The old woman gave them a round loaf of bread still warm from the oven. When she finished milking the cow, she refilled the pottery mug with the fresh milk.
“We took feed for our horses and you have fed us most generously,” Desmond told her, handing over several coins. “Do what you wish with these; give them to the priest if you want. We leave you with our thanks.”
The sun was just rising when they set out again.
“You do realize,” Elaine said as soon as they were beyond the cluster of houses, “that she will tell everyone in the village how we spent the night in the shed. If anyone is following us and asks about us…” She left the thought unfinished.
“I know,” Desmond responded, “but she could have refused us a place to sleep and let us fend for ourselves under a hedge. If she had done so, she’d still talk to any man asking questions about us. Thanks to her kindness, we enjoyed a quiet night and our bellies are full. Those blessings are well worth the few coins I paid her.”
He set a faster pace that morning, no longer protecting the horses. Elaine assumed it was because they’d change their mounts in St. Lo. Or, perhaps, he hoped to outdistance any pursuers. Her initial stiffness quickly disappeared and as the day warmed, her spirits rose. Surely, all would be well. They would reach Caen in another three days at most, and once they had given their warning, Royce would see to it that King Henry was safe. She refused to think any further than that. She’d deal later with the need to explain Aglise’s death to her mother.
The fortress at the heart of St. Lo sat atop a rocky prominence that reared up above the surrounding countryside. Desmond did not pause to gape at the high, threatening ramparts as Elaine was doing, but galloped right up to the main gate. There he was halted by two men-at-arms with pikes crossed. Drawing forth the letter he carried, with the king’s seal in red wax above Royce’s signature and smaller seal, he unfolded it and showed it to the guards.
“In the name of the king,” Desmond declared in a forceful tone, “we must speak with your commander. Our business is urgent.”
One of the guards came forward to squint at the letter as if he could read it. Elaine noticed how Desmond never let go of the document. After a moment the guard called to someone inside the gatehouse. The fellow who stepped forward, by his youth and lack of a sword, was apparently a squire.
“You’ll find Sir Edmund in the great hall,” the guard said to Desmond. “Pierre, here, will escort you to him.”
The great hall of the fortress proved to be poorly lit and, from the little Elaine could see, it was neither clean nor comfortable. The rushes on the floor smelled foul, dogs roamed about, scavenging what scraps they could from discarded bones and, most disturbing of all to Elaine, a dozen or so tough looking men-at-arms loitered on the benches, watching her and Desmond with hard eyes.
“My lord,” the squire announced to the man who sat at the high table, “here is a strange knight who’s come to speak with you, and a lady, too.”
“Sir Edmund,” Desmond said, bowing his head only slightly, “I carry authorization from both King Henry and Lord Royce.”
The commander of St. Lo was a large, red-faced man with dark eyes and greying hair, who very slowly read the letter Desmond offered, and who moved his lips as he perused it. This time Desmond did release the parchment, though he kept his hand extended to retrieve it as soon as Sir Edmund was finished with it.
“This says only that you are to have whatever cooperation is necessary.” Sir Edmund fixed a challenging stare on Desmond. “It doesn’t say why I am to cooperate.”
“Do you know Lord Royce?” Desmond asked with cool arrogance. Reaching across the table, he took back the letter, refolded it, and tucked it into his belt pouch.
“We’ve met.” Sir Edmund didn’t seem impressed by the mention of King Henry’s formidable spymaster.
“I am on the king’s business, at Lord Royce’s behest,” Desmond said.
“And the lady?” Sir Edmund subjected Elaine to a penetrating inspection.
“She is a witness in the matter I have been investigating,” Desmond said. “We require fresh horses and we must leave as soon as they can be saddled.”
“From where have you come?” Sir Edmund asked. “Where are you bound?”
They were reasonable questions, considering the system Desmond had described to Elaine, of lending horses that awaited return to their home stables, yet she thought she detected something more than mere ordinary interest in Sir Edmund’s manner as he stepped off the dais to stand facing Desmond.
“We have ridden from Avranches in hope of finding King Henry in residence here at St. Lo,” Desmond answered with no sign of concern or hesitation. “Since he is obviously not here, our duty is to follow him to Caen.”
“And in haste, you say. Well, Sir Desmond, let me offer a piece of good advice. Recently I have received reports of trouble along the main road that runs from St. Lo to Bayeux, and thence to Caen. Several travelers were stopped and robbed and one man even now lies close to death from a sword thrust. My men-at-arms are searching for the thieves, but I dare not call that road safe until the villains are found and imprisoned.”
“I see.” Desmond considered the information. “What do you suggest we do, then?”
“Take another route. Follow the road that leads south from here, along the River Vire.”
“I have no wish to travel south,” Desmond objected.
“I know it seems a roundabout way,” Sir Edmund told him. “But if you leave the road at the village of Torigni and ride northeastward across the open countryside, you will soon reach the royal road that runs north to Caen. That road is patrolled by King Henry’s soldiers, so it will be safer than the other route. Surely you know the most direct road is not always the quickest way to reach your destination. Or, in this case, the safest way.”
“I’m sure your advice is good, and I thank you for it,” Desmond said politely.
“If you can spare an hour or two, it will be my pleasure to provide a meal for you and a chance for the lady to rest,” Sir Edmund said.
“You are very kind,” Elaine spoke up, “and at another time I will be delighted to sup with you. But, as Sir Desmond has said, we must be on our way.” She offered her hand and smiled when he bent over it, though she distrusted him as she had once distrusted Lady Benedicta, on instinct alone.
“I don’t know your name,” Sir Edmund murmured, returning her smile.
“I am Lady Aglise of Dereham.” Elaine surprised herself by how easily she lied. “Lord Royce is my godfather, and when I see him in Caen, I will be certain to mention your kind assistance to us.”
“Ah.” Sir Edmund dropped her hand and turned to the squire who had remained listening and watching the interview. “Pierre, conduct our guests to the stable and allow them to choose any two mounts among those destined to be returned to Caen. And be assured, Sir Desmond, that your own horses will arrive safely in Caen within a few days.”
Less than an hour later they were on their way again, riding southward as Sir Edmund had advised, moving at a steady canter that allowed Elaine the opportunity to observe the countryside. Around them lay rolling hills clothed in the gentle green of early spring, with the sparkling River Vire on their right. It was all quite lovely, but even as she breathed deeply of the fresh warm air after the unpleasant odors of the fortress hall, she kept an eye on Desmond. She expected him to make a contrary move soon, and she wasn’t disappointed.
Once they were out of sight of the fortress on its high, rocky hill, Desmond flashed a sudden grin at her and spurred his horse into a gallop. Elaine was prepared, so she easily kept pace with him until he slowed enough for them to talk.
“How much farther shall we travel before we choose our own route?” she asked. She was not surprised to hear his delighted laugh.
“So, you trusted Sir Edmund no more than I did,” he said. “I thought not, though you kept so quiet. Clever Elaine. You are a good student; you’d make a fine spy.”
“I saw something cold and calculating in his eyes,” she revealed. “At first, I supposed he was being cautious about unexpected visitors, as the commander of any fortress ought to be. But I could not like him, perhaps because he reminded me of Lady Benedicta. It’s possible the tale he recounted, of travelers being stopped and robbed, is true. He may have seized on the circumstance as a convenient excuse. Or perhaps, he invented the story to frighten us and to make you worry about my safety.”
“Did you notice the men-at-arms in the hall?” Desmond asked. “They looked like thieves, themselves. It’s too bad I have no previous personal acquaintance with the commander of St. Lo.”
“Are you suggesting the man we spoke to is an impostor? A French spy, perhaps? But, Desmond, this countryside is so peaceful. If the fortress was taken by force, wouldn’t we see burning houses, trampled fields, bodies along the way?”
“Not if St. Lo was seized by stealth. I just don’t know, Elaine. Royce may be able to answer our questions after we reach Caen. Our task now is to arrive there alive and in fit condition to speak to him. Our one advantage is that Sir Edmund may assume we are riding slowly out of deference to your supposed limitations as a woman. If he plans an ambush, we will be far ahead of where he expects us to be, for he cannot know what a fine rider you are. We leave the road here.”
“Well before we reach Torigni, where any sensible traveler would stop for a short time, to eat and rest the horses,” she said, nodding her approval of his plan. “I’ll wager that’s where Sir Edmund thinks to catch us. But when his people ride into Torigni, we will be well on our way to Caen.”
They left the river behind and galloped east. At first the sun lay warm on their backs. Then they entered a forest, where the shade chilled the air and the dense underbrush slowed their progress. As soon as they were out of sight of anyone on the road, Desmond halted. While Elaine watched, puzzled, he dug into his saddlebag.
“Here.” He handed her a knife in a long sheath. “Fasten this to your belt. You may need it.” His fingers lingered against hers when she accepted the weapon.
“Don’t hesitate to use it,” he instructed. “I’ll do my best to defend you, but we don’t know how many men will come against us.”
“Are you sure we’ll be attacked?” she asked.
“As sure as any spy can be.” His familiar smile flashed again, giving her the impression that he was looking forward to a fight. “I have learned to listen to the warnings in my mind. On the one occasion when I did not listen, I was captured. I’ll not be taken by treachery a second time. Nor will you be harmed while I have breath in my body.”
She said nothing, merely meeting his level gaze for a long moment before she finally, and very reluctantly, secured the knife so she could reach it easily. She prayed she wouldn’t have to use it, though she trusted Desmond’s instincts.
They spent the next hour or so moving through the forest as quickly as possible while trying to leave few traces of their passing for anyone to follow.
“I begin to think we should have ridden directly to Bayeux,” Elaine grumbled. “Or else, I should have dressed in hose and tunic, so I’d have no skirt to catch on brambles and twigs.”
“I’d like to see you in men’s clothing,” Desmond responded, though he wasn’t looking at her. “Stay here. I see sunlight just ahead, so I think that must be where the trees end. Let me see if anyone is waiting for us.”
He rode on and Elaine finished untangling her hem from a bush, then tried to tidy the hair that had pulled out of her thick braid. By the time she reached Caen, she was going to look thoroughly disreputable. She hoped Royce would recognize her. She couldn’t begin to imagine what her mother would say about her appearance. Lady Irmina was always perfectly dressed and coifed, and she had frequently criticized Elaine for her lack of interest in the gaudy finery and face paint and jewels so common at the royal court.
“Come on,” Desmond called softly. “The way is clear.”
Once again they rode in sunshine, across open fields, past orchards and neatly ploughed rows where vegetables sprouted in fresh, springtime shades of pale green and tender red. Peasants working in the fields lifted their heads to watch them ride by. Desmond took care not to trample the newly planted crops, instead keeping to the grassy paths between the fields. Wherever the land was firm enough, they galloped, making up the time they had lost in the forest.
“Perhaps we’ve outwitted any men who are trying to follow us,” Elaine said during a period when a muddy area resembling a small swamp forced them to slow their horses to a walk.
“Perhaps.” Desmond sounded doubtful.
“Or, better yet, perhaps no one was following us at all.”
“You must always assume someone knows what you are doing and is following with the intention of stopping you,” Desmond warned.
She didn’t think that could be a very pleasant way to live, always suspicious of people, constantly looking over one shoulder to see who was creeping up from behind. She refrained from saying so. Desmond’s excessive caution was going to see them safely through any danger.
“I do believe I see the road just ahead,” Desmond said, pointing.
The royal road was a dirt track that wound across the countryside between the fields and that curved around any steep hills. Deep ruts scored the surface, caused by the wheels of heavily laden carts heading for the nearest town to sell farm products on market days. By King Henry’s order the trees and brush on either side of the road were kept cleared so there would be no hiding places for brigands, and once or twice a year the ruts were filled in with fresh soil. Desmond and Elaine stayed on the rough grasses along the side of the road, hoping to find more secure footing there for their horses.
By now it was late afternoon and the sun cast long shadows over the countryside. When a flock of blackbirds flew up from a field on Elaine’s right, she assumed they were heading for their nighttime roosting place until Desmond uttered a warning in a low voice.
“Here they come.” He wheeled his horse so its rear was toward Elaine. “Stay behind me. You’ll be a bit safer there.”
Two men wearing chainmail galloped directly across the field from which the birds had fled, their horses’s hooves throwing up large clods of earth. A peasant who was scattering seed along the neatly ploughed rows cried out in anguish at the destruction of his work. The armored men paid no heed to the protests, not even pausing to strike at the peasant for daring to complain.
The two clearly weren’t interested in peasants, only in Desmond and Elaine. They reached the muddy road and turned on to it, not slowing their advance as they came closer.
“They aren’t going to waste time in talking,” Desmond remarked in a conversational tone. He was ready for them, sword in hand, reins loosely looped around the pommel of his saddle. While fighting he would control his horse with just the pressure of his muscular thighs.
Elaine drew the knife he had given her from its sheath and sat waiting, afraid yet determined not to be taken down. She and Desmond mustn’t be stopped in their purpose; they could not be prevented from reaching Caen and Royce. She vowed to do whatever was necessary to see they carried out their mission.
The first man reached Desmond and began a furious assault with his broadsword. Elaine couldn’t see how Desmond was faring against him, for she was occupied with the second man. He rode directly at her, forcing her horse away from Desmond’s protection. The man’s right arm snaked out to pull her from her mount. The attempt might have worked, if she hadn’t been riding astride. She clamped her knees against her horse’s sides and stabbed as hard as she could at her attacker, aiming for his outstretched right arm. The knife jabbed through the chainmail with a wrench that pulled the blade from Elaine’s hand.
The man yelped in pain, then tried to turn his horse so as to cut off any hope of escape by forcing her farther away from Desmond. Elaine reacted swiftly, taking the only defensive action she could think of in the heat of the moment. She pulled hard on the reins until her horse reared upward, thrashing the air with its sharp hooves.
Blood spurted around her. She wasn’t sure if it came from the man attacking her, from his horse, or from her own horse. A shriek rang in her ears, deafening her for a moment or two and, again, she wasn’t certain if its origin was human or animal. She was still in the saddle, but her horse was circling wildly, fighting her efforts to control it, and she was utterly disoriented, not knowing where Desmond was, or even where the road was. The shriek went on and on, then suddenly stopped.
In the abrupt silence Elaine looked down to see a chainmail-clad figure lying facedown on the road. A few feet away Desmond dismounted and, reaching up, hauled the limp, bleeding figure of an assailant from his horse to the ground.
“Elaine!”
She heard her name through the ringing in her ears and saw Desmond’s shape wavering in the mist that swam before her eyes.
“Dismount before you fall off your horse.”
The sharp command sent her out of the saddle to stand next to the horse. Fearing she’d crumple to the ground, she held on tightly to the saddle.
“Are you hurt?” Desmond called. “Damnation, woman, answer me!”
“I – I am unharmed.”
“Then come here,” he ordered.
At first she wasn’t sure she was capable of obeying. Then she let go of the support of her horse and put one foot before the other, moving slowly toward Desmond, until he reached out and took her hand.
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…