Where Love Has Gone

by Speer, Flora

  Ewan sneezed twice, very loudly.

  “Be quiet, unless you want to be caught,” Desmond warned. “If we can hear the sentries from in here, they can hear us.”

  “I can understand why Lady Elaine hates to come in here.” Ewan stiffled another sneeze. “I feel as if I have a terrible head cold. And my eyes are all sandy.”

  “Be patient. This won’t take long,” Desmond said. “I want both of you to see this, so I’ll have two witnesses.”

  “See what?” Ewan asked, sniffling.

  “What I’ve found. Look at this.” Desmond held up a wooden box, about a foot square and a few inches high. It was unlocked. He opened it. “Hold the lantern closer, Cadwallon.”

  “Aha,” Cadwallon exclaimed softly. “Exactly as we thought.”

  “What are those?” Ewan asked, peering into the box. “They look almost like jesses for falcons, only smaller.”

  “They are similar,” Cadwallon said, pointing to one of the leather objects. “A tube with a slip of parchment rolled up inside is fastened just here, and then this tiny harness is attached to a pigeon’s leg.”

  “So that’s how the messages are sent,” Ewan said between sneezes. “The ones you were explaining to Lady Elaine. We have found the proof we needed. Now, what do we do with it?”

  “What we still have to discover,” Desmond said, “is the identity of Lady Benedicta’s correspondent, the person who receives the pigeons at the end of the flight. Once we know that person’s name, we’ll have a better idea what she has been up to.”

  “No good, most likely,” Cadwallon remarked.

  “Could we leave, please?” Ewan asked uneasily, scanning the increasingly disturbed movements on the perches above their heads. “Before we wake up all the birds and someone comes to see what the fuss is about?”

  “In a moment.” Before he closed the wooden box, Desmond removed one of the tiny harnesses and slipped it into the pouch at his belt. “Cadwallon, shine the lantern around. Let’s see as much as we can while we’re here. We aren’t likely to have another chance.”

  “I see ordinary grey and brown pigeons,” Cadwallon said, obeying the order. “Also, a few white doves. Even some wrens. Perhaps, they flew in unnoticed. They will certainly eat well, from the looks of the feed in the dishes.”

  “There isn’t much here except the birds,” Desmond noted. “The box is safe enough, so long as only Lady Benedicta has the key.”

  Ewan sneezed thrice and Desmond decided to release him from his discomfort.

  “Shut the lantern, Cadwallon, and let us be gone,” he said.

  Once they were outside the dovecot, Desmond reset the lock, then slipped the long, metal pick back into the very useful pouch at his belt.

  They kept to the shadows, making their silent way across the courtyard. They met no one. Two sentries paced on a walkway above the wall that surrounded the manor. In the absence of any threat, the gate stood wide open. Cadwallon doused the lantern and left it on a bench near the gatehouse, after which they continued their cautious walk through the morning twilight.

  The sky was beginning to lighten, so when a female figure coming from the direction of the manor house hurried across the courtyard, they hastily ducked behind the fence of the herb garden and crouched down to avoid being seen.

  “We’d better hurry,” Cadwallon urged as soon as the woman was out of sight. “More folk will be stirring soon.”

  “Yes.” Desmond responded absently, his gaze probing the shadows where the woman had disappeared. “Wasn’t that Lady Benedicta who passed us?”

  “I think so,” Cadwallon said. “We left the dovecot just in time. I hate to think what she’d say if she caught us there.”

  “I’d dearly like to know what message she is sending,” Desmond murmured.

  “It’s already too late to find out,” Cadwallon said. “Another few moments and the bird will take wing.”

  Sure enough, as they reached the top of the staircase to the manor door Desmond looked toward the area above the dovecot just in time to see a small, winged shape rising into the dawn sky.

  “Damnation,” he muttered, then followed his companions into the entry hall.

  Flamig was waiting for them. He frowned at Ewan, who sneezed several times.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Flamig asked.

  “Nothing that can’t be easily cured,” Cadwallon said. “Ewan, take yourself to our chamber. Wash your face and hands and put on a fresh tunic. Before we left the keep I ordered Jean to supply a pail of hot water and it ought to be in the room by now. Use my soap and scrub well; it will help. I know because it’s the remedy my wife imposes on me when I come in from the stables sneezing and coughing from the dust in the hay. You will recover shortly.”

  “Aye, my lord,” Ewan said. “Thank you, my lord.”

  Glad to have a few moments to consider what they had learned in the last hour, and to wonder what message Lady Benedicta was sending by pigeon, Desmond listened with some amusement to Cadwallon dispensing domestic advice. The big man never ceased to surprise him.

  “Lord Cadwallon,” Flamig said, “I think you should know what has happened here while you were out, wherever you were.” His gaze moved from Cadwallon to Desmond, as if he expected an answer to what they had been doing.

  “Isn’t it a bit late at night for much to be happening?” Cadwallon asked with a credible semblance of innocence, considering how busy he and his friends had been during the last hour.

  “Lady Benedicta beat Jean, the kitchen boy,” Flamig informed them.

  “What?” Desmond exclaimed, his sense of danger sharpening. Then, half a heartbeat later, “Do you know where Lady Elaine is?”

  “Safe in her room. Jean ran to her. I intend to tell you all of it, my lords, because I think you ought to know. But first, let us sit in a quiet place where we won’t be disturbed.”

  “I suggest our chamber,” Cadwallon said. “It’s the safest place.”

  “I can’t go there,” Flamig objected. “I prefer a location where I can see anyone who enters or leaves the solar.”

  “Do you?” Desmond regarded the man-at-arms with growing interest. “Why is that?”

  “So I can protect Lady Elaine,” Flamig said.

  Desmond didn’t ask from what he intended to protect Elaine. He indicated a bench that was pushed against the wall, from where the stairs to the solar were visible, as well as much of the solar itself.

  “Will this do?” Desmond asked.

  “Aye.” Flamig led the way and chose the end of the bench that offered the best view. “While you were gone,” Flamig began without further delay. He provided a concise description of Jean’s problem with Lady Benedicta and Elaine’s efforts to help the boy.

  “How do you know all of this?” Desmond asked when he was finished.

  “The day after Lady Aglise disappeared,” Flamig answered, “Lord Bertrand assigned me to watch over Lady Elaine and keep her safe from any harm. I was to perform my duty secretly, not letting anyone else in the manor know what I was about. Not anyone at all.”

  “I find Lord Bertrand’s concern fascinating,” Cadwallon murmured, slanting a knowing glance in Desmond’s direction.

  “He seemed to feel that Lady Elaine was in some danger,” Flamig said, “though he didn’t explain what the danger was. He did warn me not to alarm her.”

  “That explains why you followed us to the cliffs yesterday,” Desmond said. “And why you were in the corridor while Elaine was in the stillroom tonight.”

  “Aye, my lord. I seldom let her out of my sight. When you and your companions arrived on Jersey, you presented a new problem for me. At first, I wasn’t sure whether you meant her any harm.”

  “And now?” Desmond asked.

  “Now I’ve chosen to tell you what little I know about Lady Aglise’s death, because I believe you can help me to protect Lady Elaine. She is in danger, isn’t she?”

  “Yes,” said Cadwallon shortly. “And, from what you’
ve said, so is Jean.”

  “Where is Lord Bertrand right now?” Desmond asked.

  “Why, in his chamber, I suppose,” Flamig said. “I haven’t seem him since he left the hall after the midday feast.”

  “We need to speak with him,” Desmond said, standing. “Come along, Flamig.”

  “I, my lord?”

  “When you hear what we have to say to Lord Bertrand,” Cadwallon told him, “you will understand why he was worried enough about Lady Elaine’s safety to place a guard on her.”

  “What I’d most like to know,” said Flamig, heading for the stairway as he spoke, “is why he wanted me to work in secret. I’ve been puzzling over his order for weeks while I watched and listened for any sign of a threat to Lady Elaine. I’ve reached my own conclusions as to who I’ve been protecting the lady from. And I don’t hesitate to tell you, my lords, I do not like what I’ve learned.”

  Chapter 12

  “What is it now?” Lord Bertrand’s pale face and red-rimmed eyes gave him the look of a man who hadn’t slept at all. Barefoot and clad in the same wrinkled tunic he had worn on the previous day, he faced the men at his chamber door. When he saw Flamig standing behind Cadwallon’s tall bulk and noticed the grave expression on the face of his man-at-arms, he exclaimed, “Elaine! Is she -?”

  “She’s safe in her chamber, my lord,” Flamig assured him.

  “Thank God.” Lord Bertrand visibly relaxed.

  “We have come to tell you why Aglise was killed,” Desmond said, watching the older man carefully for any sign of guilt.

  “I already know why.” Lord Bertrand rubbed his face. “She died because of my unseemly lust for her.”

  “You know who did it.” As Cadwallon spoke he pushed his way past Lord Bertrand and into the chamber. “But you are wrong about why it was done. Your disgraceful affair with Aglise merely served as a convenient excuse, to cover the real reason for her murder.”

  “What are you talking about?” Lord Bertrand demanded. With a glare that encompassed the other two men as well as Cadwallon, he added, “I do not recall inviting any of you into my chamber.”

  Ignoring the complaint, Desmond shut the door so no one on the stairs could hear what he was going to say. He considered it entirely possible that Lady Benedicta might be hovering about the solar after dispatching her latest message, and if she was, she would want to know just how much he and Cadwallon had discovered.

  “Lord Bertrand,” Desmond said, choosing to plunge right into the thick of it, “are you aware that your wife regularly sends messages by way of pigeons?”

  Lord Bertrand rubbed his face again, then slowly lowered his hands to stare at Desmond.

  “I know of her interest in breeding the birds for the table,” he said. “Many noblewomen keep a dovecot. We eat the results of her efforts. I believe you were served spit-roasted squab during your first meal here.”

  “Some of the birds in the dovecot are indeed plump creatures who are clearly reserved for cooking. Others are the sleeker, faster kind of pigeons used to bear messages in time of war. Or to carry secret messages between spies. From this island a bird could fly north over the Narrow Sea to England, but it is far more likely to fly eastward, toward Normandy, which is closer. Or to France,” Desmond said, his fingers at the pouch attached to his belt. He pulled out the tiny leather harness and held it up. “We found several of these in the dovecot. Do you know with whom Lady Benedicta corresponds?”

  “Oh, dear God,” Lord Bertrand muttered. His shocked expression as he stared at the harness convinced Desmond that he hadn’t expected anything like the problem now presented to him. “Why couldn’t you leave this alone? Why – why, did Elaine have to send that cursed letter to Royce?”

  “Do you know who receives Lady Benedicta’s messages?” Desmond repeated his demand with firm emphasis, certain from Lord Bertrand’s anguished exclamations that he did harbor suspicions about his wife’s activities, even if he was not sure just what those clandestine activities were and wasn’t directly involved in them. “Do her birds return to a French spy in Normandy? Or do they fly directly to France?”

  “My lord Bertrand!” Flamig declared. “I can remain silent no longer. I’m not blind and I have ears. I pay attention to what goes on around me. Until recently, I believed you to be an honest man. Why did you allow this to happen? Your carnal relationship with Lady Aglise was appalling enough, but after she disappeared, how could you let all of us here in Warden’s Manor and those in Gorey village wonder where she was for so long, when all the time you knew she was dead? Why didn’t you speak up at once and spare Lady Elaine and the rest of us so much worry?”

  “I did it for my honor’s sake,” Lord Bertrand said.

  “Honor!” Flamig cried in open scorn.

  “The fault lies with me, as you three have pointed out. I believed my uncontrollable desire for Aglise so maddened my wife that she killed the girl out of jealousy. That’s why I set you, Flamig, to watch over Elaine after Aglise’s death. I failed to protect Aglise, but at least I tried to keep Elaine safe.”

  “Do you know for a fact that Lady Benedicta killed Lady Aglise?” Flamig demanded.

  “Oh, yes.” Lord Bertrand heaved a long, ragged sigh. “Flamig, I want you to understand what happened on the night Aglise died. I found her unconscious on the floor here in my chamber, where she had apparently dragged herself when she felt the first twinges of death working in her. I sent for Lady Benedicta in hope that she could revive her. But when my wife came, she did nothing. She stood just inside the door, not even approaching the bed where I had laid Aglise, and she watched while Aglise breathed her last. By her calm manner and her refusal to help, and then at the end, by her own admission, I knew she had poisoned her rival.

  “But I never would have put Benedicta aside! I wasn’t so lost to sensual passion as that. She needn’t have feared ending her life in a convent. I would not have dishonored her so.”

  “I do wish you would cease to speak about honor,” Desmond told him with icy contempt. “You must know that by your weakness you have forfeited all claim to knightly honor.”

  “He’s not weak in battle,” Flamig said with a flare of lingering loyalty. “Never in battle. In the midst of the worst fray, Lord Bertrand is the soul of bravery.”

  “Very likely,” said Cadwallon. “I’ve known several men who were valiant enough in battle, but who proved themselves weak fools where women are concerned. Even, sometimes, women the man doesn’t love.”

  “Enough delay,” Desmond said with more than a touch of impatience. “Lord Bertrand, in the king’s name, you must answer the question I have put to you. Who is Lady Benedicta’s secret correspondent?”

  “I have no idea who it could be. But I believe Aglise knew,” Lord Bertrand said, sounding as if he had made up his mind and was embarking on a treacherous and uncertain route. “Just a few days before she died, she hinted to me that she possessed information that would destroy my wife. Aglise begged me to call Benedicta to this room so she could face her in my presence with what she’d learned. She claimed Benedicta would be forced to retire to a convent and then, she and I could be together.

  “Poor girl, she envisioned a life of excitement at court. She insisted if I revealed to King Henry what Benedicta was doing, then he would reward me – and Aglise, as well. I couldn’t make her understand that if Benedicta had committed a crime, Henry would blame me as much as her. After all, a man is held responsible for what his wife does. A wife is only chattel, so of course Henry would believe I knew about and condoned Benedicta’s misdeeds, whatever they were.

  “Aglise refused to listen to sense.” Lord Bertrand rubbed his face in the weary motion so characteristic of him. “And she never did tell me what she thought she had discovered.”

  “Are you saying, after hearing Aglise’s claims you still made no attempt to learn what your wife was involved in?” Cadwallon demanded. “I find that exceptionally hard to believe.”

  “Lady Benedict
a and I are not close. The mild affection that once lay between us is long gone. Some years ago she chose a separate room for herself, and I am not a man to force an unwilling woman.”

  “Where love has gone,” Cadwallon said, “other emotions arise to fill the void in an empty heart. The question we must ask is, what emotion filled Lady Benedicta’s heart?”

  “She loves our sons,” Lord Bertrand said.

  “No doubt she does,” Cadwallon agreed. “I was thinking of a devotion more deadly and dangerous.”

  “Lord Bertrand, what happened after your attempt to talk Aglise out of facing Lady Benedicta failed?” Desmond asked.

  “I think she confronted Benedicta on her own, and told her what she knew. Whatever Aglise revealed, it was most unwise of her to speak to my wife without a witness present. I suppose Aglise’s accusations frightened Benedicta, who probably feared she had no recourse but to dispose of the poor girl.” Lord Bertrand paused to wipe his eyes.

  “How little you know of women,” Cadwallon told him. “Especially your own wife. Lady Benedicta is no fragile creature, to be terrified by a girl young enough to be her daughter. No, it’s far more likely she killed Aglise with cold calculation, in order to protect her position as an effective spy for King Louis of France.”

  “A spy for France?” Lord Bertrand repeated, sounding utterly bewildered.

  “You cannot expect us to accept your contention that you knew nothing about this,” Desmond said.

  “I knew something was wrong and I admit, I ought to have looked into the matter more closely,” Lord Bertrand said.

  “Indeed, you should have,” Flamig declared with barely suppressed rage. “My lord, you are charged by King Henry with keeping this castle and this island safe from any and all intruders. It’s your business to know what is happening on Jersey, and on Guernsey and Sark and the other islands, too, and to report to the king any indication of a threat from the French. This little group of islands would make an ideal base from which to launch an invasion of England.