Nunnery Brides

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  “I will heal,” she said, taking her water and turning away. “Go and tell Maxton what I told you.”

  “But…”

  She cut him off. “Hurry, now,” she said. “Tell Maxton to prepare for what is to come. Be shocked by nothing.”

  “What does that mean, my lady?”

  “You will know when you see it.”

  Struggling with the weight of the water, she carried the sloshing bucket back to the postern gate and opened it, slipping inside with her water but leaving the gate unbolted from the inside. She did that for one very good reason – if Maxton and his men needed to enter the complex.

  Andressa didn’t even turn to see if the knight had run off, as she’d told him to. She kept her attention on her area, on the three wine pitchers she could see sitting up on the table she used to lay out her dried laundry.

  Setting the water aside, she checked the pitchers again, stirring the poisoned wine once more and noticing that the crushed leaves had all but dissolved, and the cheesecloth containing the mashed roots was the same color of the wine. Everything was blending quite nicely. Just as she set the stick aside and covered up the poisoned wine again, she could see Sister Petronilla heading in her direction.

  Her heart began to race.

  Keeping calm, she bent over the bucket of water and pretended to wash her good hand in it just as Sister Petronilla approached. She casually looked up at the woman as she dried off her hand.

  “I see that the bishop has arrived,” she said before Sister Petronilla could speak. “Is the mass to begin soon?”

  Sister Petronilla nodded. “The king has arrived, also,” she said. “He is moving into the chapel as we speak. Is everything prepared as we have instructed?”

  Now was the moment. God help her, Andressa was feeling more nerves than she had hoped she would. She could only pray that Sister Petronilla was so preoccupied that she wouldn’t question anything at all about the wines and their differences, or check up on Andressa’s work. She turned for the three wine pitchers that were back in the shade.

  “Everything is ready,” she said quietly, moving for the pitcher with the big gouge in the handle. Quickly, she pulled out the cheesecloth sachet full of leaves and petals, now stained dark with wine that disguised what they really were. “This is for the king. See the mark on the handle? This will tell you that this is the wine meant for him. Give it to no one else unless you wish to kill them.”

  Fortunately, Sister Petronilla wasn’t paying attention to anything other than the pitcher Andressa was handing her. She seemed busy and distracted, perhaps feeling her nerves for this day of days as well. Whatever the case, it was working to Andressa’s advantage.

  “Excellent,” she said quietly. “And you did exactly as I told you?”

  Andressa nodded firmly. “Exactly, Sister. I rose before dawn to complete the task. The ingredients have been soaking in the wine for hours.”

  A smile flickered on Sister Petronilla’s pale lips. “Well done, Andressa,” she said, looking her over as if pleased the beating had whipped her into acquiescence. Perhaps she could have been more suspicious of her, but she simply didn’t have the time or the will. There was too much happening at the moment. “I will ensure this is the only wine the king drinks.”

  Andressa nodded. “It is a full pitcher, so it is enough for the feast afterwards, too,” she said. “I will bring your wine to the chapel myself. It tastes of spices, as you instructed, and so does the king’s wine. In fact, they should taste nearly the same, so make sure you give him the wine with the gouged handle. That is the only way you are to know for certain.”

  Sister Petronilla didn’t question her further, about anything. It was clear that she believed Andressa had been properly punished and was now properly submissive. She simply took the wine with her, heading across the cloister towards the chapel entry. Andressa watched her go, still palming the rose sachet she’d pulled from the wine because she hadn’t wanted Sister Petronilla to get a good look at it. The less she saw, the better.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Andressa called over one of the kitchen nuns, instructing her to take the third wine pitcher, the one that was only mulled but not poisoned. That would be the wine for the masses. As the woman collected it and headed for the chapel to ensure the acolytes had it, Andressa turned to the remaining pitcher, the one full of poisoned wine. She looked at it a moment, feeling no doubt at all in what she was about to do.

  For every pledge, postulate, and nun who had suffered The Chaos, she would do it for them.

  For ever terror and sin the Mother Abbess had committed or inflicted, she would seek vengeance.

  For the beating she received yesterday at the hands of the wicked, she would seek a reckoning.

  For the good of everyone at St. Blitha, she was about to play God.

  There was no turning back.

  Maxton had never really seen St. Blitha in the daylight and now that he had, it looked worse than it did at night.

  It was constructed out of a mixture of beige sandstone and gray granite, an amalgam of building materials because some of the rocks had been pilfered from an old pagan temple built by the Romans centuries ago. That meant the façade was tall, ugly, and uneven, and a growth of moss grew up from the base of it, covering the stones about halfway up with a moist, green growth.

  The church itself was squat and slender, but very long, running the full length of the cloister into which it had been built. There was a big entry, double-doored, with panels that had seen better days. In all, the entire structure conveyed the same rot and deterioration that plagued the occupants inside. It looked like it belonged somewhere on the purgatory plain.

  Andressa has been living in this horrible place, he thought grimly.

  When they’d first arrived with the advance group of the king’s contingent, Maxton had positioned himself by the entry door to the church as the rest of the men-at-arms spread out around the entire complex, covering the walls from the outside to ensure that the king was amply protected. As Maxton remained by the doors, the king himself finally arrived and he caught sight of Sean, Kevin, Alexander, and Cullen among the king’s body guards, an elite group akin to the Praetorian Guard of old. It also gave Maxton an opportunity to study Richard the Lionheart’s brother, a man he’d not had a high opinion of for many years.

  In truth, he’d seen John before, but back when he was merely a prince, known as “Lackland” by most of the nobles in England for the mere fact he literally had no lands, no possessions worth note, and coveted everything his father and older brothers had earned or inherited. Dark-haired, and dark-eyed, with one droopy eyelid, he wasn’t very tall, an oddly meek stature from a man who wielded so much power.

  Maxton watched the king arrive and then shortly thereafter, so did William Marshal, Christopher and David, and Gart. The two parties mingled in the entry area outside of the church. The king greeted The Marshal amiably, deliberately ignored the de Lohr brothers because of their vast and turbulent history together, and made a point of trying to convince Gart to join his elite guard. Gart refused, so John ignored him, too.

  As Maxton stood right outside the door, seemingly standing at attention as the king passed by him, he made sure to make eye contact with Christopher and David, and finally William, as they passed inside the church. He cast Gart a long look as well, watching the men file into the church for the mass to begin. Because of the king’s attendance at St. Blitha, the streets were blocked off, preventing pilgrims from reaching the church, so it was a very small and very elite crowd inside. Once the king, his courtiers, and a few honored guests disappeared inside the church, Maxton broke from his position and went on the prowl.

  There was a certain pledge, in particular, he was looking for.

  He headed off to the west, which was the south side of St. Blitha’s compound. Just past the church was the main entry to the cloister, and he immediately saw Dashiell and Bric at their posts. He made his way towards them.

  “Not
hing unusual to report?” he asked.

  Dashiell answered. “Nothing unusual, except the door to the cloister is still locked,” he said. “Wasn’t de Lohr supposed to have someone unlock it for us?”

  Maxton nodded, looking at the enormous, fortified door. “He was, but I do not know what became of that. He may have a man on it as we speak.”

  Bric cocked a pale eyebrow. “If we have to get in there any time soon, we’ll have to use an ax to break the door down.”

  Maxton realized they couldn’t wait for de Lohr’s man, if there even was one, to unlock the door because it was a key component to the operation. Therefore, he remembered the layout of the complex, the one that Andressa had drawn for them in the ashes and the one he’d later sketched on parchment so they could all study it. He remembered it all down to the last detail.

  “As I recall, there is an entrance into the cloister compound just inside the entry of the church,” he said. “It is a door used by the nuns. It is not too far from the cloister entry door, so you may be able to slip in and unlock the door without being seen. Are you willing to try?”

  Young and hungry for a challenge, Dashiell nodded. “Indeed,” he said. “I remember seeing the cloister entry on her sketch.”

  “Then go, man. Make haste.”

  As Dashiell rushed off, Maxton turned to Bric. “Keep watch that he returns shortly,” he said. “If he does not, you have my permission to go in and save him. Just try not to make any noise and bring the entire church running.”

  Bric’s silver eyes glimmered. “I’ve saved many a man before and have never made any noise,” he said. “But if he gets into trouble inside of a nunnery, I will never let him forget it.”

  Maxton grinned. “As well you should not.”

  A reluctant smile spread across Bric’s lips but, as he turned away, Maxton spoke. “The Marshal told me that every word out of my mouth to you would be considered a challenge, given our rough introduction,” he said. “He also said you throttle men at the slightest provocation. Is this true?”

  Bric looked at him, a somewhat appraising expression on his face. “Depends on the provocation.”

  Maxton snorted. “My first words to you yesterday were not a provocation,” he said. “They were an honest assessment, given the situation. I hope you realize that. If I mean to provoke you, you will know it.”

  Bric faced him full-on, looking him over as if sizing him up. “So I’ve been told.”

  “Then I do not have to be on my guard with you, waiting for a great Irish fist to come flying out at me?”

  It was Bric’s turn to snort. “Nay,” he said. “I’ve heard what they call you. I’ve no desire to tangle with someone called an Executioner Knight.”

  “Now I know you are wise. I hope that means we can discuss our mutual quick tempers over a cup of ale someday.”

  “I would consider it an honor.”

  With a flash of a grin, Maxton turned away, heading down the length of the wall as he headed for the postern gate. He hadn’t moved too far away from Bric when Achilles suddenly came bolting around the corner of the wall, heading straight for him. Startled, he rushed to meet the man.

  “What is it?” he hissed.

  Achilles was trying to keep calm but, unlike Maxton and Kress, he sometimes didn’t possess that ability. The man’s talents lay in his ability to disguise himself and kill in stealth, not keep control of his emotions. As he and Maxton came together, he tried to keep his voice low.

  “I saw your pledge at the postern gate just now,” he said. “Max, something has happened to her.”

  Maxton felt a stab of fear. “What has happened?”

  Achilles shook his head. “I do not know, exactly,” he said. “She would not tell me. She is upright and walking, and she is going about her duties, but she looks as if she’s been badly beaten. Her head and hand are wrapped.”

  Maxton felt as if he’d been hit in the gut. All of his breath left him and he exhaled heavily, feeling sick to his stomach. “But she is moving?”

  “She’s moving. She is able to complete her duties. And she told me to tell you that only two attendants, not three, will be with the Mother Abbess today.”

  Maxton frowned. “What happened to the third nun? There were supposed to be four in total.”

  “Your pledge said that the fourth nun is badly injured and unable to attend the mass. She also said that the two remaining nuns are with the Mother Abbess and will more than likely stay with her, even inside the church.”

  Maxton scratched his stubbled chin. “So they are keeping together in a group,” he muttered thoughtfully. “They are not spread out, which makes our job easier. Where was Andressa the last time you saw her?”

  “By the postern gate. And Max… she said you must prepare for what is to come, and to be shocked by nothing.”

  He looked at him, greatly confused. “What in the hell does that mean?”

  Achilles shook his head. “I do not know, but the way she said it made me think that we must be prepared for anything out of the ordinary.”

  Maxton didn’t like the sound of that. He pointed to the entry to the church, several yards away. “Go plant yourself next to that entry and remain there. I will return.”

  As Achilles did as he was told, Maxton made his way around the corner of the wall and down to the postern gate. There were about a dozen men-at-arms over on this side, standing spaced out, watching the landscape around them. He passed beneath the grove of trees as they sat scattered along the streambank, the postern gate in sight. But when he drew near, he headed for the stream itself and kept an eye on the gate, as he didn’t want to get too close to it and risk being seen.

  Standing next to the stream in the wet grass, he could see through the gate well enough. He could also see women moving around inside for the most part, but they were very far away. He took a few steps closer, standing behind one of the many trees that clustered around the stream, and peered out from behind it so he could get a better look at what was going on inside.

  Then, he saw her.

  She was talking to a nun who happened to be holding a pitcher of some kind. He didn’t get a good look at the nun when she hurried away, and then he saw Andressa call forth another nun from the kitchen area. That nun was also given a pitcher of something. Considering the nuns planned to kill the king using poisoned wine, he had an idea what was in the pitchers. As the second nun walked away from Andressa and she went back to collect a third pitcher, Maxton hastily made his way over to the postern gate and tried to stay out of sight.

  It took two tries, hissing her name, before she finally turned around and saw him. Then, he could see what Achilles’ had been speaking of – her lovely, pale face was bruised on the left side and he could see what looked like bloodstains on her neck. Her left hand was bandaged and when she saw him, she made her way towards him, visibly limping. By the time she reached him, Maxton was nearly beside himself with worry.

  “What in the hell happened?” he growled. “What have they done to you?”

  Andressa looked around quickly to make sure he wasn’t heard. “Maxton, please,” she whispered. “If they see me speaking with you, it will put everything in jeopardy. Go away!”

  “Not until you tell me what happened.”

  She was growing exasperated. “I will heal,” she muttered firmly. “We will speak of this when our task is complete. Meanwhile, listen to me now – go back to the church and wait.”

  “Wait for what?”

  “You will know when it happens.”

  With that, she limped away, carrying the pitcher, leaving Maxton nearly crawling out of his skin with concern. He wanted to shout at her, furious she had not only refused to answer his question, but had walked away from him on top of it. He was desperate to find out what had occurred because she was obviously injured. His imagination began to run wild; perhaps upset with the dismembered corpse of Alasdair Douglas and knowing the last thing he’d been doing had been following Andressa, the nuns pu
nished her for his death.

  William’s words came back to haunt him, then – you could very well have jeopardized her by killing Douglas and returning the body to St. Blitha. Maxton had known that was a risk, and damned if The Marshal hadn’t been right about it. He’d acted on anger when dumping Douglas’ body and Andressa had paid the price. In truth, he could only think of that as the reason for her injuries.

  It was his doing.

  As he watched her limp away, he wanted to rip someone’s throat out and he didn’t care if it was a nun’s. He would never again stand by and watch Andressa injured, or worse, especially when he’d been to blame. But he forced himself to calm, seeking comfort in the fact that she was, as Achilles had said, upright and walking. She was limping, but she wasn’t crippled. He had to cling to that comfort until he found out what had happened.

  He had to bide his time.

  When Andressa was about halfway across the cloister, heading for the open doors leading into the church, he snapped out of his train of thought and quickly made his way back around to the front of the church. He’d passed Bric and Dashiell along his way, noting that Dashiell had accomplished his task without being captured by the killer nuns. Or, at least Bric had saved him from such a fate. He was sure he would hear about it later but, at the moment, he had more important things on his mind as he approached the main entrance to the Church of St. Blitha.

  The scene they’d been preparing for was about to be played out.

  It was time to catch the assassins.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Ordo Missae

  It was the order of the mass.

  The Bishop of Essex stood at the altar of St. Blitha with two other priests and several acolytes, intoning the order of the mass. As Andressa stood back by the door leading to the cloister, she could see that the church really only had a few worshippers in it – William Marshal, the de Lohr brothers, and another knight she recognized as Gart Forbes. The king was also there; she knew that because she had seen him in the times he’d previously come to worship on feast days.