Constantine shook his head again. “No. It’s not.” He began walking slowly toward Felsteppe.
“I’ve the decree from the king on my very person,” Felsteppe boasted. “It grants me the lands and title of Benningsgate.”
“I know exactly what it says. Perhaps you should have read it more carefully. Benningsgate would only ever fall to you if I should die without an heir,” Constantine clarified, stopping twenty feet before Felsteppe’s horse. “The king gave me my own copy of the decree just last night.”
“I hate to be the one to deliver bad news,” Felsteppe said in sotto voce over the neck of his mount. “But I’m actually planning on bringing that about in a moment.”
“Wrong again,” Constantine argued. “My son and heir is alive and well, just behind me at Benningsgate. In fact, Lady Theodora is watching after him. And Reginald Calumet’s son, whom your own mother gave over quite willingly once she learned the truth about him. About you.”
He saw Felsteppe’s first wobble of confidence, then, the draining of blood from his paunchy face in the pearly light. The man adjusted himself in his saddle, his eyes darting to the soldiers, who looked at one another uneasily, around him.
“No matter that,” Felsteppe announced loudly, and then he pointed to the battlements. “Take the ruin. Kill anyone you find inside. Especially any women and children.”
The mercenaries started forward but then hesitated, turning their horses sideways when they weren’t followed.
“Did I stutter?” Felsteppe screamed, his composure clearly threadbare. “Go!”
The outfitted soldier closest to Felsteppe wore a hard expression. “We’re to protect the interests of the king, my lord. The men atop the wall are Henry’s own—our brothers in arms. We will not attack a fortress being held by them.”
“Then what good are you?” Felsteppe shrieked, causing his horse to dance. He growled and then looked at the handful of mercenaries. “Fine. The rest of you, then.”
The soldier moved his horse closer. “Nay, Lord Felsteppe. We are sworn to protect the English army. If your hired swords attack, we will defend against the shedding of the soldiers’ blood.”
Constantine set the tip of his sword in the gravel and rested his hands atop the hilt. “Get down from your horse, Felsteppe. Face me.”
“You shut up,” Felsteppe said, pointing at Constantine. “You don’t command me. You never did. I’ll deal with you when I’m ready.”
“Hello,” a smooth Spanish voice called out from behind Constantine, and Valentine came sauntering down the road toward Felsteppe. “Remember me? I would also like for you to come down from your horse now. We both know my aim is good at this distance, yes? I almost killed you once. This time I will make sure you are dead.”
“If the Spaniard comes another step closer, cut him down,” Felsteppe said, and Constantine could hear the panic in Felsteppe’s voice as Roman and Adrian stepped forward, once more completing the front line. Felsteppe glanced at the English commander, as if waiting for the man to thwart him yet again. “If any of them come closer.”
Instead, the soldier looked to Constantine. “As the rightful lord of this hold, do you require the aid of the crown in defending yourself?”
Constantine looked to the men at either side of him and then took measure of the handful of mercenaries surrounding Felsteppe. He looked back to the commander.
“Give my regards to the king.”
“Very well.” The soldier wheeled around and delivered the command that rallied all the king’s troops in Henry’s name.
“You can’t leave,” Felsteppe protested. “The king gave you over to my command!”
Another rumbling shook the road, then, causing Felsteppe to be further startled and turn his horse to face the oncoming sound.
The dawn caught the pieces of steel and weaponry hanging from the army that rushed up the road in an undulating wave, the coarse brown wool of vassals interspersed with bright white mantles, marked in the center with bold red crosses.
Herne Hailsworth, his beard blowing behind him, led the advance, flanked by a man who could only be Adrian’s brother. On the other side of Lord Hailsworth, three men more familiar to Constantine sat astride.
The skinny abbot smiled at the four blocking the road to the castle as he drew his mount up just behind the party milling around Felsteppe, trapping the villain on the road. “Good day, Brothers.”
“Victor!” Roman announced, the surprise in his voice unmistakable.
“Ugh,” Valentine muttered. “No the twins.”
The commander of the English forces surveyed the scene with satisfaction on his face. “This is obviously a church matter now. My liege would not be pleased should we interfere. Good day, my lord,” he said to Constantine, and then raised his arm in signal and led Henry’s soldiers down through the valley of the village, flowing through and around the Templars and men accompanying the Hailsworth father and son.
Felsteppe’s mercenaries had been made visibly nervous by the increased forces obviously against them.
“Do you recall the promise I made you the last time we met, Felsteppe?” Constantine said easily, drawing the red-haired man’s attention once more.
