Where Love Has Gone Read Free Page A

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