Where Love Has Gone (26 page)

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 you 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.

Blessedly, the waiting and wondering did not
last as long as the ordeal over Aglise, for with morning came the
news that Lady Benedicta’s body had been found.

“She was washed up on the beach below the
manor,” Flamig reported, having appeared in Lady Benedicta’s old
room where Elaine, Desmond, Cadwallon, and Jean were all assembled.
Jean was sleeping on a quilt in a corner of the room. Ewan was
feverish and Elaine and Cadwallon had spent the night washing him
with cool water in hope of reducing the fever.

“Judging by the time we found Ewan,” Flamig
said, “I think she walked into the water during the last hour of
the ebbing tide. So, when the tide turned, it brought her right
back to shore. She didn’t get far enough out to be swept away by
the current. We can be glad of that for Lord Bertrand’s sake.”

“Never mind Lord Bertrand. At least it’s
over,” Elaine said, her thoughts on Aglise. She was too exhausted
to consider the possible ramifications of Lady Benedicta’s
death.

“It’s not over,” Desmond said. “We now have a
new mystery. Why did she kill herself?”

“Can we be certain that’s what happened?”
Elaine asked.

“Aye, certain enough,” said Flamig. “Lady
Benedicta knew this island too well to make a mistake about the
tides. She shows no bruises, and there’s no sign at the bottom of
the path that anyone fell down it. If I’m right about the time it
happened, the tide was close to its lowest point, which meant she
had to walk a long way to reach the water. All of those details
indicate she went into the sea deliberately.”

“But, it still could have been an accident,”
Elaine persisted, unable to accept the idea of Lady Benedicta
taking her own life. To Elaine’s weary mind, Lady Benedicta was too
devious for so simple an explanation. “Perhaps she was meeting
someone on the beach, a fellow spy who was to take her away by
boat.”

“In this foul weather?” Flamig scoffed. “It’s
not likely, not when all the fishing boats are staying in port.
Lord Bertrand is quarreling with Father Otwin.”

“Why?” Elaine asked, puzzled by the change of
subject.

“Father Otwin refuses to bury Lady Benedicta
in consecrated ground. Suicides must lie outside the cemetery
border,” Flamig explained.

“Everyone knows that,” Elaine said. “I meant,
why are they quarreling?”

“Lord Bertrand is insisting Lady Benedicta
never intended to kill herself. I suppose his notion of noble honor
demands he cover the truth. Those two will be needing a peacemaker
about now. I’ll speak with you later, Sir Desmond.” Flamig
departed.

“For once I am in agreement with Lord
Bertrand,” Elaine said. “I find Flamig’s verdict difficult to
accept. Lady Benedicta was well aware of the Church’s teaching on
suicide, that forgiveness is impossible because the dead are beyond
repentance. Desmond, she showed no sign of madness when you
questioned her yesterday. I cannot imagine her doing such a
terrible thing while she was in her right mind. Unless...” She
paused, rubbing her forehead where a dull ache was beginning.
Beneath the pain lay a dreadful certainty.

“Go on,” Desmond said. “Unless what? You knew
her better than Cadwallon or I did.”

“Unless the game of spy that she was playing
involved very high stakes.” Elaine spoke slowly, working her way
through the idea that was becoming more real to her the longer she
considered it. “Perhaps she feared what your questioning might
elicit, more even than she feared taking her own life. If she knew
something of vital importance and was afraid she’d break down and
tell what she knew under fierce interrogation, then she may have
chosen death over betrayal.”

“That’s a peculiar choice of words to
describe a woman who betrayed her king,” Cadwallon said.

“She told us nothing about her fellow
conspirators, save that the man who recruited her was a French
nobleman,” Desmond remarked thoughtfully. “The only name she
offered was that of King Louis, which was no surprise to us. I had
hoped to question her again and I planned to demand names. But it’s
too late now.”

“Too late,” Elaine repeated. “Desmond, the
date on the message I found in Aglise’s sleeve; was I right? Is it
the first of May?”

“I believe so,” he answered, “though I won’t
know for certain until I decode the entire message, and I haven’t
had much time to work on it.”

“Perhaps, when we can read it, we’ll learn
the real reason why Lady Benedicta killed herself,” Elaine said.
She shivered. “I have a strong feeling that you ought to decode
what’s on that parchment as soon as possible.”

“Is the first of May six or seven days from
now?” Cadwallon asked.

“Six days.” Elaine rubbed her head again.
“Oh, I can barely think. First, we found Aglise and I sat up all
night keeping vigil for her. Next, Jean was injured, then poor Ewan
was stabbed. I can’t remember when I last slept for more than an
hour.”

“Since we no longer have to worry about Lady
Benedicta causing harm to anyone,” Desmond said, “go to your room
and sleep now. I’ll ask Flamig to send a man to stand outside your
door, if a guard will let you rest more easily. Cadwallon can stay
here tonight with Ewan, with Jean to assist him. Come along, my
lady, I’ll see you to your room.”

His hand was at her elbow and Elaine was too
weary to protest. When they reached her bedchamber, Desmond
insisted on entering first to make sure no one was lying in wait
for her.

“Lady Benedicta is gone,” Elaine said,
feeling as if her brain had turned to porridge. “The room is empty.
Who else would want to hurt me?”

“Perhaps no one.” Fearing she would swoon
from exhaustion, Desmond swept her up into his arms and set her on
the bed. He tugged off her shoes and unfastened her sash.

“Desmond,” she protested feebly.

“Hush.” He caught her face between his palms
and kissed her tenderly. “Let me help you.”

Coaxing, talking softly all the while, he
undressed her until she wore only her shift. Then, holding her in
one arm, he pulled the coverlet down and tucked her under it. His
hand brushed across her breast, the softness of her flesh sending a
jolt of fire into his loins.

“So kind to me,” she murmured, obviously half
asleep.

“Not really,” he told her as he fought eager
desire, knowing it was a battle he must win.

Kiss me.” Her request was so breathy he
barely heard it.

Desmond hesitated a moment, then bent to give
her what she wanted, bestowing a long, sweet kiss on her parted
lips. When he forced himself to step back, he saw that she was
already asleep.

“So much for my prowess as a lover,” he
whispered, and dropped another kiss on her forehead. “Sleep well,
dear girl, while I spend my night working on that mysterious
message.”

* * * * *

So, Aglise’s body had been discovered, after
all this time. The Spy didn’t like to imagine what the condition of
her remains must have been. He had last seen her almost three years
ago, when she was thirteen. She had been a pretty little thing,
with budding breasts and clear, creamy skin. The Spy recalled with
pleasure how fiercely she had fought him and how she continued to
beg for mercy even as he claimed her virginity. Then she had wept
again when it was over. Just thinking about the passionate battle
to ravish Aglise made his body harden.

With one hand he held the slip of parchment
containing Lady Benedicta’s coded message to a candle flame and let
it burn, while with the other hand he stroked himself.

He decided to join his wife in her
bedchamber. She was always happy to accept him, no matter at what
hour he approached her. In his current mood he’d have preferred a
woman who would struggle and weep for a time before submitting to
his superior strength. Still, bedding his own spouse was quicker
and more convenient than seeking out a less compliant female, and
he needed to find relief at once, for he had work to do that was
far more important than mere lust.

The parchment crumpled into ashes. As always,
to make perfectly certain no one would see the remains of the
message and wonder about it, the Spy dumped the tiny grey pieces
onto the hot charcoal in the brazier.

Then he knocked on the door between his
chamber and his wife’s. Not waiting for a response, still with one
hand tugging at his groin, he entered.

“Merciful Lord!” Desmond sat in his
bedchamber staring from the coded message Elaine had found to the
scraps of parchment on which he had worked out the meaning of the
message. It wasn’t a difficult code to decipher. Lady Benedicta and
her correspondent had probably thought they’d be the only ones to
read the message. As a result, all he had needed was a bit of
uninterrupted time.

“Poor, foolish Aglise,” Desmond muttered.
“You were mad to imagine you could threaten a committed spy with
this and still be allowed to live.”

A glance out the window showed him fog and
drizzling rain. He could only pray the
Daisy
would arrive
that day – or the following day at the latest. He couldn’t risk
delay. If he didn’t reach Caen in time to warn Royce, so Royce
could warn King Henry, he didn’t want to think what would
happen.

After tucking all of the parchment pieces
into the pouch at his belt so no one coming into the room would
find them, Desmond grabbed the single candle he’d been using and
left the bedchamber.

Cadwallon looked up as soon as he entered the
room where Ewan lay.

“He’s still feverish,” Cadwallon said in
response to Desmond’s question. “Elaine insists he will recover,
but I fear for him.”

“Ewan is young and healthy and Elaine appears
to be a fine nurse. Trust her judgment. Can you leave for a short
time? I have something to tell you, and I’d prefer to do it in
complete privacy.”