Her eyes narrowed. “Move.”
Jeremy stepped outside of the cottage and Dori swept past him, walking straight up the village path several yards to stop in the middle and wait to meet the two men descending from the ruin.
Constantine walked ahead of Harmon, and Dori’s stomach clenched at the basket he held against his chest. He looked straight ahead, his expression determined, but his gaze seemed to cut through Dori as if she were invisible. Indeed, Lord Gerard walked past her and on through the village without a word, although Harmon came to a stop at her side.
Dori turned and watched Constantine continue down the path, noting how the remaining villagers—Edgar and Edie, Nell, Jeremy, Dunny and Garulf—had come to the edge of the path, watching in respectful vigil as their lord made his grim procession past the cottages. Even Erasmus stood watch, and Dori heard his low whine, soon matched farther down the path by the strange Garulf. Only Leland was missing, and Dori wondered for a moment if the crippled man was ever expected to attend much in the village.
“It’s our lady, alone,” Harmon said, prompting Dori to turn and look up at the man. It took her a moment to comprehend what Harmon was saying. “We haven’t yet found Master Christian.”
Dori straightened her spine in order to give the illusion of confidence. “I see. I’ll be preparing Lady Patrice for burial.”
Harmon nodded, accepting her declaration without question. “His lordship is going on to my cottage—I’ve some linen ready on the bench, although there’s no oil or balm.”
Dori recalled the small basket hidden beneath the altar table in the oratory. “I can lay hand to something,” she said. “I’ll join Lord Gerard shortly.”
“Very well, milady,” Harmon said deferentially. “I’ll go on to the burial ground and prepare the plot. His lordship likely wants some privacy with his wife before she is laid to rest any matter.”
Harmon’s thoughtful comment gave Dori pause. The basket Constantine carried held what was left of his wife—the woman he had married, had made a child with.
His wife.
“I realize that,” Dori said, her tone sharper than she’d intended.
Harmon only gave a short bow. “I knew you would, milady.” He headed deeper into the village while Dori turned and walked toward the ruin.
Once she’d gained the ward, it took her only moments to descend to the oratory; her feet and hands found the holds and steps as surely as any path she’d once trod at Thurston Hold. When she pushed open the door, the hearth was cold and dark, the candle on the table little more than a rim of transparent wax, the flame seeming to float atop the puddle of clear liquid from the tall taper left there hours before. And so Dori lit the last remaining candle stub, intending to make sure she took everything she needed from the dank, dungeon room—she hoped never to set foot in it again.
She retrieved Constantine’s satchel, setting it atop the table and opening the flap to return the miscellany to it—pausing a moment to look down at the vessel from which he’d given her sustenance. He’d saved her life. She tucked the cup inside and then quickly added his other things. Then she crouched down and felt along the shelf at the back of the table, her fingers seeking the little woven basket latched with a wooden peg and a leather thong.
Dori laid hand to it and rose, setting it on the table and opening the container to reassure herself of the contents before setting it atop the other things in Constantine’s sack. She stuffed the few stiff linen cloths she’d used while living in the oratory at the top of the bag and secured it tightly. Then she put her hands on her hips and looked around the room for anything she’d missed.
There was only the ornately decorated altar cloth—heavy and slick and stiff—folded neatly on the bench where she’d left it. Dori picked it up and then the satchel, ducking her head through the strap before extinguishing the light and leaving the pitch-black room.
When she’d gained the ward, she crossed the tall weeds, which were at last beginning to dry out and straighten respectably, to exit over the stone threshold on the side of the castle ruin above the river. She paused for a moment, taking in the small stone ring, already beginning to be overrun with fresh greenery, where Constantine Gerard had smoked fish the morning after he’d come. She walked past it down to the river’s edge, where she took one of the worn and dingy linen cloths from the satchel and dunked it in the frigid water.
Then Dori turned and trudged up the slope to the patch of flowers on the edge of the cliff just outside the wood, where she spread the dripping cloth on the grass and then removed his satchel, setting it aside. She slid the knife he’d given her earlier from the sheath on her apron tie.
She piled the cloth with wild early violets, stems of tiny-leaved mint and slender fern. The few delicate snowdrops she found persevering beneath the north side of a moss-covered boulder she saved for last, placing the bright blooms atop the bouquet before carefully knotting the corners of the cloth in the middle. She returned the blade, ducked back into Constantine’s satchel, and picked up the damp bundle.
It wasn’t difficult to locate Harmon’s cottage after Dori had returned to the village. Many of the smaller dwellings had fallen into disrepair, and the ones that were still habitable clustered together along the road, save for the larger swineherd’s cottage and attached barn, which was located on the outer edge of the town. This time, there were no observers as she made her way down the path, not even curious and enthusiastic Erasmus. She leaned in the window—one shutter half open—and saw the back of Constantine Gerard’s head as he sat on a stool, his back to her.
Dori left the window to hesitate a moment before the closed door, then knocked firmly.
A long beat of silence, and then, “Come.”
She pushed the door open and stepped inside, closing it silently behind her. Dori placed the bundle of flowers on the table and paused, hesitant to intrude upon him even after he had granted her entry.
“I had never failed at anything in my entire life before I married Patrice.”
She glanced up at him, but Constantine wasn’t looking at her as he spoke, instead fixing his eyes on the shallow basket in the center of Harmon’s table.
“It seems as though I failed at everything ever after.”
Dori directed her gaze downward once more as she lifted the strap of Constantine’s satchel over her head and set it on the other side of the basket. She slid the folded altar cloth from its bulk and smoothed its edges as she laid it on the table.
“I failed as a husband; as a father. As a lord.”
Dori pressed her lips together firmly as she began attending to the ties on the satchel.
