Where Love Has Gone (32 page)

Only then did she realize he wasn’t looking
at her. With his right hand he was holding the tip of his sword
against the throat of the bloody, gasping man who had attacked
him.

“I want you to hear what he says,” Desmond
told her, his gaze never leaving his prisoner’s pale face. To the
man, he said, “Who sent you to kill us?” The tip of his sword
prodded gently.

“I’m dying,” the man cried.

“So you are,” Desmond agreed grimly. “And
it’s your own fault. All you have to answer is, yes or no. Did Sir
Edmund send you after us, with orders to kill us?”

“Yes.” The man choked and a dribble of blood
appeared at the corner of his mouth. Desmond moved the sword away,
just an inch or so.

“You haven’t much time left,” Desmond said.
“Speak the truth now and I promise, when I reach Caen, I’ll order
Masses said for you. If you value your immortal soul, tell me why
Sir Edmund wants us dead.”

“Plot,” the man whispered. “Invasion. Kill
the king -” He choked again.

“Did you attack my squire on the dock at
Cherbourg?” Desmond asked.

“Yours?” The dribble of blood became a narrow
stream across his chin. “He was – so young. Sorry.”

“You didn’t kill him,” Desmond said. “So,
there’s one less sin on your soul. Richard lives. As for what you
tried to do to us here, I forgive you.”

“You – fool.” One last malicious glint shone
from the man’s eyes before they went blank.

“No doubt I am a fool.” Desmond reached to
close the man’s lids. “A fool like you, caught in the schemes of
great men.”

He stared for so long at the face of the man
he had killed that Elaine wondered if he was committing it to
memory, so he could recall it later. And, perhaps, torment himself
for the death? If so, Elaine had her own face to remember, for the
second attacker remained unmoving a short distance away.

Compelled to view her handiwork, she walked
over to the man. His head lay at an odd angle and his eyes were
open, staring at the fresh, green grass he could no longer see.

Elaine’s stomach heaved. She turned aside,
but before she could take more than two steps, everything she had
eaten since waking that morning spewed out of her in great,
convulsive bursts.

Then Desmond was holding her around the
waist, pulling her tangled, sweaty hair away from her face,
supporting her until she finished retching.

“It’s all right,” he murmured, tugging her
back against his chest so she could lean on him. “Every man I know
was sick after his first time in battle. You are not trained for
warfare, yet you acquitted yourself well.”

“Well?” she screamed, weeping. “I killed
him!”

“He would have killed you. And then killed
me, if his friend was unsuccessful. Though, in truth,” Desmond
said, looking toward the awkwardly sprawled body, “I question
whether you struck a fatal blow. From the way he’s lying there, I’d
say he broke his neck falling from his horse.”

“I made him fall.” She rested her head
against Desmond’s shoulder, drawing strength from his quiet and
self-possessed manner. “I made my horse rear. I think I startled
his mount, so it reared, too, and he fell. I only wounded his arm,
but still, I am the cause of his death.”

“As he would have been the cause of yours, if
you weren’t brave enough to fight back.” Desmond turned her around
to face him and she winced. “Your shoulder is bleeding. I thought
you said you were unhurt.”

“I’m bleeding?” She looked at her shoulder
with little interest. She was too numb to feel much of anything.
“So I am. But so are you.”

“Listen to me, Elaine. Pay attention.” His
gentle voice became sharp. “I need your help. We have to move these
men away from the road and hide them in the bushes, in case Sir
Edmund sends a second patrol after them.”

“The man who was working in the field has run
away,” she said, still unable to think clearly about the two dead
men and the danger they might yet represent.

“In that he showed good peasant sense. If
he’s questioned later, he will probably claim he saw and heard
nothing.”

“What shall we do?”

“First, we hide the bodies and send the
horses on their way. Most likely, they’ll wander back to St. Lo.
Next, we will do what that sensible peasant did, and run away. We
still have to reach Caen. The farther we are from this spot when
darkness falls, the less likely we are to be troubled a second time
by Sir Edmund’s men-at-arms.”

“Hide the bodies,” she repeated dully. She
swallowed hard against the new surge of bile rising in her throat
at the thought of touching either of the men they had killed.

“If we don’t reach Caen in time,” Desmond
said, speaking slowly and clearly, as if she was a child who was
unable to understand grownup reasoning, “the French king’s spies
will kill King Henry, and Louis of France will seize all of
Normandy. You and I are the only ones who can stop their wicked
scheme.”

“Cadwallon,” she murmured, then shook her
head because she knew what Desmond would say next.

“We cannot be sure Cadwallon will reach Caen
before we do. Not with the weather so undependable. In the end,
it’s up to us. King Henry’s life lies in our hands. And many other
lives besides.”

“The French will kill Royce, too,” she
whispered, beginning to emerge from the numbness that had held her
since the attack against them ended. “They will make certain it’s a
long and grisly death.”

“Aye.” Desmond released her shoulders. “Let’s
be quick about what we must do, and then be on our way. We are
fortunate there have been no other travelers on this section of the
road.”

Desmond placed his hands in the armpits of
the man with the broken neck and began to pull him toward a clump
of bushes growing some distance off the road. Elaine caught the man
around the knees to take some of the weight from Desmond’s wounded
arm. They tucked the first body behind the bushes, then went back
for the second man, laying him next to his companion in arms.

“The grass is bloody,” Elaine said as they
returned to the road to see to the horses.

“I know. It can’t be helped.” Desmond kicked
at the grass, roughening it, but nothing could conceal the evidence
of recent violence.

While Desmond worked at the grass, Elaine
rounded up all four horses. Her mount appeared unhurt, nor did
Desmond’s horse show any sign of injury. She did find a slash on
the forequarters of her assailant’s horse.

“It doesn’t look serious,” Desmond said,
examining the cut. “What are you doing?”

“I found a wineskin, and it’s full.” She
unplugged the skin and rinsed out her mouth with some of the wine.
Then she poured out the remainder, using the wine to wash away the
blood on the ground. When the wineskin was empty, she reattached it
to the saddle. “Let anyone who finds this horse think its rider
drank all the wine.”

“Good thinking. I’m glad to know you are
recovering.”

“I’m not as sure about that as you are,” she
murmured.

Desmond did not respond to her remark. To
keep the reins of the two extra horses from snagging and possibly
causing harm to the animals, he looped each pair of reins around
the pommels of the saddles they still wore. Then he slapped the
horses on their rumps, sending them back down the road toward
Torigni.

“We need to find a stream,” Elaine said, “so
we can clean our wounds and bandage them.” She was surprised and
oddly pleased to discover that her mind was clearing. She doubted
she would ever forget how she had caused a man’s death, but Desmond
was right; they had been attacked with the intention of murder. It
could just as easily have been her body, and his, lying under those
bushes.

When Desmond offered his linked hands, she
set her foot in them and leapt to the saddle. She stayed close to
him until the road curved and the location of their skirmish was
out of sight.

With a puzzled frown, the Spy observed the
spot where the messenger pigeons from Jersey always perched. They
were never late, but this evening the roost was empty. He wondered
what had happened to delay the pigeon he expected. Was the bird
coming at all? Was it possible that his agent on Jersey had been
discovered?

It scarcely mattered, for nothing could stop
the plan now. A message delivered to him earlier in the day had
informed him that Louis of France and his ally, the count of
Flanders, were on their way. They would join forces at St. Quentin
and invade Upper Normandy together. King Henry, at Caen in Lower
Normandy, would never know of the coming invasion. For Henry, the
duke of Normandy who was also king of England, was going to die as
mysteriously as his brother, King William Rufus, had died sixteen
years earlier in the New Forest of England.

Truly, being a member of the family of
William the Conqueror was a dangerous business. Spying was far
safer. The Spy caressed the jeweled hilt of the knife he had chosen
to use when he took Henry’s life. His long fingers slid over the
steel with sensual pleasure. Indeed, spying presented its own
rewards…

Before they found a stream, they came upon a
village large enough to boast an inn that served the folk who
traveled along the northbound road to Caen.

“In another hour it will be too dark for us
to continue,” Desmond said. “I’ll tell the innkeeper I need a room
for myself and my wife. By taking a single room and acting as
though we are ordinary travelers, we may escape notice if Sir
Edmund’s henchmen come looking for us. If other men than the two
who attacked us are following, they are remarkably skillful about
it. I’ve been watching the road behind us and on either side, and I
haven’t noticed any sign of pursuit. Have you?”

“No. Perhaps those men who attacked us aren’t
expected to return to St. Lo until tomorrow,” Elaine answered.
“Possibly, they were told to flee elsewhere after killing us.” She
shuddered to say it, but Desmond looked hopeful when he heard her
words.

“We have to stop because we both need to
sleep,” he said. “The horses need to rest, too. We’ll leave before
dawn and make a hard run to Caen. Wrap your cloak close around
yourself to hide your shoulder wound. Most people are
travel-stained by day’s end, so we shouldn’t arouse undue
curiosity.”

As soon as Desmond dismounted in the inn
yard, he pulled his own cloak over his bleeding left arm. A few
coins to the stableboy assured food, water and a rubdown for the
horses. Desmond dealt next with the innkeeper. A short time later
he and Elaine were shown to an upstairs room that looked out upon
the road. Elaine went to the window to watch the road for anyone
who looked like a man-at-arms, while Desmond arranged with the
innkeeper for two buckets of hot water, to be followed by food and
wine.

“I don’t see anyone who looks the least bit
dangerous,” Elaine said once they were alone. “The only travelers
are a man and woman with three young children, and two nuns. Unless
Sir Edmund’s people are experts in disguise, they haven’t found
us.”

Desmond surveyed the room with a frown. It
wasn’t very large and most of the space was taken up by the bed. A
wooden stool and a small table completed the furnishings. A basin
for washing and a bowl half full of soap sat on the table.

“This is hardly suitable lodging for a
noblewoman,” he said.

“Being chased by murderers is hardly suitable
for a noblewoman.” Elaine responded more tartly than she meant to
do. She added in a milder tone of voice, “Be glad we can bolt the
door and feel reasonably safe.”

Safe from would-be assailants, perhaps, but
not from her own tumultuous and conflicting emotions. She tried to
tell herself the trembling she felt deep inside had nothing to do
with the realization that she’d be spending the night alone with
Desmond. It was merely the aftermath of their terrifying
experience, and of the need to fight for their very lives. The
image of the man who had attacked her lying on the ground with his
neck broken as a result of her actions hovered in her mind and
would not go away. She wanted to ask Desmond if such fearsome
illusions were common after a battle, but before she could speak a
knock on the door announced a pair of servant girls bearing buckets
of hot water and a boy carrying a small metal tub and a couple of
thin towels.

“Father says ta tell ye, ye’ll have yer meal
in less than an hour by the sand glass,” the boy informed
Desmond.

“Thank you.” A few more coins crossed hands
and then Desmond and Elaine were alone again, left to stare at each
other over the steaming water. Elaine was finding it difficult to
breathe.

“Your wound needs tending,” she said, rousing
herself to practical matters.

“I carry a roll of old linen in my
saddlebag,” Desmond told her. “It’s amazing how often I use
it.”

“If you will remove your tunic, I’ll clean
and bind up your arm.”

He unbuckled his belt and laid it and his
sword across the foot of the bed. Then he began to pull off his
punctured and blood-stained chainmail tunic. Hearing him wince,
Elaine cast aside her last shred of maidenly reserve and stepped
forward to help him. She caught the hem of the chainmail and lifted
it, taking most of its considerable weight while he peeled the
sleeve away from his arm and cast the tunic aside.

After dipping a towel in water Elaine laid it
over his wound. It took only a few minutes until the moisture
combined with her careful teasing loosened the torn sleeve of the
padded shirt he’d worn beneath his mail so he could remove it, too.
His linen undershirt was next and was much easier, since the arm of
it was already thoroughly wet.

When he stood before her naked to the waist
she swallowed hard, not at the sight of his wound, which was long
and thin and looked to have cleaned itself by copious bleeding, but
at the wonderful manly form revealed to her. She had seen men
before with their shirts off. Not one of them had ever affected her
as Desmond did.