Constantine’s face was stricken. “Because I left Patrice and Christian.”
Dori shook her head. “No! Because I know avenging their deaths meant more to you than saving the life of spoiled, foolish Theodora Rosemont.” She looked down at the child now somehow asleep in her arms. “It meant more to you than the possibility of someone loving you in the future.” She looked up. “The possibility of us loving you.”
Constantine walked across the floor to stand before her. “Might you love me in the future?”
She shook her head. “No. Constantine, I love you now.”
He reached one hand toward her but was interrupted by a rap at the door. He turned away.
“Come.”
A servant entered and gave a stiff bow. “How might I serve you, my lord?”
“I have a message for the king and, with his permission, several items my lady and I are in need of.”
“His Majesty has already given his permission for whatever it is you ask, my lord.”
Constantine looked over his shoulder at Dori, and for the first time since they’d arrived in London, she saw his mouth curve in a smile.
* * *
The joy Glayer Felsteppe had experienced upon his departure from the king’s court and after easing himself with a particularly interesting couple found in one of the darker houses near the palace had gradually worn away, until he was fussy and impatient when Thurston Hold came into view. He wanted to go inside the luxurious house, crawl into bed, and sleep for a pair of days. The idea of watching the last few houses still standing in Benningsgate village burn in the night was appealing, but he had underestimated his fatigue after such athletic pursuits. And, any matter, the sun would rise in a few hours. By the time they fueled the huts, killed any resisters, and got everything going properly, it would be daylight, and not nearly as dramatic.
Hot, too.
But then the shadow came lurching from the wood toward his mounted party on the road, causing his heart to leap into a gallop even as the armed guards to either side of Glayer drew their swords, ready to protect the new earl of Chase.
“Lord Felsteppe! Lord Felsteppe! Aaaghh! Don’t strike me!”
The man cowered on the road, his right arm raised up over his head, the dark splotches on his filthy tunic and mottling his light hair appeared to be blood. His leathery twig of a left arm, normally hooked inside his thin belt, swung freely, causing Glayer to wrinkle his nose.
“It’s all right,” Glayer said to the guards at his side. “He poses no danger to me.” He looked down at the man, who seemed to have either fallen down two successive cliffs or been beaten to within an inch of his grubby little life. “Good God, you mean to tell me the villagers haven’t killed you by now? Flealess, isn’t it?”
“Leland, milord,” the peasant corrected.
“Leland, yes,” Glayer said with a wave of his hand. “What are you doing so close to Thurston Hold? You think because you did me one infinitesimally small favor years ago by admitting me to Benningsgate Castle, you now have leave to beleaguer me when I’m in the vicinity? I paid you that night, didn’t I?”
“Nay, milord. And aye, milord. I’ve only come to warn you, as I promised.” The man stepped closer, and although the soldier to Glayer’s right said nothing, he held his sword before the man’s chest, preventing his advance. Leland glanced down at it before looking back up at Glayer. “He’s back.”
Glayer sighed. His back actuallywasaching, now that the cripple had mentioned it. “What are you talking about?”
“Lord Gerard,” the peasant insisted. “You told me to warn you if anyone came ’round asking after the earl. No one’s done that, but the lord hisself has come.”
Glayer went very still atop his horse as his mind suddenly shook off its fatigue. “Did you see him? Perhaps from afar and you merely thought it was Lord Gerard? You are at a physical disadvantage.”
“It’s me arm that’s crippled, not me eyes!” the man shouted. “I not only seen him, I spoke to him. I watched him bury the bones of Lady Patrice what he dug out of the keep with his own hands.” Leland paused. “And with the help of one Lady Theodora Rosemont. The bastard wanted to beat me to death for the sake of that mouthy bitch.”
Glayer’s eyes narrowed. “Now I know you’re mad. My beloved bride”—he looked dramatically heavenward—“God receive her soul, has been dead these three months. Unless she is a reawakened corpse, you have clearly been imbibing of tainted drink. Even if she were otherwise—which she isn’t—Lord Gerard would certainly have nothing to do with her.”
The man shook his head until his hair arced out around him. “No. She’s been hiding in the ruin at Benningsgate all this time. ’Twas Lord Gerard discovered her.” He stepped forward again, pushing against the flat of the sword still held to his chest. “They’ve gone to London. Together. To find you.”
Glayer didn’t believe him. “Well, obviously I’m not in London. I think perhaps it would be better if you forget this little fantasy before I lose my temper. Good night, Flealess.” He was about to move on when the man reached inside his tunic, prompting two more guards to draw on the peasant.
But Leland only produced what appeared to be a piece of cloth and held it up. “Leland, milord.”
Glayer wrinkled his nose and withdrew his own sword, hooking the peasant’s offering with its tip and then flipping the object up in the air to catch it with his other hand.
It was a thin embroidered piece of footwear, perhaps once quite fine, but now worn thin and stained with great black splotches that appeared to be blood.
