Where Love Has Gone

by Speer, Flora

  “I need you,” she whimpered.

  “Of course, you do.” He wore only a loose robe, easily removed.

  “I adore your body,” she said, panting a little. “Please hurry. I’m so eager for you. Why aren’t you hard?

  “I’m trying to control myself. I want to please you slowly, to teach you something we’ve never done before.”

  She uttered a shocked gasp when he flipped her onto her stomach. Her buttocks were not as firm as he’d like. Still, the sight of her squirming flesh roused him. He caught her hips and lifted them, then leaned over her to tickle her breasts.

  “What are you doing?” she cried.

  “Hush,” he whispered into her ear. “You don’t want your maid to run in and stop us, do you?” The thought of compelling the sour-faced, always disapproving maid to join them made him so rigid he knew he could do what must be done. Pressing her face into the pillow to muffle her cries, he grabbed her hips to hold them still as he plunged inside. Then he reached around to rub her core until she uttered a smothered cry and bucked against him, driving him deeper. With a groan he gave himself up to the dark pleasure, holding her closer, relishing her ecstasy, for it confirmed his skill. When he finally stopped moving, she turned her head.

  “I love you so much,” she murmured over her shoulder.

  “I know you do,” he responded in smug satisfaction.

  Chapter 9

  It was raining. After days of bright sunshine, heavy clouds billowed low over the sea, chilling the air. Thick fog enshrouded all of the island of Jersey. The sea beyond the island was invisible, its presence known only by the soft sighing of the waves. If Desmond were a fanciful man, he might have thought the sky, the sea, and the land were all grieving for Aglise.

  The funeral procession, with most of its members on horseback and only a few on foot, slowly wound its way out of Warden’s Manor and down the road into Gorey village toward the cemetery. Inhabitants of the castle and the village lined the route to see the black-draped cart that bore Aglise’s coffin.

  Elaine rode between Lord Bertrand and Father Otwin, with Desmond and Cadwallon just behind them. Lady Benedicta had chosen to remain at the manor in order to supervise the final details of the funeral feast.

  Desmond glanced toward Elaine with growing concern. He couldn’t see her face. She had pulled the hood of her cloak up to keep off the steady rain. Her unnatural composure worried him. Toward dawn Father Otwin had insisted she must eat something and then sleep for a few hours, so she’d have the strength to see the day through to evening. Elaine had refused, until one of the older maids had come to the chapel to pay her respects to Aglise before beginning her day’s work.

  With Father Otwin and the maid both pleading that Aglise wouldn’t want her beloved sister to fall ill, Elaine gave in and left the chapel in company with the maid, who promised the priest she’d see that Elaine ate something. At Cadwallon’s order Ewan had followed, to stand guard at Elaine’s chamber door until it was time for the Holy Mass that began the funeral services.

  In contrast to the service in the chapel, which lasted for more than an hour, the prayers at the grave site were brief and simple. Desmond took the brevity to be a reflection of Father Otwin’s concern for Elaine’s health, were she to be kept standing in the rain for very long. Also, perhaps, a reflection of the priest’s concern about Lord Bertrand, for Aglise’s foster father made no effort to hide his tears.

  Elaine stood by her sister’s grave with her face hard and unflinching, while the cold rain poured down. Desmond noticed how she kept her distance from Lord Bertrand, stepping aside when he put out his hand to her and making no attempt to offer any comfort or support to him. Desmond considered her behavior decidedly odd, not at all like the Elaine he had come to know, the kind-hearted young noblewoman who would befriend an ignorant kitchen boy. He wondered how much she guessed, or knew, about Aglise’s affair with Lord Bertrand.

  For her part, Elaine was aware of the way Father Otwin kept glancing at her as if he feared she would fling herself into Aglise’s grave and declare her intention to remain there. She knew Desmond and Cadwallon were also watching her closely. They probably expected her to swoon, or to begin weeping uncontrollably.

  She was not so deeply sunk into grief as that. The wrenching loss of her younger sister would stay with her forever, she was certain. But the initial shock of finding – and of seeing – Aglise’s remains was fading. Elaine had spent the long hours of her vigil thinking about Aglise’s death and the circumstances surrounding it. At the same time, eager for any indication, however insignificant, as to who the murderer was, she had listened to the whispered remarks of the men and women who visited the chapel. Most of them seemed to believe that because she sat unmoving and kept her eyes downcast, she was insensible to what they said.

  After a few hours it had become plain to her that some of the manor’s folk had, indeed, loved Aglise. Some had not. A surprising number of the mourners had indicated at least partial knowledge of what Aglise had been involved in during the last weeks of her life. Elaine still did not understand all of it, but she learned enough to make a very good guess about how and why Aglise had met her end. What she lacked was proof that could not be denied.

  While still sitting quietly at the head of the bier, she resolved to play out the game until the formalities had all been properly observed. She owed that much to her sister.

  Now, standing at the edge of the grave, staring down at the plain wooden coffin while two young men shoveled dirt onto it and the rain turned the dirt into mud, Elaine vowed again that she would have justice for Aglise. If she had to go to the royal court and face King Henry himself in order to obtain that justice, she would. She’d travel to the end of the earth if need be.

  The funeral feast was everything such an occasion ought to be, with many elaborate courses and plenty of good wine to blunt the jagged edges of sorrow. Thanks to Lady Benedicta and the manor cook, each dish was well flavored with herbs and spices.

  Desmond ate little more than Elaine, who seemed determined to continue to starve herself. He knew Elaine abstained from food out of honest grief; Desmond couldn’t bring himself to swallow because he kept wondering which of the herbs used in the cooking might also be employed to cause the death of a lovely young woman.

  The last course of the long meal, a savory dish to take away the cloying taste of the many sweet custards and steamed puddings, was not yet over when Lord Bertrand left the hall. He spoke to no one, not to Elaine, who was seated at his left hand as usual, nor to his wife, who was at the far side of the hall directing the servants in their final serving duties. Lady Benedicta gave him scarcely a glance.

  With Bertrand gone, Elaine turned her attention to Desmond and Cadwallon, waiting to see what they would do. As she expected, the two exchanged a quick look, obviously a signal of some kind, then they stepped off the dais and followed their host.

  “They didn’t bother to excuse themselves,” Elaine muttered. “I can guess what calls them away with such urgency. Well, they are not going to face Lord Bertrand without me!”

  She left her seat and hurried after the men, into the entry hall and up the winding staircase toward the lord’s chamber on the uppermost floor of the manor. When she heard the heavy door to the chamber slam shut, Elaine knew Lord Bertrand hadn’t noticed he was being pursued. She continued up the steps, moving so fast that she was almost treading on Cadwallon’s heels when Desmond paused and turned to her.

  “Go back, Elaine,” he warned.

  “I will not. You are about my business, and I insist on being present.”

  “My poor girl,” Cadwallon said in a kindly tone, laying a hand on her arm, “you are overset by grief. Let men handle this matter.”

  “If you call me ‘poor girl’ one more time,” Elaine told him through gritted teeth, “I will overset you, Lord Cadwallon, and push you off these steps! Yes, I am grieving for Aglise; never doubt it. I am also angry at the manner of her death. I will have j
ustice for her. I want her murderer punished.”

  “Bringing a murderer to justice is a man’s work,” Cadwallon stated.

  “You are risking your life to say that to me just now!” Elaine retorted fiercely.

  “Would you really push me down the stairs?” Cadwallon asked, his familiar, lazy grin curving his mouth.

  “Indeed, I would,” she snapped. “If you imagine smiling at me will prevent me from what I must do, then you are greatly mistaken in me. I will stand with you when you confront Lord Bertrand.”

  “She’s right, you know,” Desmond said quietly from several steps above her.

  Elaine couldn’t see him clearly; the upper stairway was too dark. But she could hear the warmth in his voice and she welcomed his words. The pain in her heart eased a little to hear him accept her rightful place without argument.

  “Come along.” Desmond held out his hand and Elaine took it.

  The three of them gathered on the landing at the top of the steps, with Elaine standing between the men, her fingers linked with Desmond’s. Cadwallon, as the highest ranking member of their group, knocked on the door of the lord’s chamber. Elaine tried to repress a shudder at what awaited them inside. Desmond must have noticed, for his hand pressed more tightly around hers, his fingers strong and reassuring.

  “Go away!” came Lord Bertrand’s shout. “I don’t want to see anyone.”

  “My lord, we must speak with you,” Cadwallon answered. “Desmond and I have uncovered information about Aglise’s death that we believe will interest you.”

  A few moments of absolute silence ensued, during which Elaine imagined the man within trying to collect himself while thinking of possible responses to whatever Cadwallon planned to say.

  Then, abruptly, Lord Bertrand tore open the door, flinging it wide. He stood unarmed at the entrance to the lord’s chamber, wearing only his linen shirt and his hose. His face was in shadow, but Elaine could see how disheveled his short, greying hair was, standing up on end in spikes, as if he had raked his fingers through it several times.

  “Elaine.” Lord Bertrand stared at her. His next words were anything but welcoming. “What are you doing here?”

  “As you see, my lord,” she responded with icy politeness, “I have come with these good men to discuss with you the matter of my sister’s death.”

  “Aglise is gone,” Lord Bertrand said, turning away from the door with a heavy step. “She’s dead and buried, and nothing can bring her back. Can’t you let her rest in peace?”

  “Could you rest in peace, my lord, with your murderer free to go where he wants, when and as he wants, while you lie wrapped in a shroud, in your coffin?” Elaine asked.

  “You know nothing about her death,” Lord Bertrand told her.

  “I blame myself,” Elaine said.

  “You?” Lord Bertrand laughed, a short, harsh sound with no humor in it. “Foolish girl, how could you possibly be at fault?”

  “I blame myself because I guessed what was happening and did nothing to stop it. I didn’t even send to Lord Royce for help until it was too late.”

  “You couldn’t have stopped it, Elaine. Nor could Royce.”

  “Last night, Lord Bertrand, as you left the chapel,” Desmond said, forestalling the heated reply Elaine was about to make, “you dropped this.”

  He held up the gold necklace Cadwallon had plucked from the chapel floor. Seeing the glittering links and the little cross dangling from his fingers, Elaine gasped in recognition.

  “I believe this is the same necklace you were searching for in the cave,” Desmond said to her.

  “Yes.” She looked at Lord Bertrand, who had gone pale as ashes. To her own ears, her voice was amazingly steady. “How did you come by it, my lord?”

  “I -” Lord Bertrand choked, unable to finish what he had intended to say.

  “Either Aglise gave it to him while she was still alive,” Desmond said to Elaine, “or he carefully unclasped it and took it from her body after she was dead. Father Otwin found no marks on her neck, so the chain wasn’t torn from her.”

  “I can’t believe Aglise would give it to anyone,” Elaine said. “She treasured that necklace and wore it all the time.”

  “Well, then.” Cadwallon spoke in a hard voice, unusual for him. “Which was it, my lord? A gift freely given, or a trophy stolen from a dead girl?”

  “Oh, dear God!” Lord Bertrand covered his face with both hands.

  “Answer us,” Elaine demanded. “How did you come by that necklace?”

  “I removed it from Aglise’s body, just before I buried her.” Lord Bertrand’s shoulders sagged. Seen in the grey light filtering through his chamber window, he appeared like a man ravaged by some terrible disease. “She enchanted me,” he whispered.

  “‘Enchanted?’“ Elaine repeated, her sense of horror and outrage growing by the minute. “It’s true, then! It was you! I feared it might be, though I wasn’t certain until this moment. In spite of the evidence of my own eyes and ears, I continued to hope it was someone else.

  “How could you?” she shouted at him. “You were her foster father! Aglise should have been like a daughter to you, safe from your depraved advances. Instead of protecting her, which was your duty and your sworn obligation to our dead father, who was always your true friend while he was alive, you used her! Corrupted her! And then you murdered her!”

  Suddenly, words failed Elaine. Reeling from the double blows of her sister’s death and confirmation of all her suspicions about Lord Bertrand’s carnal misdeeds, she was beyond words, beyond coherent thought. With a shriek, she launched herself at him, hitting and scratching and kicking.

  “No!” Lord Bertrand put up his hands to ward off her assault, though he did not fight back. “I didn’t kill her! I swear, I’d never do such a thing! Not to her; not to Aglise.”

  “Elaine, stop!” Desmond caught her around the waist and dragged her away from Lord Bertrand. “You must calm yourself. We need to learn more. Listen to me, Elaine. I promise you, we will know the entire truth before we leave this room, but you have to control your anger and be quiet, so Cadwallon and I can question him.”

  Desmond pulled her close to his side, though she continued to struggle. When she clawed at his eyes, he shook her hard, just once. It was enough to quell her rage, which wasn’t really against him. She stopped fighting.

  One of Desmond’s arms still encircled her waist. His other hand turned her face so she was looking at him and not at Lord Bertrand.

  “There are many questions still to be answered,” he said. “We don’t know all of it. Please, Elaine, have a little more patience, just for a short time. Later, you may say and do anything you want to him, but not yet.”

  His quiet voice soothed her raging emotions and the hand cradling her cheek kept her attention on him. When she gulped and swallowed hard, trying to do as he bid her, Desmond’s fingers gently wiped away the single tear she had shed.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I’ll not apologize for the way I just behaved, but I won’t repeat the display.”

  “You have good cause for anger,” Cadwallon said.

  He moved to plant his solid bulk at Elaine’s other side, so she was buttressed by two strong men, until Desmond removed his arm and put some distance between them. Elaine longed for his supporting arm at her waist again. Then she quailed to see the expression in his eyes.

  “You should have told me what you suspected,” he said, very coldly. “By withholding important information, you made my job more difficult.”

  “She said she wasn’t sure until just now, when Lord Bertrand admitted it,” Cadwallon reminded him.

  “That’s true,” Elaine insisted. “Desmond, I could not besmirch my sister’s name without irrefutable proof.”

  “Very understandable,” Cadwallon agreed.

  “How can you claim you weren’t sure, when Jean knew of the affair?” Desmond demanded, scowling at her. “Didn’t he ever tell you how Aglise slipped out of the manor
house to meet her lover?”

  “No, he did not,” Elaine stated firmly. “Jean never said a word to me about any secret meetings Aglise may have had. Perhaps, he was frightened,” she added, sending an accusing glare in Lord Bertrand’s direction.

  “But you did suspect Aglise of taking a lover,” Desmond pressed her. “You didn’t even tell me that much.”

  “I don’t have to answer to you,” Elaine snarled at him, her anger rising again. “I did what I thought was best for my sister at the time. Again and again, I pleaded with Lord Bertrand to send people to search for her, until he gave in and did as I asked. I fought Lady Benedicta’s repeated accusations that Aglise had run away with a lover, because I was certain she hadn’t left the island. And I wrote to Royce, asking for his help. But I was never obligated to reveal the most intimate details of my sister’s personal life to you, especially when those details remained only suspicions that I did not want to credit, that I could not bear to believe. I kept hoping and praying there was some more innocent explanation for her disappearance, even while I feared the very worst.

  “As for you,” she went on, whirling to face Lord Bertrand again, “knowing Aglise was dead and where she was buried, you deliberately sent your men-at-arms to the beach when the tide was coming in, so you’d have a reason to call them back and use the danger to them as an excuse not to search that area again. Didn’t you?”

  “Elaine, please believe me,” Lord Bertrand began.

  “I will never believe you again!” she exclaimed. “Not a single word you say.”

  “Tell me this, Lord Bertrand,” Desmond said, his fists firmly planted on his hips and his scowl deepening, “has Lady Benedicta learned of the affair? Was it an affair, or did you ravish Aglise against her will? Did she threaten to tell what you had done to her?”

  “I never hurt her. I loved her, and she loved me,” Lord Bertrand said, his hands on his face as if to rub away the look of inexpressible weariness that rested there. “Please, just let it go. I didn’t kill Aglise. That’s all you need to know.”