by Speer, Flora
“I noticed,” Cadwallon said when Elaine had passed from view, “that while you promised not to act without informing Elaine, you did not swear to cease our investigation. It’s a fine point, I know.” He grinned at Desmond before saying, “Well, then, let us begin with the dovecot. Ewan, how can we acquire a key?”
“According to Lady Elaine,” Ewan reminded him, “Lady Benedicta keeps the only key.”
“No matter.” Desmond’s fingers lightly stroked the small pouch attached to his belt. “I have in here a tool that I have often found useful in the past. We will simply pick the lock.”
“Only think what will happen if we’re caught,” Ewan exclaimed. “I’ve a feeling that both the lord and the lady of Warden’s Manor would dearly love an excuse to toss all of us into the dungeon. Will we find anything in the dovecot that’s worth such a risk?”
“Well, lad,” Cadwallon said, clapping him on the shoulder, “we won’t know until we look, will we?”
Chapter 11
By the time Elaine reached her bedchamber the events of the last few days had combined to drain her of the ability to think or to feel. Her mind and heart numbed by grief, too weary even to remove the dark grey woolen gown she had worn for Aglise’s funeral, she picked up a warm shawl from atop her clothing chest and sank onto the bed she had once shared with her sister.
“I’ll undress later,” she murmured to herself, pulling the shawl around her shoulders. “After I’ve rested a little, I’ll think about packing.”
A moment later she was asleep. How long she slept she wasn’t sure, though the sky outside her narrow window was dark with night when she was awakened from a dream of Desmond embracing her tenderly and kissing her, his mouth a fiery brand on her lips. At first she simply stayed where she was, clutching at the last, shimmering fragments of the dream and uncertain what had torn her from such delicious sweetness.
How lovely her life would be if she were free to think only of him and of the emotions he evoked in her. She had learned to control her emotions during her childhood with a kind but very busy, often absent father and a mother who detested her daughters because they were not boys, who saw the girls as rivals. Elaine had been devastated by her father’s death, but she had buried her own pain so she could comfort and protect Aglise.
Now Aglise was gone and Elaine’s most pressing need was to obtain justice for her sister and punishment of the murderer. She could scarcely think beyond those twin goals, yet she longed for tenderness and warmth and closeness. If she were given a choice, Desmond was the man from whom she’d seek the affection her soul craved.
The scratching at her door that had intruded on her romantic dream sounded again, pulling her back to reality. Elaine sat up, listening intently. The scratching grew louder and she thought she heard a soft voice calling her name.
“Desmond?” she whispered, made cautious by the quietness of the sounds at her door. “Have you learned something new and come to tell me about it?”
When she scrambled off the bed and hastened to open the door, it wasn’t Desmond who was waiting for her. Jean tumbled into the room, landing hard on his knees.
“Please,” the boy moaned, “Lady Elaine, I beg you, close the door. Be quick about it. I don’t want her to find me.”
“What’s wrong?” Spurred by the note of fear in his voice, Elaine shut and latched the door. “No one can reach you until I open this. Now, tell me what’s happened.”
She leaned down to help him stand, but when she put her hand on his shoulder, he cried out in pain and pulled away from her. Only then did she realize he was weeping.
“Stay where you are,” she ordered. “I keep a candle on the table by my bed. Let me light it so I can see you.”
It took too long for her liking. Her fingers were shaking and at first the flint wouldn’t strike a spark. Finally, the lint in the dish next to the candle caught fire and she held the candle wick to the tiny flame. Then, with the candle casting a steady light and the lint safely extinguished, she turned to look at her unexpected guest.
Jean crouched on the floor with his arms wrapped around his knees and his head buried in his arms. When Elaine put a gentle finger under his chin and lifted his face, tears streamed down his bruised cheeks. Jean’s lower lip was bloody and swollen.
“Come and sit on the bed,” she said. “Let me see your shoulder. From your reaction just now, I fear it’s in worse condition than your face.”
Jean obeyed meekly, perching on the side of the bed with his back toward her. Elaine lifted his rough woolen shirt and stared at the purple welts on his upper shoulders. The skin wasn’t broken and she didn’t think there was any permanent damage, but she was certain the injuries were painful.
“Who did this to you?” she asked, expecting him to say the younger male servants had been bullying him again. Jean’s response rocked her back on her heels.
“Lady Benedicta beat me.”
“I have never known her to hit a servant,” Elaine cried. “In fact, only a short time ago, I told Lord Cadwallon and Sir Desmond that she isn’t given to violence, for she prefers scathing words to blows.” Yet, Lady Benedicta was capable of a secret kind of violence, for she had certainly used an herbal potion to kill Aglise. “Tell me what happened, Jean. I want to know all of it, every detail. This may be more important than you realize.”
“I was returning to the kitchen after taking a pail of hot water to Lord Cadwallon’s chamber,” Jean explained, wiping his damp face with a grubby fist. “As I passed by the stillroom, I saw a light inside and I thought it was awfully late for anyone to be in there. So, I stepped in, planning to tell whoever was there that they ought to leave before they got into trouble. We all know we aren’t supposed to intrude into that room. If someone was stealing herbs, I planned to run away and find Lady Benedicta, and tell her what was happening.”
“Only Lady Benedicta holds the key to the stillroom,” Elaine reminded him. She didn’t doubt his story. Jean had probably envisioned himself as a minor hero for warning Lady Benedicta of a thief rummaging among her precious herbs. He might even have hoped for a small reward or a word of approval.
“I thought someone could have stolen the key,” Jean explained. “So many strange things have happened in the last few weeks. I thought Lady Benedicta could have forgotten what she did with the key and someone else might have taken it.”
That was a distinct possibility. Desmond or Cadwallon, or even Ewan, could have found a way to filch the key in order to investigate the various herbs Lady Benedicta kept in her locked stillroom. However, none of them would have struck Jean in response to finding him there.
“Who was in the room?” Elaine asked.
“It was Lady Benedicta. When she realized I was standing in the doorway watching her, she shrieked at me that I had spoiled the special preparation she was making, and she grabbed my wrist and started hitting me.” Jean held out his left hand, which Elaine hadn’t noticed, and she saw the bruises on his wrist where strong fingers had gripped him.
“This is very strange,” Elaine declared, her intention being to reassure the boy. “Though, it’s possible Lady Benedicta was making an herbal medicine that has to simmer for long hours and you could have interrupted her at a crucial point.”
“Why would she start to make a special medicine on the same day when Lady Aglise is being buried?” Jean asked with innocent youthful logic. “She spent most of the morning in the kitchen or the great hall, supervising preparations for the funeral feast.”
“So she did. At least, it was the excuse she offered for not attending the funeral.”
“Anyway, she wasn’t preparing anything that needed heating,” Jean said. “I didn’t smell herbs cooking and there was no fire in the brazier.”
“Then, what was she doing?” Elaine asked, with a sudden suspicion that she already knew the answer to her question.
“She was writing something. I saw the quill in her hand just before she threw it down and turned on me. Perhaps,
she was writing an herbal recipe so she wouldn’t forget it? But, why would she do it so late at night? It’s after midnight. That’s the first thing she yelled at me. ‘It’s after midnight, you stupid child. Why aren’t you in your bed?’ Then she started hitting me. She didn’t even give me a chance to tell her I hadn’t seen the recipe, and I can’t read, anyway. I thought she knew that.”
She couldn’t take the chance that you might decipher a word or two, Elaine thought, because she was writing a secret message that she plans to send by pigeon just as soon as it’s light enough for a bird to fly.
“Please, don’t tell her I told you,” Jean begged. “She’ll just be angry with you for knowing what happened, and she’ll beat me again for talking about it.”
More likely, she’ll kill you for what she fears you’ve learned, Elaine thought. She’ll kill me, too, if she discovers I know how she uses those birds of hers. She drew a long breath, hoping to chase away the chill settling around her heart. With that calming, head-clearing breath, knowledge burst upon her with all the force of a sudden revelation. Lady Benedicta killed Aglise for learning about the messages she sends. That is the secret Aglise was hiding just before she disappeared.
“Lady Elaine?” Jean was looking at her as if he had been speaking to her for some time without eliciting any response. “Are you all right?”
“I was only wondering what to do with you for the rest of the night,” she said. “I don’t want to send you back to the kitchen to sleep there. Not with those injuries.” She reached out to stroke his thin shoulder, hastily drawing back when he winced at the light contact.
“I can bear them, really I can,” Jean said earnestly, “if only you’ll let me stay here for a little while. That’s what I was asking you just now, while you were thinking. It’s so hot and noisy in the kitchen, and so nice and quiet here. I can curl up on the floor in a corner of the room and I promise, I won’t make any noise. Do you have any more of the healing ointment you used at Christmastime, when I burned my hand? If you do, could you use some of it on my back and my face?”
“Of course, you may stay here,” she said, relieved to have a practical concern to divert her thoughts from what she had just realized about the true reason for her sister’s death. Jean, with his face still damp from tears and his huge, pleading eyes, reminded her of the way Aglise used to look when she was just a child and their mother had caught her in a naughty scrape and was about to punish her. She could not turn Jean away any more than she could have avoided taking the young Aglise’s part; she wouldn’t have done so even if Lady Benedicta had been the kindly woman her name implied. “Lie down, my dear, and let me cover you.”
Trying to be careful of his injuries, she pushed him back onto her bed and tucked her shawl around him.
“My shoulders hurt,” he sniffled, tears starting again.
He looked so forlorn, and so small and helpless, that Elaine almost gave way to tears, herself. She fought the impulse to gather him into her arms and comfort him, instead offering the help he had requested.
“I’m going to fetch the jar of ointment,” she said, starting for the door. “I know just where it is. I won’t be long. No one will bother you here. Just lie quietly. Sleep, if you can.”
“The ointment is in the stillroom, isn’t it?” Jean reared upright, wincing at the discomfort the swift movement caused. “What if Lady Benedicta is still working in there? She’ll be so angry with you! Please, don’t go! My back doesn’t hurt so much, really it doesn’t. I’ll be much better in the morning.”
“I can see that your shoulders do hurt, and so does your lip. Do as I command, Jean. Lie down and be quiet until I return.” She was out of the room before Jean could beg her again to stay.
A few men-at-arms always remained on guard in the great hall and they kept the candles and oil lamps burning through the night so they wouldn’t fall asleep and incur Lord Bertrand’s wrath. Guided by those lights, Elaine hurried down from the solar level, across the hall, and along the short corridor to the stillroom, which was located near the kitchen.
As she expected, Lady Benedicta was there, standing beside the big table in the center of the room. She spun around when Elaine opened the door, and Elaine noticed how she tried to conceal a small, tube-shaped object in the folds of her skirt. A quill pen lay on the table beside a pottery ink bottle.
“How dare you come in here without my permission?” Lady Benedicta demanded.
“Did you know the door was unlatched? Anyone could enter.” Elaine kept her voice quiet, trying not to reveal how angry she was. “You ought to be more careful, my lady. Some of your herbal preparations are dangerous, as you, yourself, have so often claimed.” She started into the room, heading for the shelves of medicines.
“What do you want?” Lady Benedicta watched her suspiciously.
“Only this.” Elaine picked up the jar of ointment used for the cuts and scrapes sustained by the kitchen servants, or for the burns they sometimes incurred while cooking, and also used by the men-at-arms, who often injured themselves at weapons practice. “I will return it in the morning, after I am certain Jean’s hurts are not serious.”
“You are coddling that stupid boy, just as you always have.”
“You beat him, without waiting to learn that he believed he was preventing a robbery in this room. He thought to help you keep your herbs secure and in return, you punished him.” Elaine walked right up to Lady Benedicta, until she stood almost nose to nose with her. She spoke quietly, almost pleasantly. “I warn you, my lady, never touch Jean again.”
“Or what?” demanded Lady Benedicta. “Do not imagine you can threaten me.”
“I’m not threatening you,” Elaine said, amazed at how calm her voice was. “I am merely stating a fact. You are not to touch Jean again, for any reason.”
“You may not instruct me in my duties,” Lady Benedicta snapped at her. “Give me the ointment. I didn’t prepare it for a loathsome brat to use.”
“Nevertheless, that is how I will use it, on the shoulders and face of a boy whom you deliberately injured without just cause. I do wonder, my lady, why a woman who is so self-possessed that until this night I never saw or heard of her striking out at anyone – why a woman who has always preferred harsh words to blows would stoop to beating a mere kitchen boy. What can Jean have interrupted in this room that made you angry enough to lose control? How very odd.”
Seeing the look on Lady Benedicta’s pale face, Elaine realized that for her own safety, she ought not to say anything more. Indeed, it was possible she had already said too much. She stepped back, about to turn and leave the room. Without warning Lady Benedicta’s hand whipped out and slapped her hard on each cheek. In the next heartbeat, her fingers were entwined in Elaine’s braid, tugging her head backward. The older woman’s voice hissed in her ear.
“Now, let me warn you, foolish girl that you are. Do not cross me. Do not seek to thwart my will. And do not ever come into this room again. Now, give me the jar of ointment.”
“No! I won’t!” Feeling the grip of Lady Benedicta’s fingers in her hair beginning to loosen slightly, Elaine wrenched herself free. She left a few strands of hair behind, but that scarcely mattered to her. She raced out of the stillroom, pulling the door shut behind her.
“My lady?” Flamig stood in the corridor, frowning at her. “Is aught amiss? I heard loud voices. Why are you awake so late at night? I should think you would be abed and fast asleep after the last two days.”
“Elaine! Come back here!” Lady Benedicta wrenched open the stillroom door and rushed into the corridor. When she saw Flamig, she halted, glaring at the man-at-arms. “Well, what is it, Flamig? What do you want? Does no one ever sleep? Half the castle seems to be awake tonight.”
“I confess, my lady, I sneaked into the kitchen to find something to eat.”
Flamig’s explanation was offered so quickly and easily that Elaine at once recognized it as a false excuse, prepared in advance in case he needed it. If L
ady Benedicta noticed, she gave no indication.
“Men-at-arms are to eat in the great hall, when the food is served there,” Lady Benedicta said. “Stay out of the kitchen.”
“That’s exactly what the cook told me when she found me slicing bread,” Flamig admitted with a sheepish smile. “She told me to wait until morning. Lady Elaine, may I escort you back to the solar?”
“Thank you, Flamig.” Elaine responded with her gaze on Lady Benedicta, whose glittering eyes and cold expression boded no good intentions toward her.
With the stalwart man-at-arms by her side and the jar of ointment held firmly in her hand, she turned her back on her foster mother.
“Cleverly done,” Cadwallon remarked. “Were you a thief before Royce recruited you as a spy?”
“Are you claiming that you couldn’t pick a lock if the need arose?” Desmond asked, amused in spite of the danger they were incurring by their presence in the courtyard during the waning hours of the night. If they were caught, they’d have no suitable explanation. Excitement flared in him, sharpening his senses and making him feel more fully alive.
“Oh, I can open a lock,” Cadwallon said, chuckling. “I just wouldn’t do it as quietly as you did. Ewan, get in here and close the door so we can use the lantern without being seen.”
As soon as the dovecot door clicked shut, Cadwallon opened the sliding side of the enclosed lantern he was carrying. A narrow beam of light pierced the darkness of the dovecot. The birds murmured softly and rustled about on their perches. The smell of feathers and bird droppings permeated the small building. Outside on the battlements, a sentry called softly to his fellow watchman.
Desmond allowed himself a moment of private pleasure, savoring the rush of intense feeling that danger always produced, before he tamped down the emotion and began a systematic search of the dovecot. He made his discovery almost immediately. It wasn’t hidden. But then, there was no need for concealment.
