Where Love Has Gone

by Speer, Flora

  “He does not,” Desmond replied. In response to his cold tone, Cadwallon cocked an eyebrow at him. Desmond decided he’d better explain a little more fully. Annoyed though he was by Cadwallon’s presence, he didn’t want to make an enemy of a man whose help he was probably going to need. “Royce thought it best not to provide any warning. That way, anyone who may have colluded in Aglise’s disappearance won’t have time to make up a false story.”

  “You ought to have told me before this, and without my asking.” Cadwallon spoke rather sharply for so slow-moving and relaxed a man. “We are equal partners in this mission, Desmond. I expect you to keep me apprised of whatever you know, as I will inform you of anything I learn.”

  “Fine. I’ll do that.” Desmond wished again that he were riding to meet Lord Bertrand with only his squire for company. Still, he could make use of his unwanted companion. “Since you are a baron and I am only a knight, I suggest you appear to lead our party. That way, while you converse with Lord Bertrand and his lady, I will be free to ask questions of the lesser folk.”

  “Which you no doubt consider the more important work of our mission,” Cadwallon said agreeably.

  As Desmond expected, they were stopped at the gate set into the thick wall that surrounded the manor

  “Royce of Wortham asked us to pay a visit to his friend,” Cadwallon said, slipping easily into the half-truths so familiar to all spies. “We bear messages from Lord Royce, as well as from some of Lord Bertrand’s other friends at court.”

  The sentry at the gate called to a man-at-arms, who led the guests into the high-walled courtyard, where they left their horses in the care of Richard and Ewan. Desmond knew his squire would garner as much gossip as he could from the stable lads and from any other squires he met, and he hoped Ewan was trained to do the same.

  With the man-at-arms as their guide, Desmond and Cadwallon proceeded through the courtyard to the manor house, where they found themselves in a large hall. It was past midday and the main meal was over. Servants were dismantling the trestle tables. A few men-at-arms stood talking together.

  A quick glance about the hall showed Desmond no women, save for a few maidservants. Perhaps that wasn’t so strange. From what he could see the manor was built of solid stone and appeared secure enough to withstand any attack by land or sea. It was not particularly pleasing to the eye, and it was most definitely a masculine place. Desmond noted no signs of luxury. No gay banners hung from the massive rafters, no tapestries warmed the walls. The twin silver candelabra on the high table were of severely plain design and only a few simple silver platters and pitchers adorned the single wooden chest that stood against one wall. The place was clean, though, with fresh rushes strewn across the floor.

  When the man still sitting at the high table rose as the visitors approached, Desmond thought he understood why the hall resembled a remarkably neat barracks.

  Bertrand of Caen, Warden of Jersey, was in his early forties, tall and muscular, with not an ounce of fat on his powerful frame. His short, dark hair was streaked with silver and the lines around his eyes and his mouth suggested an austere man, bred to warfare, with little softness in him.

  “Here are visitors with a message from Royce of Wortham, my lord,” said the man-at-arms.

  “Sirs, you are most welcome,” Lord Bertrand responded, coming off the dais to stretch out his hand, first to Cadwallon and then to Desmond. “If you bear letters, I’ll have my chaplain read them to me while you eat. Or, would you rather bathe first?”

  “We carry a letter from King Henry, too,” Desmond said, handing over a sealed packet. “After you’ve read what’s in there, I would like to speak to you in some more private place.”

  “Indeed?” Lord Bertrand’s dark eyes sharpened, and Desmond thought his already hard face hardened even more.

  “We did eat aboard the ship that brought us,” Cadwallon spoke up in his genial way, “so we can easily wait until the evening meal. Speaking for myself, I’d greatly appreciate a bath. I feel a bit salty,” he ended with one of his wide grins.

  “Certainly.” Lord Bertrand did not return Cadwallon’s smile, but only looked at him for a long moment, as if wondering exactly what to do with him.

  “Flamig,” Lord Bertrand said to a man-at-arms who stood nearby, “show our guests where the bathhouse is, and then take them to the large guest room on the third level. Sirs, I will speak with you again later.”

  “Is Lord Bertrand’s lady not at home?” Desmond asked of Flamig as he led them out of the hall and back down the steps to the courtyard. “She’s here,” Flamig answered, “but don’t expect her to bathe you. We live differently here on Jersey than you do in England or Normandy.”

  “I did notice,” Desmond said.

  “We are capable of bathing ourselves,” Cadwallon added cheerfully. “We just wanted to pay our respects to the lady, and Desmond, here, has the latest court gossip to recount, if she’s interested.”

  “You will meet Lady Benedicta at the evening meal,” Flamig said.

  “And not a word about the missing girl, or her sister,” Cadwallon noted to Desmond a short time later, when they were alone in the bathhouse and both of them were soaking in a large tub of hot, soapy water. “Now, I consider that strange. On an island this small there can’t be much gossip, so you’d think everyone would be talking about a noblewoman who has disappeared.”

  “Lord Bertrand didn’t strike me as a gossiping man,” Desmond responded sourly.

  “Well, if the lord of the manor doesn’t gossip,” Cadwallon said with a smile, “the squires and stable boys certainly will. Trust Ewan and Richard to learn the latest news.”

  But when the squires appeared with fresh clothing for their masters, they could provide little information.

  “They say Lady Aglise was a great beauty,” Ewan said in response to Cadwallon’s questions.

  “Was?” Desmond repeated, frowning at him.

  “Aye, sir.” Ewan’s voice fairly crackled with excitement. “All the squires here believe she drowned.”

  “Indeed?” Desmond looked for confirmation to his own squire, whom he knew was a sober and responsible fellow.

  “The general opinion,” said Richard, “is that Lady Aglise fell to her death from the cliffs along the north shore of the island and was swept out to sea, or else she was trapped on the sand at the eastern end of the island by an incoming tide.”

  “Yes, that was the way of it,” Ewan exclaimed. “By one means or the other, she drowned.”

  “Aglise has been living on Jersey for more than two years,” Desmond said. “Surely, she knew about the tides. Richard, from your tone I receive the impression that you don’t agree with the general opinion.”

  “Everyone I spoke to confirmed the lady’s beauty,” Richard said. “She was also, apparently, a flirtatious tease, who enjoyed setting male hearts aflutter. I do wonder if she has simply run off with a lover, as you first suggested. Though why her sister would have no inkling of what Aglise was planning, I cannot guess. Supposedly, the sisters were on affectionate terms.”

  “Perhaps, Lady Aglise teased some poor fellow beyond bearing and then rejected his advances, so he killed her out of thwarted passion,” Ewan said, blushing a little at his own lurid imaginings. “Perhaps, her body was flung over the cliffs into the sea, never to be seen again.”

  “Bodies that go into the sea near land,” Desmond told the squire, “usually wash up on shore in due time.”

  “Well,” Cadwallon said, his voice muffled as he pulled a fresh brown wool tunic over his head, “as I see the situation, we have two possibilities to consider. Either the girl is dead, or she’s living elsewhere. If she’s dead, someone in this manor house will have a good idea what happened to her. If she’s still alive, someone will know in what direction she has gone. Judging by the alert sentries we found at the gate, this is not a place that anyone can leave unobserved. Nor do I think it’s easy to sail away from the island without being noticed. So, Ewan, k
eep asking questions. Take care not to drink too much wine. Keep your head and listen well to what the men-at-arms say.”

  “Sir?” Richard looked to Desmond for instructions.

  “Cadwallon is right,” Desmond agreed somewhat reluctantly. “Pay close attention to what goes on around you. At this moment, we don’t know much more than we did yesterday, and the most casually dropped piece of information may lead us to the truth.”

  Caen, Normandy.

  The court of Henry I, king of England and duke of Normandy.

  So, the noble baron of Wortham dared to suppose he could uncover and prevent the plans that The Spy and a few others had been commanded to set into motion on the first day of May.

  Normandy ought to belong to Louis VI of France, and so should the nearby islands. The Spy and his associates were secretly working toward that goal. And they would prevail. He knew it with all the confidence that was so much a part of his nature.

  The Spy smiled darkly, pleased with himself at the information he had cleverly extracted from Lady Irmina during the last hour. Such a foolish creature, to talk so freely about something she wasn’t supposed to know. Some women just could not keep their tongues from wagging. She had never guessed at his true intentions.

  He, of course, was always careful of what he revealed. The Spy had worked in secret for years, ingratiating himself with King Henry, making a place for himself at the royal court. Neither Henry, nor his spymaster, Royce of Wortham, suspected his true purpose, of that The Spy was certain. No hint of suspicion had ever attached itself to him.

  Royce of Wortham simply was not equal to the clever men who pretended loyalty to Henry, but who actually owed their allegiance to Louis of France. As proof of his ineptness, Royce had no idea that, thanks to Lady Irmina’s tendency to drink too much wine and to babble carelessly, The Spy was now aware that a man had been dispatched from Caen to Jersey, ostensibly to search for Royce’s missing goddaughter.

  The chances were good that Royce’s man would never find the girl, and even if he did, Aglise wouldn’t talk. King Louis’s agent on Jersey would see to it.

  The Spy poured himself a cup of wine and sipped it slowly, with great appreciation. So far, all was proceeding exactly as he wanted. The missing girl in Jersey would provide a useful diversion to keep Royce’s attention away from what was actually happening right under his nose. If Royce could be made to look a fool for not suspecting what was about to befall King Henry, and for leaving his king unprepared and unprotected, then King Louis would be well pleased with his secret agent, and he’d cease complaining about all the money The Spy was spending. Louis was a tightfisted miser, but he was also the rightful ruler of Normandy and the islands of the Narrow Sea. The Spy intended to see that Louis got what was rightfully his.

  Chapter 2

  Upon reaching the great hall again Desmond and Cadwallon found Lord Bertrand pacing before the dais, where the table was being set for the evening meal. From the appetizing smells drifting into the hall from the direction of the screens passage it appeared that the guests, uninvited though they were, would be treated to better fare than the usual evening menu of cold meats, cheeses, and breads not consumed at the midday meal.

  The candles in the silver candelabra on the high table were already lit and in the flickering light Lord Bertrand’s harsh features were thrown into sharp relief, so they resembled a crude carving of a warrior baron. A very irritated warrior baron, who greeted his guests in a voice that rumbled close to a warning growl.

  “There you are. I’ve been waiting for you this half hour and more. In those letters you brought, King Henry and Lord Royce both bade me co-operate with you in your search for Aglise. Let us be done with this matter before the ladies appear. I have nothing to hide. What do you want to know?”

  In Desmond’s experience, people who claimed they had nothing to hide were usually hiding something important. He decided to keep silent for the moment and let Cadwallon do the talking, trusting to the Welshman’s easy charm to elicit whatever information he could. After Cadwallon was finished Desmond would begin pressing Lord Bertrand more seriously.

  “Since Lady Aglise is Royce’s goddaughter,” Cadwallon said with a pleasant smile, “he does, quite naturally, wonder what has become of her.”

  “I don’t know where she has gone,” Lord Bertrand declared. “I wish to God I did know. I have a spotless reputation and this incident besmirches my honor, since Aglise was given into my care. I am not incompetent to protect a young woman,” he added with a hint of bluster.

  “No one believes you are,” Cadwallon said in a reassuring tone. “However, I’ve known a few sixteen-year-old girls in my time, so I’m aware how incredibly foolish and impulsive they can be – and how remarkably clever at evading the most careful adult supervision. Is it possible that Aglise’s eye was caught by a handsome squire or man-at-arms and they’ve run off together?”

  “Are you accusing my people of immoral behavior?” Lord Bertrand shouted, one hand straying to his sword hilt.

  “Certainly not.” Desmond intervened sooner than he intended, deciding the time was right for him to seize control of the discussion. Wondering why Lord Bertrand should be so easily offended, he spoke quietly, appealing to reason. “We don’t know enough about Aglise’s disappearance to make any accusation, or even to know if an accusation is warranted. I assume you do entertain occasional guests, and that ships come and go from Jersey with some regularity. Could Aglise have taken advantage of a guest’s good nature or, perhaps, have slipped unnoticed onto an outbound ship?”

  “It’s possible, I suppose.” Lord Bertrand looked relieved by the suggestion that he wasn’t responsible for the girl’s disappearance. “Yes, now I think about the matter, that must be what happened. It was thoughtless of Aglise to leave no message to keep us from worrying, but that is the nature of young women, as Cadwallon, here, has noted. We will probably learn she’s safe at Caen with her mother.”

  “You may well be right,” Desmond said, though as far as he knew, Aglise had not gone to Lady Irmina, whom she must have known would not welcome her. Desmond thought Irmina most likely regarded her beautiful and reputedly flirtatious daughter as competition. He suspected that was why Aglise had been sent to Jersey in the first place.

  “Lord Bertrand,” said Cadwallon, “I’m sure you ordered the entire island searched as soon as Aglise was reported to be missing?”

  “Of course, I did. To this day, not a trace of her has been found.” Lord Bertrand brightened considerably. “So, obviously, she left the island by stowing away on some ship and you will find her in Normandy, enjoying herself at the royal court. I’m sorry you were put to the trouble of coming here for nothing.”

  “Not for nothing,” Desmond said. “We were able to bring you the latest news from your friend, Lord Royce, and we will be happy to carry your replies to him and to King Henry.”

  “Oh, yes, indeed,” said Cadwallon, gazing with appreciation at the high table, where fresh bread and pitchers brimming with wine were being set out. “We will be perfectly content to visit for a few days more, my lord, until the ship that carried us here returns for us. That means you will have ample time to think about your responses to the letters we brought and to dictate them to your chaplain. We’ll be glad to take your letters when we leave and we will convey them promptly to Royce or the king.”

  Desmond wasn’t certain whether Lord Bertrand’s renewed scowl was entirely due to Cadwallon’s seemingly innocent words, to the possibility of his guests remaining for longer than he wanted, or to the appearance of his wife in the hall. Taking note of the play of emotions across Lord Bertrand’s face and observing the look full of meaning that passed between husband and wife, Desmond’s thoughts began to spin with fresh possibilities. Though a little distracted by his suspicions, he bowed politely as his host presented the guests to Lady Benedicta.

  “We are honored,” Cadwallon said, smiling cheerfully as he took her hand, “to meet so remarkable a lady.
”

  “You are most welcome to Warden’s Manor.” Lady Benedicta spoke with an oddly reserved and distant correctness. She did not return Cadwallon’s smile and swiftly withdrew her hand from his.

  Desmond could see she had once been lovely, though he wondered if Lady Benedicta had ever, even for a few hours, been the kind of silly young girl that Cadwallon had just described. She was attractive in a stately, dignified, carefully controlled way. Although her waist was thickening with advancing age and her golden hair was somewhat faded beneath her sheer veil and gold circlet, her blue eyes remained clear and she moved with such self possession, such elegant grace and confidence, that no man would dare suggest she was less remarkable than Cadwallon had proclaimed her.

  “My lady,” Desmond said, taking her hand, “King Henry sends his personal greetings to you, with a wish that you will accompany Lord Bertrand when next he appears at court.”

  “Perhaps I will.” Lady Benedicta favored Desmond with a faint smile. Then, drawing forward the young woman who stood a little behind her, she added, “This is Elaine of Dereham, elder daughter of the late Baron Aldwynd of Dereham.”

  Desmond turned a curious gaze upon the lady whose desperate plea to Royce had precipitated this journey to Jersey. She had remained so quiet and so motionless in the shadow of her foster mother that he had scarcely noticed her. He guessed she was frequently overlooked, for she appeared no more consequential than a small, brown house sparrow. What he could see of her modestly lowered face was completely unremarkable, just a wide, smooth brow and a straight nose. Slender hands were clasped together at the waist of her simple brown woolen gown. Her hair was light brown, bound into a single, tight braid.

  He put her age at nineteen or twenty, which was old, indeed, for a noblewoman to remain unwed, especially a lady with a decent dowry. From what he could see, she was not at all like her mother. Desmond was aware of a faint, unjustified disappointment. He disliked Lady Irmina, with her painted face and gaudy clothes and her provocative manner, so why should he be disillusioned at finding her daughter was different? Yet he was, and he realized that, having repeatedly heard of the younger sister’s exceptional beauty, he had expected the same from Elaine. He was honest enough to admit his expectation was not fair to her.