Where Love Has Gone

by Speer, Flora

  “Come on,” Desmond called softly. “The way is clear.”

  Once again they rode in sunshine, across open fields, past orchards and neatly ploughed rows where vegetables sprouted in fresh, springtime shades of pale green and tender red. Peasants working in the fields lifted their heads to watch them ride by. Desmond took care not to trample the newly planted crops, instead keeping to the grassy paths between the fields. Wherever the land was firm enough, they galloped, making up the time they had lost in the forest.

  “Perhaps we’ve outwitted any men who are trying to follow us,” Elaine said during a period when a muddy area resembling a small swamp forced them to slow their horses to a walk.

  “Perhaps.” Desmond sounded doubtful.

  “Or, better yet, perhaps no one was following us at all.”

  “You must always assume someone knows what you are doing and is following with the intention of stopping you,” Desmond warned.

  She didn’t think that could be a very pleasant way to live, always suspicious of people, constantly looking over one shoulder to see who was creeping up from behind. She refrained from saying so. Desmond’s excessive caution was going to see them safely through any danger.

  “I do believe I see the road just ahead,” Desmond said, pointing.

  The royal road was a dirt track that wound across the countryside between the fields and that curved around any steep hills. Deep ruts scored the surface, caused by the wheels of heavily laden carts heading for the nearest town to sell farm products on market days. By King Henry’s order the trees and brush on either side of the road were kept cleared so there would be no hiding places for brigands, and once or twice a year the ruts were filled in with fresh soil. Desmond and Elaine stayed on the rough grasses along the side of the road, hoping to find more secure footing there for their horses.

  By now it was late afternoon and the sun cast long shadows over the countryside. When a flock of blackbirds flew up from a field on Elaine’s right, she assumed they were heading for their nighttime roosting place until Desmond uttered a warning in a low voice.

  “Here they come.” He wheeled his horse so its rear was toward Elaine. “Stay behind me. You’ll be a bit safer there.”

  Two men wearing chainmail galloped directly across the field from which the birds had fled, their horses’s hooves throwing up large clods of earth. A peasant who was scattering seed along the neatly ploughed rows cried out in anguish at the destruction of his work. The armored men paid no heed to the protests, not even pausing to strike at the peasant for daring to complain.

  The two clearly weren’t interested in peasants, only in Desmond and Elaine. They reached the muddy road and turned on to it, not slowing their advance as they came closer.

  “They aren’t going to waste time in talking,” Desmond remarked in a conversational tone. He was ready for them, sword in hand, reins loosely looped around the pommel of his saddle. While fighting he would control his horse with just the pressure of his muscular thighs.

  Elaine drew the knife he had given her from its sheath and sat waiting, afraid yet determined not to be taken down. She and Desmond mustn’t be stopped in their purpose; they could not be prevented from reaching Caen and Royce. She vowed to do whatever was necessary to see they carried out their mission.

  The first man reached Desmond and began a furious assault with his broadsword. Elaine couldn’t see how Desmond was faring against him, for she was occupied with the second man. He rode directly at her, forcing her horse away from Desmond’s protection. The man’s right arm snaked out to pull her from her mount. The attempt might have worked, if she hadn’t been riding astride. She clamped her knees against her horse’s sides and stabbed as hard as she could at her attacker, aiming for his outstretched right arm. The knife jabbed through the chainmail with a wrench that pulled the blade from Elaine’s hand.

  The man yelped in pain, then tried to turn his horse so as to cut off any hope of escape by forcing her farther away from Desmond. Elaine reacted swiftly, taking the only defensive action she could think of in the heat of the moment. She pulled hard on the reins until her horse reared upward, thrashing the air with its sharp hooves.

  Blood spurted around her. She wasn’t sure if it came from the man attacking her, from his horse, or from her own horse. A shriek rang in her ears, deafening her for a moment or two and, again, she wasn’t certain if its origin was human or animal. She was still in the saddle, but her horse was circling wildly, fighting her efforts to control it, and she was utterly disoriented, not knowing where Desmond was, or even where the road was. The shriek went on and on, then suddenly stopped.

  In the abrupt silence Elaine looked down to see a chainmail-clad figure lying facedown on the road. A few feet away Desmond dismounted and, reaching up, hauled the limp, bleeding figure of an assailant from his horse to the ground.

  “Elaine!”

  She heard her name through the ringing in her ears and saw Desmond’s shape wavering in the mist that swam before her eyes.

  “Dismount before you fall off your horse.”

  The sharp command sent her out of the saddle to stand next to the horse. Fearing she’d crumple to the ground, she held on tightly to the saddle.

  “Are you hurt?” Desmond called. “Damnation, woman, answer me!”

  “I – I am unharmed.”

  “Then come here,” he ordered.

  At first she wasn’t sure she was capable of obeying. Then she let go of the support of her horse and put one foot before the other, moving slowly toward Desmond, until he reached out and took her hand.

  Only then did she realize he wasn’t looking at her. With his right hand he was holding the tip of his sword against the throat of the bloody, gasping man who had attacked him.

  “I want you to hear what he says,” Desmond told her, his gaze never leaving his prisoner’s pale face. To the man, he said, “Who sent you to kill us?” The tip of his sword prodded gently.

  “I’m dying,” the man cried.

  “So you are,” Desmond agreed grimly. “And it’s your own fault. All you have to answer is, yes or no. Did Sir Edmund send you after us, with orders to kill us?”

  “Yes.” The man choked and a dribble of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth. Desmond moved the sword away, just an inch or so.

  “You haven’t much time left,” Desmond said. “Speak the truth now and I promise, when I reach Caen, I’ll order Masses said for you. If you value your immortal soul, tell me why Sir Edmund wants us dead.”

  “Plot,” the man whispered. “Invasion. Kill the king -” He choked again.

  “Did you attack my squire on the dock at Cherbourg?” Desmond asked.

  “Yours?” The dribble of blood became a narrow stream across his chin. “He was – so young. Sorry.”

  “You didn’t kill him,” Desmond said. “So, there’s one less sin on your soul. Richard lives. As for what you tried to do to us here, I forgive you.”

  “You – fool.” One last malicious glint shone from the man’s eyes before they went blank.

  “No doubt I am a fool.” Desmond reached to close the man’s lids. “A fool like you, caught in the schemes of great men.”

  He stared for so long at the face of the man he had killed that Elaine wondered if he was committing it to memory, so he could recall it later. And, perhaps, torment himself for the death? If so, Elaine had her own face to remember, for the second attacker remained unmoving a short distance away.

  Compelled to view her handiwork, she walked over to the man. His head lay at an odd angle and his eyes were open, staring at the fresh, green grass he could no longer see.

  Elaine’s stomach heaved. She turned aside, but before she could take more than two steps, everything she had eaten since waking that morning spewed out of her in great, convulsive bursts.

  Then Desmond was holding her around the waist, pulling her tangled, sweaty hair away from her face, supporting her until she finished retching.

  “It’s al
l right,” he murmured, tugging her back against his chest so she could lean on him. “Every man I know was sick after his first time in battle. You are not trained for warfare, yet you acquitted yourself well.”

  “Well?” she screamed, weeping. “I killed him!”

  “He would have killed you. And then killed me, if his friend was unsuccessful. Though, in truth,” Desmond said, looking toward the awkwardly sprawled body, “I question whether you struck a fatal blow. From the way he’s lying there, I’d say he broke his neck falling from his horse.”

  “I made him fall.” She rested her head against Desmond’s shoulder, drawing strength from his quiet and self-possessed manner. “I made my horse rear. I think I startled his mount, so it reared, too, and he fell. I only wounded his arm, but still, I am the cause of his death.”

  “As he would have been the cause of yours, if you weren’t brave enough to fight back.” Desmond turned her around to face him and she winced. “Your shoulder is bleeding. I thought you said you were unhurt.”

  “I’m bleeding?” She looked at her shoulder with little interest. She was too numb to feel much of anything. “So I am. But so are you.”

  “Listen to me, Elaine. Pay attention.” His gentle voice became sharp. “I need your help. We have to move these men away from the road and hide them in the bushes, in case Sir Edmund sends a second patrol after them.”

  “The man who was working in the field has run away,” she said, still unable to think clearly about the two dead men and the danger they might yet represent.

  “In that he showed good peasant sense. If he’s questioned later, he will probably claim he saw and heard nothing.”

  “What shall we do?”

  “First, we hide the bodies and send the horses on their way. Most likely, they’ll wander back to St. Lo. Next, we will do what that sensible peasant did, and run away. We still have to reach Caen. The farther we are from this spot when darkness falls, the less likely we are to be troubled a second time by Sir Edmund’s men-at-arms.”

  “Hide the bodies,” she repeated dully. She swallowed hard against the new surge of bile rising in her throat at the thought of touching either of the men they had killed.

  “If we don’t reach Caen in time,” Desmond said, speaking slowly and clearly, as if she was a child who was unable to understand grownup reasoning, “the French king’s spies will kill King Henry, and Louis of France will seize all of Normandy. You and I are the only ones who can stop their wicked scheme.”

  “Cadwallon,” she murmured, then shook her head because she knew what Desmond would say next.

  “We cannot be sure Cadwallon will reach Caen before we do. Not with the weather so undependable. In the end, it’s up to us. King Henry’s life lies in our hands. And many other lives besides.”

  “The French will kill Royce, too,” she whispered, beginning to emerge from the numbness that had held her since the attack against them ended. “They will make certain it’s a long and grisly death.”

  “Aye.” Desmond released her shoulders. “Let’s be quick about what we must do, and then be on our way. We are fortunate there have been no other travelers on this section of the road.”

  Desmond placed his hands in the armpits of the man with the broken neck and began to pull him toward a clump of bushes growing some distance off the road. Elaine caught the man around the knees to take some of the weight from Desmond’s wounded arm. They tucked the first body behind the bushes, then went back for the second man, laying him next to his companion in arms.

  “The grass is bloody,” Elaine said as they returned to the road to see to the horses.

  “I know. It can’t be helped.” Desmond kicked at the grass, roughening it, but nothing could conceal the evidence of recent violence.

  While Desmond worked at the grass, Elaine rounded up all four horses. Her mount appeared unhurt, nor did Desmond’s horse show any sign of injury. She did find a slash on the forequarters of her assailant’s horse.

  “It doesn’t look serious,” Desmond said, examining the cut. “What are you doing?”

  “I found a wineskin, and it’s full.” She unplugged the skin and rinsed out her mouth with some of the wine. Then she poured out the remainder, using the wine to wash away the blood on the ground. When the wineskin was empty, she reattached it to the saddle. “Let anyone who finds this horse think its rider drank all the wine.”

  “Good thinking. I’m glad to know you are recovering.”

  “I’m not as sure about that as you are,” she murmured.

  Desmond did not respond to her remark. To keep the reins of the two extra horses from snagging and possibly causing harm to the animals, he looped each pair of reins around the pommels of the saddles they still wore. Then he slapped the horses on their rumps, sending them back down the road toward Torigni.

  “We need to find a stream,” Elaine said, “so we can clean our wounds and bandage them.” She was surprised and oddly pleased to discover that her mind was clearing. She doubted she would ever forget how she had caused a man’s death, but Desmond was right; they had been attacked with the intention of murder. It could just as easily have been her body, and his, lying under those bushes.

  When Desmond offered his linked hands, she set her foot in them and leapt to the saddle. She stayed close to him until the road curved and the location of their skirmish was out of sight.

  With a puzzled frown, the Spy observed the spot where the messenger pigeons from Jersey always perched. They were never late, but this evening the roost was empty. He wondered what had happened to delay the pigeon he expected. Was the bird coming at all? Was it possible that his agent on Jersey had been discovered?

  It scarcely mattered, for nothing could stop the plan now. A message delivered to him earlier in the day had informed him that Louis of France and his ally, the count of Flanders, were on their way. They would join forces at St. Quentin and invade Upper Normandy together. King Henry, at Caen in Lower Normandy, would never know of the coming invasion. For Henry, the duke of Normandy who was also king of England, was going to die as mysteriously as his brother, King William Rufus, had died sixteen years earlier in the New Forest of England.

  Truly, being a member of the family of William the Conqueror was a dangerous business. Spying was far safer. The Spy caressed the jeweled hilt of the knife he had chosen to use when he took Henry’s life. His long fingers slid over the steel with sensual pleasure. Indeed, spying presented its own rewards…

  Chapter 17

  Before they found a stream, they came upon a village large enough to boast an inn that served the folk who traveled along the northbound road to Caen.

  “In another hour it will be too dark for us to continue,” Desmond said. “I’ll tell the innkeeper I need a room for myself and my wife. By taking a single room and acting as though we are ordinary travelers, we may escape notice if Sir Edmund’s henchmen come looking for us. If other men than the two who attacked us are following, they are remarkably skillful about it. I’ve been watching the road behind us and on either side, and I haven’t noticed any sign of pursuit. Have you?”

  “No. Perhaps those men who attacked us aren’t expected to return to St. Lo until tomorrow,” Elaine answered. “Possibly, they were told to flee elsewhere after killing us.” She shuddered to say it, but Desmond looked hopeful when he heard her words.

  “We have to stop because we both need to sleep,” he said. “The horses need to rest, too. We’ll leave before dawn and make a hard run to Caen. Wrap your cloak close around yourself to hide your shoulder wound. Most people are travel-stained by day’s end, so we shouldn’t arouse undue curiosity.”

  As soon as Desmond dismounted in the inn yard, he pulled his own cloak over his bleeding left arm. A few coins to the stableboy assured food, water and a rubdown for the horses. Desmond dealt next with the innkeeper. A short time later he and Elaine were shown to an upstairs room that looked out upon the road. Elaine went to the window to watch the road for anyone who look
ed like a man-at-arms, while Desmond arranged with the innkeeper for two buckets of hot water, to be followed by food and wine.

  “I don’t see anyone who looks the least bit dangerous,” Elaine said once they were alone. “The only travelers are a man and woman with three young children, and two nuns. Unless Sir Edmund’s people are experts in disguise, they haven’t found us.”

  Desmond surveyed the room with a frown. It wasn’t very large and most of the space was taken up by the bed. A wooden stool and a small table completed the furnishings. A basin for washing and a bowl half full of soap sat on the table.

  “This is hardly suitable lodging for a noblewoman,” he said.

  “Being chased by murderers is hardly suitable for a noblewoman.” Elaine responded more tartly than she meant to do. She added in a milder tone of voice, “Be glad we can bolt the door and feel reasonably safe.”

  Safe from would-be assailants, perhaps, but not from her own tumultuous and conflicting emotions. She tried to tell herself the trembling she felt deep inside had nothing to do with the realization that she’d be spending the night alone with Desmond. It was merely the aftermath of their terrifying experience, and of the need to fight for their very lives. The image of the man who had attacked her lying on the ground with his neck broken as a result of her actions hovered in her mind and would not go away. She wanted to ask Desmond if such fearsome illusions were common after a battle, but before she could speak a knock on the door announced a pair of servant girls bearing buckets of hot water and a boy carrying a small metal tub and a couple of thin towels.

  “Father says ta tell ye, ye’ll have yer meal in less than an hour by the sand glass,” the boy informed Desmond.

  “Thank you.” A few more coins crossed hands and then Desmond and Elaine were alone again, left to stare at each other over the steaming water. Elaine was finding it difficult to breathe.

  “Your wound needs tending,” she said, rousing herself to practical matters.