by Speer, Flora
“Desmond.” Elaine laid a hand on his arm. “I’m convinced the message on that parchment is the reason why Aglise died. Somehow, she found it, or intercepted it, and foolishly let Lady Benedicta know she had it. I don’t think it mattered whether she was able to decode it, or not. She held it in her possession, and that was enough to seal her doom. Whatever the message contains, it’s important.”
“You’re probably right. But Lady Benedicta is in our custody now, and she won’t get away from us. She will be punished, I promise.” Desmond’s warm hand stroked along her cheek.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
They separated then, to carry out their assigned errands.
As the day wore on the rain became so heavy and the fog so thick that Lady Benedicta knew the Daisy would not be putting into port until morning at the earliest. Thus, she would have the time she required.
Sending a final message by pigeon was impossible while Desmond and his friends were watching her. They were as single-minded as most men but, like all men, they underestimated a determined woman. They hadn’t even bothered to search her room, instead depending on a single guard at the door to keep her inside it, which was a foolish mistake Benedicta would never have made.
She flung back the lid of her clothing chest, knowing she’d find the long knife she had hidden there when she first began spying, just in case she ever needed it. Her fingers curved around the hilt. She straightened the clothing in the chest, smoothing her best gown until it was neat, and closed the lid quietly. Then she found her dark woolen cloak and laid it on the bed, so it would be ready when she was.
The bolt on her chamber door was on the inside, so she met no impediment when she lifted the latch and opened the door a crack. As she expected, the squire, Ewan, whirled around to face her.
“My lady, you may not leave the room.”
“I know. I understand the terms of my confinement. I only wanted to ask whether I am to be given any food this evening. I’ve eaten nothing since early this morning. I’m hungry, and my throat is parched. Could you bring me some wine? Or ask someone to bring it, if you are forbidden to leave my door?”
“You will have a meal later,” Ewan said. “If no one brings food, I will personally go to the kitchen and get some for you. But I can’t leave until either Lord Cadwallon or Sir Desmond comes to relieve me.”
“When will that be? Do you know?” She opened the door a bit farther. Clearly, she’d have to make her move now, at once, before either of the older, stronger men replaced the youthful squire.
“I’m sorry, my lady; I don’t know. I think it’s best if I close the door now. I’m not supposed to be talking to you.”
Benedicta held her knife close to her right side so it was hidden in the folds of her skirt. She stepped back into the room, pulling the door open still wider as she moved. Knowing Ewan would have to step into the room to catch and close the door, she waited tensely, gripping the knife.
Lifting his left hand as she expected him to do, Ewan reached for the edge of the door. She stabbed him in his left side, under his ribs, striking as hard as she could, using all of her strength. Then, before he could cry out, she clamped her free hand over his mouth to muffle any sound.
He fell half inside the room, so it was no great problem to drag him in the rest of the way. She pulled the knife out of Ewan’s chest and wiped it on his shirt. She wasn’t sure whether he was still alive or not, and she didn’t greatly care. All she wanted of him was for him to stay quiet until she was gone. Snatching up her cloak, she wrapped it around her shoulders. Then, knife in hand, she left her room and made her way to the stairs.
Briefly she thought with longing of the dovecot, where her birds slept, the creatures who would carry the message she ought to send. She knew better than to try; she’d never get near the dovecot and she couldn’t afford to be caught. They’d make her talk. She knew it, for she wasn’t strong enough to withstand torture and she didn’t doubt they’d use it, either here on Jersey or later, at King Henry’s order. The usually chivalrous Henry would feel no compunction about ordering torture for a woman, not when his life and his beloved Normandy were at stake.
All in all, she much preferred a watery grave. She’d use the passageway that opened beneath the solar stairs. Moving with cautious stealth she crossed the solar, tiptoed down the stairs, then around the corner to the hidden door. She fumbled for a moment or two, her fingers clumsy on the secret latch. The door swung back on well oiled hinges and Lady Benedicta stepped inside. With the door closed, the passage was too dark for her to see anything, but she knew the way. Keeping one hand on the damp stone wall to steady herself, she started down.
How fitting that she should choose this exit, since it was the same route she and Bertrand had used to carry Aglise’s body out of the castle. What a foolish girl Aglise had been. She hadn’t had the good sense to keep quiet about what she had learned. Instead, she had rushed to confront her foster mother in the stillroom, daring her to deny involvement in a secret and deadly plan.
Ah, well, it didn’t matter now.
Benedicta reached the door at the base of the manor house wall and stepped out onto the cliff. She closed the door behind her and stood for a moment, listening for sounds of alarm from above. All was silent. Warden’s Manor was shrouded in fog so dense that no sentry peering over the wall could possibly see her.
A short distance away was the disguised path to the beach, a path much too steep and difficult for Aglise’s body to be carried down by that route. Bertrand had had to carry his mistress along the top of the cliffs to the easier path, where a cave awaited her remains. On that night Benedicta had waited, standing watch over Aglise’s body while her husband went back into the castle by the secret stairs and returned by the main gate, riding a horse. Poor Bertrand, weeping over his lost lover, so demented by lust that he had never imagined there was a more important reason for Aglise’s death than his betrayed wife’s supposed jealousy.
It all would have worked, too, if only Elaine hadn’t sent her letter to Royce, and if Royce hadn’t bothered to send his men to investigate.
Benedicta slipped several times while going down the path to the beach. She ignored a bruised knee and several painfully torn fingernails. In just a little while the pain would be gone and nothing would matter. And when it was over, they could never make her talk. That was the truly important issue. She wouldn’t be tortured into telling what she knew.
The tide was out, so she had rather a long walk across the damp sand. The hem of her cloak was quickly soaked but she kept the garment fastened at her shoulders. The wool was heavy; it would pull her down and that was just what she wanted. She reached the water and kept walking.
Chapter 14
In late afternoon Lord Bertrand remembered that his wife most likely hadn’t eaten all day. He mentioned the fact to Flamig, and Flamig, wishing to impress the importance of his new position as seneschal on the ordinary folk of the manor, promptly visited the kitchen.
He found the staff there busy with preparations for the evening meal. Flamig was no fool and he had no wish to make an enemy of the cook. So, with all proper courtesy he suggested to the cook that, rather than one of the maidservants being taken from her work, Jean could easily carry a tray of bread and cheese and a small pitcher of wine to Lady Benedicta’s room.
“Squire Ewan will be standing guard at the door,” Flamig said to the boy. “Tell him I have sent you and he’ll let you inside. Do not stay in the room any longer than you must, and do not converse with Lady Benedicta except as politeness demands. When you have delivered the food, come and report to me.”
“Yes, sir.” Jean’s eyes were wide with the excitement of his special duty, and with a glimmer of fear that was quickly hidden. “I’ll go as soon as the tray is ready.”
Flamig was confident he would do exactly as he’d been told and he’d be prompt about it, too. Jean’s excitement over the responsibility he’d been given was, quite possibly, equal to Fl
amig’s delight at his own promotion. Smiling contentedly, the new seneschal left the kitchen to make his late day rounds of the manor. He had finished checking the upper levels and was descending to the entry hall when he heard a loud commotion coming from the direction of the solar. One of the voices was unmistakably Jean’s.
Flamig raced into and across the great hall and up the solar stairs to find Desmond and Cadwallon had reached the solar before him. They were dealing with a white-faced, weeping Jean.
“He’s in there,” Jean gasped, pointing toward the room where Lady Benedicta was supposedly confined. “He has a hole in his side. He couldn’t speak to me. She has killed Ewan!”
Cadwallon motioned to Flamig and the two of them headed for Lady Benedicta’s chamber, leaving Desmond with the hysterical boy.
“Jean,” Desmond told him, “take a deep breath and swallow hard. Then tell me what has happened.” He waited as calmly as he could manage, not wanting Jean to see his impatience, or his flaring anxiety. Where, he wondered, was Elaine? Was she in danger? He longed to find her and make certain of her safety, but common sense warned him it was pointless to rush off and leave Jean until he had heard the boy’s story and evaluated the problem.
“Flamig told me to take food to Lady Benedicta,” Jean said. “But Ewan wasn’t at her chamber door where Flamig said he’d be standing guard. I was about to leave, to find Flamig and ask him what to do next, when I heard a moan from inside the room. I thought it was Lady Benedicta, and perhaps she was sick, and possibily Ewan was attending to her, and he might need help, so I pushed the door open and went inside.” Having delivered this long explanation in a single breath, Jean began to gasp again.
“Take another deep breath,” Desmond advised. “It’ll make you feel calmer.” To his great relief, Elaine appeared in the solar and came to them, to put her arm across Jean’s shoulders.
“Ewan has been stabbed,” Jean told her, “and Lady Benedicta is gone. Please, Lady Elaine, can you repair Ewan’s wound? He’s been nice to me. I don’t want him to die.”
“I will do my best for Ewan,” Elaine said, her gaze locked on Desmond’s over the boy’s head. “I’ll need your help, Jean. I want you to take Sir Desmond to the linen room. He will make certain it’s safe for you to go inside. You know where the bandages are stored. Bring as many as you think I’ll need to bind up Ewan’s wound. Then, show Sir Desmond to the stillroom and find the same jar of ointment I used on you last night. I will also need wine to wash the wound.”
“There’s a pitcher of wine on the tray I brought for Lady Benedicta,” Jean said, standing a little straighter under the weight of so many orders laid upon him at one time. Elaine’s brisk instructions had produced a remarkably calming effect on the boy. His tears had stopped and his youthful voice was steady. “I set the tray down in the corridor before I went into Lady Benedicta’s room.”
“Good. I can use the wine while I’m waiting for you to return with the other supplies.” Elaine was still looking directly at Desmond, telling him what she wanted him to do without actually speaking the words, lest Jean become frightened again. She trusted Desmond to understand her hints as to where Lady Benedicta was most likely to hide. “Sir Desmond will remain with you to keep you safe. Though, I must say, Jean, I do believe Lady Benedicta has fled by now.”
“Cadwallon is with Ewan,” Desmond said to her. “Stay close to him.”
“Yes. I will.” Elaine’s greatest fear at the moment was that Lady Benedicta had succeeded in killing Ewan, that he was already dead.
By the time she arrived, Cadwallon had cut off the squire’s tunic and was pressing a torn section of Lady Benedicta’s bed sheet over the wound in his side. Whispering a silent prayer of gratitude that Ewan still lived and another for Cadwallon’s quick action, Elaine went to her knees to help.
“He hasn’t spoken yet,” Cadwallon said. “He just moans, so I’m not sure how much he understands. There’s not much blood. I hope it means the wounding happened just a short time ago.”
“Why the devil did the young fool come into the room?” Flamig demanded. He was prowling about, poking into corners and checking under the bed and behind the bed curtains as if he expected to discover Lady Benedicta hiding there. He paused to glare down at Ewan. “He knows how dangerous Lady Benedicta is.”
“She probably found some reasonable excuse to lure him inside,” Elaine answered.
“I suppose that’s so,” Flamig agreed, “but where is she now?”
“I sent Desmond to the linen room and the stillroom,” Elaine said. “If she is in either place, he’ll find and hold her.”
“You forgot the dovecot,” Cadwallon reminded her.
“I posted two guards there shortly after I learned about the messages she’s been sending,” Flamig told him. “If she runs to the dovecot, they’ll bring her back. Lady Elaine, will Ewan live?”
“I believe he will,” Elaine said, though she harbored doubts. She made an effort to sound more cheerful about Ewan’s prospects than she actually felt, because her father had told her once that he could recall everything said around him while he was unconscious after receiving a wound in battle. If Ewan could hear her and the others talking, Elaine wanted him to know his chances of recovery were good. If he believed his friends were confident that he’d heal, perhaps he would do what they expected.
Desmond returned with Jean, the two of them carrying a good supply of bandages and the jar of ointment. Desmond had also thought to bring along some sheets. While he and Flamig conferred in the corridor, Elaine set about binding up Ewan’s wound. After making a fresh compress from the sheet Cadwallon had used, Elaine smeared a liberal application of ointment on the wound, clapped the compress over the ointment, and held everything in place by wrapping a bandage around Ewan’s chest. She was glad he didn’t need stitching; sewing was the part of caring for wounds that she hated most. Judging by the width of the wound, the knife Lady Benedicta had used was a thin one, but Elaine feared it was long enough to have produced interior damage.
With the bleeding stopped for the moment and Ewan breathing naturally, Elaine spread a fresh sheet on Lady Benedicta’s bed to take the place of the one Cadwallon had ripped apart to use on his squire.
“Remove the rest of Ewan’s clothes,” she said to Cadwallon. “Then, if you men will lift him gently, we can lay him here and not have to move him more than a few steps. I’ll pile up the pillows. Set him down so his head and shoulders are raised.”
“To prevent congestion of his lungs,” Cadwallon said, nodding in approval. “Yes, that’s just what my wife would advise.”
While Elaine and Jean covered the still figure on the bed with a warm quilt, Flamig left to tell Lord Bertrand what had happened. Desmond and Cadwallon riffled through Lady Benedicta’s clothing chest, dumping each of her garments on the floor after checking seams and folds.
“Nothing,” Cadwallon said in disgust, tossing a silk gown back into the emptied chest and throwing a pair of shoes on top. “Not a cursed thing.”
“Did you really expect to find anything?” Desmond asked. “Not checking this chest before we left her here was unforgivably careless of me.”
“Don’t blame yourself. I didn’t think of it, either,” Cadwallon said. “If she were a man, I would have considered the possibility, but who expects a middle aged noblewoman to hide a knife among her gowns?”
“She has left the manor.” Jean spoke up suddenly. “She was in so much trouble already, because everyone knows she killed Lady Aglise. Now she has tried to kill Ewan. People like Ewan. After this, no one here will help her, so she had to go.”
“You’re right, of course,” Desmond said. “She is gone, probably by the same stairs below the solar that you told me about a few days ago. It’s the only way she could have left without being seen and stopped.”
“We ought to check that passageway,” Cadwallon said. He started for the solar.
“Stay here,” Desmond ordered. “Keep Elaine and Jean with y
ou and watch the door. I’ll find Flamig and have him send a few men-at-arms through the passage with torches.”
The dreary day wore slowly on toward foggy night. Lord Bertrand arrived, insisting that he be admitted to the room. He stared at Ewan, who still hadn’t wakened, offered apologies to Cadwallon for the harm done to his squire, and then left. Cadwallon paced back and forth across the room, or in the corridor just outside the door. Jean perched on the side of the bed, holding Ewan’s limp hand. From time to time Elaine checked his bandages for signs of fresh bleeding and was glad to find none. She was just lighting a candle when Ewan groaned. Cadwallon was at his side before the squire had opened his eyes.
“Thirsty,” Ewan said in a weak voice.
“Lie still.” Elaine held his head and allowed him a few sips of watered wine. “Don’t try to move.”
“Do you remember what happened?” Cadwallon asked. “If so, please tell us.”
“Lady Benedicta opened the door,” Ewan said. He paused to take a deeper breath and winced at the pain of it. Nevertheless, he continued to speak, obeying his master. “I told her to stay in the room, that she wasn’t allowed out, and I tried to close the door. Then I felt something icy cold in my side. I can’t recall anything more.”
“She stabbed you,” Cadwallon informed him. “We will find her, and we’ll make her pay for this. Desmond is searching for her now.”
Ewan drifted into a restless doze. Cadwallon stood looking at him.
“I promised his mother I’d take care of him,” Cadwallon said.
“This isn’t your fault,” Elaine told him, but she didn’t think he believed her.
The ensuing hours brought questions similar to those asked after Aglise had disappeared. Could Lady Benedicta have left the island? Or was she still on Jersey, hiding somewhere? Flamig sent a man-at-arms to Gorey village. The man returned with the information that no one had seen her for days. As far as anyone in Gorey knew, Lady Benedicta was still at home, in the manor. But the manor had already been searched on Flamig’s orders.