Where Love Has Gone (13 page)

“This particular lady has a fondness for
dim-witted children,” Desmond replied. “After all, she married my
brother.”

Cadwallon laughed. “As it happens, I know
your brother. Magnus is one of the most intelligent men I’ve ever
met.”

“Which is why he will see the sound reasoning
in my request that he take Jean into his home and protect him. All
I have to do is convince Lady Benedicta to hand Jean over to
me.”

“Will he want to leave Warden’s Manor so long
as Elaine remains here?” Ewan asked.

“If Lady Benedicta bids him go, Jean won’t
have a choice,” Cadwallon said.

“My lady, I have come to offer my
condolences,” Desmond said.

Lady Benedicta was in the solar, where she
sat before a large wooden embroidery frame, her fingers working
with the skill of long years of practice. Unfortunately for
Desmond’s purpose, the frame was arranged so the late afternoon
light shining through the windows fell over Lady Benedicta’s left
shoulder and onto the linen she was embroidering. Thus, her face
was mostly in shadow and Desmond was unable to discern her emotions
from her expression. Her spoken response was ordinary.

“How kind of you to think of me, Sir
Desmond.” The lady’s rapidly moving fingers pushed the needle
through the linen and drew the bright blue thread up, poised for
the next stitch.

“It does seem to me as if Aglise’s death must
be rather like the loss of your own child.” Unbidden, Desmond
pulled forward a stool and sat on it. He was sure he hadn’t
mistaken the glint of anger in Lady Benedicta’s eyes at his
unmannerly presumption, nor the way her fingers paused in their
steady motion for just a moment before she resumed her
needlework.

“I pity anyone who dies at so young an age,”
Lady Benedicta said.

“You must be grieving deeply.”

“I was not overly fond of Aglise. She was
always a difficult girl, frivolous and uninterested in learning
what young women ought to know in order to become good wives and
chatelaines. Still, as I said, I do pity her early death.” Lady
Benedicta’s voice revealed no emotion. She appeared to be as calm
as always, not in the least upset by the death she claimed to
pity.

“If you wish to write to Aglise’s mother, I
will gladly carry the letter for you,” Desmond offered, adding,
“Cadwallon and I intend to return to court soon after the
funeral.”

“The duty of writing to Lady Irmina falls to
Lord Bertrand.”

“Of course.” Desmond watched as the needle
flashed like a tiny sword, the blue thread trailing in and out of
the linen. “I only thought, as one mother to another, you would
wish to offer comfort.”

“I very much doubt that Lady Irmina will
require comfort from me.” Lady Benedicta tied off and trimmed the
blue thread with a tiny pair of golden scissors. She picked up a
scarlet thread from the selection of multicolored silks on the
table next to the embroidery frame. “It is my impression that
Irmina found Aglise as great a trial as I did, and that she was
relieved to hand her over to Lord Bertrand and me. I understand
Irmina has taken a young husband. Surely, he will offer his own
form of comfort.”

Lady Benedicta lifted her chin and looked
directly at Desmond. When she spoke again, he felt as if she was
challenging him.

“Was there anything else you wanted to say to
me, Sir Desmond?”

“In fact, there is, my lady. I want to beg a
great favor of you.”

“What favor?” She threaded the scarlet silk
through the needle and continued her work. “I have noticed that
Jean, the kitchen boy, is rather slow-witted.” Desmond watched,
fascinated, as Lady Benedicta fashioned a bright red flower out of
the silk thread. Sitting where he was, he saw the embroidery from
the wrong side, yet the back of the work was exquisitely precise,
tiny stitch upon tiny stitch, and he noted the complexity of the
overall pattern.

“What is Jean’s slow-wittedness to you, or to
me?” Lady Benedicta finished off the red flower and replaced the
scarlet silk with green.

“In truth, it’s little to me, my lady.
However, my sister-in-law, out of Christian charity, makes a
practice of welcoming such children into her home and teaching them
useful work. I would like to take Jean with me when I leave, and
give him to my pious relative, who would receive him as a blessed
opportunity. The boy cannot be much use to you.” Desmond knew his
brother would have his head for the lies he was telling. If he ever
learned of the lies.

“I will consider the matter,” Lady Benedicta
said. “The cook does complain of him, so perhaps she will be glad
to see the last of him.”

“Can you tell me anything about Jean’s
parents?” Desmond asked.

“I believe he is the by-blow of the last
Warden of Jersey, gotten on some foolish maidservant,” Lady
Benedicta said. “It happens far too often.”

Desmond stared at her serene face in the
shadowy light, wishing he could see it better, trying to detect any
shade of anger on it and failing. He wondered if she knew about her
husband’s secret meetings with Aglise.

“Am I correct in understanding that you are
Royce of Wortham’s man?” Lady Benedicta asked.

“Not so, my lady. I am sworn directly to King
Henry’s service.”

“I was mistaken. I was going to ask you to
remember me to Lord Royce. He and I have not met for some
years.”

“If Royce is at court when I return there, I
will gladly seek him out to convey your message to him.” Desmond
pondered the possible reason for Lady Benedicta’s abrupt change of
subject. “Is there anything in particular you would like me to say
to Royce?”

“Just that I remember him well, especially
his unwavering devotion to King Henry.”

“Royce is loyal,” Desmond agreed. A peculiar
note in Lady Benedicta’s voice pricked at his senses, making him
puzzle over the true meaning behind her message. He couldn’t
readily decipher that note – it sounded vaguely like a threat – and
he couldn’t understand what the lady was getting at. Nor could he
think why she hadn’t included a few words of sympathy for Royce,
who was Aglise’s godfather, after all, and who would surely be
shocked and saddened by her death.

Lady Benedicta looked up when a youthful
maidservant entered the solar and stood waiting until her mistress
noticed her. Lady Benedicta stabbed her needle into the linen and
part way out again, fixing it in place against the time when she
returned to her embroidery. Then she stood, and the good manners
Desmond had violated earlier by sitting without an invitation
compelled him to rise, also.

“You must excuse me,” Lady Benedicta said.
“Marie is waiting for me to join her in the linen room. She
requires supervision if she is to stack the clean linens properly,
and Elaine is presently unavailable.”

“Linens,” Desmond said. “A moment, if you
please, my lady. I have only just thought of something I should
have asked you at once. Do you keep a close count of the castle
linens?”

“Every good chatelaine does, Sir Desmond.”
She watched him with calm face and slightly raised eyebrows.

“Are you missing any sheets?”

“If we were, I would know it.”

“That is exactly why I am asking. Who better
than you to know if the linen used to wrap Lady Aglise came from
your own linen room?”

“I believe Aglise was draped in the sort of
blanket that is used by the men-at-arms.”

“She was. Flamig offered his blanket to cover
her while we returned her to the castle. But underneath the
blanket, she was wrapped in linen. I wondered if you had noticed a
missing sheet, perhaps about the time when Aglise disappeared.”

“Sir Desmond, I assure you again, if any
linens were missing, I would be aware of it. I count the sheets
after every wash day.” With a slight nod, Lady Benedicta sailed out
of the solar, the maidservant hurrying after her.

“Now why didn’t you give me a simple answer?”
Desmond asked softly. “Why didn’t you just say yes, or no? Are you
hiding something, my lady? Or are you protecting someone?”

By the time Desmond reached the chapel,
Aglise lay on a bier before the altar, her slender form completely
enveloped by a heavy linen cerecloth, rather than the usual
covering of a simple white linen pall. Since her body was badly
decomposed, the waxed cerecloth would provide greater protection,
both for the deceased and for those who came to pray at her side.
The strong scent of incense allowed only the faintest whiff of an
unpleasant odor to permeate the small space.

Four tall candles in brass holders standing
at Aglise’s head and feet flickered as Desmond let himself in and
then closed the heavy chapel door. He was surprised to see Lord
Bertrand upon his knees on the
prieu-dieu
set beside the
bier. His dark head was bent into his hands, so Desmond couldn’t
see his face, though he thought he heard a muffled sob.

Desmond stayed quietly where he was, just
inside the door, waiting patiently for Lord Bertrand to finish his
prayers. Whatever he was saying, whether to God or to Aglise, those
prayers took a long time. When at last he lurched to his feet, Lord
Bertrand moved stiffly, as if his whole body ached, as if he was a
very old man. The face he turned to Desmond was ravaged, his eyes
red-rimmed and tragic.

“I did not hear you come in,” Lord Bertrand
said, rubbing both hands over his face.

“I’ve only been here a moment,” Desmond lied.
Glancing toward the shape on the bier, he decided to risk letting
his host guess just how much he knew. “You were fond of her, I
think.”

“Aye, I was. Everyone here at the manor or in
the village was – well, nearly everyone was. More than that, I was
responsible for her, and I failed her.”

“We will find whoever did this,” Desmond
promised, as he had earlier promised Elaine.

“What difference will it make?” Lord Bertrand
cried in a voice drenched in despair. “She is gone now, and all her
brightness and laughter gone with her, and nothing can bring her
back.” He stopped and, with a visible effort, drew himself up with
dignity. “Excuse me, Sir Desmond. I have duties and you, no doubt,
have prayers to offer. So should we all pray for her, poor, sweet
girl that she was.”

He did not look back at the bier; he only
stood perfectly still for a moment, his gaze upon the chapel door
that led to the rest of the manor, and Desmond had the feeling he
was gathering his strength, stiffening his resolve to face what lay
beyond the door. Then, without another word, he was gone and the
door swung shut behind him.

Desmond was far from being a pious man, yet
he went to his own knees on the
prieu-dieu
and clasped his
hands together while he said a short prayer for the girl he had
never met. Then he rose and went in search of the priest.

He found Father Otwin in the little robing
room just off the back of the chapel. He was a short, wiry man,
middle-aged, with grey hair fringing his tonsure, and warm, blue
eyes.

“Ah, Sir Desmond.” The priest came forward.
“I managed to convince Lady Elaine to leave long enough to change
into a dry gown and, I hope, to rest a little. She did warn me that
you were certain to want to question me.”

“Warned you?” Desmond permitted himself a
faint smile. “Why, Father Otwin, have you something to hide? But
then, why not? Everyone else at Warden’s Manor seems to be hiding
some dark secret.”

“I am a simple man, with few secrets of my
own, and none of them very dark,” Father Otwin said, answering
Desmond’s smile with an open and cheerful grin. “I will do all I
can to help you.”

“Since Lady Elaine is deeply distressed by
what has happened to her sister,” Desmond said, “I’d rather ask you
for information that might disturb her still more.”

“Certainly.” Father Otwin gestured to
indicate they should move back into the chapel. “Ask away, Sir
Desmond.”

“Did you help Elaine to prepare Aglise’s
body?”

“It was my duty to be present. Lady Elaine
insisted she alone ought to care for her sister’s remains but –
well, Sir Desmond, you saw those remains, so you know their
condition. Once or twice Lady Elaine was nearly overcome by sorrow,
so I stepped in to do what was needed.”

“Father, did you observe any signs of
violence upon Lady Aglise’s body?”

“I was prepared to find a stab wound, or
bruises and broken tissue on her neck if she was strangled, but
there were no such signs,” Father Otwin answered. “Nor was there
any indication of drowning.”

“Can you tell if someone has drowned?”
Desmond asked in surprise.

“Living here on an island, I have, sadly
enough, learned to recognize those signs. Sometimes, when drowning
has occurred, there is bloody foam in the mouth. Or when handling
the body, salty fluid runs out of the mouth or nose. Lady Aglise
has been dead for some time, so it is difficult for me to be
absolutely certain, but, no, I saw nothing to suggest she died of
drowning.”

“No tell-tale wounds, no bruises, no sign of
drowning,” Desmond summed up in mounting frustration. He glanced
toward the bier, then looked away, facing the priest again. “Does
anything about that poor girl’s body suggest to you how she
died?”

“I have concluded that she must have been
poisoned,” Father Otwin said.

“Poisoned?” Desmond echoed.

“She was a healthy young woman. I’ve known
Lady Aglise for two years and in all that time she has never been
sick. Unlike many young noblewomen, she always had a hearty
appetite, so she was not weak and thin. Yet, without any visible
wounds, she is dead. What other possibility exists but poison?”

“A blow to the head that is hidden by her
hair?” Desmond suggested.

“I looked beneath her hair when I combed it,”
Father Otwin assured him. “I made sure to feel her entire skull. I
do not think she was struck on the head.”