Where Love Has Gone

by Speer, Flora

  “Do you know how to sail?” Cadwallon asked. “Have you ever tried?”

  “No, but I can learn.”

  “Aye.” Cadwallon’s familiar, lazy grin flashed. “You can learn, in the fog, when you’ve never tried to sail before. You’ll be a great help to King Henry. Look, Desmond, I know you are aching to be on your way. So am I. But the simple fact is, we cannot leave Jersey until the weather clears.”

  Desmond knew there was no argument strong enough to counter Cadwallon’s practical good sense.

  He fared no better against Elaine’s continued insistence that she leave Jersey with him. When she stopped him in the deserted solar late that evening and began her argument anew, Desmond gave in to the temptation to use the easiest method of silencing her. He kissed her.

  He should have known better. Elaine welcomed his embrace, winding her arms around his neck to bring herself closer, opening her sweet mouth in an eager, innocent invitation. Her breasts were soft against his chest, and when he instinctively reacted by pushing his hardness against her, her low, sensual moan fired his blood.

  One kiss turned into many. His hand slid along her ribs o cover her breasts, to mold and press them, while his need grew ever more intense. He knew in another few moments he wouldn’t be able to stop. He’d drag her off to the nearest empty room and make her his. If he didn’t stop right now… Summoning all of his will, Desmond placed his hands on her shoulders and pushed her away.

  “I cannot do this,” he said, his voice husky with desire. “I am a spy, a younger son with no prospects and no title. I dare not allow myself to feel any tender emotion. You must understand.”

  “I do. But I wish you would understand my feelings.”

  The hurt in her eyes nearly destroyed his intention to do what was right for her. Elaine was a bewitching combination of vulnerability and courage. He was certain she cared for him. He ached to possess her, while at the same time, he longed to protect her, even from himself. For in his heart, Desmond knew he would never be able to give up his secret work for King Henry. However dishonorable spying was considered to be by honest men, it was in his blood and he suffered a strong fear that he couldn’t live without it. “I felt a strange affinity for Lady Benedicta,” he said, hoping the admission would shock her enough to make her keep her distance. “I crave excitement and the stimulation of danger. The thought of facing death and defeating it one more time thrills me. How can a gently bred woman find those qualities attractive?”

  “I see in you a man who cares about others,” she said. “You plan to remove Jean from the kitchen here and find him a place with your kind sister-in-law, so she can train him as her page. You blame Lord Bertrand for his treatment of Aglise almost as much as I do. I think you are worried about Ewan, too. You always treat the squires kindly. And you perceived Flamig’s honest heart beneath his rough exterior.”

  “You don’t know me well,” he protested, wanting to stop the flow of undeserved praise. “If my father were still alive, he’d tell you what a worthless creature I am.”

  “Perhaps he was the one who didn’t know you well. Perhaps I know you better. Unlike your father, you would be a deeply loving and protective parent, and you wouldn’t care whether your children were boys or girls. You’d love them just the same.”

  “Don’t – don’t say that. I’m not Cadwallon; I wouldn’t know how to be a father.”

  “You could learn.” She moved close again and kissed him on the lips, quickly and gently, before she left him. “Good night, Desmond.” Her whisper lingered on the air after she was gone.

  And Desmond, committed spy, seeker of dangerous thrills though he was, perceived the danger in an honest woman’s heart and dared not follow her.

  Chapter 15

  “Five days left,” Desmond said, looking out his bedchamber window. “Cadwallon, does the fog seem thinner to you?”

  “Perhaps. A little. Or, perhaps, we just think the fog is lighter because we want the skies to clear. At least the rain has stopped. I’m going to check on Ewan before I break my fast.”

  “Fine. I’ll see you in the great hall.”

  Desmond washed his face and hands and dressed quickly, then stuffed the last of his belongings into his saddlebags. He noticed Cadwallon had also packed. If he was able to leave Jersey that day, Cadwallon would be at his side. Desmond was surprised by how pleased he was at the realization.

  A moment later he was cursing himself for depending on someone else. From his own experience he knew better than to trust another spy, yet Cadwallon’s stalwart honesty made it difficult to think of him as anything but a friend. Desmond shook his head in bemusement. Between Elaine’s subtle allure and Cadwallon’s solid backing, he was beginning to loose the distrustful edge a good spy required. If he continued trusting and relying on people, and caring about a woman, he would very soon be dead.

  When he reached the great hall Elaine was already there, sitting at the high table with bread and cheese before her. She blushed when she saw him. If Desmond weren’t older and much more experienced he’d be blushing, too, to recall the way he’d undressed her when last they were together. He knew he ought to keep his distance from her, yet her shy, tentative smile drew him to her side.

  With a frustrated sigh he discarded the calculated rudeness of choosing to sit elsewhere, which was what a cautious spy would do. Instead, he sat on a bench at the high table, though for both their sakes the bench he chose was some distance away from her.

  “Good morning, my lady,” he said, trying not to sound as if he ached to seize her in his arms again. “How is Ewan?”

  “He’s better,” she told him. “We needn’t fear leaving him behind until he is completely recovered.”

  “As to that,” Desmond began, “I refuse to discuss the issue with you again. When Cadwallon and I leave, you are not coming with us.”

  “Good heavens!” Elaine cried, paying no attention at all to the subject that had caused two quarrels between them on the previous day. She was no longer looking at Desmond, but instead was staring across the hall to the entry. “What an extraordinary man.”

  Desmond turned to see what had so transfixed her. He went perfectly still for a moment, immobilized by surprise. Then relief washed over him and he began to smile as he beheld the solution to several of his most pressing problems.

  The burly, deep-chested fellow who strode into the great hall moved with the unmistakable rolling gait of a sailor accustomed to spending more time at sea than on land. Light brown hair and a straggling beard framed a weatherbeaten face. The man wore a bright blue tunic belted in green leather, his legs were clad in green hose brighter than his tunic, and a pair of fine red leather boots encased his feet and calves. A broadsword worthy of a great knight hung from his belt, and a long, dangerous-looking knife was thrust between belt and tunic.

  “There ye are, Desmond, me lad!” the colorful apparition cried in a loud voice. “I’ve come a day or two late, but the weather’s not mine to command. Where’s yer friend, that big Welshman? I don’t see him about.”

  “Lady Elaine,” Desmond said, barely managing to contain his joy, “may I present to you Captain Piers of the ship Daisy? I do believe he has come to carry all of us to Caen.”

  “Caen, is it?” Captain Piers said. “Well, laddie, that’s open to discussion. There’s a dreadful storm blowin’ far out at sea. Ye may have noticed a bit o’ rain and fog these last few days.”

  “We noticed,” Desmond said.

  “Now, as to whether I can sail to Caen,” Captain Piers began. “I’ll need convincin’, if ye take my meanin’.”

  “Oh, I do,” Desmond responded. “You expect additional payment.” Though he was still glad to see the captain, some of his initial pleasure began to drain away. He hated bargaining with the man. Where money was concerned, the captain was little better than a pirate.

  “Captain Piers, how rude of me,” Elaine exclaimed. “Do, please, join us. We have some nice wine in this pitcher, and the castle
baker has provided bread still warm from the oven.”

  “Thank ye, me lady. I do believe I’ll partake of a cup or two o’ wine, since ye so kindly recommend it.”

  Thus it happened that Lord Bertrand, entering the great hall he still thought of as his, found a garishly clad sea captain sitting at his high table, eating his bread and cheese and drinking his wine.

  “I was not informed of the presence of any guest at Warden’s Manor,” Lord Bertrand said, halting before the table. He took up a belligerent stance and glared at Desmond as if inviting a fight.

  “Captain Piers has just arrived,” Desmond said. “Lord Bertrand, this is the captain and owner of the ship Daisy, which will convey us to Caen.”

  “I haven’t agreed to go to Caen,” Lord Bertrand stated with undisguised hostility.

  “Nor have I agreed to carry ye there,” said Captain Piers. “Desmond, I do believe we’ve reached a stalemate. Or is it a checkmate?” The captain flashed a wicked grin in Elaine’s direction.

  “I suppose you want an extra fee for carrying us in poor weather,” Desmond said.

  “Aye. Exactly how much I’ll expect will depend on how many passengers, and just how bad the weather is. The voyage will likely take a while, ye see, for the winds are barely blowin’. That’s why the fog is so heavy. But once the comin’ storm breaks, it’ll be a rough passage. Speakin’ for meself, I’d much prefer ta wait it out in a safe harbour. So, ye’ll have ta make it worth my while ta sail.”

  “We cannot wait,” Elaine told him. “Our mission is urgent. Captain Piers, would you be willing to carry us just as far as the nearest port in Normandy?”

  “It’ll be Regneville ye’ll want, then,” the captain said. “A decent harbor and good accommodations ashore, if ye should need them. Aye, Regneville it is, me lady. Fer an additional price, o’ course.”

  “I am amazed that Royce employs you,” Desmond told him, scowling.

  “Lord Royce knows I’m honest. Knows he can trust me. Ye wouldn’t believe some o’ the ventures I’ve carried out fer him.”

  “No,” Desmond snapped. “I wouldn’t believe you.”

  “Now me feelin’s are hurt,” Captain Piers said. “I thought I deserved more respect from ye, Desmond me lad, considerin’ how I saved yer life last year.”

  “You did?” Elaine cried, gazing at the captain in fascination. “Oh, I would like to hear that story.”

  “I would be pleased ta tell it ta ye, me lady.” Captain Piers turned a conspiratorial smile upon her.

  “Listen to me, you disreputable scoundrel,” Desmond said, his tone roughening. “We have urgent business in Caen. Lord Royce’s business; the same man who pays the outrageous fares you charge. You will take us directly to Caen, and we will leave today, by noon at the latest.”

  “I am not going to Caen,” Lord Bertrand declared.

  “You have no choice,” Desmond told him in the same harsh voice he had used on Captain Piers. “If you give your word to go peacefully, you may depart with your lordly dignity intact. Otherwise, you’ll go in chains. Either way, you board the Daisy when I do.”

  “Hold on here a minute,” Captain Piers interrupted. “I’ve been paid ta carry two knights, two squires, and four horses. If this kind lady is ta join yer party, and Lord Bertrand, here, is goin’ as well, that’s two more passengers and, likely, more horses.”

  “And a young boy,” Elaine added, smiling sweetly at the captain. “Jean cannot ride, so he has no horse. Nor do I have a horse.”

  “Three extra passengers and one extra horse, then. An’ one o’ the original horses is missin’. Now, let me reckon the fares.” Captain Piers began counting on his fingers.

  “Where is Richard?” Desmond suddenly asked. “And where is his horse?”

  “I hope an’ trust yer squire is asleep in yer cabin aboard ship,” Captain Piers answered. “He spent the night pukin’ out his last few meals. An’ the night before, too.”

  “Richard is never seasick,” Desmond said.

  “So he claims, too, and both of ye may be right about that, if what I suspect is true. That’s how he lost his horse, ye see. He says he rode it to Cherbourg in search o’ me an’ me ship, but when we looked fer the poor beast, she was gone.”

  “What are you talking about?” Desmond demanded, his suspicions mounting with every word the captain spoke.

  “Ye see, we were berthed in Cherbourg a few days ago. Richard says he was lookin’ fer me and the Daisy, on yer orders, when two fellows accosted him on the dock and forced him ta drink some vile-tastin’ ale. Then they asked a lot o’ questions about where he was goin’ next. He wouldn’t tell them nothin’ so they hit him over the head an’ dumped him in the harbour. Lucky fer him, one o’ my sailors recognized the lad from yer recent voyage ta Jersey and fished him out and brought him ta me.”

  “Someone was trying to get information from him?” Desmond asked.

  “Aye. It’s likely he swallowed some o’ the harbour water, as well as whatever they forced down his throat. Harbour water’s foul enough ta make any man puke. Anyway, yer squire’s been sick ever since, though he did stop pukin’ long enough ta deliver yer message, so here I am, just as ye requested.”

  “Did I hear aright?” Unnoticed by the others, Cadwallon had come into the great hall. “Someone followed Richard and tried to force information out of him?”

  “Looks like it.” Captain Piers nodded to the big man. “What d’ye expect, my foine Lord Cadwallon, ye and yer friend bein’ spies an’ all?”

  “Desmond,” Elaine said, “since Richard is ill, I suggest we bring him here to Warden’s Manor and let him stay with Ewan, to keep him company until both of them have recovered.”

  “I have a better idea,” Cadwallon said to Desmond. “Thanks to Elaine’s nursing skill, Ewan is improving rapidly. His fever has broken and his wound is healing nicely.”

  “Wound?” Captain Piers exclaimed. “Yer squire was wounded? An’ the other squire’s beaten and nearly poisoned ta death. What the devil’s goin’ on?”

  “Nothing that need concern you,” Desmond told him. “All right, Cadwallon, what is your plan?”

  A week or so ago, he wouldn’t have bothered to ask. He’d have assumed his own arrangements were superior to Cadwallon’s notion of what they ought to do. But, against his own will, Desmond was changing. He could feel the steady alteration in his mind and his heart and for a moment he wondered if the island of Jersey – or Elaine – had bewitched him. Then he recalled how, over the past two weeks, he’d had ample evidence of Cadwallon’s steady nerves and good sense. He decided he owed it to the man to listen to what he had to say.

  “Rather than disturbing Richard to bring him here, I suggest we all board the Daisy as soon as possible,” Cadwallon said. “Including Lord Bertrand and Jean. We can transport Ewan to the dock by litter or by cart. Elaine, I’d ask you to pack up whatever herbs you think will be useful to Ewan and to Richard.

  “Captain Piers,” Cadwallon went on, “You know full well that Lord Royce will pay you whatever you think is fair, so let us dispense with any further arguments about your fees for extra passengers. We must be in Caen as soon as possible, and that is all that matters.”

  “Ah. Ye do make good sense, me lord.” Captain Piers seemed to be considering the proposition.

  “I still like the idea of putting into Regneville,” Elaine said. “We ought to split into two groups, one group to travel overland, and the other to head for Caen by sea. That way, some of us should – no, must – arrive in Caen in time, no matter how dismal the weather becomes.”

  “Yes, I think you are right,” Cadwallon said. “Desmond, the decision is yours.”

  “I agree with both of you. Regneville it is.” Desmond rose from the high table, his gaze on Lord Bertrand, who was listening intently to the discussion. Desmond chose his next words carefully, not wanting to give away how much they knew of the plot against King Henry’s life. “With two separate groups, we have a better chance o
f someone reporting to Royce promptly.”

  “I’ll find Jean and tell him to collect his belongings.” Elaine was on her feet, too. “Then I’ll gather the herbs, and do what I can to make Ewan comfortable for the voyage.”

  “We sail as soon as all o’ ye are aboard,” Captain Piers announced, his objections apparently swept away by Cadwallon’s promise of easy payment. “I’ll use what wind we have, and pray for a stronger blow later.”

  “I cannot leave,” Lord Bertrand protested. “Not until my wife is buried.”

  “You have several hours before we sail,” Desmond told him with no trace of sympathy. “Speak to Flamig and to Father Otwin about the arrangements. Whether your lady is buried, or not, you depart with us.”

  “Elaine, you will join me for Benedicta’s funeral, won’t you?” Lord Bertrand sent a piteous look in her direction.

  “How can you ask such a thing?” she cried. “No, my lord; I refuse to attend the funeral of the woman who murdered my sister. Nor will I grieve with the man who kept Aglise’s death secret for months, while I wept and worried for her loss.”

  With that, Elaine stalked out of the great hall, her shoulders rigid and her head high. But Desmond saw the trembling of her body and the way she clasped her hands tightly together, and he ached to comfort her.

  “Seems as though ye’ve had an interestin’ time on this little island,” Captain Piers remarked to Cadwallon.

  “You don’t know half of it,” Cadwallon said.

  Lady Benedicta was buried in mid morning, in a grave just outside the fence that surrounded the little cemetery. Though a formal funeral was forbidden to her, the kindly Father Otwin was there to say a few prayers, in which he asked for such peace as heaven might choose to bestow upon her lost soul, and then begged that comfort be granted to her bereaved relatives.

  Desmond also attended the ceremony. He kept to one side, watching the proceedings with a sharp eye. Nothing unusual occurred and no one appeared except the small party from the castle. If Lady Benedicta had any confederates on the island, they stayed away.