Where Love Has Gone (15 page)

“Are you saying you intend to remain for
another two or three days?” Lady Benedicta asked, frowning in
unconcealed disapproval. “I wish you would leave us alone to mourn
as we see fit.”

“As you may recall, my lady,” Desmond said in
a mild tone, “I sent my squire to Captain Piers with a message
asking him to come to Gorey as soon as he could. He may well appear
tomorrow.”

Lady Benedicta’s reaction to this statement
was a frosty silence. A few moments later she left the table. Her
husband sat in morose silence, drinking cup after cup of wine.

“Well,” Cadwallon said when the somber meal
finally was over, “I suppose I ought to attend the vigil, for a
little while, at least.”

“All right, but don’t stay long,” Desmond
told him. “I want you here in the hall, or in the entry, to watch
the folk who go into the chapel and to observe their manner. Also,
take note of those who do not join the vigil.”

“Where will you be while I’m watching?”
Cadwallon demanded. “Let me guess. You’ll be in the chapel, next to
Elaine, and so concerned with her that you pay no heed to the
behavior of anyone else. Ewan can easily take the post you’ve
assigned to me out here to keep an eye on the hall and the entry. I
will stand just inside the chapel door, so I can observe every face
going in and leaving.”

“Never again dare to suggest to me that I
have forgotten my duty!” Desmond said sharply. Placing his hand on
his sword hilt he added, “Not unless you are prepared to defend
your words against my objection to them.”

“What I was trying to suggest,” Cadwallon
replied with a decidedly sheepish grin, “is that we have no cause
to fear for Elaine’s safety so long as she is in the chapel with
Father Otwin near. That good man will not hesitate to raise the
alarm if he perceives any threat to Elaine. Now, what say you to my
plan?”

“Your plan is a good one,” Desmond said,
reluctantly consenting because he knew in his heart that Cadwallon
had taken his measure so far as Elaine was involved. Cadwallon knew
he wanted Elaine and probably understood his growing frustration.
“Station Ewan in the entry.”

Cadwallon spoke to his squire, then he and
Desmond entered the chapel. They found Elaine seated on a stool by
the head of the bier.

“I insisted upon the stool,” Father Otwin
told Desmond. “Otherwise, she would have spent the night on her
knees.”

First Desmond, then Cadwallon went to the
prieu-dieu
to kneel there and say a prayer for the repose of
Aglise’s soul. When they were finished they took up their
positions, Cadwallon standing by the door as they had decided.
Desmond moved nearer to Elaine, trying to blend into the shadows at
that side of the chapel. She gave no indication of noticing his
presence. Her head was bowed, her hands tightly clasped in her
lap.

With the day’s duties completed for most of
them, the castle folk began to arrive to pay their respects. They
came singly or in small groups, and and most stayed only a few
minutes. Desmond watched them with a sharp gaze. He observed tears,
heard a few sobs, saw an occasional hand placed on the cerecloth as
if to be certain Aglise really lay beneath it. Jean came, and wept
copiously, until one of the older maidservants put an arm about his
heaving shoulders and led him away. Elaine, locked in her own
grief, barely glanced at him.

Lady Benedicta appeared, to walk with stately
grace to the
prieu-dieu
and kneel on it. She did not stay
long. Her face was composed and her eyes were dry. Desmond gave her
credit for not pretending to a sorrow she did not feel.

After Lady Benedicta was gone more servants
and more men-at-arms came in to say a prayer. A few of them paused
to speak to Elaine, who barely nodded her acknowledgement of their
presence.

The hour was growing late. Desmond shifted
position and wriggled his shoulders to loosen the tight muscles. He
marveled at the way Elaine sat so quietly, without moving. But not
without thinking, he was sure; even deep in grief her intelligence
would be hard at work, seeking the truth of her sister’s death.

Then Lord Bertrand arrived. He stumbled a bit
on his way to the bier and from the wine fumes wafting across the
chapel, Desmond judged he had been drinking heavily ever since the
evening meal. He fell to his knees on the
prieu-dieu
and
buried his face in his hands. His massive shoulders shook.

Elaine stirred a little and looked toward her
foster father before, with a sigh, she bowed her head again,
resuming her mourning posture.

A short time later half a dozen squires came
through the door together, making a bit more noise than was
strictly respectful. Apparently hearing them, Lord Bertrand rubbed
his hands over his face and rose to leave. Desmond noted how
unsteady he was, though he hadn’t been kneeling for very long.
Definitely, he’d had too much to drink. The squires courteously
stood aside to let him pass.

Lord Bertrand headed for the door and the
squires shuffled around, whispering among themselves as they
decided who should approach the bier first. As young men will do
when trying their best to be serious, one of them gave a nervous
laugh.

Desmond looked away from the squires and
toward Cadwallon just in time to see him pull the chapel door shut
after the departing Lord Bertrand. Then Cadwallon bent to pick up
something from the floor. Desmond lifted his eyebrows in a question
and Cadwallon smiled and mouthed the word, “later.”

As soon as the squires finished their prayers
and left, Cadwallon beckoned to Desmond to join him.

“Come outside a moment,” Cadwallon whispered.
“I don’t want to disturb Elaine. Let her mourn in peace until her
sister is buried.”

As quietly as possible they opened the chapel
door and stepped into the entry hall.

“Lord Bertrand dropped this just now. The
noise the squires made covered the sound of it landing,” Cadwallon
said, his voice barely above a whisper. He held up a chain of
dainty gold links, from which dangled a small gold cross. “I do
believe we have our proof.”

“Proof of a liaison, perhaps,” Desmond
murmured, looking closer. “This is not necessarily proof that
Bertrand is a murderer.”

“All right, then,” Cadwallon said. Suddenly,
he appeared remarkably determined for one who was usually relaxed
and slow-moving, and his quiet voice took on a steely note. “You
told me how Elaine was searching for this necklace in the cave,
claiming Aglise always wore it, so it should be there. I see no
reason to doubt Elaine’s word.

“I’m guessing whoever killed Aglise took the
chain from her neck after she was dead. She bore no marks on her
neck, which means the clasp was unfastened so the necklace could be
removed. Bertrand is the person who dropped it. We need to hear his
explanation for having it. Shall we confront him now, while he’s
drunk and thus may speak more easily? Or, shall we wait until after
the funeral? I refuse to wait any longer than that.”

“We will do it after the funeral,” Desmond
commanded. “In fact, we’ll wait until after the funeral feast.”

“You are thinking of Elaine’s feelings, and
not of capturing a killer,” Cadwallon accused him.

“For a married man with a child on the way,
you are remarkably reckless, aren’t you?” Desmond’s hand rested on
his sword hilt again for a moment, before he relaxed at his
partner’s grin. “Think, Cadwallon. Bertrand isn’t going anywhere.
If we speak to him now, he can claim later that his wits were
addled by wine and grief.”

“Grief?” Cadwallon’s voice rose in anger.
“Remorse over a young woman’s death?”

“For God’s sake, man, keep your voice down!
The necklace is evidence, not proof. Don’t forget, Bertrand is lord
of this manor and his word is law here. We will speak to him
tomorrow. Until then, we will continue to watch him closely.”

“And protect Elaine at the same time?”
Cadwallon muttered.

“And Jean, too,” Desmond added. “You can set
Ewan to that task.”

“Do you really think either of them is in
danger?”

“I don’t know, but there’s no harm in being
cautious. You said yourself, something strange is going on. I have
a feeling you’re right about that, and murder may not be the worst
of it.”

“Fine,” Cadwallon ground out, clearly
exasperated. “I’ll speak to Ewan. Then we’ll go back into the
chapel and stand there all night long.”

“Exactly what I intend to do,” Desmond
said.

Caen, Normandy

The Spy held the parchment to the candle
flame and let it burn. Parchment was so expensive that it was
usually scraped and cleaned many times so it could be used again
and again. But not this letter, or any other communication he
received from his associates. He dared not take the risk that
someone with sharp eyes might be able to read the earlier messages
in spite of careful cleaning. Better to burn the parchment and be
safe.

He considered this particular missive to be
unnecessary, for his associate on Jersey persisted in telling him
only what he already knew. The sole point of interest – and not
very great interest at that – in this most recent letter was the
fact that Royce had sent a second agent to assist the first. The
Spy knew Cadwallon and didn’t think much of him, so his presence on
the island scarcely mattered.

As for Aglise, the secrecy of King Louis’s
plan was essential, so of course the silly girl had to die. He saw
no reason to make such a fuss over a necessary deed that was
already two months old.

The last fragments of the letter crumpled
into ashes, falling into a pewter bowl. The Spy tossed them on the
lighted brazier and stood watching until they were no more than a
pale powder, from which no glimmer of their message could possibly
be discerned.

A sound from the adjoining bedchamber alerted
him. She was there, awaiting him. He grimaced with distaste,
knowing there was no escape from her. As he expected, she had
tossed the coverlet aside and lay sprawled naked on the sheet,
already caressing her own breasts, as he had taught her.

“I need you,” she whimpered.

“Of course, you do.” He wore only a loose
robe, easily removed.

“I adore your body,” she said, panting a
little. “Please hurry. I’m so eager for you. Why aren’t you
hard?

“I’m trying to control myself. I want to
please you slowly, to teach you something we’ve never done
before.”

She uttered a shocked gasp when he flipped
her onto her stomach. Her buttocks were not as firm as he’d like.
Still, the sight of her squirming flesh roused him. He caught her
hips and lifted them, then leaned over her to tickle her
breasts.

“What are you doing?” she cried.

“Hush,” he whispered into her ear. “You don’t
want your maid to run in and stop us, do you?” The thought of
compelling the sour-faced, always disapproving maid to join them
made him so rigid he knew he could do what must be done. Pressing
her face into the pillow to muffle her cries, he grabbed her hips
to hold them still as he plunged inside. Then he reached around to
rub her core until she uttered a smothered cry and bucked against
him, driving him deeper. With a groan he gave himself up to the
dark pleasure, holding her closer, relishing her ecstasy, for it
confirmed his skill. When he finally stopped moving, she turned her
head.

“I love you so much,” she murmured over her
shoulder.

“I know you do,” he responded in smug
satisfaction.

It was raining. After days of bright
sunshine, heavy clouds billowed low over the sea, chilling the air.
Thick fog enshrouded all of the island of Jersey. The sea beyond
the island was invisible, its presence known only by the soft
sighing of the waves. If Desmond were a fanciful man, he might have
thought the sky, the sea, and the land were all grieving for
Aglise.

The funeral procession, with most of its
members on horseback and only a few on foot, slowly wound its way
out of Warden’s Manor and down the road into Gorey village toward
the cemetery. Inhabitants of the castle and the village lined the
route to see the black-draped cart that bore Aglise’s coffin.

Elaine rode between Lord Bertrand and Father
Otwin, with Desmond and Cadwallon just behind them. Lady Benedicta
had chosen to remain at the manor in order to supervise the final
details of the funeral feast.

Desmond glanced toward Elaine with growing
concern. He couldn’t see her face. She had pulled the hood of her
cloak up to keep off the steady rain. Her unnatural composure
worried him. Toward dawn Father Otwin had insisted she must eat
something and then sleep for a few hours, so she’d have the
strength to see the day through to evening. Elaine had refused,
until one of the older maids had come to the chapel to pay her
respects to Aglise before beginning her day’s work.

With Father Otwin and the maid both pleading
that Aglise wouldn’t want her beloved sister to fall ill, Elaine
gave in and left the chapel in company with the maid, who promised
the priest she’d see that Elaine ate something. At Cadwallon’s
order Ewan had followed, to stand guard at Elaine’s chamber door
until it was time for the Holy Mass that began the funeral
services.

In contrast to the service in the chapel,
which lasted for more than an hour, the prayers at the grave site
were brief and simple. Desmond took the brevity to be a reflection
of Father Otwin’s concern for Elaine’s health, were she to be kept
standing in the rain for very long. Also, perhaps, a reflection of
the priest’s concern about Lord Bertrand, for Aglise’s foster
father made no effort to hide his tears.

Elaine stood by her sister’s grave with her
face hard and unflinching, while the cold rain poured down. Desmond
noticed how she kept her distance from Lord Bertrand, stepping
aside when he put out his hand to her and making no attempt to
offer any comfort or support to him. Desmond considered her
behavior decidedly odd, not at all like the Elaine he had come to
know, the kind-hearted young noblewoman who would befriend an
ignorant kitchen boy. He wondered how much she guessed, or knew,
about Aglise’s affair with Lord Bertrand.