Where Love Has Gone (2 page)

“I didn’t leave her alone,” Cadwallon
continued in hasty response to Desmond’s shocked look. “Her sister
is visiting. Janet told me to go. She doesn’t like me to see her
hanging her head over a basin every morning. By the time I return,
she’ll be glad to have me back again.”

Desmond could think of nothing to say to
these domestic revelations, or to the information that Cadwallon
had not only worked for Royce in the past, but had earned a castle
by his efforts. That meant Cadwallon must possess sharper wits than
were evident on short acquaintance.

The realization that Royce had paired him
with a man who had a wife at home and a child on the way irritated
Desmond beyond reason. He didn’t like the idea of having to protect
Cadwallon along with two young women, if it came to that, as he
feared it would. Married men, and prospective fathers especially,
ought not to be spying.

For Desmond was sure spying was involved in
his present mission. Although Royce hadn’t said anything specific
about the state of affairs on Jersey, he had mentioned the
persistent French interest in the island. Desmond did not believe
Royce would send two experienced agents to search for a missing
girl on a small island unless some unspoken purpose lay behind the
assignment. Lord Bertrand’s men-at-arms, who must know the island
well, could search for Aglise more easily than two strangers.

Desmond regretted that he hadn’t insisted on
reading the letter Aglise’s sister had sent to Royce. There had to
be another reason why he and Cadwallon had been dispatched to
Jersey in such haste. He’d been eager to prove to Royce that he was
recovered from imprisonment and the resultant ill health, so he
hadn’t asked enough questions about this, his first assignment in
two years.

The manor house that guarded the eastern end
of Jersey was perched high on the cliffs of a small mountain.
Gazing up at the stone walls, all he could see from sea level,
Desmond judged that the men-at-arms who patrolled the enclave would
have a fine view of not only most of the island, but also the sea
approaches and, in clear weather, the coast of Normandy, just
fifteen miles away.

Captain Piers brought the
Daisy
into
the harbor of a little fishing village, berthing the ship at the
seaward end of a long quay, so the horses could be unloaded.

“This will be the village of Gorey,” Desmond
said in response to Cadwallon’s question. Before he could continue,
Captain Piers interrupted.

“I’ve timed it aright,” the captain informed
his passengers. “The tide’s at flood now, but ‘twill soon turn and
I need ta be well out at sea before then, or I’ll find meself
marooned here until the next high tide. So, ye’d best gather yer
belongings and be ashore as fast as ye can go. An’ good luck ta
ye.”

The squires were already leading the horses
down the gangplank to the quay.

“I see they’ve saddled our horses,” Cadwallon
said, watching the action. He spread his huge arms, stretching with
lazy ease. “It looks as if your squire has packed your saddlebags,
and Ewan never unpacked mine. What’s your squire’s name, by the
way? In case I have to call him.”

“Richard,” Desmond said, his manner curt.
Turning to Captain Piers, he added in the same tone, “I will expect
a message from you in seven days, as we agreed.”

“I’ve never failed Lord Royce,” said the
captain with some asperity, “nor any of his men, neither, as well
ye know. I’ll come back one week from this day and I’ll send an
ordinary-lookin’ fella, who won’t attract undue notice, up ta
Warden’s Manor with a sealed letter fer ye. Ye can send word by him
of when ye want ta leave the island, or ye can use the letter as an
excuse ta leave at once, if ye need ta do that.”

“Better send two men,” Cadwallon suggested,
“and arm both of them.”

“Aye, I’ll do so,” Captain Piers said,
nodding his approval of the idea. “‘Tis never safe ta send a man
alone inta a strange place. Now, mind ye remember about the tides
here. They come in strong and verra fast. Ye don’t want ta be
caught walkin’ upon the wet sand when the tide turns.”

“We won’t forget.” Desmond bid farewell to
the captain, then headed for the gangplank with Cadwallon
following.

“Jersey looks to be a pleasant spot,”
Cadwallon remarked as they rode through the village and onto the
narrow path that led upward to Warden’s Manor. “I like the warmth.
My Janet would enjoy seeing all these pretty flowers.”

Desmond spared only a glance for the
springtime beauty of the plants growing in rocky crevasses along
the way, filling the open spaces with delicate colors. As the path
wound higher he could see the
Daisy
standing out to sea and
he noticed how the tide was already receding from the shore of
Gorey village, leaving an ever-widening strip of wet sand.

Neither he nor Cadwallon wore chainmail,
their armor having been packed into the saddlebags. Being
ostensibly on a peaceful visit, both men were clad in woolen
tunics, hose and boots, with only their swords and eating knives
for protection. Both wore mantles slung over their shoulders,
though they didn’t need them. As Cadwallon had noted, the air was
pleasantly warm, and it was sweet with the scents of many flowers.
The early afternoon sea breeze ruffled Desmond’s short,
sandy-colored hair.

“I neglected to ask you,” Cadwallon said in a
companionable way, “whether Lord Bertrand knows we are coming?”

“He does not,” Desmond replied. In response
to his cold tone, Cadwallon cocked an eyebrow at him. Desmond
decided he’d better explain a little more fully. Annoyed though he
was by Cadwallon’s presence, he didn’t want to make an enemy of a
man whose help he was probably going to need. “Royce thought it
best not to provide any warning. That way, anyone who may have
colluded in Aglise’s disappearance won’t have time to make up a
false story.”

“You ought to have told me before this, and
without my asking.” Cadwallon spoke rather sharply for so
slow-moving and relaxed a man. “We are equal partners in this
mission, Desmond. I expect you to keep me apprised of whatever you
know, as I will inform you of anything I learn.”

“Fine. I’ll do that.” Desmond wished again
that he were riding to meet Lord Bertrand with only his squire for
company. Still, he could make use of his unwanted companion. “Since
you are a baron and I am only a knight, I suggest you appear to
lead our party. That way, while you converse with Lord Bertrand and
his lady, I will be free to ask questions of the lesser folk.”

“Which you no doubt consider the more
important work of our mission,” Cadwallon said agreeably.

As Desmond expected, they were stopped at the
gate set into the thick wall that surrounded the manor

“Royce of Wortham asked us to pay a visit to
his friend,” Cadwallon said, slipping easily into the half-truths
so familiar to all spies. “We bear messages from Lord Royce, as
well as from some of Lord Bertrand’s other friends at court.”

The sentry at the gate called to a
man-at-arms, who led the guests into the high-walled courtyard,
where they left their horses in the care of Richard and Ewan.
Desmond knew his squire would garner as much gossip as he could
from the stable lads and from any other squires he met, and he
hoped Ewan was trained to do the same.

With the man-at-arms as their guide, Desmond
and Cadwallon proceeded through the courtyard to the manor house,
where they found themselves in a large hall. It was past midday and
the main meal was over. Servants were dismantling the trestle
tables. A few men-at-arms stood talking together.

A quick glance about the hall showed Desmond
no women, save for a few maidservants. Perhaps that wasn’t so
strange. From what he could see the manor was built of solid stone
and appeared secure enough to withstand any attack by land or sea.
It was not particularly pleasing to the eye, and it was most
definitely a masculine place. Desmond noted no signs of luxury. No
gay banners hung from the massive rafters, no tapestries warmed the
walls. The twin silver candelabra on the high table were of
severely plain design and only a few simple silver platters and
pitchers adorned the single wooden chest that stood against one
wall. The place was clean, though, with fresh rushes strewn across
the floor.

When the man still sitting at the high table
rose as the visitors approached, Desmond thought he understood why
the hall resembled a remarkably neat barracks.

Bertrand of Caen, Warden of Jersey, was in
his early forties, tall and muscular, with not an ounce of fat on
his powerful frame. His short, dark hair was streaked with silver
and the lines around his eyes and his mouth suggested an austere
man, bred to warfare, with little softness in him.

“Here are visitors with a message from Royce
of Wortham, my lord,” said the man-at-arms.

“Sirs, you are most welcome,” Lord Bertrand
responded, coming off the dais to stretch out his hand, first to
Cadwallon and then to Desmond. “If you bear letters, I’ll have my
chaplain read them to me while you eat. Or, would you rather bathe
first?”

“We carry a letter from King Henry, too,”
Desmond said, handing over a sealed packet. “After you’ve read
what’s in there, I would like to speak to you in some more private
place.”

“Indeed?” Lord Bertrand’s dark eyes
sharpened, and Desmond thought his already hard face hardened even
more.

“We did eat aboard the ship that brought us,”
Cadwallon spoke up in his genial way, “so we can easily wait until
the evening meal. Speaking for myself, I’d greatly appreciate a
bath. I feel a bit salty,” he ended with one of his wide grins.

“Certainly.” Lord Bertrand did not return
Cadwallon’s smile, but only looked at him for a long moment, as if
wondering exactly what to do with him.

“Flamig,” Lord Bertrand said to a man-at-arms
who stood nearby, “show our guests where the bathhouse is, and then
take them to the large guest room on the third level. Sirs, I will
speak with you again later.”

“Is Lord Bertrand’s lady not at home?”
Desmond asked of Flamig as he led them out of the hall and back
down the steps to the courtyard. “She’s here,” Flamig answered,
“but don’t expect her to bathe you. We live differently here on
Jersey than you do in England or Normandy.”

“I did notice,” Desmond said.

“We are capable of bathing ourselves,”
Cadwallon added cheerfully. “We just wanted to pay our respects to
the lady, and Desmond, here, has the latest court gossip to
recount, if she’s interested.”

“You will meet Lady Benedicta at the evening
meal,” Flamig said.

“And not a word about the missing girl, or
her sister,” Cadwallon noted to Desmond a short time later, when
they were alone in the bathhouse and both of them were soaking in a
large tub of hot, soapy water. “Now, I consider that strange. On an
island this small there can’t be much gossip, so you’d think
everyone would be talking about a noblewoman who has
disappeared.”

“Lord Bertrand didn’t strike me as a
gossiping man,” Desmond responded sourly.

“Well, if the lord of the manor doesn’t
gossip,” Cadwallon said with a smile, “the squires and stable boys
certainly will. Trust Ewan and Richard to learn the latest
news.”

But when the squires appeared with fresh
clothing for their masters, they could provide little
information.

“They say Lady Aglise was a great beauty,”
Ewan said in response to Cadwallon’s questions.

“Was?” Desmond repeated, frowning at him.

“Aye, sir.” Ewan’s voice fairly crackled with
excitement. “All the squires here believe she drowned.”

“Indeed?” Desmond looked for confirmation to
his own squire, whom he knew was a sober and responsible
fellow.

“The general opinion,” said Richard, “is that
Lady Aglise fell to her death from the cliffs along the north shore
of the island and was swept out to sea, or else she was trapped on
the sand at the eastern end of the island by an incoming tide.”

“Yes, that was the way of it,” Ewan
exclaimed. “By one means or the other, she drowned.”

“Aglise has been living on Jersey for more
than two years,” Desmond said. “Surely, she knew about the tides.
Richard, from your tone I receive the impression that you don’t
agree with the general opinion.”

“Everyone I spoke to confirmed the lady’s
beauty,” Richard said. “She was also, apparently, a flirtatious
tease, who enjoyed setting male hearts aflutter. I do wonder if she
has simply run off with a lover, as you first suggested. Though why
her sister would have no inkling of what Aglise was planning, I
cannot guess. Supposedly, the sisters were on affectionate
terms.”

“Perhaps, Lady Aglise teased some poor fellow
beyond bearing and then rejected his advances, so he killed her out
of thwarted passion,” Ewan said, blushing a little at his own lurid
imaginings. “Perhaps, her body was flung over the cliffs into the
sea, never to be seen again.”

“Bodies that go into the sea near land,”
Desmond told the squire, “usually wash up on shore in due
time.”

“Well,” Cadwallon said, his voice muffled as
he pulled a fresh brown wool tunic over his head, “as I see the
situation, we have two possibilities to consider. Either the girl
is dead, or she’s living elsewhere. If she’s dead, someone in this
manor house will have a good idea what happened to her. If she’s
still alive, someone will know in what direction she has gone.
Judging by the alert sentries we found at the gate, this is not a
place that anyone can leave unobserved. Nor do I think it’s easy to
sail away from the island without being noticed. So, Ewan, keep
asking questions. Take care not to drink too much wine. Keep your
head and listen well to what the men-at-arms say.”

“Sir?” Richard looked to Desmond for
instructions.