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conscience reminded him. Her
husband was likely dead, but until they knew, he had no right to think of her
in those terms.
    It took an effort that left him sweating and shaking, but he
finally forced himself to disengage from the lady. At his gentle pressure on
her arms, she backed up, her expression suddenly horrified. She looked up at
him with tears in her eyes.
    “Sir Thomas, I do apologize. I had no right…I know not what
I was thinking. Truly, I am not normally so…forward.”
    “I do not think so, my lady. You were overcome with the
emotion of the moment. Think no more of it.”
    The heat and pressure refused to go away so long as he
looked at her. He needed to get out before he disgraced himself.
    “My lady, if you’ll excuse me, I have things to do and I
know you do as well. Do you object if I question members of your household
concerning Lord Groswick?”
    “Nay, Sir Thomas. Do as…you will.” Her voice wobbled and
broke.
    “Thank you. Lady Juliana.” He bowed to her, turned, and
left.
    * * * * *
    Thomas had wanted to question the bailiff, but when he
inquired about it, he was told the man was out on business with some of the
crofters. He asked about the steward and learned he, too, had departed on an
errand. He recalled that Juliana had asked him to do something for her that
morning.
    He shrugged and went to the kitchens, where the head cook
ungraciously consented to answer his questions, so long as he could continue to
stir the pot he leaned over while he did so. The man identified himself as John
Cookson.
    “You’ve been here how many years, John Cookson?” Thomas
asked.
    “All my life, my lord,” the man answered. “My father was
head cook here before me.”
    “You knew Lord Groswick well enough then?”
    The man shrugged. “How well does a cook know the lord of the
keep?”
    “Usually very well indeed, though not necessarily from
personal contact,” Thomas suggested.
    The man looked up from his pot. The words had surprised a
small grin from him, though it faded quickly. “Ah well, you have the right of
that. I knew my lord well enough in that way.”
    “And what sort of man would you say he was?”
    John looked back down into his pot and stirred thoughtfully
for a moment before he answered. “A hard lord. He was raised with no softness,
though being the only son of his father, he grew to expect he could have aught
that he wished. A man with no gentleness in him, though as to that, I suppose
‘tis not so different from most other lords.” The cook slanted him a suspicious
look from narrowed eyes.
    “Would you say he was a fair lord?”
    Again the thoughtful pause ensued. “As to that, I cannot
truly judge.”
    An interesting reply, Thomas thought. “Lady Juliana tells me
Lord Groswick has been gone over a year now, with no word from him. Does that
seem strange to you?”
    The answer took long enough in coming. Thomas began to
wonder if the man was habitually so slow to speak. If not, then was it his
presence or the subject matter making him so uncomfortable?
    “Nay, not so strange. My lord’s will was his own, and he
looked to no one else’s needs, wants, or pleasure in his actions. He would not
likely have felt he must send messages or word of his plans here. He’d not have
thought of it, save that he needed something from us.”
    “Did you know anything of his plans when he left?”
    The man stopped stirring for a moment and drew a deep
breath. “I believe he was to meet the Prince on the Continent, my lord.”
    “You heard no whisper that their true destination might be
some other place. Or that they planned a stop somewhere?”
    The man shook his head. “Nay.”
    “How many rode out with him?”
    The hand holding the spoon showed a slight tremor. “I know
not that I can recall with any accuracy. Perhaps two dozen.”
    “Did you know those who rode out with him?”
    John turned a look on him that showed distress and worry.
“Nay, my lord. That is…” He paused and took