Perhaps their son.
* * *
Simon walked slowly along the darkened London street alone, his footsteps shuffling, his head down. He never before would have dared to do such a dangerous thing, but it didn’t matter now. Any of the criminals who would have at other times accosted him perhaps sensed that he was ill and penniless, for surely his heartbreak rolled off him like the miasma seeping along the stones from the quay.
Victor would find that he was gone at morning prayer, but it was acceptable. Simon thought his friend had suspected when he’d heard his confession and then delivered him absolution. He was forgiven.
His sworn testimony had been taken as well, damning Glayer Felsteppe and everyone connected with him. Perhaps it would do no good, he thought as his feet echoed on the wooden planks of the bridge, but perhaps when delivered by Victor’s hand and the abbot’s own tales . . .
Bledsoe was recovering, thanks be to God. Louisa and the children would make certain he rested until he was completely well and could once more take over the duties of his title. Simon had wanted to leave his friend a personal note, but he knew it wasn’t necessary. Bledsoe would understand, and although he and Louisa would mourn, perhaps they would also both feel relief for the sons and daughters they loved so much and called their own.
Only Ethan would know the truth. And likely that young man—the youngest, and Simon’s favorite—would convince himself to forget all he’d learned, as if it were nothing more than a bad dream. He’d go to his own grave—many, many years from then, Simon hoped—as Ethan Carmichael.
Simon stopped in the center of the bridge and looked down into the black, inky water, still swollen with the weeks of rain they’d endured. His chest seized in pain again and Simon gasped, digging his fingertips into his cassock and squeezing his eyes shut. He’d better get on with it, before he collapsed in a faint. It would be his luck that the lone Samaritan in all the city would be out before dawn to deliver him right back to Victor’s capable hands.
Once he could breathe shallowly again, Simon stepped onto the bottom of the railing and threw his leg over with some difficulty. He turned ’round and grasped the railing with his arms spread, feeling the swaying structure urging him away from the side of the bridge.
He closed his eyes and let the cool breeze blow across his sweaty brow as he brought to his mind images of Louisa and Bledsoe, Ethan and his brothers and sisters; Simon’s own parents, long dead now. He thought of Victor; Theodora Rosemont; the little blond orphan boy. He sent them all the love he could muster in his lurching, damaged heart.
“Thank you, Lord,” he whispered into the wind, raising his face. “Thank you for my good life.”
Then Simon let go of the railing and disappeared beneath the peaceful black water.
Chapter 25
They came through the final stretch of woods below the village still in the dark of night and began the final ascent up the road toward the ruin, invisible to them yet from where their horses walked, although Constantine could feel it ahead of them in the black sky—that solitary finger of stone.
William was quiet, once more sleeping after Dori had fed him a skin of goat’s milk. Her actions with the baby were awkward and unsure, but she had not once asked for help, and Constantine was certain her determination and the love she felt for the boy would quickly make up for her lack of experience. And although it caused a bittersweet pain in his chest, Constantine could remember holding Christian at that age. They would manage.
The ruined keep came into view at last as they neared the far end of the village, and the odd glimmer on its ragged edge caused Constantine to frown and pull his mount to a stop in the center of the path. Dori came alongside him, and he didn’t have to explain why they’d stopped, for she, too, was looking up at the castle.
“Torches,” she said, her gaze locked on the faintly flickering stones.
Constantine looked about the houses to either side of him now—Nell’s cottage and, farther back, Harmon’s. The doors stood open, and yet no hearth light could be seen within the darkened doorways.
It was as if they’d meant to leave a clear sign: there is no one here.
He looked back toward the ruin. Perhaps they had gathered there, and it was his own people’s torch glow he saw. But why would they leave the comfort of their homes before dawn unless urged to do so? Constantine had not brought Theodora back to Benningsgate by way of Thurston Hold, so he had no way of knowing if Glayer Felsteppe had only gone as far as Dori’s home, or if he had chosen to come straight to Benningsgate, thinking it his, to claim it at once.
His gaze dropped to the road beneath him, but he could not see any evidence in the night shadows of a large party of riders passing through the town, if even it was there.
Although he could not fathom whether it was for good or ill, Constantine knew that Benningsgate was different than when he’d left. And he also knew he must prepare Theodora as best he could before he proceeded.
“If I should fail . . .” he began.
“You won’t fail,” she interrupted, and he knew she had already worked out on her own the possible scenarios that lay ahead of them in the ruin.
“Listen to me, Theodora,” he ordered sharply, looking at her in the gloom of predawn. “If I should fail, you must return to London as quickly as you can. Beg Henry’s protection in seeing you and William away from England as soon as possible.”
“Constantine . . .” she pleaded.
But he would hear none of it before she gave her word. “Promise me.”
“All right,” she said. “I promise. Of course.”
Constantine swung down from his horse and then walked to Dori’s side. She held the baby close to her bosom while he helped her slide to the ground.
“I’m going up on foot,” he said. “Felsteppe left London with a retinue of the king’s men. I’ll need to get as close as I can without being seen.”
