Where Love Has Gone

By Flora Speer

A sixteen-year-old girl is missing on the island of Jersey. Aglise is the goddaughter of Lord Royce. After receiving a desperate letter from Aglise’s older sister, Elaine, begging for his help, Royce sends two agents to Jersey to discover what has happened.

Desmond, who loves the excitement of spying, is in charge of the mission. He doesn’t much like his assigned companion, Cadwallon. The two are obviously unwelcome at Warden’s Manor, where Lord Bertrand and his icy wife, Lady Benedicta, manage the island in the name of King Henry I. Bertrand claims the island has been thoroughly searched and no sign of Aglise has been found. Lady Benedicta insists the girl has run off with a lover.

Only Elaine seems genuinely worried about her sister. A quiet young woman, she secretly harbors doubts about the beautiful Aglise’s recent activities. For his part, Desmond is unwillingly drawn to Elaine by her intelligence and her dauntless determination to find her sister.

Meanwhile, in Caen, Normandy, a French spy is plotting against King Henry while he dallies with a noble lady.

Aglise is found buried in a sea cave beneath the cliffs. There’s not a mark on her body, which leads Desmond and Cadwallon to assume she was poisoned. Elaine declares that a necklace Aglise always wore is missing. Later, during the vigil for Aglise in the manor house chapel, Lord Bertrand drops the necklace near the bier.
Upon confronting Lord Bertrand in his private chamber, Elaine, Desmond, and Cadwallon are shocked to learn that he and his young foster daughter were involved in a sexual liaison – an affair that, to the medieval mind, is the same as incest. The fact provides a motive for murder; Lady Benedicta may have killed Aglise out of jealousy.
Cadwallon says he doubts it, because the lady is much too cool emotionally to commit an act of passion. If Lady Benedicta killed Aglise, it must have been for some other reason.

Later, Desmond tenderly comforts Elaine, leaving her yearning for more. When Elaine mentions that Lady Benedicta keeps pigeons, Desmond realizes she may not be raising all of the birds for food. Messenger pigeons have been used for centuries to carry information during wartime, or used by spies.

In Caen, the French spy wonders where his latest message is but, as usual, he distracts himself with sex.
While packing Aglise’s clothing, Elaine discovers a tiny roll of parchment bearing a coded message. When Desmond deciphers the code, it’s clear that Lady Benedicta has been sending information to someone in Normandy. There’s a plot to kill King Henry on May 1. Desmond and Cadwallon have only a few days to save the king, but the island is engulfed in dense fog and no ships can leave.

Can Desmond and Cadwallon reach Normandy in time to save the king? Dare they leave Elaine behind to face the danger Lady Benedicta poses? And what of that intrepid, seductive French spy?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Flora Speer
• Release date: Jan 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310813795

Flora Speer

Flora Speer is the author of twenty-two book-length romances and two novellas, all traditionally published. The stories range from historical romances to time-travel, to futuristic. Born in southern New Jersey, she now lives in Connecticut. Her favorite activities include gardening (especially flowers and herbs used in medieval gardens,) amateur astronomy, and following the U.S. space program, which has occasionally been a source of ideas for her futuristic romances.

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Where Love Has Gone

By

Flora Speer

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 by Flora Speer

Cover Design Copyright 2014,

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Prologue

The Warden’s Manor

Island of Jersey

Early March, A.D. 1117.

There is a bond between sisters, Elaine said, forcing the words through quivering lips. She refused to weep. Something is very wrong. Aglise would never leave without telling me.

Elaine and Lady Benedicta were in the linen room. Formerly the smallest of the guest chambers in the large manor house, the room had been converted by Lady Benedicta to suit her passionate desire for order and neatness. Wooden shelves were fitted to two walls and on them rested the household’s supply of carefully folded sheets. Below the shelves large, covered baskets held bulkier items – extra pillows and quilts, clean bed robes for guests who arrived with none, and even a few rolled-up pallets in case they were needed for visiting servants.

The sunlight streaming through the open shutters of the double window illuminated the sturdy table in the middle of the room, on which linens could be folded.

Elaine often thought the precise order within the tiny room reflected Lady Benedicta’s mind; she would not tolerate disorder, nor behavior that ventured beyond the rigid limits she had set for those around her. Even so, Elaine preferred the sometimes stifling linen room to her foster mother’s other great interest, the dovecot.

She could not understand how a woman so driven by a need for cleanliness and perfect order could tolerate the messiness created by the several dozen birds housed in the round stone building near the mews. The molted feathers that tended to float in the air, the droppings and other debris that were inevitable wherever birds were kept cooped up, all made Elaine cough and sneeze until Lady Benedicta had one day forbidden her the dovecot, claiming her presence there disturbed the birds. Elaine could only be grateful for the command.

Nonsense. Lady Benedicta’s response to Elaine’s remark about Aglise was typically brisk and firm, her manner even cooler and more controlled than usual. Child, you are far too imaginative. I have often told you so. You would be better advised to pray for your sister to change her mind and return promptly to her rightful place, than to claim without proof that something terrible has happened to her. The girl is willful. Her absence is her own doing.

Elaine didn’t believe it, but she knew after the last two years of difficult experience that once Lady Benedicta had made up her mind, nothing would change it. So she stopped her tongue from further protests, bowed her head as if in meek submission, and quietly went about the daily chores that were the duty of the foster daughter of Lord Bertrand, Warden of the Island of Jersey, and his lady.

Only later, in the nighttime privacy of the tiny room assigned to the sisters, did she dare to take action. Having lit a candle, Elaine took out the sheet of parchment she had begged of Lord Bertrand’s chaplain, Father Otwin, by saying she wanted to practice her letters. She sharpened the quill that she kept in the flat wooden box containing her personal treasures, then added a bit of wine to a half-dried bottle of ink and shook it well.

Sitting on the side of the bed she had shared with her sister until two weeks ago, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration and using the box as a desk, she began to write. She had much to relate, several unpleasant suspicions to divulge, and she intended to phrase the message so no one who read it out of mere curiosity could guess the true meaning behind her words. When, some hours later, she was finished to her own satisfaction, she sealed the folded parchment with many drippings of candle wax and impressed the wax in two places with her late father’s old seal ring.

In the course of her routine duties the next morning she spoke to Jean, the kitchen boy who had once sworn he’d do anything for her or her sister because, according to him, they were the only two people in the entire manor who treated him with kindness. When Jean left with the cook on an errand to Gorey village, to purchase fresh fish for the midday meal, Elaine knew her letter had gone with the boy and would find its way aboard a ship bound for Normandy. How long it would take the letter to reach Caen she could not judge with any certainty. Two weeks at least, possibly much longer. Then more weeks to wait for a response.

Elaine began to pray, over and over, that the letter would safely arrive at the court of King Henry I of England, who was also duke of Normandy, and that it would without too much delay be delivered into the hands of the man to whom she had sent it. For Elaine believed that Royce, the baron of Wortham was the only person in all King Henry’s domains who was capable of helping her sister.

Chapter 1

The islands in the Narrow Sea between England and the continent of Europe belonged by hereditary right to the dukes of Normandy. When Duke William set out to conquer England, he appointed a loyal noble to hold the islands for him against any attempt by the king of France to seize them for his own. Thereafter, William, as king of England, kept dependable men in the post and his sons, King William Rufus and Henry I, followed his example.

On a bright mid-April morning in the Year of Our Lord 1117, the large sailing vessel Daisy approached the eastern end of the island known as Jersey. Captain Piers stood at the helm, his sharp eyes watching the sea intently, for the waters there are treacherous, with cross currents, and strong tides barely covering rocks that can gut a ship and send it to the bottom.

The captain’s passengers seemed unaware of any danger. The squires remained below deck, but the two men who were their masters leaned on the rail, squinting against the sun as they watched the island. Captain Piers scowled at them, wishing he could hear what they were saying. The tall, sandy-haired man was known to him as one of Lord Royce’s best agents; he had several times transported Sir Desmond to France or to England. The second man, the near-giant whom they had picked up at Teignmouth on the previous evening, was a stranger to the captain. Telling himself all that mattered was the heavy bag of gold awaiting him when he reported to Lord Royce the safe arrival of his men at Jersey, Captain Piers shrugged, dismissing their conversation, and gave his complete attention to the water ahead.

What did Royce tell you about the mission? Desmond asked his companion.

Not much. Cadwallon turned a little to look at him. I didn’t confer with him in person, you see, Royce being in Normandy with King Henry, and me being at home in Devon. Nor does he ever include details in his letters, lest they fall into the wrong hands, Cadwallon finished with a knowing grin.

Desmond frowned. He liked spying, enjoyed the thrill of knowing what others did not know, and he drew an almost erotic pleasure from the risk involved, from the realization that death could be upon him at any moment, with only his wits to stave it off. But he did not like working with another agent. Once, he had been betrayed by a trusted colleague; the long months of imprisonment and the ill-health that followed had taught him to be wary. He certainly was not going to trust an unknown man who, judging by his name, was Welsh. Not even if the man was hand-picked by Royce. Even King Henry’s brilliant spymaster could make a mistake.

I assumed you’d know what we are to do when we reach Jersey, Cadwallon said, still grinning.

There’s a girl missing, Desmond responded in his most clipped tone. We are to find her.

That’s all? Cadwallon looked puzzled. Having received a confidential letter written in Royce’s own hand, I thought there’d be an important matter of state to pursue.

You can read? Desmond asked, his full interest caught by Cadwallon’s second mention of the contents of Royce’s letter.

Of course. I can write, too.

Cadwallon was grinning again. Desmond wished he’d stop. He glared at the sea, so much brighter than the waters surrounding England, more clearly blue and green and glittering as if dark secrets lurked far below the surface, until Cadwallon spoke again.

How old is the girl?

She’s sixteen.

Old enough to be married, Cadwallon noted. Perhaps she ran off with a lover.

That’s what I said to Royce. He doesn’t think so.

Why not? Cadwallon slanted a surprisingly intelligent glance at Desmond and spoke in a brisk manner distinctly at odds with his large size and his lazy movements. If we are to work together effectively, you’d better tell me everything Royce has told you.

The girl, whose name is Aglise, is Royce’s godchild.

Ah, said Cadwallon, so it’s personal for him.

Royce and the girl’s father, Lord Aldwynd, and Lord Bertrand, who presently holds these islands for King Henry, were all squires together in their youth and they became close friends. Aldwynd died a few years ago, leaving no sons. When his widow remarried she sent her two daughters to Jersey, to be fostered by Lord Bertrand and Lady Benedicta. Desmond absently fingered the pouch he wore attached to his belt. In it rested several of the instruments of his trade: two metal lock picks, a block of wax, a candle stub, a wad of woolen lint and a pair of flints, a tiny vial of poppy syrup.

Go on, then, Cadwallon prompted him.

A few days ago Royce received a letter from the older sister, Elaine, telling him that Aglise has disappeared and appealing for his help in finding her.

Why didn’t she appeal directly to Lord Bertrand? Cadwallon asked. Or does she think her sister has left the island and, thus, Royce will be better able to locate her? But, if that’s so, why are we headed for Jersey?

Because Royce wants us to talk to Elaine, and to Lady Benedicta and Lord Bertrand, to discover what information they may have. Apparently, Elaine thinks Aglise is still somewhere on the island.

Does the missing girl’s mother know of this? Cadwallon asked.

She does, and if Aglise is anything like her mother, you may be right in your assumption that she has run off with some fellow. Perhaps, an unsuitable fellow for a nobly born girl. Desmond’s frown deepened. Royce introduced me to Lady Irmina. Her second husband is eight or ten years younger than she, and remarkably handsome. She’s doing her best to hold his interest against all the flirtatious young creatures of the royal court, so she doesn’t have much time for concern about her daughters.

Which may be why they are unmarried, Cadwallon said.

Probably. I’m sure if she could arrange advantageous marriages for either of them, she’d do so, just to advance her own position. Lady Irmina is ambitious. She was also shallow and silly, but Desmond was wise enough to refrain from further criticism of the lady to a man he didn’t know. Nor was he going to mention how Lady Irmina’s young husband set his teeth on edge. Too handsome, too charming, and utterly useless summed up Desmond’s opinion of Sir Lamont de Bruay.

How can a parent be indifferent to the plight of a child? Cadwallon asked with great feeling. If our child were missing, my Janet would be searching every inch of the kingdom to locate the poor thing. Even so, she’d be well behind me.

You are married? Desmond asked in astonishment.

Aye. Cadwallon was grinning again. Didn’t Royce tell you? It’s only thanks to him that I was able to marry my Janet. A few years ago, after I helped Royce to resolve a minor problem, he appealed to King Henry to grant me a little castle in Devon.

No one told me that you are a baron, Desmond said accusingly. Or that you left your domain and your wife to come on this mission.

Well, I’d do almost anything for Royce, and have done a bit of work for him now and then, Cadwallon said. "Besides, I was glad to leave for a few weeks. I have recently learned that Janet tends to be a bit testy when she’s with child.

I didn’t leave her alone, Cadwallon continued in hasty response to Desmond’s shocked look. Her sister is visiting. Janet told me to go. She doesn’t like me to see her hanging her head over a basin every morning. By the time I return, she’ll be glad to have me back again.

Desmond could think of nothing to say to these domestic revelations, or to the information that Cadwallon had not only worked for Royce in the past, but had earned a castle by his efforts. That meant Cadwallon must possess sharper wits than were evident on short acquaintance.

The realization that Royce had paired him with a man who had a wife at home and a child on the way irritated Desmond beyond reason. He didn’t like the idea of having to protect Cadwallon along with two young women, if it came to that, as he feared it would. Married men, and prospective fathers especially, ought not to be spying.

For Desmond was sure spying was involved in his present mission. Although Royce hadn’t said anything specific about the state of affairs on Jersey, he had mentioned the persistent French interest in the island. Desmond did not believe Royce would send two experienced agents to search for a missing girl on a small island unless some unspoken purpose lay behind the assignment. Lord Bertrand’s men-at-arms, who must know the island well, could search for Aglise more easily than two strangers.

Desmond regretted that he hadn’t insisted on reading the letter Aglise’s sister had sent to Royce. There had to be another reason why he and Cadwallon had been dispatched to Jersey in such haste. He’d been eager to prove to Royce that he was recovered from imprisonment and the resultant ill health, so he hadn’t asked enough questions about this, his first assignment in two years.

The manor house that guarded the eastern end of Jersey was perched high on the cliffs of a small mountain. Gazing up at the stone walls, all he could see from sea level, Desmond judged that the men-at-arms who patrolled the enclave would have a fine view of not only most of the island, but also the sea approaches and, in clear weather, the coast of Normandy, just fifteen miles away.

Captain Piers brought the Daisy into the harbor of a little fishing village, berthing the ship at the seaward end of a long quay, so the horses could be unloaded.

This will be the village of Gorey, Desmond said in response to Cadwallon’s question. Before he could continue, Captain Piers interrupted.

I’ve timed it aright, the captain informed his passengers. The tide’s at flood now, but ‘twill soon turn and I need ta be well out at sea before then, or I’ll find meself marooned here until the next high tide. So, ye’d best gather yer belongings and be ashore as fast as ye can go. An’ good luck ta ye.

The squires were already leading the horses down the gangplank to the quay.

I see they’ve saddled our horses, Cadwallon said, watching the action. He spread his huge arms, stretching with lazy ease. It looks as if your squire has packed your saddlebags, and Ewan never unpacked mine. What’s your squire’s name, by the way? In case I have to call him.

Richard, Desmond said, his manner curt. Turning to Captain Piers, he added in the same tone, I will expect a message from you in seven days, as we agreed.

I’ve never failed Lord Royce, said the captain with some asperity, nor any of his men, neither, as well ye know. I’ll come back one week from this day and I’ll send an ordinary-lookin’ fella, who won’t attract undue notice, up ta Warden’s Manor with a sealed letter fer ye. Ye can send word by him of when ye want ta leave the island, or ye can use the letter as an excuse ta leave at once, if ye need ta do that.

Better send two men, Cadwallon suggested, and arm both of them.

Aye, I’ll do so, Captain Piers said, nodding his approval of the idea. ‘Tis never safe ta send a man alone inta a strange place. Now, mind ye remember about the tides here. They come in strong and verra fast. Ye don’t want ta be caught walkin’ upon the wet sand when the tide turns.

We won’t forget. Desmond bid farewell to the captain, then headed for the gangplank with Cadwallon following.

Jersey looks to be a pleasant spot, Cadwallon remarked as they rode through the village and onto the narrow path that led upward to Warden’s Manor. I like the warmth. My Janet would enjoy seeing all these pretty flowers.

Desmond spared only a glance for the springtime beauty of the plants growing in rocky crevasses along the way, filling the open spaces with delicate colors. As the path wound higher he could see the Daisy standing out to sea and he noticed how the tide was already receding from the shore of Gorey village, leaving an ever-widening strip of wet sand.

Neither he nor Cadwallon wore chainmail, their armor having been packed into the saddlebags. Being ostensibly on a peaceful visit, both men were clad in woolen tunics, hose and boots, with only their swords and eating knives for protection. Both wore mantles slung over their shoulders, though they didn’t need them. As Cadwallon had noted, the air was pleasantly warm, and it was sweet with the scents of many flowers. The early afternoon sea breeze ruffled Desmond’s short, sandy-colored hair.

I neglected to ask you, Cadwallon said in a companionable way, whether Lord Bertrand knows we are coming?

He does not, Desmond replied. In response to his cold tone, Cadwallon cocked an eyebrow at him. Desmond decided he’d better explain a little more fully. Annoyed though he was by Cadwallon’s presence, he didn’t want to make an enemy of a man whose help he was probably going to need. Royce thought it best not to provide any warning. That way, anyone who may have colluded in Aglise’s disappearance won’t have time to make up a false story.

You ought to have told me before this, and without my asking. Cadwallon spoke rather sharply for so slow-moving and relaxed a man. We are equal partners in this mission, Desmond. I expect you to keep me apprised of whatever you know, as I will inform you of anything I learn.

Fine. I’ll do that. Desmond wished again that he were riding to meet Lord Bertrand with only his squire for company. Still, he could make use of his unwanted companion. Since you are a baron and I am only a knight, I suggest you appear to lead our party. That way, while you converse with Lord Bertrand and his lady, I will be free to ask questions of the lesser folk.

Which you no doubt consider the more important work of our mission, Cadwallon said agreeably.

As Desmond expected, they were stopped at the gate set into the thick wall that surrounded the manor

Royce of Wortham asked us to pay a visit to his friend, Cadwallon said, slipping easily into the half-truths so familiar to all spies. We bear messages from Lord Royce, as well as from some of Lord Bertrand’s other friends at court.

The sentry at the gate called to a man-at-arms, who led the guests into the high-walled courtyard, where they left their horses in the care of Richard and Ewan. Desmond knew his squire would garner as much gossip as he could from the stable lads and from any other squires he met, and he hoped Ewan was trained to do the same.

With the man-at-arms as their guide, Desmond and Cadwallon proceeded through the courtyard to the manor house, where they found themselves in a large hall. It was past midday and the main meal was over. Servants were dismantling the trestle tables. A few men-at-arms stood talking together.

A quick glance about the hall showed Desmond no women, save for a few 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 drowned.

Indeed? Desmond looked for confirmation to his own squire, whom he knew was a sober and responsible fellow.

The general opinion, said Richard, is that Lady Aglise fell to her death from the cliffs along the north shore of the island and was swept out to sea, or else she was trapped on the sand at the eastern end of the island by an incoming tide.

Yes, that was the way of it, Ewan exclaimed. By one means or the other, she drowned.

Aglise has been living on Jersey for more than two years, Desmond said. Surely, she knew about the tides. Richard, from your tone I receive the impression that you don’t agree with the general opinion.

Everyone I spoke to confirmed the lady’s beauty, Richard said. She was also, apparently, a flirtatious tease, who enjoyed setting male hearts aflutter. I do wonder if she has simply run off with a lover, as you first suggested. Though why her sister would have no inkling of what Aglise was planning, I cannot guess. Supposedly, the sisters were on affectionate terms.

Perhaps, Lady Aglise teased some poor fellow beyond bearing and then rejected his advances, so he killed her out of thwarted passion, Ewan said, blushing a little at his own lurid imaginings. Perhaps, her body was flung over the cliffs into the sea, never to be seen again.

Bodies that go into the sea near land, Desmond told the squire, usually wash up on shore in due time.

Well, Cadwallon said, his voice muffled as he pulled a fresh brown wool tunic over his head, as I see the situation, we have two possibilities to consider. Either the girl is dead, or she’s living elsewhere. If she’s dead, someone in this manor house will have a good idea what happened to her. If she’s still alive, someone will know in what direction she has gone. Judging by the alert sentries we found at the gate, this is not a place that anyone can leave unobserved. Nor do I think it’s easy to sail away from the island without being noticed. So, Ewan, keep asking questions. Take care not to drink too much wine. Keep your head and listen well to what the men-at-arms say.

Sir? Richard looked to Desmond for instructions.

Cadwallon is right, Desmond agreed somewhat reluctantly. Pay close attention to what goes on around you. At this moment, we don’t know much more than we did yesterday, and the most casually dropped piece of information may lead us to the truth.

Caen, Normandy.

The court of Henry I, king of England and duke of Normandy.

So, the noble baron of Wortham dared to suppose he could uncover and prevent the plans that The Spy and a few others had been commanded to set into motion on the first day of May.

Normandy ought to belong to Louis VI of France, and so should the nearby islands. The Spy and his associates were secretly working toward that goal. And they would prevail. He knew it with all the confidence that was so much a part of his nature.

The Spy smiled darkly, pleased with himself at the information he had cleverly extracted from Lady Irmina during the last hour. Such a foolish creature, to talk so freely about something she wasn’t supposed to know. Some women just could not keep their tongues from wagging. She had never guessed at his true intentions.

He, of course, was always careful of what he revealed. The Spy had worked in secret for years, ingratiating himself with King Henry, making a place for himself at the royal court. Neither Henry, nor his spymaster, Royce of Wortham, suspected his true purpose, of that The Spy was certain. No hint of suspicion had ever attached itself to him.

Royce of Wortham simply was not equal to the clever men who pretended loyalty to Henry, but who actually owed their allegiance to Louis of France. As proof of his ineptness, Royce had no idea that, thanks to Lady Irmina’s tendency to drink too much wine and to babble carelessly, The Spy was now aware that a man had been dispatched from Caen to Jersey, ostensibly to search for Royce’s missing goddaughter.

The chances were good that Royce’s man would never find the girl, and even if he did, Aglise wouldn’t talk. King Louis’s agent