Where Love Has Gone (25 page)

As the day wore on the rain became so heavy
and the fog so thick that Lady Benedicta knew the
Daisy
would not be putting into port until morning at the earliest. Thus,
she would have the time she required.

Sending a final message by pigeon was
impossible while Desmond and his friends were watching her. They
were as single-minded as most men but, like all men, they
underestimated a determined woman. They hadn’t even bothered to
search her room, instead depending on a single guard at the door to
keep her inside it, which was a foolish mistake Benedicta would
never have made.

She flung back the lid of her clothing chest,
knowing she’d find the long knife she had hidden there when she
first began spying, just in case she ever needed it. Her fingers
curved around the hilt. She straightened the clothing in the chest,
smoothing her best gown until it was neat, and closed the lid
quietly. Then she found her dark woolen cloak and laid it on the
bed, so it would be ready when she was.

The bolt on her chamber door was on the
inside, so she met no impediment when she lifted the latch and
opened the door a crack. As she expected, the squire, Ewan, whirled
around to face her.

“My lady, you may not leave the room.”

“I know. I understand the terms of my
confinement. I only wanted to ask whether I am to be given any food
this evening. I’ve eaten nothing since early this morning. I’m
hungry, and my throat is parched. Could you bring me some wine? Or
ask someone to bring it, if you are forbidden to leave my
door?”

“You will have a meal later,” Ewan said. “If
no one brings food, I will personally go to the kitchen and get
some for you. But I can’t leave until either Lord Cadwallon or Sir
Desmond comes to relieve me.”

“When will that be? Do you know?” She opened
the door a bit farther. Clearly, she’d have to make her move now,
at once, before either of the older, stronger men replaced the
youthful squire.

“I’m sorry, my lady; I don’t know. I think
it’s best if I close the door now. I’m not supposed to be talking
to you.”

Benedicta held her knife close to her right
side so it was hidden in the folds of her skirt. She stepped back
into the room, pulling the door open still wider as she moved.
Knowing Ewan would have to step into the room to catch and close
the door, she waited tensely, gripping the knife.

Lifting his left hand as she expected him to
do, Ewan reached for the edge of the door. She stabbed him in his
left side, under his ribs, striking as hard as she could, using all
of her strength. Then, before he could cry out, she clamped her
free hand over his mouth to muffle any sound.

He fell half inside the room, so it was no
great problem to drag him in the rest of the way. She pulled the
knife out of Ewan’s chest and wiped it on his shirt. She wasn’t
sure whether he was still alive or not, and she didn’t greatly
care. All she wanted of him was for him to stay quiet until she was
gone. Snatching up her cloak, she wrapped it around her shoulders.
Then, knife in hand, she left her room and made her way to the
stairs.

Briefly she thought with longing of the
dovecot, where her birds slept, the creatures who would carry the
message she ought to send. She knew better than to try; she’d never
get near the dovecot and she couldn’t afford to be caught. They’d
make her talk. She knew it, for she wasn’t strong enough to
withstand torture and she didn’t doubt they’d use it, either here
on Jersey or later, at King Henry’s order. The usually chivalrous
Henry would feel no compunction about ordering torture for a woman,
not when his life and his beloved Normandy were at stake.

All in all, she much preferred a watery
grave. She’d use the passageway that opened beneath the solar
stairs. Moving with cautious stealth she crossed the solar, tiptoed
down the stairs, then around the corner to the hidden door. She
fumbled for a moment or two, her fingers clumsy on the secret
latch. The door swung back on well oiled hinges and Lady Benedicta
stepped inside. With the door closed, the passage was too dark for
her to see anything, but she knew the way. Keeping one hand on the
damp stone wall to steady herself, she started down.

How fitting that she should choose this exit,
since it was the same route she and Bertrand had used to carry
Aglise’s body out of the castle. What a foolish girl Aglise had
been. She hadn’t had the good sense to keep quiet about what she
had learned. Instead, she had rushed to confront her foster mother
in the stillroom, daring her to deny involvement in a secret and
deadly plan.

Ah, well, it didn’t matter now.

Benedicta reached the door at the base of the
manor house wall and stepped out onto the cliff. She closed the
door behind her and stood for a moment, listening for sounds of
alarm from above. All was silent. Warden’s Manor was shrouded in
fog so dense that no sentry peering over the wall could possibly
see her.

A short distance away was the disguised path
to the beach, a path much too steep and difficult for Aglise’s body
to be carried down by that route. Bertrand had had to carry his
mistress along the top of the cliffs to the easier path, where a
cave awaited her remains. On that night Benedicta had waited,
standing watch over Aglise’s body while her husband went back into
the castle by the secret stairs and returned by the main gate,
riding a horse. Poor Bertrand, weeping over his lost lover, so
demented by lust that he had never imagined there was a more
important reason for Aglise’s death than his betrayed wife’s
supposed jealousy.

It all would have worked, too, if only Elaine
hadn’t sent her letter to Royce, and if Royce hadn’t bothered to
send his men to investigate.

Benedicta slipped several times while going
down the path to the beach. She ignored a bruised knee and several
painfully torn fingernails. In just a little while the pain would
be gone and nothing would matter. And when it was over, they could
never make her talk. That was the truly important issue. She
wouldn’t be tortured into telling what she knew.

The tide was out, so she had rather a long
walk across the damp sand. The hem of her cloak was quickly soaked
but she kept the garment fastened at her shoulders. The wool was
heavy; it would pull her down and that was just what she wanted.
She reached the water and kept walking.

In late afternoon Lord Bertrand remembered
that his wife most likely hadn’t eaten all day. He mentioned the
fact to Flamig, and Flamig, wishing to impress the importance of
his new position as seneschal on the ordinary folk of the manor,
promptly visited the kitchen.

He found the staff there busy with
preparations for the evening meal. Flamig was no fool and he had no
wish to make an enemy of the cook. So, with all proper courtesy he
suggested to the cook that, rather than one of the maidservants
being taken from her work, Jean could easily carry a tray of bread
and cheese and a small pitcher of wine to Lady Benedicta’s
room.

“Squire Ewan will be standing guard at the
door,” Flamig said to the boy. “Tell him I have sent you and he’ll
let you inside. Do not stay in the room any longer than you must,
and do not converse with Lady Benedicta except as politeness
demands. When you have delivered the food, come and report to
me.”

“Yes, sir.” Jean’s eyes were wide with the
excitement of his special duty, and with a glimmer of fear that was
quickly hidden. “I’ll go as soon as the tray is ready.”

Flamig was confident he would do exactly as
he’d been told and he’d be prompt about it, too. Jean’s excitement
over the responsibility he’d been given was, quite possibly, equal
to Flamig’s delight at his own promotion. Smiling contentedly, the
new seneschal left the kitchen to make his late day rounds of the
manor. He had finished checking the upper levels and was descending
to the entry hall when he heard a loud commotion coming from the
direction of the solar. One of the voices was unmistakably
Jean’s.

Flamig raced into and across the great hall
and up the solar stairs to find Desmond and Cadwallon had reached
the solar before him. They were dealing with a white-faced, weeping
Jean.

“He’s in there,” Jean gasped, pointing toward
the room where Lady Benedicta was supposedly confined. “He has a
hole in his side. He couldn’t speak to me. She has killed
Ewan!”

Cadwallon motioned to Flamig and the two of
them headed for Lady Benedicta’s chamber, leaving Desmond with the
hysterical boy.

“Jean,” Desmond told him, “take a deep breath
and swallow hard. Then tell me what has happened.” He waited as
calmly as he could manage, not wanting Jean to see his impatience,
or his flaring anxiety. Where, he wondered, was Elaine? Was she in
danger? He longed to find her and make certain of her safety, but
common sense warned him it was pointless to rush off and leave Jean
until he had heard the boy’s story and evaluated the problem.

“Flamig told me to take food to Lady
Benedicta,” Jean said. “But Ewan wasn’t at her chamber door where
Flamig said he’d be standing guard. I was about to leave, to find
Flamig and ask him what to do next, when I heard a moan from inside
the room. I thought it was Lady Benedicta, and perhaps she was
sick, and possibily Ewan was attending to her, and he might need
help, so I pushed the door open and went inside.” Having delivered
this long explanation in a single breath, Jean began to gasp
again.

“Take another deep breath,” Desmond advised.
“It’ll make you feel calmer.” To his great relief, Elaine appeared
in the solar and came to them, to put her arm across Jean’s
shoulders.

“Ewan has been stabbed,” Jean told her, “and
Lady Benedicta is gone. Please, Lady Elaine, can you repair Ewan’s
wound? He’s been nice to me. I don’t want him to die.”

“I will do my best for Ewan,” Elaine said,
her gaze locked on Desmond’s over the boy’s head. “I’ll need your
help, Jean. I want you to take Sir Desmond to the linen room. He
will make certain it’s safe for you to go inside. You know where
the bandages are stored. Bring as many as you think I’ll need to
bind up Ewan’s wound. Then, show Sir Desmond to the stillroom and
find the same jar of ointment I used on you last night. I will also
need wine to wash the wound.”

“There’s a pitcher of wine on the tray I
brought for Lady Benedicta,” Jean said, standing a little
straighter under the weight of so many orders laid upon him at one
time. Elaine’s brisk instructions had produced a remarkably calming
effect on the boy. His tears had stopped and his youthful voice was
steady. “I set the tray down in the corridor before I went into
Lady Benedicta’s room.”

“Good. I can use the wine while I’m waiting
for you to return with the other supplies.” Elaine was still
looking directly at Desmond, telling him what she wanted him to do
without actually speaking the words, lest Jean become frightened
again. She trusted Desmond to understand her hints as to where Lady
Benedicta was most likely to hide. “Sir Desmond will remain with
you to keep you safe. Though, I must say, Jean, I do believe Lady
Benedicta has fled by now.”

“Cadwallon is with Ewan,” Desmond said to
her. “Stay close to him.”

“Yes. I will.” Elaine’s greatest fear at the
moment was that Lady Benedicta had succeeded in killing Ewan, that
he was already dead.

By the time she arrived, Cadwallon had cut
off the squire’s tunic and was pressing a torn section of Lady
Benedicta’s bed sheet over the wound in his side. Whispering a
silent prayer of gratitude that Ewan still lived and another for
Cadwallon’s quick action, Elaine went to her knees to help.

“He hasn’t spoken yet,” Cadwallon said. “He
just moans, so I’m not sure how much he understands. There’s not
much blood. I hope it means the wounding happened just a short time
ago.”

“Why the devil did the young fool come into
the room?” Flamig demanded. He was prowling about, poking into
corners and checking under the bed and behind the bed curtains as
if he expected to discover Lady Benedicta hiding there. He paused
to glare down at Ewan. “He knows how dangerous Lady Benedicta
is.”

“She probably found some reasonable excuse to
lure him inside,” Elaine answered.

“I suppose that’s so,” Flamig agreed, “but
where is she now?”

“I sent Desmond to the linen room and the
stillroom,” Elaine said. “If she is in either place, he’ll find and
hold her.”

“You forgot the dovecot,” Cadwallon reminded
her.

“I posted two guards there shortly after I
learned about the messages she’s been sending,” Flamig told him.
“If she runs to the dovecot, they’ll bring her back. Lady Elaine,
will Ewan live?”

“I believe he will,” Elaine said, though she
harbored doubts. She made an effort to sound more cheerful about
Ewan’s prospects than she actually felt, because her father had
told her once that he could recall everything said around him while
he was unconscious after receiving a wound in battle. If Ewan could
hear her and the others talking, Elaine wanted him to know his
chances of recovery were good. If he believed his friends were
confident that he’d heal, perhaps he would do what they
expected.

Desmond returned with Jean, the two of them
carrying a good supply of bandages and the jar of ointment. Desmond
had also thought to bring along some sheets. While he and Flamig
conferred in the corridor, Elaine set about binding up Ewan’s
wound. After making a fresh compress from the sheet Cadwallon had
used, Elaine smeared a liberal application of ointment on the
wound, clapped the compress over the ointment, and held everything
in place by wrapping a bandage around Ewan’s chest. She was glad he
didn’t need stitching; sewing was the part of caring for wounds
that she hated most. Judging by the width of the wound, the knife
Lady Benedicta had used was a thin one, but Elaine feared it was
long enough to have produced interior damage.