Nunnery Brides: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  With that, he departed, leaving Maxton and Kress and Achilles in the vast solar with his words hanging in the air. Maxton’s gaze was on the vacated doorway but when he turned to his friends, he found that they were looking at him rather intensely.

  “We never spoke of the approach to this situation in between pitchers of ale last night,” Kress muttered. “But I am impressed with what you told them, Max. If that was a scheme without any true thought given to it, then it was a good one. Is that what you really want to do?”

  Maxton ran a hand through his dark hair, letting his guard down for the first time. All of the alcohol he’d ingested from the night before had worn off completely and his head was beginning to throb.

  “Aye,” he said. “I think it is as good a plan as any. Did you two sleep last night?”

  Kress nodded, glancing to Achilles. “A little,” he said. “Did you?”

  “Nay.”

  “Then what would you have us do today while you get some sleep?”

  Maxton put his fingers to his temple, feeling the pain coming on. “Get out into the city by the docks,” he said. “I want you to study every street, every hovel. Find the taverns. Watch the people along the docks. We may need eyes on that dock at all times. Mayhap, there is a man who would keep track of the comings and goings of ships and their places of origin for a few coins.”

  Kress nodded. “We shall,” he said. “You will meet us there later?”

  Maxton closed his eyes, feeling very weary all of a sudden. “I shall,” he said. “I plan to sleep for an hour or two and then join you, because I will admit that I am starting to second-guess my brilliant idea of remaining awake all night. At this moment, it does not seem quite so brilliant.”

  Kress smirked. “There are quiet chambers on the top floor,” he said. “Find a bed up there.”

  Maxton nodded, but his attention moved to Achilles. “No fights,” he said to the man. “And leave the women alone. I realize that fistfights and wenches are your natural inclination, but you do not need the distraction. And in speaking of women, remind me to tell you of the pledge from St. Blitha I came into contact with this morning. A rather harrowing tale.”

  Achilles, who had been rather incensed with the directive to stay away from women and anything violent involving his fists, appeared puzzled by the mention of a postulate.

  “A pledge?” he repeated. “What were you doing at St. Blitha?”

  But Maxton shook his head. “I was nowhere near St. Blitha,” he said. “I came across her in the street, stealing food. But I will tell you of it later. At the moment, I must find a bed before I collapse, and you two must head out to the docks. I’ll join you there in a couple of hours.”

  That was the cue to depart for Kress and Achilles, and depart they did. Maxton watched them head out of the solar, leaving him standing alone. Instead of seeking a bed, however, he found himself lingering on the meeting that had just taken place and thinking of everything that had been discussed. He’d been surprisingly pleased to see the de Lohr brothers, definitely pleased to see Cullen, and amused by the rabid dog Irish knight. He was also intrigued by Sean de Lara, the plant by William Marshal in the king’s entourage.

  But all of that seemed to pale by comparison to thoughts of the lovely, starving pledge from St. Blitha. He’d essentially forgotten about her once he’d reached Farringdon House and during the course of the meeting. But now that he’d mentioned her to Kress and Achilles, she was filling his mind like a fog.

  Now that he was alone, with no men or conversation distracting him, thoughts of the woman were heavy upon him. That lovely, pale face and swan-like neck that was so very elegant. He just couldn’t dispel the images of her flitting through his brain and something told him that even if he tried to sleep, he wouldn’t be able to. Not with thoughts of her dancing in his head. But he would have to force himself, knowing that after some sleep, he might see things a bit more clearly.

  He was a man with much on his mind.

  Maxton was about to head from the chamber when he caught sight of a hulking figure coming up the darkened stairwell. The shape looked oddly familiar and, as he watched, the face of someone he knew very well came into view, but it wasn’t just any face. It was a face he hadn’t seen in years, perhaps a man he thought he would never see again.

  His eyes widened.

  “Sherry?” he gasped. “Bloody Christ… Sherry is that you?”

  Sir Alexander de Sherrington gave a rather cocky grin as he came off the stairs and entered the chamber, his arms wide open as he sucked Maxton into a powerful embrace. Alexander, or Sherry as he was known to his friends, was an enigma, a man unto himself, and an elite knight that was squarely in the same league as Maxton, Kress, Achilles, Gart, and the de Lohr brothers, to name a few. They didn’t come any greater or any smarter. And he was utterly, completely delighted to see Maxton.

  “Max,” he breathed as he hugged the man tightly. Releasing him, he stood back so he could take a good look at Loxbeare. “I saw everyone downstairs and they told me you were up here. It is good to see you, my friend. Thank God you and Kress and Achilles survived the Lords of Baux. I will admit that I had my doubts.”

  Maxton drank in the sight of the man who could be considered the fourth Executioner Knight. Alexander had worked with him and Kress and Achilles, many times, in The Levant. They’d accomplished some harrowing missions together. After leaving The Levant, they had spent time at the Lateran Palace together, as well. The four of them had been as thick as thieves.

  Alexander was dark, with dark eyes and dark hair, and a beard covering his jaw. He was also enormously built and had the brightest smile Maxton had ever seen. When he grinned, framed by that black beard, Maxton swore he could see every tooth in the man’s head. It was an infectious grin, in truth, and completely deceptive. When he looked friendly, even jolly, the truth was that Alexander de Sherrington was a killer beyond the talent of most mortal men.

  He was Death personified.

  “So did I,” Maxton admitted after a moment. “But we survived purely on the grace of Eleanor and William. Had they not ransomed us, we would still be there. My God, Sherry, I still can’t believe it. What are you doing here? No one ever mentioned you were in London.”

  Alexander nodded, patting the man on the shoulder. “That is because I only just arrived,” he said. Then, he quickly sobered. “I heard about your tribulations after leaving Rome, Max. It is a shame, really, to have ended your time in Rome with such a terrible happening. Personally, I have fond memories of the place”

  Maxton wasn’t hard pressed to agree. “I do, also. It may have ended badly, but while we were there, it was a debaucherously good time. Stories I will never be able to tell my children, anyway.”

  Alexander grinned as he recalled those decadent months of wine, food, and women. For a moment, he warmed to the memory. “Nor I,” he said. “We all lived like kings for the time we spent at the Lateran Palace, until those sworn to serve God made us questionable offers that went against His teachings. In truth… it seems like another lifetime ago.”

  Maxton found himself reflecting on those very same things. “It does,” he said. “But our lives, Sherry… they have never been comfortable or pleasant for any length of time. That is not the nature of our business.”

  Alexander’s good humor faded. “That is true,” he said. “But what we received at the Lateran Palace went beyond comfort, at least for the time we were there. But after the depravity and self-indulgence, when were offered missions for a great sum of money, that was when everything changed. The offer that came to me was the pursuit of a double agent, a man who was discovered to spy for both the Holy Father and the Scottish king. And the offer that came to you and Kress and Achilles… your offer was far worse than mine. They wanted you to kill your own king, an offer that turned against you when you refused, and the Holy Father sold you to the Lords of Baux in punishment.”

  Maxton’s voice was soft. “He wanted us to kill John to supplan
t him with Richard’s bastard son,” he said. “Did you know that? Richard had an affair before marrying Berengaria and the boy was the result. A boy currently in the possession of the Holy Father.”

  Alexander sighed heavily. “I’d heard rumor,” he said. “Nothing definitive, but now the mission to assassinate John makes sense. It wasn’t simply a random directive.”

  “It was not.”

  “Max… forgive me for not helping you and Kress and Achilles in all of this. I should have tried to free you from the Lords of Baux. I should have…”

  Maxton shook him gently, cutting him off. “Nay,” he said firmly. “You had agreed to your offer and you were already on your way by the time everything happened to us. If you had gone back on your word simply to help your friends, your fate would have been the same as ours. Never second-guess your decision, Sherry. You did the right thing. Have you found your man, by the way?”

  Alexander shook his head. “He is in London, somewhere,” he said. “I have tracked him all across the continent, up to the land of the Northmen, and back across the sea. He came ashore in Berwick and then found his way back down to London. It has been a long year of following him, but I am confident I will find him now.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Alexander dropped his hand from Maxton’s shoulder. “Because it seems that my target is where he wants to be – here, in London,” he said. “Alasdair Baird Douglas, as he calls himself, has been an agent for the Holy Father for some time, a gift from the King of Scotland, so I’m told. But it was discovered that the man is also feeding secretive information to the Scots, information about the Holy Father, and that is why they want him stopped. They paid me a king’s ransom to do it.”

  “I never did ask you who made you your offer. Did the Holy Father send you after him?”

  Alexander shook his head. “He did not,” he said. “Abramo did. You know the man.”

  That drew a reaction from Maxton. He rolled his eyes unhappily. “I know him,” he muttered. “So does Gart. All of us who spent time at the Lateran Palace know him. He’s a deceitful, ambitious beast hiding behind the guise of a priest.”

  Alexander cocked an eyebrow. “Was he the one who told you about Richard’s bastard, then? Because the rumors I heard were that Abramo was the one speaking of the boy.”

  “He did not tell me,” Maxton said. “I knew nothing of it until the Marshal told us of the boy after we were freed from Baux. All Kress and Achilles and I knew was that the Holy Father wanted our king dead, and that came directly from the Holy Father himself. He never once mentioned the lad.”

  Now things were a bit clearer. When they’d last seen each other, the situation for all of them had been a bit chaotic. Alexander had been forced to leave on his mission before Maxton had agreed to his offer, and it had only been later on, through another knight, that he’d heard of Maxton’s imprisonment.

  Still, he’d never forgiven himself for not helping his friends, for not being there when they needed him. But Maxton had been correct – he’d agreed to an offer and his word was his bond. It was the way men such as them worked; they were only as good as their words. Were they to break the bond, then the respect they’d worked for and their reputations would have suffered. It seemed harsh to choose a mission over friendship, but each of them understood the risks of their vocation.

  Honor was everything, even among assassins.

  “I saw Gart yesterday, right after he left a meeting with you and William Marshal,” Alexander said after a moment. “We spoke briefly, but he told me that The Marshal has tasked you and your Unholy brethren with finding the papal assassins meant for the king. Do we know for certain the Holy Father has sent others?”

  “We do not know for certain, but we can surmise. We refused to do the job, so they would simply find others.”

  “That is my thought, as well,” Alexander said. Then, he paused. “I have a thought about that, Max.”

  “What?”

  “I wonder if the assassin is Douglas.”

  Now, Maxton was very interested. “The man you are chasing? What makes you think so?”

  Alexander stroked his bearded chin, turning towards the windows overlooking London, a glorious sight now that the sun had risen. He’d missed this sight in the years he’d spent away from England. The ribbon of the Thames was to the south, glittering in the early morning light, and the land to the west spread out to the horizon like a vast green jewel. Green, beautiful England.

  He was glad to be back, no matter what the circumstances.

  “I say that because I have been chasing the man for a year and we have ended up in London,” he said. “Coincidentally, when John happens to be here. Douglas has led me on a merry chase, but he has never stayed more than a night or two in any given location – we have been to more cities and villages than I can count, and I have never been more than a few days behind him. But now that we are in London, we are going on the third night here and I’ve seen no movement from the man. He is dug in like vermin on a dog.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  Alexander nodded. “I do,” he said. “He is down by the docks.”

  Maxton cocked his head curiously. “Then if you know where he is, why not fulfill your task and do away with him? Why wait?”

  Alexander glanced at him, something lurking on those dark eyes. “Because the man has my curiosity,” he said. “I could have killed him many times during the course of my travels, but his movements intrigue me. He has left his share of used women and death in his wake, but once we reached Berwick, he sent a messenger north into Scotland, but I managed to catch up to the messenger and kill him, so the Scottish king will not be receiving any intelligence from Douglas. I am sure he does not know that, and now he is here in London, lingering. But what is most strange about his movement is this – I tracked him to St. Blitha, a poor Dominica order outside of the city walls to the north. I have no idea why he was there, but he stayed for more than an hour before departing and fleeing into the city.”

  Maxton’s eyebrows lifted. St. Blitha! That was where his starving angel resided, the woman who had occupied his mind since nearly the moment he’d met her. Confusion swept him.

  “Why in the hell would he be going to St. Blitha?” he asked. “There are only women there. What message could he possibly have for them?”

  Alexander shook his head. “I cannot tell you,” he said. “It is possible he has a sister there, I suppose. Mayhap he went to visit her. Or, more than likely, he has a message from the Lateran Palace for one of the nuns.”

  “A message from whom?”

  Alexander lifted his shoulders. “According to Abramo, Douglas had many audiences with the Holy Father before he left,” he said. “Mayhap, it is a message from the Holy Father himself, although I have no idea why the man would be sending a message to a tiny, poor order like St. Blitha.”

  “But it was Abramo who sent you to kill the man?”

  “Aye.”

  “Did he do it on the order of the Holy Father?”

  Alexander shook his head. “He made it clear that there was no such order,” he said quietly. “It is Abramo who wants him dead, not the Holy Father.”

  All of that made absolutely no sense to Maxton. “Baffling,” he muttered. “What concerns me, however, is your thought that he could be the very assassin I am looking for. Could it be possible he went to St. Blitha asking for sanctuary after he completes his task against John? If you think about it, killing the king and then hiding in an obscure abbey until he can escape London is a rather brilliant plan.”

  “A plan that could have come from the Holy Father in one of those many meetings with him that he has had with the man.”

  The light went on in Maxton’s eyes. “Indeed,” he growled. “Now, this is starting to make some sense. Your assignment to kill Douglas could solve both our problems.”

  Alexander nodded knowingly, tapping the side of his head as if to congratulate them both on figuring out a most com
plex and confusing scheme. If it was true. At this moment, they had no reason to believe it wasn’t.

  “What next?” Alexander asked him.

  Maxton thought on that question quite seriously. “I believe you should go to the docks,” he said. “Kress and Achilles are already there, scouting out the area. Find them and tell them what we have discussed. As for me… I have business at St. Blitha.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Maxton wasn’t sure, but thoughts of Andressa were weighing more heavily on his mind than they ever had before. He was coming to think that meeting the starving woman that morning hadn’t been a coincidence… perhaps it had been a sign from God, sent to help him prevent the murder of a king.

  He couldn’t think of it any other way.

  “I am not certain as of yet,” he said, “but I will meet you at the docks when I am done. Wait for me there.”

  Alexander nodded, giving him yet another slap on the shoulder as he departed the chamber, heading down the stairwell. Maxton wasn’t far behind him. Suddenly, he wasn’t sleepy any longer. His mind was working furiously on what he’d been told, and what he needed to do.

  An eventful morning was about to turn into an eventful day.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  She was washing laundry for other people.

  Andressa’s main duty at St. Blitha was the laundry – she washed clothes for the nuns as well as religious cloths and other things that belonged to the abbey. Anything that was washable, she took charge of. But three years ago, the Mother Abbess began to take in laundry and charged a hefty price for it, telling the rich of London that the clothing was washed in holy water and, therefore, cost more to wash. It was Godliness on a whole new level, and being that there were many pious people in London and the surrounding areas near the Bishopsgate area, there was often a good deal of laundry to wash.

  Of course, the clothes were only washed in ordinary water from the small creek that ran alongside the abbey and the Mother Abbess pocketed the money that was paid for the privilege of having a starving, overworked woman pound out the dirt on the clothing. Sometimes, Andressa even delivered the laundry back to the rich clients, taxing her already-strained body. But at St. Blitha, hard work and laundry were all Andressa had ever known, because when she had first come to the abbey, she’d been put where she was needed, and that was in the laundry helping an old nun who was clearly dying.