“I don’t want it,” Constantine said.
“Yes, you do.” The king looked at Dori. “Do you desire my letter of recommendation to your husband, Lady Theodora?”
Dori’s stomach churned and she couldn’t hide the sneer she was certain twisted her mouth. “No. Thank you. My liege.”
“Then I’ve no desire to see either of you again until you have something of actual worth to present; my hall is too crowded as it is.” He stood and waved toward the guard at the door. “Admit them or not. I’m going to bed any matter.”
The chamber was awash with a flood of draped, chattering, perfumed nobility in moments, swirling around Dori and separating her from Constantine. She was jostled, plucked at, faces staring at her from only inches away, taking keen interest in her poor attire, her strangely short hair.
She felt a hand grip her arm, but it wasn’t Constantine’s wide palm. She jerked away instinctively and looked around to see a young blond woman with hard, glittering eyes.
“Come with me, my lady,” she said, leaning near Dori’s face. “Now. We must hurry.”
“Why?” Dori demanded, even as the nobles around her pressed more boldly, their taunts and observations full of ridicule.
“Come,” the woman insisted, reaching down and taking Dori’s hand and pulling her through the crowd.
Dori looked back over her shoulder, but she could not see Constantine above the wall of grotesque faces towering over her. She reached up with trembling fingers to jerk her hood over her head and then lowered her face and allowed herself to be pulled through the pressing crush by a stranger, reaching up several times to hold her covering in place when it was snatched at.
They came into the entry hall, cool, fresh air at last filling Dori’s lungs, but instead of being led toward the doors of the courtyard, the young woman was skipping across the smooth floor, deeper into the maze of corridors. They mounted a narrow stair.
“Who are you?” Dori demanded. “Where are you taking me?”
They dashed down a wide upper corridor and then the girl came to a sudden halt before a door. She dropped Dori’s hand and turned to face her.
“I heard the rumors about you,” she said boldly. “What your husband said happened to you.” Her young, plain face was hard. “Lord Felsteppe. He’s a liar.”
“Who are you?” Dori asked again, completely confused at what was happening.
“Eirene of Glencovent,” she said. “Helping you hurts him, does it not?”
Dori nodded, wondering at what the girl was about.
“This is the only thing I can do,” Eirene said. “I hope it’s enough.” She banged on the door suddenly with her fist, the noise startling Dori and causing her already raw nerves to scream.
But then the door opened and an old woman’s face appeared.
“Yes?” Eseld said, her eyes going from the blond Eirene to the shadow inside Dori’s hood. “His lordship’s already gone. What is it you want?”
Somewhere in the room behind the old woman, a baby cried.
Chapter 23
Constantine waited along the wall of the corridor outside the secretary’s alcove of a chamber, connected to the hall from which he’d just been summarily dismissed. His arms were crossed over his chest, his gaze fixed upon the joinings of stone and mortar across from him. He didn’t know where Theodora Rosemont was.
And he didn’t care.
It’s not Glander; it’s William. And Glayer Felsteppe is not his father.
Felsteppe and I were never married . . . the union was never consummated.
The king’s young secretary emerged from the doorway at Constantine’s shoulder, still appearing disgruntled at having been roused to another piece of work. In one hand he held forth a piece of parchment, still curled at the ends; the other grasped a candleholder. The man shook the page pointedly and Constantine took it. The secretary immediately turned and pulled the door closed, securing it with a key from his ring before turning smartly in the corridor and stalking off without a word, leaving Constantine alone in the passage, the shadows flickering from the torch at the far end.
He didn’t want to read the decree; didn’t want it in his possession. Whatever it said would make no difference once Glayer Felsteppe was dead. Constantine would also be in his grave, in prison, or once more—and forever—wanted as a criminal.
All he needed do now was follow Glayer Felsteppe back to Thurston Hold and run him through. He would pay for the evil he had orchestrated by the only means acceptable to Constantine—with his pathetic life. What happened to Constantine in the moments or days or years following didn’t matter.
The image of Theodora Rosemont bloomed in his mind, unexpectedly and undesired.
