Nunnery Brides

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  For a man of normal height, the ceilings weren’t so obliging – he’d already hit his head, twice, the last time being on a beam that smacked him straight on the forehead. The least bit frustrated, he simply stood in one place and waited. He’d come with a purpose and, low ceilings notwithstanding, he would accomplish what he’d been ordered to do.

  But the wait became excessive and he was exhausted. Months of travel had seen to that, and with no place to sit, his legs were beginning to tremble. He also hadn’t eaten in some time. Dirty, worn, and unkempt, he wiped his nose with the back of his hand as he waited for the Mother Abbess to make an appearance.

  It was her he’d come to see.

  But it was a woman who was evidently too busy to see him immediately or had no real desire to. The man with the ragged beard wasn’t beyond charging through the convent looking for the woman; therefore, he hoped, for their sakes, that the nun who had answered the door had genuinely gone in search of the abbess as instructed. Men like Alasdair Baird Douglas were not men to be trifled with; he’d killed his share of women right along with his share of men. Even though he was in a holy house, it made little difference to the career killer. If the Mother Abbess didn’t show herself soon, he’d have to go looking for her and eliminate anyone who stood in his way.

  Fortunately, his murder rampage was suspended when the little nun he’d sent to fetch the Mother Abbess returned with three women in tow. They were all wearing unbleached wool habits, heavy and uncomfortable, and the only thing showing was their faces. They all looked the same to him; small-featured, brown-eyed, and dull.

  One of the women, rounder than the rest, gestured to the cold hearth in the chamber and one of the other sisters scurried over to it and began to prepare a blaze. Alasdair glanced at the woman kneeling next to the hearth but he didn’t give her further regard. He was more interested in the women that were standing before him. He looked at the small nun whose features he recognized.

  “Where is your Mother Abbess?” he asked.

  The young nun pointed to the round woman who had ordered the hearth lit. “It is she.”

  Alasdair turned his full attention to the woman in white, now seeing that she was older than the others, her dark eyes sharp and glittering. She made her way towards him slowly, with a massive staff in one hand, like a walking stick, but heavy enough to beat a man to death. She was gazing back at him in an appraising manner.

  “Are ye Seaxburga?” Alasdair asked.

  The woman nodded, once. “I am the Mother Abbess of St. Blitha,” she replied. “Who are you?”

  Alasdair eyed the woman. “Do ye swear this?”

  The woman cocked her head as if insulted by his question. “’Tis you who has sought me,” she said in a heavy accent that was not Scottish or even French. Alasdair had heard it before; it was Italian. “If you do not believe I am who I say I am, then I shall bid you a good day. You will leave.”

  Alasdair didn’t move; he continued to regard the woman, carefully, as if trying to determine if she was truly Seaxburga, the woman he’d been told to deliver the missive to. He caught sight of another nun in his periphery, a woman who was simply passing by the room. She was slender and lovely, with a graceful neck and a pale, pretty face. She was a beautiful young woman who seemed oddly out of place in such a dark and dismal place, but Alasdair wasn’t looking at her beauty. He was looking for confirmation.

  He yelled to her.

  “Ye!” he boomed. “Stop! Who is this woman?”

  He was pointing at the Mother Abbess. The nun he had interrupted, now frozen fearfully where she had come to a halt, gazed apprehensively between the man who had yelled at her and the round woman in the fine robes. Annoyed at the delay, Alasdair boomed again.

  “Who is this woman?” he demanded.

  The interrupted nun jumped at the sound of his voice. “Our Gracious Mother!”

  She fled. Alasdair turned back to the Mother Abbess, now satisfied that an independent source had confirmed the woman’s identity. His annoyance at the situation in general seemed to ease.

  “Ye will forgive me, yer ladyship,” he said. “I bear a very important message. I did not want tae give it tae the wrong person.”

  The Mother Abbess wasn’t so forgiving of his rude behavior. Her expression was unfriendly.

  “What do you have for me?” she asked. “And who has sent you?”

  Alasdair didn’t say a word. He simply presented her with a missive that he pulled out of his saddlebag, extending it to the enrobed woman. The Mother Abbess inspected the long, rolled parchment a moment before extending a hand, retrieving it. She held it very close to her eyes, for they were not very good these days, and inspected the dark red seal.

  Recognition flickered.

  Now, she was very interested in the man’s appearance. Lifting her eyes from the missive, she hissed at the nuns standing around her, ordering them away. She even ordered the nun away who was just now starting the fire in the hearth. Smoke snaked into the room, filling the air with blue haze. As the infant blaze sparked and the nuns fled, the Mother Abbess took a step closer to Alasdair.

  “The seal of the Holy Father is on this parchment,” she said, her voice low.

  Alasdair nodded. “I have just come from him,” he replied. “He has sent me a very long way tae bring ye this missive.”

  The Mother Abbess’ eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why would he send you?” she asked. “The Holy Father has many men who serve him. Who are you to him?”

  “I am his servant,” Alasdair said, sensing her distrust. “He sent me tae England tae deliver the missive because I know the country. I would know where to find ye.”

  “You are not English. You are clearly from Scotland.”

  Alasdair gave a weak smile. “I am,” he confirmed, “but my mother is a Sassenach. I have spent my share of time here.”

  “Where?”

  “In Lincoln.”

  The answer seemed to satisfy her for the moment. The Mother Abbess’ gaze lingered on him before returning to the parchment in her hand. It was clear that she was curious, as well as concerned. Such suspicions made for an odd cast to her expression. After a slight hesitation, she broke the seal and unrolled the parchment, making her way over to the hearth as she did so in order that she might have some light to read by. Alasdair remained by the door.

  The woman read quickly. She read it once and then read it again. Then, she simply stood there, seeming to read the missive in pieces. Mostly, her attention seemed to be focused on the latter part of it. She would read it over many times as Alasdair watched. Finally, she looked at him.

  “Do you know what this missive contains?” she asked, her voice sounding oddly strained.

  Alasdair nodded. “Aye,” he said honestly. “I am aware. The Holy Father and I have had many discussions about it.”

  The Mother Abbess smiled thinly, looking back to the parchment she held. “Prove this to me.”

  “It speaks of the death of the king.”

  The Mother Abbess grunted and lowered the parchment. “You speak the truth,” she said. “Do you know what else it says?”

  Alasdair came away from the door, his expression surprisingly pensive. “It speaks of the perfect weapon tae create death.”

  “And you know what this perfect weapon is?”

  Alasdair’s dark eyes glimmered as he nodded faintly. “I do, indeed,” he said. “Yer ladyship, William the Lion is my king. He has special favor with Rome. The Church of Scotland and Rome are allies. I was sent by William tae Rome as an envoy and a gift of protection for the Holy Father. The Holy Father and Scotland have the same enemy in John, so we understand each other. Not only do I know the perfect weapon of death but I also know of the boy.”

  The Mother Abbess held up the parchment. “The boy spoken of here?”

  “Aye.”

  “The son of Coeur de Lion?”

  “Aye.”

  The Mother Abbess deliberated upon that information for a moment alth
ough it was difficult to know what she was thinking. The older woman had learned long ago to control her emotions and did so with skill. Reading her thoughts based upon her expression was nearly impossible.

  “So he would supplant John with Richard’s spawn,” she finally murmured, turning back towards the fire. “He asks for my assistance in accomplishing this.”

  Alasdair nodded, again confirming what he already knew. “Indeed, Yer Ladyship,” he said. “The Holy Father tried tae hire Sassenach men tae eliminate their king, but they refused. He knows that if he sends trained assassins, assassins from Rome or from France, that it will be difficult for them tae get close tae the king.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the king is well-protected by English knights. English assassins would have made it much easier. If men of a different creed approach him, they will be immediately suspected for their difference. It will make their task far more difficult.”

  The Mother Abbess stood by the fire now, parchment in hand as she watched the building flame. “Then you know that I am that perfect weapon of death”

  Alasdair nodded. “I do.”

  The Mother Abbess glanced sidelong at him. “What he asks is an unsavory task.”

  Alasdair sensed her disapproval. “When he first told me of his plan, I was against it,” he said. “Surely nuns canna be assassins. But the more I thought on it, the more brilliant the plan became. Ye will be the last person suspected as being an assassin. Yer ladyship, surely ye canna have loyalty tae the English king. Ye’re not even English.”

  “I do not and I am not.”

  “But ye object tae his death?”

  The Mother Abbess returned her attention to the smoking hearth, clearly in conflict. She put a hand, plump, against the stone of the mantel as she gazed into the snapping flames. When the smoke would blow her way, moving in unseen drafts, she would move aside and wipe at her watering eyes.

  “It is not a matter of objecting or agreeing,” she said quietly. “It is simply a matter of doing what one is told to do. I came to St. Blitha many years ago. I was sent by the previous pontiff, as I was his younger sister. When I came to St. Blitha, I became Mother Abbess Seaxburga. I love my post. The Holy Father knows this; that is why he has sent me such a missive. He will take all of this away from me if I do not do his bidding. He will ruin me, and I have worked too hard for what I have. All of this; it is mine. He has threatened to ruin me before, you will understand. This is not the first time I have received such a directive from him.”

  Alasdair cocked his head. She spoke of her post as if it were a personal possession, something that had always and forever belonged only to her. But her last sentence had his particular attention.

  “I dinna think so,” he said. “It seemed to me, when he spoke of ye, that he’s used ye before.”

  The Mother Abbess nodded, unable to look at him. She was being reminded once again of her great sins of duty, sins that would never be fully cleansed.

  “He has,” she murmured.

  “But… why ye?”

  Even if Alasdair was not shocked by killer nuns, there was curiosity there. Natural curiosity. She smiled thinly.

  “Suffice it to say that he condemned my brother, the man who assumed the post before him,” she said. “Any works my brother has done, the Holy Father has ruined them. To him, Celestine and the Orsini family, my family, are his greatest enemies. That includes me. What I do, I do to save myself and all that I have. I have built an empire here and I will not lose it. I cannot lose it.”

  Alasdair watched her closely. “So he gives ye orders and expects ye to carry them out.”

  “He does.”

  “No matter how dirty the deed.”

  “No matter.”

  Alasdair was coming to understand the dynamics now, of this powerful Mother Abbess and her relationship with the pope. It was, truthfully, fascinating, and his curiosity was fed.

  “Tell me,” he said, his tone nearly pleading. “What has he asked of ye in the past? Something as grand as what is in the missive ye hold?”

  The Mother Abbess lifted her slender shoulders. “Some would think so,” she said. “The Bishop of Leeds spoke out against the Holy Father, many times, and went to Rome years ago on pilgrimage. He and the Holy Father evidently exchanged harsh words, enough so that the Holy Father could no longer tolerate his contentious presence. When the Bishop of Leeds traveled home again, the Holy Father instructed the man to seek respite during his travels at St. Blitha. The bishop arrived and when he came, he presented me with a missive from the Holy Father. Contained within the sealed parchment was the request from the Holy Father that I ensure the man did not make it home alive. When the bishop returned home, it was to his funeral.”

  Alasdair could sense great sorrow in the woman’s words as well as resignation. “He asks and ye comply,” he said. “Now he asks ye tae complete an even larger task.”

  The Mother Abbess nodded her head, wearily. Then, she tossed the parchment into the hearth and watched it catch fire. She could not leave such a missive intact, for obvious reasons.

  “There is no choice in the matter,” she said. “The Holy Father wishes for my sisters and me to rid England of its king and that is what we shall do. To place this boy upon the throne will, mayhap, be for the best. A young lad who will be pious and loyal to the church will be best for us all.”

  Alasdair could see that she was trying to rationalize the terrible directive, as a woman with no choice at all. “No one will ever suspect nuns as a danger tae John,” he said. “Ye will be able tae get close tae him, tae serve him, and carry out yer task.”

  The Mother Abbess watched as the parchment burned brightly, going up in flames much as she felt her soul was going up in flames. “Simple enough, I suppose,” she said. “The king comes to St. Blitha for her feast day. He has come the past three years, in fact, because St. Blitha is the patron saint of hunters and wine, among other things, and the king considers himself quite the hunter. There is a great feast and it would be a small thing to poison the man’s wine as he takes his confessional. Ironic, really.”

  Alasdair watched the woman closely as if to make sure she was, indeed, planning on carrying out the Holy Father’s orders. There was still something in her manner that was hesitant, as if divulging a great weakness, causing him to distrust her intentions.

  “Ye will see tae it?” he pressed. “I will send a messenger back tae Rome with the news that the Holy Father’s missive was received. He will know that ye read and understood his directive.”

  The Mother Abbess turned to look at him, her dark eyes somehow darker and more hollow. It was the evil she was assuming that created the hollowness within her, hollowness reflected in her gaze.

  The evil within.

  “Tell him what you will,” she said. “I will not fail.”

  Alasdair simply nodded even though he had his doubts. Would she be strong enough to do it? Would he be forced to step in and force her hand? He wondered. Alasdair suspected it would be a good idea to remain in London, close to the Mother Abbess, to ensure the Holy Father’s orders were carried out. Women were weak, after all, especially when it came to matters of death.

  Alasdair would ensure that the Mother Abbess didn’t fail.

  Silently begging his leave, Alasdair left the convent and headed towards the city proper where he could find lodgings for the night. Come the next day, he intended to hire a messenger that would return to Rome with a missive meant for the Holy Father, one that assured the man this his directives for the King of England would come to fruition.

  If Alasdair had anything to say about it, they certainly would.

  CHAPTER TWO

  London

  The Crowned Lion Inn

  South of the Thames in Southwark

  The fist came flying at Gart but, with his catlike agility, he was able to dodge it. Instead, it hit the man behind him, who went sailing back onto the railing of the staircase. Rickety old wood that had seen far too mu
ch use and not enough maintenance creaked, groaned, and finally gave way under the weight. Everything splintered and the hapless tavern patron fell back in a heap of rotted wood and embarrassment.

  Gart didn’t stop to help the man because fists and weapons were now coming forth at his expense. They were after him and his three companions, one of which had the propensity of getting fights like this started. Battles were never far off when Achilles de Dere was around because, inevitably, the sometimes tactless and always bold knight would say or do something that triggered an explosion of aggression.

  Like now.

  Now, they were in the thick of it.

  “Behind you!” Gart shouted to Achilles.

  The enormous knight was wise enough to throw himself forward, down and away from whatever Forbes was warning him about. It turned out to be a man with a broadsword who sliced it over Achilles’ head, barely missing the man.

  Infuriated, Achilles regained his footing and lashed out a big boot, catching his attacker in the belly. With a grunt, the man fell backwards and Achilles went after him, all fists and fury. Gart shoved away another accoster by the face, nearly breaking the man’s neck, as a big blond knight ended up beside him.

  “Now what?” Kress de Rhydian asked, elbowing a man in the nose who came too close to him. “How in the hell did this get started? My back was turned on a game of chance and suddenly Achilles is standing up, throwing a man across the room.”

  Gart grunted, unhappy, as he watched Achilles pound a big, well-dressed merchant in the face. “He was speaking with that man’s daughter,” he said, pointing to Achilles and his victim.

  Kress scowled at the pair. “The man currently being beaten within an inch of his life?”

  “Aye, the same.”

  Kress shook his head, exasperated. “Was he foolish enough to throw a punch at Achilles?”

  Gart sighed. “He ordered one of his men to do it,” he replied, “and the rest is as you see. Utter chaos.”

  Kress’ jaw ticked as he watched Achilles kick the half-conscious merchant aside when one of the man’s guards hit him across the shoulders with a chair. The chair splintered but Achilles did not; it simply made him madder. It was like pulling the tail of the bull.