Where Love Has Gone (18 page)

“Let us join Cadwallon in the hall,” she
suggested, not looking directly at Desmond. “The three of us need
to decide what we are going to do next.”

“I’ll go down ahead of you, in case you trip
again,” Desmond offered.

Without waiting for her agreement, he moved
past her. He’d never admit it, but he was deeply shaken by what had
just happened. To his chagrin, he was aching with desire for the
intelligent, straightforward young woman who followed him, her
footsteps echoing his own.

Desmond respected intelligence and was always
delighted on those occasions when he encountered it in a woman. His
admiration of Elaine’s honest character and devotion to her sister
had been growing since their first meeting. Her allure was strong
yet subtle, not depending on luxurious gowns and jewels, or on a
painted face and flirtatious manner. Elaine was remarkably
different from her mother and from the other ladies of the royal
court, and it was exactly her difference that so intrigued him. He
honored her, respected her – and he castigated himself severely for
longing to do to Elaine what Lord Bertrand had done to her sister.
Every male instinct he possessed urged him to drag her back to one
of those empty, silent guest rooms on the upper landing, to toss
her onto the bed he knew he’d find inside, and seize what he wanted
before he died of thwarted desire.

Such an act would make him no better than
Lord Bertrand, would, in fact, make him far worse. He had even less
to offer Elaine than Bertrand could have intended to give Aglise.
Desmond owned nothing but his armor, his sword, his horse, a few
articles of clothing, and a small sum of coins earned by spying,
which he had left in Royce’s care. He hadn’t ever before needed to
think about the future, hadn’t, in fact, believed he would have
one. Spying was dangerous work, after all, and it was the danger he
loved.

How low he had fallen, to prey upon an
innocent, decent young woman whose emotions were raw with anger and
grief and – yes, it must be considered, for Elaine was far from
stupid – with fear for her own life once she learned the identity
of her sister’s killer. Fear, as Desmond knew well, had a way of
heightening sexual desire.

He reached the bottom of the steps and the
entry hall. Without looking at Elaine he set his mouth into what he
knew was a grim line and headed through the arch into the great
hall. For all the wisdom of his years of experience, and despite
his own arguments against longing for her, he was intensely aware
of Elaine’s soft footsteps as she followed him.

In the great hall the high table had been
cleared of food, dishes, and of the white linen cloth, leaving only
the polished wood boards of the table itself. Cadwallon was sitting
on a bench at one end of the table. A platter of bread and cheese
lay before him and Ewan was filling three wine cups from a large
pitcher.

“Join me,” Cadwallon said, beckoning to
Elaine. “We’ve much to do before we leave Jersey tomorrow, and if
we are wise, we will devise a plan.”

Elaine stepped onto the dais and sat beside
Cadwallon. She was careful to sit so there was no room left on the
bench for Desmond. She would have preferred to sit close to him,
with his arm around her, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to think
clearly if he was so near. Desmond seemed to understand. He pulled
a stool over, placing it far enough from her so they weren’t
touching, yet near enough that they could talk quietly.

“Ewan, my lad,” Cadwallon said to his squire,
“stay close behind me and look as if you are engrossed in attending
us. You are to be included in what we do, so you’ve a right to
offer your opinion. We’ll welcome it, in fact.

“First,” Cadwallon went on, “Elaine and
Desmond, I want both of you to eat some bread and cheese. I watched
you during the midday meal and neither of you swallowed more than a
bite or two. It’s not good enough, my friends; you will need your
strength during the next few days, and everyone knows how a lack of
solid food makes a man weak. I’m sure it’s the same for women. You
may be certain whatever Ewan serves us is untainted.”

Cadwallon paused to tear a piece of bread
from the loaf and to cut a wedge of cheese. He popped both into his
mouth and chewed. His gaze rested on Elaine as if to enforce his
advice, until she helped herself to bread and a little cheese, and
sipped a bit of the wine Ewan had poured for her.

“Now,” Cadwallon said when Desmond also began
to eat, “after our interview with Lord Bertrand, I think we all
know who must have killed Aglise. Since coming to Warden’s Manor,
we’ve learned of no one who disliked her enough to want her dead.
With one exception. Desmond, you and I have several times discussed
the motive a betrayed wife may have to wish her husband’s mistress
dead.”

“I have come to the same conclusion,” Elaine
said. “I cannot believe Lady Benedicta didn’t know about her
husband and Aglise. She is aware of almost everything that happens
within the manor walls. Furthermore, she knows enough about herbs
to concoct a potion that will kill, and she has full access to any
herbs that are here. She alone holds the key to the locked cabinet
in the stillroom where the poppy syrup is kept. She has always
insisted that particular precaution was for the safety of any
foolish children who might try to taste the syrup and thus injure
themselves, and also to prevent any malicious souls from stealing
and misusing a preparation that can be deadly. Malicious souls,
indeed.” She halted on a choked sob, wishing she hadn’t eaten the
cheese. It lodged in her throat until she gulped some wine to ease
it into her stomach, where she prayed both cheese and wine would
remain.

“Exactly,” Cadwallon said, patting her
shoulder in an obvious attempt to comfort her. “My wife, Janet,
keeps any potentially dangerous herbal preparations locked up, just
as Lady Benedicta does. There’s nothing unusual in the fact, and no
one ever checks on the lady of the castle to discover what she’s
doing with those potions. I would cheerfully trust Janet with my
life and my soul. It’s my belief that Lady Benedicta cannot be
similarly trusted.”

“But we have no proof,” Elaine objected.
“Without absolute proof, we cannot accuse a noblewoman of murder,
not here on Jersey, nor before King Henry in Caen.”

“Somewhere in this manor proof exists,”
Desmond spoke up. “We only have to find it.”

“Yes, well, we’ve been saying that for days,”
Cadwallon grumbled, glaring into his wine cup.

“If you will permit me, my lord,” said Ewan,
as he bent forward to refill his master’s empty cup, “you did say
you’d welcome my opinion. I think we ought to ask Jean if he knows
anything pertinent.”

“We can’t bring him into this,” Elaine
protested. “Anything Jean learns can put him into danger.”

“He’s already in danger,” Desmond reminded
her. “Jean is the one who told me about Aglise’s affair with Lord
Bertrand. He knows about the secret exit, too.

“Incidentally, I’ll wager that’s the way
Aglise’s body was removed from the castle,” Desmond continued, his
voice filling with excitement as he worked out the unpleasant
details. “If it was done in the dead of night, when few souls are
awake, it couldn’t have been too difficult to carry her through the
door below the solar. Once outside the walls, it would be easy
enough for Lord Bertrand to sling her linen-wrapped body across a
horse’s back and take it to the cliff path under cover of darkness,
then carry it down the path and into the cave at low tide. He did
admit to being the person who buried Aglise.

“The sheet, of course, came from the castle
linen room,” Desmond added. “Lady Benedicta, as chatelaine, could
as easily cover the loss of a single sheet as she could the
disappearance of dangerous herbs or a large quantity of poppy
syrup.”

“Yes,” Elaine said. She tried not to think
about Aglise’s body being roughly handled through a secret stairway
and out onto the wind-blown cliffs. She much preferred to find a
way to bring down her sister’s killer. “Lady Benedicta is always
very precise about counting each and every piece of linen, but only
she knows exactly how many sheets ought to be on the shelves in the
linen room.

“This is so difficult,” Elaine said. She sat
with her head bowed, fighting back tears, until Cadwallon handed
her the wine cup. She drank deeply before continuing. “The image of
Lady Benedicta coolly selecting a sheet and then wrapping poor
Aglise in it is dreadful. I do hope it was a clean sheet; it would
be just like her to use a dirty one. And I pray she did not go to
the cave with Lord Bertrand, to help him bury his victim.”

“Ah, Elaine, stop, I beg you.” Unexpectedly,
Desmond’s arm was around her shoulders, drawing her close. “This is
too hard for you.”

“Not as hard as Aglise’s death must have been
for her.” Elaine straightened her shoulders, shrugging off his arm.
“My sister did not deserve to die over an unwise affair. Honest
remorse and a severe penance she did deserve, but she never had the
chance to find redemption and forgiveness. Lady Benedicta stole the
opportunity from her. I want that murdering woman brought to
justice.

“I want Lord Bertrand punished, too. By his
own admission, he knew what had been done to Aglise and he buried
the evidence. Then he let me, and everyone else at Warden’s Manor
or in Gorey village who cared about Aglise, worry and search for
her for weeks – for two long months! And he never said a word.”

“Why?” Ewan asked when Elaine paused for
breath. “If Lord Bertrand cared about Lady Aglise, as he must have
done if he was her lover, then why didn’t he accuse Lady Benedicta
publicly and have her punished? It’s what I’d do if I loved a
girl.”

“Ah, lad, you are young yet,” said Cadwallon.
“You haven’t considered all of the ramifications of this crime. I
don’t doubt Lord Bertrand cared for Aglise, but he cares more for
his honor than for any person. If he accused his wife of murder,
her crime would reflect upon him. Besides, he didn’t want his own
misdeeds publicly known. He had seduced a noble girl who was under
his protection as his foster daughter. That’s an offense very close
to incest.”

“Oh.” Ewan nodded his understanding. “I can
guess what Lord Royce will do to him when he finds out.”

“No wonder he was so angry to learn I had
written to Royce,” Elaine said. “And no wonder he was so eager for
you men to leave Jersey. He must have known if you learned Aglise
was dead, you wouldn’t go until you had solved the mystery.”

“It wasn’t much of a mystery,” Cadwallon
said. “Once Desmond heard the rumors about Aglise’s affair, it was
clear that either her lover, or his wife, had killed her. Still, I
do wonder.”

“Wonder what?” Elaine asked. “As you said,
the identity of the killer is clear. Or, were you wondering how we
can find the proof we need? Perhaps we can face Lady Benedicta down
until she confesses, as Lord Bertrand did.”

“How warm do you judge Lady Benedicta’s
marriage to be?” Desmond asked, the sudden question surprising
Elaine and making Cadwallon raise his eyebrows.

“Not warm at all, I’d say,” Ewan put in. “Not
with Lady Benedicta as the wife. She chills my blood just to look
at her.”

“I tell you, lad, you are much younger than
your age,” Cadwallon said. “Some men like the challenge of warming
a cold woman. I’ll explain it to you sometime, when I’m not
otherwise occupied.”

“Elaine?” Desmond persisted. “Do you have an
answer to my question? It’s important.”

“I never thought much about their marriage,”
she said. “Husband and wife appear to respect each other, though
that cannot be true, can it? Not if Lord Bertrand cared so little
for Lady Benedicta’s feelings that he took a mistress. It’s
something my father never would have done, even though my mother
was far from a good wife to him. I know it’s not unusual for
noblemen to have mistresses, but still, Lord Bertrand is so stern
and righteous a man, and he’s well known for his fierceness in war.
I was surprised when he admitted how he longed for tenderness and
sought it in Aglise. I suppose, considering what we know now, his
marriage was far from happy. It’s not sufficient excuse for what he
did, but it does provide some explanation.”

“What are you getting at, Desmond?” Cadwallon
asked. “I trust you have a good reason for subjecting Elaine to
this discussion. You can’t believe someone other than Lady
Benedicta killed Aglise?”

“I do not doubt for a moment that Lady
Benedicta is the killer,” Desmond said. “What I am trying to
determine is, exactly
why
she did it.”

“We know why,” Ewan said. “She wanted to
remove her husband’s lover. Forgive me if I distress you, Lady
Elaine, but that’s the bald truth of it.”

“Perhaps,” Desmond said. “Then again, perhaps
Lady Benedicta had another reason for committing murder, something
beyond a wife’s jealousy.”

“Ah, now, that’s enough,” Cadwallon began in
a warning tone. “Think of Elaine’s feelings, if you please.”

“No, wait.” Elaine held up a hand to stop
him. “Desmond, you are trying to uncover the proof we need, aren’t
you?”

“Just so,” he said. “If there was a second
reason for the murder, a reason behind the obvious one, and if we
can discover what it was, then we may also find the proof.

“Consider this.” He leaned toward Elaine and
took her hand in his. “Lord Bertrand himself said his marriage was
a relationship of cool respect and what he saw in Aglise was the
warmth and sweetness and joy he couldn’t find elsewhere in his
life. Since he obviously yearned for those qualities, I must ask
why he couldn’t find them in his marriage.”

“Because it was a marriage arranged by their
families for material advantage, with little regard for the
preferences of the two people most involved,” Cadwallon said.
“Desmond, surely you’ve noticed the lords and ladies at the royal
court? Admittedly, most of them are far more frivolous than Lady
Benedicta, but I’ve seen little evidence of love, or even of mild
affection between those noble husbands and wives. I consider myself
fortunate to have married for love.”