Where Love Has Gone

by Speer, Flora

The spring was too new yet for roses to bloom, even in the warmth and sunshine of the island climate. But some plants were pushing through the soil and spreading their leaves. Desmond knew little about flowers, so he wasn’t sure what they were. Only the prickly rose bushes and the apple tree that dropped its white petals across the gravel path were familiar to him. He did recognize the separate section of the garden that held a large collection of herbs, and the kitchen garden beyond. He knew lettuce when he saw it, and he guessed the tiny red stems with reddish leaves just sprouting were beets. As far as he could tell, nothing deadly lurked among the vegetables.

  The herbs were another matter. Wishing he knew exactly which herbs could be used to create a poison, Desmond turned his attention to the part of the garden they occupied. Save for the dark green, ruffled leaves of parsley, all of the herbs were mysterious to him and, possibly, any of them could be dangerous in the right combination.

  Hearing a step on the gravel he turned to find Cadwallon entering the garden.

  “I saw you come in,” Cadwallon explained, closing and latching the gate. “I trust we can speak here without being overheard. Desmond, something strange is going on in this place.”

  “Yes,” Desmond said. “Murder.”

  “I think murder is only part of it. I’ve just been questioning Flamig. He’s obviously loyal to Lord Bertrand and he made a point of insisting that Bertrand is loyal to King Henry. Yet, Flamig seemed to be suggesting – well, I don’t quite know what he was suggesting. It was all hints about unspoken suspicions, as if he knew something but couldn’t prove it beyond doubt, so he wasn’t going to say straight out what was on his mind. I got the feeling Flamig is hoping we will be able to uncover and prove whatever it is that he fears he knows.”

  “Flamig doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who easily gives in to fears,” Desmond said.

  “I have the same impression of him,” Cadwallon agreed. “So, what is it that unsettles a hardened man-at-arms?”

  “An interesting problem.” Desmond dropped onto a stone bench set between a pair of rose bushes that were just leafing out into pale green. “I have been questioning Father Otwin. Unlike Flamig, he doesn’t appear to be afraid or even unsettled, though he did lead me to think there are secrets here that need discovering. When I tried to press him, he reminded me that a priest cannot reveal what is spoken in confession. Then he suggested I continue to search within the manor.”

  “How did you fare with Lady Benedicta?” Cadwallon asked, joining Desmond on the bench.

  “Not much better than with Father Otwin.” Desmond recounted his conversation with the lady of the castle. “The only facts I learned for certain are that she does not like Lady Irmina, and she didn’t much like Aglise, either.”

  “Do you think she suspected Aglise of carrying on an affair with Lord Bertrand?”

  “If she did suspect, she offered no indication to me.”

  “Hmm.” Cadwallon considered a moment, then said, “I judge Lady Benedicta too cool a woman to care much if her husband took a mistress. Such affairs are not at all uncommon, and so long as he was discreet about it and didn’t embarrass her, a cold woman might be glad her husband is leaving her alone.”

  “That’s very different from the song you were singing when you thought the person responsible for Aglise’s disappearance was a man-at-arms,” Desmond exclaimed.

  “Yes, well, the men-at-arms are mostly under thirty years old and those who are married have wives younger than they. Lady Benedicta is an older woman. She also appears to be an unemotional one.”

  “Unemotional, but not entirely placid,” Desmond said, recalling the lady’s flashing embroidery needle. “Like Flamig and the priest, she has something serious preying on her mind.

  “Before we can do anything more,” he continued, “we need conclusive proof that Lord Bertrand was bedding Aglise. Without proof, we dare not accuse our host of so grave a lapse in foster parent probity. Good God, Cadwallon! We may as well accuse him of incest!”

  “It’s close enough,” Cadwallon agreed, shaking his head and blowing out a long breath in disgust. “Suppose we do find proof? What then? Despicable as such a relationship is, it doesn’t necessarily mean Bertrand killed Aglise.”

  “Unless she threatened to reveal their liaison.”

  “We’ve discussed this before.” Cadwallon spoke with a touch of impatience. “If Aglise gave herself to a married man, any married man, revealing the affair would ruin her. The more I think about this, the more it seems to me that pointing the obvious fact out to her ought to have silenced her as surely as killing. Since the girl probably hoped to make a good marriage some day, it would be in her interest never to disclose what happened and that she was no longer a virgin. So then, why bother to kill her?”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind again!” Desmond exclaimed in annoyance.

  “I am merely examining all of the possibilities,” Cadwallon told him. “By turning our assumptions over to look at them in a different way, who knows what we may uncover?”

  “All I know is,” Desmond said with a weary sigh, “we have to locate the proof. It’s here somewhere, in the manor, just as the priest said. I’m certain of it.”

  Elaine came to the evening meal pale and subdued, with Father Otwin’s hand at her elbow, as if he was insisting she must sit down and eat. She did sit, next to Desmond as usual, but she swallowed only a small bit of bread before pushing her plate away.

  “Starving yourself won’t help Aglise,” Desmond reminded her. “Nor can you assist Cadwallon and me if you make yourself sick.”

  “Do you truly need my help?”

  Her voice was so low and quavering that Desmond was alarmed. He laid his hand over hers, holding it on the linen-covered table when she would have pulled it away. He wished he dared to lift her hand to his lips and speak reassuring words. Faith, he’d like to put his arms around her and hold her close, perhaps even offer a few tender kisses. He knew if he tried, she would reject him. All of her thoughts were on her sister, and would likely remain on Aglise until she was buried. Yet, Elaine needed comfort and he didn’t think either Lord Bertrand or Lady Benedicta was likely to supply it.

  Desmond sought a way to cheer her. Even while sunk deep in sorrow Elaine retained her sharp wits, so he guessed she would react to any chance of finding proof of who had killed Aglise.

  “I assume you intend to keep a vigil tonight?” he said quietly, so Lord Bertrand on her other side would not hear him.

  “Yes.” She looked up at him through eyes swimming in tears. “In fact, I ought to go now. I’ve been away from the chapel for too long.”

  “Wait.” Desmond tightened his hand on hers. “Cadwallon and I may have learned something important. May I join you later? We’ll be able to speak privately in the chapel.”

  “No, we won’t. Everyone in the castle will want to say a prayer for Aglise. People will be in and out of the chapel all night long.”

  “Then, tell me where we can speak before you begin your vigil.”

  “No.” Elaine stood. “My lord Bertrand, please excuse me. I must attend my sister.”

  “Of course. I’ll join you shortly.” Lord Bertrand took a long gulp from his wine cup.

  Desmond sat helplessly while Elaine stepped off the dais and walked out of the hall. From farther down the table, Father Otwin caught Desmond’s eye and shook his head sadly before he rose to follow Elaine.

  “Now that we know for certain Aglise is dead and hasn’t run off with some man,” Lady Benedicta said to Cadwallon, “you have no further reason to stay on Jersey. You will want to make your report on the matter to Lord Royce. I assume you will depart tomorrow, as you and Lord Bertrand have agreed.”

  “Not at all, my lady.” Cadwallon sounded positively lighthearted. “Desmond and I must be here for the funeral.”

  “It’s not necessary,” Lord Bertrand said. “Neither you, nor Sir Desmond, knew Aglise.”

  “Ah, but we do know you, my
lord,” Cadwallon said, blithely ignoring the irritation in his host’s voice, “and your kind lady, and Elaine, too. How could we desert all of you during your time of grief?”

  “Indeed.” Desmond joined the discussion, eager to promote Cadwallon’s point of view. “We may as well wait for the Daisy to return, so we can sail on her.”

  “Are you saying you intend to remain for another two or three days?” Lady Benedicta asked, frowning in unconcealed disapproval. “I wish you would leave us alone to mourn as we see fit.”

  “As you may recall, my lady,” Desmond said in a mild tone, “I sent my squire to Captain Piers with a message asking him to come to Gorey as soon as he could. He may well appear tomorrow.”

  Lady Benedicta’s reaction to this statement was a frosty silence. A few moments later she left the table. Her husband sat in morose silence, drinking cup after cup of wine.

  “Well,” Cadwallon said when the somber meal finally was over, “I suppose I ought to attend the vigil, for a little while, at least.”

  “All right, but don’t stay long,” Desmond told him. “I want you here in the hall, or in the entry, to watch the folk who go into the chapel and to observe their manner. Also, take note of those who do not join the vigil.”

  “Where will you be while I’m watching?” Cadwallon demanded. “Let me guess. You’ll be in the chapel, next to Elaine, and so concerned with her that you pay no heed to the behavior of anyone else. Ewan can easily take the post you’ve assigned to me out here to keep an eye on the hall and the entry. I will stand just inside the chapel door, so I can observe every face going in and leaving.”

  “Never again dare to suggest to me that I have forgotten my duty!” Desmond said sharply. Placing his hand on his sword hilt he added, “Not unless you are prepared to defend your words against my objection to them.”

  “What I was trying to suggest,” Cadwallon replied with a decidedly sheepish grin, “is that we have no cause to fear for Elaine’s safety so long as she is in the chapel with Father Otwin near. That good man will not hesitate to raise the alarm if he perceives any threat to Elaine. Now, what say you to my plan?”

  “Your plan is a good one,” Desmond said, reluctantly consenting because he knew in his heart that Cadwallon had taken his measure so far as Elaine was involved. Cadwallon knew he wanted Elaine and probably understood his growing frustration. “Station Ewan in the entry.”

  Cadwallon spoke to his squire, then he and Desmond entered the chapel. They found Elaine seated on a stool by the head of the bier.

  “I insisted upon the stool,” Father Otwin told Desmond. “Otherwise, she would have spent the night on her knees.”

  First Desmond, then Cadwallon went to the prieu-dieu to kneel there and say a prayer for the repose of Aglise’s soul. When they were finished they took up their positions, Cadwallon standing by the door as they had decided. Desmond moved nearer to Elaine, trying to blend into the shadows at that side of the chapel. She gave no indication of noticing his presence. Her head was bowed, her hands tightly clasped in her lap.

  With the day’s duties completed for most of them, the castle folk began to arrive to pay their respects. They came singly or in small groups, and and most stayed only a few minutes. Desmond watched them with a sharp gaze. He observed tears, heard a few sobs, saw an occasional hand placed on the cerecloth as if to be certain Aglise really lay beneath it. Jean came, and wept copiously, until one of the older maidservants put an arm about his heaving shoulders and led him away. Elaine, locked in her own grief, barely glanced at him.

  Lady Benedicta appeared, to walk with stately grace to the prieu-dieu and kneel on it. She did not stay long. Her face was composed and her eyes were dry. Desmond gave her credit for not pretending to a sorrow she did not feel.

  After Lady Benedicta was gone more servants and more men-at-arms came in to say a prayer. A few of them paused to speak to Elaine, who barely nodded her acknowledgement of their presence.

  The hour was growing late. Desmond shifted position and wriggled his shoulders to loosen the tight muscles. He marveled at the way Elaine sat so quietly, without moving. But not without thinking, he was sure; even deep in grief her intelligence would be hard at work, seeking the truth of her sister’s death.

  Then Lord Bertrand arrived. He stumbled a bit on his way to the bier and from the wine fumes wafting across the chapel, Desmond judged he had been drinking heavily ever since the evening meal. He fell to his knees on the prieu-dieu and buried his face in his hands. His massive shoulders shook.

  Elaine stirred a little and looked toward her foster father before, with a sigh, she bowed her head again, resuming her mourning posture.

  A short time later half a dozen squires came through the door together, making a bit more noise than was strictly respectful. Apparently hearing them, Lord Bertrand rubbed his hands over his face and rose to leave. Desmond noted how unsteady he was, though he hadn’t been kneeling for very long. Definitely, he’d had too much to drink. The squires courteously stood aside to let him pass.

  Lord Bertrand headed for the door and the squires shuffled around, whispering among themselves as they decided who should approach the bier first. As young men will do when trying their best to be serious, one of them gave a nervous laugh.

  Desmond looked away from the squires and toward Cadwallon just in time to see him pull the chapel door shut after the departing Lord Bertrand. Then Cadwallon bent to pick up something from the floor. Desmond lifted his eyebrows in a question and Cadwallon smiled and mouthed the word, “later.”

  As soon as the squires finished their prayers and left, Cadwallon beckoned to Desmond to join him.

  “Come outside a moment,” Cadwallon whispered. “I don’t want to disturb Elaine. Let her mourn in peace until her sister is buried.”

  As quietly as possible they opened the chapel door and stepped into the entry hall.

  “Lord Bertrand dropped this just now. The noise the squires made covered the sound of it landing,” Cadwallon said, his voice barely above a whisper. He held up a chain of dainty gold links, from which dangled a small gold cross. “I do believe we have our proof.”

  “Proof of a liaison, perhaps,” Desmond murmured, looking closer. “This is not necessarily proof that Bertrand is a murderer.”

  “All right, then,” Cadwallon said. Suddenly, he appeared remarkably determined for one who was usually relaxed and slow-moving, and his quiet voice took on a steely note. “You told me how Elaine was searching for this necklace in the cave, claiming Aglise always wore it, so it should be there. I see no reason to doubt Elaine’s word.

  “I’m guessing whoever killed Aglise took the chain from her neck after she was dead. She bore no marks on her neck, which means the clasp was unfastened so the necklace could be removed. Bertrand is the person who dropped it. We need to hear his explanation for having it. Shall we confront him now, while he’s drunk and thus may speak more easily? Or, shall we wait until after the funeral? I refuse to wait any longer than that.”

  “We will do it after the funeral,” Desmond commanded. “In fact, we’ll wait until after the funeral feast.”

  “You are thinking of Elaine’s feelings, and not of capturing a killer,” Cadwallon accused him.

  “For a married man with a child on the way, you are remarkably reckless, aren’t you?” Desmond’s hand rested on his sword hilt again for a moment, before he relaxed at his partner’s grin. “Think, Cadwallon. Bertrand isn’t going anywhere. If we speak to him now, he can claim later that his wits were addled by wine and grief.”

  “Grief?” Cadwallon’s voice rose in anger. “Remorse over a young woman’s death?”

  “For God’s sake, man, keep your voice down! The necklace is evidence, not proof. Don’t forget, Bertrand is lord of this manor and his word is law here. We will speak to him tomorrow. Until then, we will continue to watch him closely.”

  “And protect Elaine at the same time?” Cadwallon muttered.

  “And Jean, too,” De
smond added. “You can set Ewan to that task.”

  “Do you really think either of them is in danger?”

  “I don’t know, but there’s no harm in being cautious. You said yourself, something strange is going on. I have a feeling you’re right about that, and murder may not be the worst of it.”

  “Fine,” Cadwallon ground out, clearly exasperated. “I’ll speak to Ewan. Then we’ll go back into the chapel and stand there all night long.”

  “Exactly what I intend to do,” Desmond said.

  Caen, Normandy

  The Spy held the parchment to the candle flame and let it burn. Parchment was so expensive that it was usually scraped and cleaned many times so it could be used again and again. But not this letter, or any other communication he received from his associates. He dared not take the risk that someone with sharp eyes might be able to read the earlier messages in spite of careful cleaning. Better to burn the parchment and be safe.

  He considered this particular missive to be unnecessary, for his associate on Jersey persisted in telling him only what he already knew. The sole point of interest – and not very great interest at that – in this most recent letter was the fact that Royce had sent a second agent to assist the first. The Spy knew Cadwallon and didn’t think much of him, so his presence on the island scarcely mattered.

  As for Aglise, the secrecy of King Louis’s plan was essential, so of course the silly girl had to die. He saw no reason to make such a fuss over a necessary deed that was already two months old.

  The last fragments of the letter crumpled into ashes, falling into a pewter bowl. The Spy tossed them on the lighted brazier and stood watching until they were no more than a pale powder, from which no glimmer of their message could possibly be discerned.

  A sound from the adjoining bedchamber alerted him. She was there, awaiting him. He grimaced with distaste, knowing there was no escape from her. As he expected, she had tossed the coverlet aside and lay sprawled naked on the sheet, already caressing her own breasts, as he had taught her.