Where Love Has Gone

by Speer, Flora

  Lady Benedicta was in the solar, where she sat before a large wooden embroidery frame, her fingers working with the skill of long years of practice. Unfortunately for Desmond’s purpose, the frame was arranged so the late afternoon light shining through the windows fell over Lady Benedicta’s left shoulder and onto the linen she was embroidering. Thus, her face was mostly in shadow and Desmond was unable to discern her emotions from her expression. Her spoken response was ordinary.

  “How kind of you to think of me, Sir Desmond.” The lady’s rapidly moving fingers pushed the needle through the linen and drew the bright blue thread up, poised for the next stitch.

  “It does seem to me as if Aglise’s death must be rather like the loss of your own child.” Unbidden, Desmond pulled forward a stool and sat on it. He was sure he hadn’t mistaken the glint of anger in Lady Benedicta’s eyes at his unmannerly presumption, nor the way her fingers paused in their steady motion for just a moment before she resumed her needlework.

  “I pity anyone who dies at so young an age,” Lady Benedicta said.

  “You must be grieving deeply.”

  “I was not overly fond of Aglise. She was always a difficult girl, frivolous and uninterested in learning what young women ought to know in order to become good wives and chatelaines. Still, as I said, I do pity her early death.” Lady Benedicta’s voice revealed no emotion. She appeared to be as calm as always, not in the least upset by the death she claimed to pity.

  “If you wish to write to Aglise’s mother, I will gladly carry the letter for you,” Desmond offered, adding, “Cadwallon and I intend to return to court soon after the funeral.”

  “The duty of writing to Lady Irmina falls to Lord Bertrand.”

  “Of course.” Desmond watched as the needle flashed like a tiny sword, the blue thread trailing in and out of the linen. “I only thought, as one mother to another, you would wish to offer comfort.”

  “I very much doubt that Lady Irmina will require comfort from me.” Lady Benedicta tied off and trimmed the blue thread with a tiny pair of golden scissors. She picked up a scarlet thread from the selection of multicolored silks on the table next to the embroidery frame. “It is my impression that Irmina found Aglise as great a trial as I did, and that she was relieved to hand her over to Lord Bertrand and me. I understand Irmina has taken a young husband. Surely, he will offer his own form of comfort.”

  Lady Benedicta lifted her chin and looked directly at Desmond. When she spoke again, he felt as if she was challenging him.

  “Was there anything else you wanted to say to me, Sir Desmond?”

  “In fact, there is, my lady. I want to beg a great favor of you.”

  “What favor?” She threaded the scarlet silk through the needle and continued her work. “I have noticed that Jean, the kitchen boy, is rather slow-witted.” Desmond watched, fascinated, as Lady Benedicta fashioned a bright red flower out of the silk thread. Sitting where he was, he saw the embroidery from the wrong side, yet the back of the work was exquisitely precise, tiny stitch upon tiny stitch, and he noted the complexity of the overall pattern.

  “What is Jean’s slow-wittedness to you, or to me?” Lady Benedicta finished off the red flower and replaced the scarlet silk with green.

  “In truth, it’s little to me, my lady. However, my sister-in-law, out of Christian charity, makes a practice of welcoming such children into her home and teaching them useful work. I would like to take Jean with me when I leave, and give him to my pious relative, who would receive him as a blessed opportunity. The boy cannot be much use to you.” Desmond knew his brother would have his head for the lies he was telling. If he ever learned of the lies.

  “I will consider the matter,” Lady Benedicta said. “The cook does complain of him, so perhaps she will be glad to see the last of him.”

  “Can you tell me anything about Jean’s parents?” Desmond asked.

  “I believe he is the by-blow of the last Warden of Jersey, gotten on some foolish maidservant,” Lady Benedicta said. “It happens far too often.”

  Desmond stared at her serene face in the shadowy light, wishing he could see it better, trying to detect any shade of anger on it and failing. He wondered if she knew about her husband’s secret meetings with Aglise.

  “Am I correct in understanding that you are Royce of Wortham’s man?” Lady Benedicta asked.

  “Not so, my lady. I am sworn directly to King Henry’s service.”

  “I was mistaken. I was going to ask you to remember me to Lord Royce. He and I have not met for some years.”

  “If Royce is at court when I return there, I will gladly seek him out to convey your message to him.” Desmond pondered the possible reason for Lady Benedicta’s abrupt change of subject. “Is there anything in particular you would like me to say to Royce?”

  “Just that I remember him well, especially his unwavering devotion to King Henry.”

  “Royce is loyal,” Desmond agreed. A peculiar note in Lady Benedicta’s voice pricked at his senses, making him puzzle over the true meaning behind her message. He couldn’t readily decipher that note – it sounded vaguely like a threat – and he couldn’t understand what the lady was getting at. Nor could he think why she hadn’t included a few words of sympathy for Royce, who was Aglise’s godfather, after all, and who would surely be shocked and saddened by her death.

  Lady Benedicta looked up when a youthful maidservant entered the solar and stood waiting until her mistress noticed her. Lady Benedicta stabbed her needle into the linen and part way out again, fixing it in place against the time when she returned to her embroidery. Then she stood, and the good manners Desmond had violated earlier by sitting without an invitation compelled him to rise, also.

  “You must excuse me,” Lady Benedicta said. “Marie is waiting for me to join her in the linen room. She requires supervision if she is to stack the clean linens properly, and Elaine is presently unavailable.”

  “Linens,” Desmond said. “A moment, if you please, my lady. I have only just thought of something I should have asked you at once. Do you keep a close count of the castle linens?”

  “Every good chatelaine does, Sir Desmond.” She watched him with calm face and slightly raised eyebrows.

  “Are you missing any sheets?”

  “If we were, I would know it.”

  “That is exactly why I am asking. Who better than you to know if the linen used to wrap Lady Aglise came from your own linen room?”

  “I believe Aglise was draped in the sort of blanket that is used by the men-at-arms.”

  “She was. Flamig offered his blanket to cover her while we returned her to the castle. But underneath the blanket, she was wrapped in linen. I wondered if you had noticed a missing sheet, perhaps about the time when Aglise disappeared.”

  “Sir Desmond, I assure you again, if any linens were missing, I would be aware of it. I count the sheets after every wash day.” With a slight nod, Lady Benedicta sailed out of the solar, the maidservant hurrying after her.

  “Now why didn’t you give me a simple answer?” Desmond asked softly. “Why didn’t you just say yes, or no? Are you hiding something, my lady? Or are you protecting someone?”

  By the time Desmond reached the chapel, Aglise lay on a bier before the altar, her slender form completely enveloped by a heavy linen cerecloth, rather than the usual covering of a simple white linen pall. Since her body was badly decomposed, the waxed cerecloth would provide greater protection, both for the deceased and for those who came to pray at her side. The strong scent of incense allowed only the faintest whiff of an unpleasant odor to permeate the small space.

  Four tall candles in brass holders standing at Aglise’s head and feet flickered as Desmond let himself in and then closed the heavy chapel door. He was surprised to see Lord Bertrand upon his knees on the prieu-dieu set beside the bier. His dark head was bent into his hands, so Desmond couldn’t see his face, though he thought he heard a muffled sob.

  Desmond stayed quietly where he
was, just inside the door, waiting patiently for Lord Bertrand to finish his prayers. Whatever he was saying, whether to God or to Aglise, those prayers took a long time. When at last he lurched to his feet, Lord Bertrand moved stiffly, as if his whole body ached, as if he was a very old man. The face he turned to Desmond was ravaged, his eyes red-rimmed and tragic.

  “I did not hear you come in,” Lord Bertrand said, rubbing both hands over his face.

  “I’ve only been here a moment,” Desmond lied. Glancing toward the shape on the bier, he decided to risk letting his host guess just how much he knew. “You were fond of her, I think.”

  “Aye, I was. Everyone here at the manor or in the village was – well, nearly everyone was. More than that, I was responsible for her, and I failed her.”

  “We will find whoever did this,” Desmond promised, as he had earlier promised Elaine.

  “What difference will it make?” Lord Bertrand cried in a voice drenched in despair. “She is gone now, and all her brightness and laughter gone with her, and nothing can bring her back.” He stopped and, with a visible effort, drew himself up with dignity. “Excuse me, Sir Desmond. I have duties and you, no doubt, have prayers to offer. So should we all pray for her, poor, sweet girl that she was.”

  He did not look back at the bier; he only stood perfectly still for a moment, his gaze upon the chapel door that led to the rest of the manor, and Desmond had the feeling he was gathering his strength, stiffening his resolve to face what lay beyond the door. Then, without another word, he was gone and the door swung shut behind him.

  Desmond was far from being a pious man, yet he went to his own knees on the prieu-dieu and clasped his hands together while he said a short prayer for the girl he had never met. Then he rose and went in search of the priest.

  He found Father Otwin in the little robing room just off the back of the chapel. He was a short, wiry man, middle-aged, with grey hair fringing his tonsure, and warm, blue eyes.

  “Ah, Sir Desmond.” The priest came forward. “I managed to convince Lady Elaine to leave long enough to change into a dry gown and, I hope, to rest a little. She did warn me that you were certain to want to question me.”

  “Warned you?” Desmond permitted himself a faint smile. “Why, Father Otwin, have you something to hide? But then, why not? Everyone else at Warden’s Manor seems to be hiding some dark secret.”

  “I am a simple man, with few secrets of my own, and none of them very dark,” Father Otwin said, answering Desmond’s smile with an open and cheerful grin. “I will do all I can to help you.”

  “Since Lady Elaine is deeply distressed by what has happened to her sister,” Desmond said, “I’d rather ask you for information that might disturb her still more.”

  “Certainly.” Father Otwin gestured to indicate they should move back into the chapel. “Ask away, Sir Desmond.”

  “Did you help Elaine to prepare Aglise’s body?”

  “It was my duty to be present. Lady Elaine insisted she alone ought to care for her sister’s remains but – well, Sir Desmond, you saw those remains, so you know their condition. Once or twice Lady Elaine was nearly overcome by sorrow, so I stepped in to do what was needed.”

  “Father, did you observe any signs of violence upon Lady Aglise’s body?”

  “I was prepared to find a stab wound, or bruises and broken tissue on her neck if she was strangled, but there were no such signs,” Father Otwin answered. “Nor was there any indication of drowning.”

  “Can you tell if someone has drowned?” Desmond asked in surprise.

  “Living here on an island, I have, sadly enough, learned to recognize those signs. Sometimes, when drowning has occurred, there is bloody foam in the mouth. Or when handling the body, salty fluid runs out of the mouth or nose. Lady Aglise has been dead for some time, so it is difficult for me to be absolutely certain, but, no, I saw nothing to suggest she died of drowning.”

  “No tell-tale wounds, no bruises, no sign of drowning,” Desmond summed up in mounting frustration. He glanced toward the bier, then looked away, facing the priest again. “Does anything about that poor girl’s body suggest to you how she died?”

  “I have concluded that she must have been poisoned,” Father Otwin said.

  “Poisoned?” Desmond echoed.

  “She was a healthy young woman. I’ve known Lady Aglise for two years and in all that time she has never been sick. Unlike many young noblewomen, she always had a hearty appetite, so she was not weak and thin. Yet, without any visible wounds, she is dead. What other possibility exists but poison?”

  “A blow to the head that is hidden by her hair?” Desmond suggested.

  “I looked beneath her hair when I combed it,” Father Otwin assured him. “I made sure to feel her entire skull. I do not think she was struck on the head.”

  “Can you be absolutely certain? She has most likely been dead for more than two months,” Desmond reminded him.

  “True. I understand what you are saying. But I have prepared many men for burial – far too many in these violent times! – and women, too, and some of them were dead longer than Lady Aglise, so I speak from years of experience.”

  “I accept your conclusions, Father. Will you hazard a guess as to what kind of poison?”

  “I cannot. I’m not well acquainted with such evil potions. In my work as a priest I have, from time to time, seen men and women who died that way. I thank God only two of that number took the poison themselves. It was grief to me that I could not see them buried in consecrated ground. Suicide, as you know, is an unpardonable sin, in part because the dead person cannot repent later and seek absolution. Still, I continue to include those two lost souls in my daily prayers, in hope that my prayers will do some good.”

  “Do you have any reason to think Lady Aglise took her own life?”

  Even as he asked the question Desmond knew how absurd it was. If Aglise had chosen such an unforgivable path, she still would have required an assistant to wrap her in that cursed linen sheet and bury her in the cave. Desmond wasn’t sure of the fine points of theological reasoning, but he thought it was a safe guess that anyone aiding a suicide would be equally condemned by the Church. Except, of course, the person who helped her, being still alive, could later repent and seek absolution. And a very long and difficult penance would be imposed, he thought grimly.

  “Lady Aglise was foolish as only the young can be,” said Father Otwin, “and perhaps she was too flirtatious. She even flirted with me! She and her sister ought to have been wed or sent to convents years ago. But, no, Sir Desmond; nothing in Lady Aglise’s character leads me to believe she ever considered taking her own life.”

  “That is the same conclusion I have reached. I never met Aglise, but nothing anyone has said to me about her has indicated a wish to die.” Then, speaking suddenly to catch the priest off guard, he asked, “Father, did Aglise have enemies? Or was she involved in any activity that could make someone want to kill her? Was she, possibly, with child?”

  The last question slipped out because it was churning around Desmond’s mind whenever he considered who could have done the murder. A girl who has an affair with a married man runs the risk of becoming pregnant and, because she cannot marry her lover to make the situation right, the same lover, if he cannot acknowledge the affair or the child, would have a very good reason to want Aglise dead.

  He saw a flicker of something in Father Otwin’s eyes, a look quickly hidden behind a bland, clerical mask. Desmond was convinced the priest was a good and honest man, and his conviction was borne out by Father Otwin’s next, carefully chosen words.

  “Certainly, Sir Desmond, you know I can never reveal anything told to me under the seal of confession.”

  Aha! So, there was something.

  “Father, I would never ask a priest to betray his holy vows. No, I was simply wondering if, in the ordinary way of things, you had heard or seen anything to make you suspect Aglise was in trouble just before she disappeared.”

&nb
sp; Father Otwin looked him straight in the eye and made the only answer an honest priest could make when questioned too closely about his pastoral charges.

  “I regret I can tell you nothing, Sir Desmond. I would strongly suggest you look elsewhere within the manor for the information you seek.”

  “‘Within the manor,’“ Desmond repeated softly, and saw again that same, swiftly quenched, flicker in the priest’s blue eyes. “Thank you for your help, Father Otwin. I will do as you suggest.”

  “May the Good Lord help you to uncover the truth of Lady Aglise’s sad death.” The priest raised one hand in benediction and dismissal.

  “Perhaps it would be of help if you’d say a few prayers to that effect,” Desmond said. Accepting the firm but gentle indication that he would uncover no more information during the present interview, he bowed politely. “I thank you again, Father Otwin.”

  Chapter 8

  Upon leaving the chapel, Desmond paused in the entry hall. So many suspicions filled his mind. If he was to make sense of all he had learned he needed to sort those suspicions into some kind of order. When a maidservant hurried down the stairs from the solar and turned toward the great hall, Desmond stopped her.

  “Can you tell me where the garden is?” he asked.

  “At the side of the courtyard,” she said. “Behind the wattle fence.”

  “Does that include the herb and the kitchen gardens?”

  “Yes, and there’s a corner with a bench. I suppose you need a bit of quiet after finding Lady Aglise. What a dreadful sight it must have been! Shall I bring a tankard of ale for you to drink while you sit in the garden?”

  “No, but thank you for the kind thought.”

  Desmond went through the manor house entrance and down the steps into the courtyard. He found the garden at once, nestled behind a fence woven of willow branches, just as the maid had said, and with a sturdy wooden gate to keep out roaming animals and, probably, men-at-arms, too.