Nunnery Brides: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  She didn’t want to enrage the woman.

  “I would like to speak of such things, truly, but I have work to do,” she said, moving away from him. “I… I will thank you once more for your generosity today, not just with your money, but with your time. I cannot remember when I have spent such a pleasant time.”

  “It does not have to end.”

  Andressa wasn’t sure what to say to that. It made her want to run away from him, but it also made her want to stay. In fact, his words made her feel very strange inside; her stomach was quivering and every time she looked at the man, she seemed to forget how to breathe. It occurred to her that the last time she trusted a man, it hadn’t gone in her favor. She wasn’t sure she was ready to trust again, but Maxton made it so easy to believe that she could. Perhaps she really was a fool, because she wanted to trust him.

  She wanted nothing more.

  “I must go,” she said, feeling uncomfortable and the least bit afraid. “Good day to you, my lord.”

  “Do I frighten you, Lady Andressa?”

  She hadn’t taken three steps when she came to a stop and turned around, eyeing him. “Nay,” she said, though it was a lie. “You have been very kind.”

  He smiled, a rather lazy gesture. “Then do not leave,” he said. “Let us speak more on The Levant and Okehampton. At the very least, I can help you draw water as we speak.”

  She frowned. “Are you mad?” she said. “That is woman’s work. Moreover, you cannot help me. I must complete my chores alone.”

  “But…”

  “Remember what I told you about the Mother Abbess. I do not wish to be punished by her.”

  That brought an instant change in Maxton’s overeager demeanor. In fact, he did remember what she’d said. No one returns from The Chaos, she had said. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of that threat before, but it honestly hadn’t occurred to him. He’d been so pleased to see her and so selfishly eager to talk to her that he hadn’t really thought of anything else, including her safety. His gaze darted to the wall, the postern gate, to see if anyone was watching them.

  “Bloody Christ,” he muttered. “I did not even think about that. Will she punish you if she knows you have been speaking with me?”

  Andressa lifted her shoulders, turning to the gate and the wall as well to see if anyone was spying on her. The longer she stood there, the greater chance there was. She thought she saw the nun who ran the kitchens through the gate, but she couldn’t be sure.

  “I do not know,” she said honestly. “I have never spoken to anyone like this before, so it is best if you leave now and I return to my duties.”

  Maxton wasn’t going to try to coerce her into remaining. It was a selfish want and something that could very well get her into a good deal of trouble. He wanted to speak with her more, perhaps even ask her in a roundabout way about Douglas’ appearance at the abbey, but he wouldn’t, at least not now. But he hoped there would be time for that later. He took a few steps towards her, now within arm’s length of her.

  “One more question and I will go,” he said quietly. “Will you be searching for food again tomorrow?”

  Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and she lowered her gaze. “I… I do not think so.”

  “Then when?”

  She sighed heavily. “It is difficult to say,” she said. “I would like to say that I shall never venture out again, but that is not the truth.”

  Maxton could see that she was ashamed over what she had to do in order to put food in her belly and he felt like a cad for pushing her, for wanting to know when she would be starving again so that he could see her and speak with her. It was rude of him and he knew it. Therefore, he tried another tactic.

  “If you come out tomorrow, I will be waiting for you at the same tavern where you ate today,” he said, his deep voice coming out as something of a purr. “I shall buy you another meal and we can continue our conversation.”

  Oh, but it was tempting. And that voice! Like the caress of angels! Andressa couldn’t decide if the lure of eating another full meal was more than the lure of conversation with the man, who had so far proven to be a window back into the world she’d forgotten about. She knew that she should retreat into the abbey yard this very moment, but she couldn’t seem to do it. His presence was starting to confuse her. Why should the man want to speak with her again? Why should he want anything to do with her? He knew her story. She had nothing to offer by way of charm or even intelligence and, as a pledge to a poor order, she had nothing to offer, period. She was dressed in rags and the lovely, long hair she’d been so proud of all her life was surely a dirty sight to see.

  She was ashamed.

  There was nothing she could offer this handsome knight and she surely wasn’t going to allow herself to be lured into anything clandestine. If he was looking for a companion, or more, then he would have to look elsewhere.

  His intentions were most confusing.

  “I cannot, my lord,” she said, turning for the postern gate again. “Although I am grateful for your generosity, I will not accept your offer. Good day to you.”

  She was nearly at the gate, moving swiftly, with her water bucket sloshing. Maxton was a step or two behind her, following her when he knew very well he should not be.

  “I did not mean to offend you,” he said quickly. “I simply meant… if you ever need me, my lady, leave word at The King’s Gout Tavern. Leave it there and I shall answer. Meanwhile, I will tell the tavern keeper that you are to be fed anything you wish, at any time, and I will pay for it. You do not even have to see me or speak with me; simply go to the tavern and they will feed you. It is the least I can do for someone from Okehampton who listened to my stories of camels without laughing at me.”

  Andressa’s hand was on the postern gate as she turned to look at him. The expression on her face was one of surprise and distress and gratitude all rolled into one. God, how she wanted to believe this man and his kindness, but she simply didn’t understand why he should pay her such attention.

  Why he should be so kind to her.

  Impulsively, she sought to make her position clear.

  “Again, your generosity knows no limit,” she said, “but I cannot accept or expect such charity. Surely you can understand that.”

  “Then stealing is better?”

  Her cheeks flushed again. “Nay,” she said after a moment. “I am more than willing to work off the price of a meal. I cannot simply accept food from you without providing you with some manner of payment or reciprocation.”

  He shrugged. “Then look at the food as a loan,” he said. “Someday, I will expect you to pay me in return, in money or in trade. Would that make you feel better if we had that understanding?”

  Did it? She wasn’t sure. But the prospect of a regular meal was almost more than she could bear. To know that she would be fed regularly, as much as she wanted, was the greatest blessing she could think of. But she still didn’t understand his motivation.

  “Why?” she finally hissed. “Why should you do this for me? I am no one to you.”

  He smiled, dimples carving into his cheeks. “I told you,” he said. “It is not often I have a chance to speak to someone who knows Devon as I do, and as I also told you, I have just returned from The Levant. It has been a very long time since I have spoken to an Englishwoman who was worth knowing. Are those not reasons enough?”

  “And I am worth knowing?”

  He dared to reach out, drifting his fingers over hers. It was a reckless and inappropriate action, but one that sent Andressa’s heart racing with shock and excitement. She very nearly dropped the bucket. As her mind reeled, she could only think of one thing to think, of only one thing to say –

  Do it again!

  But the words, thankfully, didn’t come. Before she could reply in any manner, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. It was the nun who tended the kitchens and she was peering from across the yard, an expression of condemnation on her face. It was e
nough to cause Andressa to forget Maxton’s touch and bolt through the postern gate, pulling it shut and bolting it from the inside.

  But she could still see Maxton standing outside the gate through the big iron slats. He hadn’t moved. Terrified that the kitchen nun might say something to the Mother Abbess about the laundress and the strange man, she hissed at him.

  “Please leave,” she said. “Every moment you remain brings me one step closer to trouble.”

  Maxton knew she was correct, so he backed away from the gate. He, too, had seen the nun near the kitchen, so he quickly moved away from the gate, losing himself in the trees that were next to the enormous wall and hoping he would not be seen by anyone else. But he was prevented from running off completely by the fact that he knew Andressa was on the other side of the wall. He just couldn’t seem to leave her, even if he couldn’t see her, and he couldn’t help the smile that played on his lips as thoughts of the pale young woman lingered.

  That lovely, graceful lass…

  Still, it wouldn’t do any good to hang around, so he began to move towards his horse, the old charger that Gart had purchased for him in France so that he would have something to ride home from Baux. But he hadn’t taken two steps when he began to hear voices – raised voices. One voice was clearly Andressa’s; he could tell because she had a rather deep speaking voice for a woman. It was sultry and smooth.

  There was an argument going on.

  Curious, he made his way back towards the wall, listening to what was being said. He couldn’t really hear the words, but he could hear the tone. It was strained. Whoever Andressa was talking to had a shrill voice that was saying something about sin. You are wicked, the woman said. Andressa replied steadily, but try as he might, Maxton couldn’t really hear what she was saying because she was keeping her voice quiet. Yet, there was nothing quiet about the loud slapping sound he heard next.

  After that, it was grunts and shrieks and more slapping noises.

  Maxton did what he shouldn’t have done; he bolted for the postern gate. It didn’t even occur to him to stay out of sight because he was more than likely the very reason for the fight, so he rushed up to the gate, pressing his face between the iron slats only to see Andressa sitting on top of the kitchen nun, pinning the woman’s arms.

  The woman on the ground was screaming and trying to kick, but Andressa held the woman down firmly. It was rather impressive, in truth. Maxton watched with great concern, his natural instincts wanting to help Andressa, but those thoughts were curbed as shouts began to come from the dormitories. Women in woolens and veils over their heads began to pour from the building and he let go of the postern gate, moving away from it and sinking back against the wall to watch where he could not be seen.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t a good vantage point because there were vines in the way and even a tree trunk inside the compound, preventing him from seeing very much. He could see several nuns rushing out to break up the fight and he could hear stern words being passed around, tones that seemed to him like scolding. He strained a little, trying to see what he could see and increasingly concerned for Andressa when, abruptly, he saw her being led away by two nuns, back in the direction of the dormitory and chapel.

  The nuns had her by both arms, one on each side, holding on to her to make sure she wouldn’t try to escape them. Maxton realized that his heart was pounding against his ribs as he remembered once more what Andressa had said about the Mother Abbess and what happened to charges that displeased her. God, that horrible thought came pouring over him as he watched the nuns leading her away.

  Leading her away because he had been stupid enough to seek her out and have a conversation with her like a giddy squire. This was all his fault.

  He’d gotten the woman into trouble.

  At a loss as to what to do about it, his first instinct was to make his way inside the abbey and save her. He could move with stealth; that was part of his skill set. He knew he could make it into the abbey and find her, and kill anyone and everyone who got in his way, but then he would be violating the sanctity of a holy order. Not that it really mattered to him; after his bout with the Holy Father and all that entailed, he had no respect for the church at all. Not one bit. But there was the real fear that he would only make things worse for Andressa with his actions. It wasn’t as if she’d ever given him an indication that she, in fact, wanted to be saved.

  He couldn’t save a woman who didn’t want his help – and had clearly refused it.

  There were voices near the wall now, catching him off guard, so he bolted away, moving swiftly through the trees and across the stream, circling around to come to his horse, that was tied off in a copse of trees a fair distance away from the abbey. He didn’t want to be caught lingering around the abbey. Perhaps, the best thing for him was to simply leave.

  It wasn’t as if he had a choice.

  Even as he mounted his steed and charged off southward along the road, paralleling the abbey and her old walls, all he could think of was Andressa and how to help her. Kress and Achilles and Alexander were waiting for him at the docks along the Thames, but here he was, thinking of a pledge. In fact, after leaving St. Blitha, he spent an hour lingering by Bishopsgate, a massive opening in the London wall, thinking on what to do, but he kept coming up with the same answer – stay away.

  Wait.

  Perhaps that was all he could really do.

  But he did know one thing – he was going to be at The King’s Gout Tavern tomorrow morning before dawn, waiting to see if Andressa showed up. If she did, all well and good. But if she didn’t…

  Then he would add breaching an abbey to his list of sins.

  One way or the other, he wasn’t going to let her fall victim to The Chaos.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “He called himself Alasdair Baird Douglas and he brought a message from our Holy Father,” the Mother Abbess was speaking in hushed tones in her native Italian language. “He has made his wishes known to us.”

  She was addressing three small women bound up tightly in the woolens of their order, older women with nondescript faces set within the confines of their nondescript habits. One woman had a hook nose and small, brown eyes, while the woman next to her was a little rounder, with a round face and strangely dark eyebrows. The third woman was taller, far more slender, and had a nervous tick. She kept scratching her eyes, leading to no eyebrows or eyelashes.

  “Did we have a visitor?” the eye-scratcher asked, also in the Italian language. “I did not see anyone. Did anyone else? Did anyone see him?”

  It was nervous chatter, but that was normal coming from her. Sister Dymphna portrayed a woman who was frightened of her own shadow, and a constant worrier, always the one to speak out with questions or concerns. It didn’t matter the subject; Sister Dymphna had been known to worry herself into vomiting on more than one occasion, and sometimes she vomited blood, which the Mother Abbess told her followers was a sign that the Holy Spirit was upon her. Sister Dymphna’s nervous stomach worked well to strike fear into the hearts of those at St. Blitha on several occasions.

  But she was always the one with questions, now about the appearance of the mysterious Alasdair Baird Douglas. The Mother Abbess answered patiently but, as always, her patience was limited.

  “Sister Vera saw him,” she said. “She admitted him into the chapel. Then, the du Bose girl was passing through the chapel at that time and he spoke to her, asking her to confirm my identity. She saw him as well.”

  Sister Dymphna was still twitching, itching at her eyes, but she didn’t ask any further questions because she knew that tone in the Mother Abbess’ voice. It hinted at silence and obedience. Therefore, she looked to the other two women in the room, waiting for them to voice their own questions, but no one did. They remained silent. Therefore, Sister Dymphna fell silent as well.

  It was the usual dynamic between the four of them. The Mother Abbess would speak and the three of them, her most trusted companions, would listen, mostly with unbr
idled adoration, but sometimes, Sister Dymphna had questions. Like now. Questions that would die on her lips because asking them, to the Mother Abbess, signaled a lack of faith. And no one wanted to project that.

  The four of them had been together for a very long time, since they had been very young and had all been orphans in the Santa Giulia convent in northern Italy where the Mother Abbess had been a nun at the time. She took the three orphans under her wing, teaching them how to survive and thrive under the strict rule of the church.

  But the Mother Abbess lived by her own rules, even back then, as they soon discovered.

  The Mother Abbess’ name was, in fact, Giulia. Her parents had been wealthy land owners, the Orsini family, and Giulia and her brother, Celestine, had both been given over to the church at a very young age. While Celestine begged, borrowed, and schemed his way to the top, Giulia did much of the same, only her actions were darker and more sinister than her brother’s behavior.

  Guilia had the heart of a killer.

  If she had felt threatened, a pillow over the face of her sleeping rival would take care of the issue. She had never been beyond such things. She didn’t view life as most people did; to her, it was disposable. There was no value to it. The three orphans, Dymphna included, had watched Giulia kill and lie and scheme, and once, she’d even surrendered her virginity to a particularly lustful priest who had then, in turn, given her a glowing recommendation when it came to assuming a post at a wealthy convent. A post that had been a stepping stone to becoming the Mother Abbess of her own convent – St. Blitha.

  The woman had clawed her way to the top.

  Therefore, Dymphna and her two comrades were shadows of the Mother Abbess, Seaxburga as she was now known, and they catered to her every whim, her every need. They were mere shadows themselves now, wraiths of what they’d once been, women who no longer possessed minds or wills of their own. Everything they did, and everything they thought, came from the Mother Abbess, and that included the directive they were now facing.