteppe questioned the Lady Patrice alone for some time.”
“Did he harm her?”
Dori paused, closed her eyes. “Perhaps.”
“Tell me the—”
“I don’t know!” she interrupted, and then forced herself to take a breath. “She might have called for help, but Felsteppe’s soldiers prevented any of the servants from entering. When he emerged from the hall, he declared that the countess was lying. He spoke to . . . he spoke to Christian.” Dori had to pause here, gird herself. “Then he sent him into the hall after his mother. He ordered the door to be barred and the castle set afire. It is said the men made use of a kind of water that burned. You can see to what extent the blaze completely destroyed Benningsgate.”
She took a deep breath. “And that is all I know.”
Constantine Gerard didn’t so much as move and so, after several moments, Dori gathered up her ragged skirts and moved back toward the enclosed ward, leaving him on the hillside with his grief. She waited until she thought she was out of earshot before giving leave to her own quiet sobs.
Chapter 6
Glayer watched the man hold forth yet another swath of rich velvet, this one in a deep sapphire blue. His lips curved in a slight smile and he held his chalice loosely in his left hand as he reclined in his chair in the lord’s chamber. His dressing gown lay heavy and warm against his skin, the material fairly singing with luxury.
“That one is very nice,” he said to the anxious tailor. “But have you anything in red?”
He bowed repeatedly. “Certainly, my lord. Certainly.”
The man scurried to his pile of goods on a low, wide ottoman, and Glayer observed his enthusiasm to please with great satisfaction. And well he ought—Thurston Hold’s lord was keeping the man employed with all the costumes he was commissioning of late. There were feasts and fêtes, tunics cut to impress his calling neighbors, costumes for travel and while petitioning at Henry’s court. Why, it was exhausting being of such high rank, considering only the number of times he was forced to change his clothing.
But the idea of it made his smile grow. Glayer Felsteppe had never been so . . .comfortablein all his life, and not simply in his physical person. True, Thurston Hold was a veritable palace, his furnishings and clothes rivaling Henry’s own, but it was his sense of inner peace that brought him the most happiness. His enemies? Banished. Dead, likely, but even if they weren’t, there was absolutely nothing that could be done to dislodge Glayer from his much deserved life. Constantine Gerard and everything he’d ever claimed as both a general and as the earl of Chase had vanished as if he’d never existed. And soon Glayer would own the last piece of the man’s legacy: the lands of Benningsgate.
He thought he’d leave the castle ruin standing for sentimental reasons.
Yes, Glayer was now titled, rich beyond compare, and working diligently to become a trusted resource to the king in his time of familial and clerical strife. Perhaps there was even a chance Henry would one day elevate Glayer to a dukedom.
The door to his chamber opened beyond the little stooped tailor and Glayer’s smile grew. He placed his chalice on the table and held his arms up expectantly.
“Glander!” he called, and the little dark head turned at the sound of his voice. “Come to Papa.”
