Nunnery Brides: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Because Kress was amused, Maxton’s lips were flickering with a smile. “I am not possessed,” he said. “And in spite of everything, I have nothing but the greatest respect for de Lohr. He will never be my best friend, but I know he would kill or die for me, and I for him. That is the extent of our brotherhood.”

  Kress nodded, a twinkle in his eye. “And a most strange brotherhood it is,” he said. “You two cannot stand the sight of each other, yet you would die for each other. In fact, when we were at The King’s Gout discussing the tension between you and William, neither Chris nor David believed it. They could not grasp that the Maxton they’ve known all these years should be contentious with a superior.”

  Maxton’s smile faded and he turned back to his sheath again. “I did not want him to send that beaten, starved woman back to St. Blitha to spy for him,” he said. “But I suppose, deep down, I understand why. She is our best option for a successful mission and she has already provided us with so much information.”

  “Did you tell William that?”

  Maxton shook his head. “Nay,” he replied. “But, Kress… does everyone know?”

  “Know what?”

  “That I feel something for Andressa.”

  Kress didn’t say anything for a moment. Instead, he came around to the front of Maxton, forcing the man to look up at him. He looked him in the eyes.

  “What do you feel, Max?” he asked softly. “Lust? Pity? Concern? What is it? Because this is not like you, not in the least.”

  Maxton knew that. He took a deep breath as he sorted through his thoughts. “I know it is not,” he said. “Kress, I shall be honest with you – I know I have changed from the man you knew to be ruthless and heartless in all things, but I will tell you that the man is still there. That part of me has not changed. But after the incident with the Holy Father, when a man who is supposed to be the moral icon for all men and the very reason so many men died in The Levant is, in truth, someone murderous, I swear to you that it was something that threw my entire life into question. I always felt like a sinner – a horrible, dirty sinner – with the vocation I have chosen. I have a talent for killing and I have used that talent, many times. But when I saw what the Holy Father truly was, it made me question… have I sinned? Or is every man on Earth evil, and I am no different from the rest? Is there any true good in this world?”

  Kress knew all of this, at least for the most part, but it was the first time he heard Maxton put it into words. He put a hand on Maxton’s shoulder.

  “I knew you were searching for answers,” he said. “But I did not know the exact questions. Have you found true good in this world, Max?”

  He nodded. “In a pledge who is as weak and confused and searching as I am,” he said. “You ask me what I feel for her? I am not certain, but when all of this is over, I am going to marry her and we are going to seek our answers, together.”

  Kress’ brows lifted in surprise. “Marriage?” he repeated. “I never knew such a thing interested you.”

  Maxton shrugged. “Nor did I,” he said. “But with the right woman, all things are possible.”

  It was a rather startling revelation as far as Kress was concerned. He knew that Maxton was feeling something for the pledge; he simply didn’t know how much or how deep. Now, he knew.

  “Then this is the end of the Unholy Trinity,” he muttered. “The Executioner Knights will now be only two. I do not fault you for moving on to live your life, Max, and I am truly happy for you. But I am sorry to lose a brother-in-arms.”

  Maxton frowned. “Who said anything about losing a brother-in-arms?” he said. “As for the Unholy Trinity, that is something you and me and Achilles will always be. I will always consider myself one of the Trinity, and proudly so. It is not the end of anything. But my life will change, I hope, for the better. I would like to be happy and content for once in my life.”

  That was something Kress did, indeed, understand. He, too, had much the same thoughts on life as Maxton did, or at least he had, but unlike the rock-souled Maxton from the past, Kress had, indeed, secretly wondered about life and love and marriage. It was something he’d put out of his mind because he did not hold out any hope that it was attainable.

  But Maxton had found it; perhaps there was hope, after all.

  “And you deserve it,” Kress said. “Go and get your pledge’s inheritance back for her, as you told her, and live until you are old and gray and fat. But do not expect to lose me so easily; I may come live with you. Or, I may remain in The Marshal’s service. I’ve not yet decided.”

  Maxton grinned at him, lifting a hand to pat him on the cheek. “Wherever you go, you know that all you need do is call me,” he said. “I shall be there, wherever and whenever you need me.”

  In spite of the reassurance that the Unholy Trinity would always remain intact, Kress received the distinct impression that it was not to be. It was a sad thought, but one he wouldn’t linger on. Perhaps, like Maxton, he needed to evolve.

  But they had one last, final mission, anyway.

  And they would see it through.

  “We have had some good times, haven’t we?” Kress smiled at the memories, watching Maxton collect his helm from where it had been tossed on the bed. “I will miss our adventures.”

  Maxton peered at him. “Who says our adventures are over?” he said as he headed to the door. “A wife will not keep me from having more adventures.”

  “You think so, do you?”

  It was a foolish statement, Maxton realized, as he looked at Kress and saw the man laugh. No, he couldn’t imagine Andressa would be too happy with him leaving her at Chalford Hill as he roamed about the known world, killing men and making money. Besides… that wasn’t what he wanted now. He had the life he wanted within his grasp and he wasn’t going to let it go.

  “Come on,” he said, opening the chamber door. “Let us find the rest of the adventure hounds and get about this business. I failed to see Andressa yesterday and I am eager to see her today, in spite of the circumstances.”

  “Then let’s go, lover. Let us not keep the future Lady Loxbeare waiting.”

  Grinning at each other, they headed down to the vast interior courtyard of Farringdon House where everyone was gathering before heading out. Now, the business of the day was at hand.

  It was the calm before the storm.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  St. Blitha

  Her left hand was smashed, but she was trying to do her best with it.

  As morning dawned over the winter-cold land, Andressa was already up and moving, with many things to do on this feast day.

  The day had arrived.

  She’d slept in her own bed last night, surprising since she was positive that she had been headed for The Chaos after her thrashing. That was the only way to describe it; a thrashing of epic proportions meant to intimidate her, denigrate her, and punish her for hurting Sister Dymphna, who was in bed and hardly able to speak or move. The damage to her skull was very bad, and she had a loss of vision in one eye, but the Mother Abbess would not call for a physic. She had one of the other nuns, a woman who tended the sick at the abbey, see to Sister Dymphna’s needs. But she was in bad shape, indeed.

  Yet, Andressa felt no guilt. It was one less nun to have to worry about as far as she was concerned. Moreover, she was nursing her own substantial injuries that were mostly to the left side of her body because when she’d curled up in a ball on the floor of the Mother Abbess’ solar, they’d only been able to beat the left side of her body. As a result, her left foot and left knee were horribly swollen, and her left hand, as it had covered her skull, had been badly mashed. She knew she had some broken bones, but she could at least grasp things with her index finger and thumb. The other three fingers of the hand were useless.

  Even so, she was expected to participate in the feast. The Mother Abbess had been very clear about that. After the thrashing, she let Andressa lay on the floor of her solar for about an hour before she had Sister Agnes an
d Sister Petronilla carry her back to her cell and toss her onto her bed. She’d remained there for the rest of the day and the same healer nun who had been tending to Sister Dymphna came in to tend to her wounds as well. Anything bleeding or exposed had been washed with wine and tightly wrapped in boiled linen, and that included her hand. However, there wasn’t much they could do about the wound on her face.

  She had three big gouges on the left side of her face, by the hairline, and they had bled profusely. The healer nun had cleaned them up, so they weren’t oozing, but the damage was obvious. To help conceal it somewhat, Andressa had tied a strip of the boiled linen around her head, like a kerchief to keep her hair away from her bruised face, covering up the wounds. But no amount of cleaning or boiled linen could hide the fact that she’d been soundly thrashed.

  However, the fear of another beating hadn’t been her motivation to rise from her bed and get to work. There had been something more to Andressa’s dedication to duty. As she’d lain in bed yesterday, reflecting on the situation in general, she had come to the conclusion that she was in a very important position to save the king as well as every other tortured soul at St. Blitha.

  She held the key.

  It was true that she was instrumental in protecting the king from an assassination attempt, as Maxton had told her, but there was more to it. So many women had suffered under the hand of the Mother Abbess, and now that Andressa had been given an important role in the function of the abbey, she knew she had to do something about it. Those horrible souls who had beaten her yesterday weren’t going to get away with it. They wanted to humiliate and punish her, and kill those who displeased them, but no more. In the end, Andressa would have the last word.

  She had a plan.

  Therefore, before dawn, she was out in the laundry area where she’d stashed the dried foxglove leaves, crushing them into a fine powder with her good hand. For good measure, she’d stripped off even more dead leaves and crushed them as well, just to increase the toxicity of the poison. Once she’d finished with that, she’d gone to find the dwale plants and picked off sixteen fat, purple berries. Then, she’d pulled up three of the plants to get to the poisonous roots.

  Washing off the plants in a bucket of water, she’d cut the top section away from the tender roots and proceeded to mash the fat, white roots in a small bowl she used when she made soap. The mashed roots were then placed in a cheesecloth from the kitchens and Andressa placed the leaves and roots into an earthenware pitcher of wine to steep, sinking the ingredients straight to the bottom of the pitcher. Her last act was to mash those sixteen berries and put everything – skins, stems, and juice – into the wine.

  The more poison, the better.

  It was double the amount she’d been instructed to use, but she wanted to make sure it did the job it was supposed to do. She wanted no room for error. As the very strong poison was flushing into the wine, she’d gathered two more pitchers of wine from the kitchen and used mulling spices to flavor all three of the pitchers, so that all of them would essentially taste the same. She even marked the poison pitcher with a scratch across the bottom of it, and she marked a second pitcher of untainted wine with a gouge on the handle.

  It was a gouge she would tell the Mother Abbess that the marked pitcher was meant for the king, but she wasn’t finished with it. Into that gouged pitcher, she put a second sachet that mimicked the one she’d put the poisonous plants in, only this cheesecloth sachet held harmless dead rose petals and dried grass. It would trick the sisters into believing that particular pitcher was the poisoned one. Only Andressa would know which wine was truly poisoned.

  And that was the wine destined for the Mother Abbess.

  With all three pitchers of wine ready and waiting, Andressa went about her duties of supervising the coming feast. The kitchen nuns, older women who were so bereft of all hope that they moved around like mindless ghosts, had been up before dawn as well, without the supervision of Sister Blanche. The women were boiling beef in a great pot over an open flame in preparation of the coming feast, and the smell of baking bread filled the crisp morning air.

  The smells of cooking weren’t unusual at St. Blitha, but it was food always meant for the Mother Abbess’ fine table. Even this morning, as Andressa had worked, she saw at least four or five pledges and postulates slip from the postern gate in their morning hunt for food and she felt sorry that the smells of cooking were making those poor starving women miserable.

  But it was misery, Andressa hoped, that would soon be ended.

  Ironic how she had no guilt about poisoning the Mother Abbess and anyone else who drank the poisoned wine. She knew it might also be Sisters Agnes and Petronilla, but still, she felt no remorse. Murder was a sin, and she knew that, but she hoped that when she stood before God on Judgement Day, he would understand that what she did had been for the greater good. Unless the Mother Abbess and her kind were stopped, more women were going to die. Murder would continue.

  Andressa hoped that God would understand that.

  Because of her management duties in the kitchen this morning, Andressa was able to steal a piece of beef under the guise of tasting it to see if it was fit for the feast. She had the cook add more salt to the water to flavor the meat after she’d stuffed several morsels into her mouth, feeding her rumbling belly. It was good beef, bought with the Mother Abbess’ ill-gotten money, and the bread was made with the finest flour. All of it fit for a kingly feast, as the wine in the laundry area continued to leech more and more poison out of the ingredients that had been placed in it.

  It was turning into a potion unto itself.

  The morning began to deepen and the sun began to make its march across the sky as there was some commotion over by the chapel, specifically at the Abbot’s Lodge as the Bishop of Essex made his arrival for the feast day.

  The chapel, and the garden, filled with the bishop’s men because he traveled with a massive entourage. Horses were stuffed into the barnyard on the east side of the kitchen, and as Andressa stood back in her shaded laundry area, stirring the poison wine with a stick to ensure the ingredients were melding well with the wine itself, she could see the bishop himself and the Mother Abbess, with Sister Agnes, and Sister Petronilla, standing between the garden and the Abbot’s Lodge.

  Andressa watched the scene closely, noting that they seemed to be in discussion. She was positive that the Mother Abbess hadn’t told the bishop of the directive from the Holy Father because the bishop and the king were friends, and the bishop was one of the man’s advisors.

  Aatto de Horndon was a loud man, obvious in manner and in mood, and he was greatly disliked by almost everyone. The Mother Abbess enjoyed a close relationship with him, probably too close, and the woman surely wasn’t going to jeopardize that by telling him of the Holy Father’s order. He may very well try to stop it.

  And there was no stopping wheels that were already in motion.

  Therefore, Andressa went back to work as the sun continued to rise and the day turned surprisingly mild from the icy temperatures they’d been having this season. She went back and forth between the kitchens and the laundry area, alternately making sure the food was being well-prepared and tending to her concoction of wines. In fact, she was busily tending to the poisoned wine, stirring and stirring, when she heard a noise from the postern gate. Although she knew it was locked, she turned to see what the noise was.

  A familiar face was staring back at her.

  Andressa recognized one of Maxton’s knightly friends, dressed in full mail and a tunic of scarlet with three lions, the royal standard. He was up against the gate, looking right at her, and she could see more soldiers milling around behind him, which told her that the king had arrived.

  The realization made her stomach lurch, nerves becoming evident now. Everything would soon be coming to a head and if it wasn’t executed properly, it would be a bloodbath of legendary proportions that she would find herself caught up in. But the time was upon her and she knew she had to act q
uickly before her duties took her away from any direct communication with Maxton and his men.

  Picking up a bucket, the one she’d used to rinse away the dirt from the dwale roots, she went to the postern gate and unlocked it.

  Pushing through the gate, pretending to be going to the stream, she could see several royal soldiers milling around and a few of them turned to look at her as she emerged from the gate. So did the knight she had seen; as soon as she came through the gate, he hung back, letting her move to the stream before closing the gap and making his way to her.

  “My lady?” he asked quietly, his eyes on the gate to ensure no one was watching them. “What happened to you? Why are you bandaged?”

  Andressa was having difficulty drawing water with only one working hand. When he saw this, he quickly took the bucket from her and dunked it into the stream.

  “It is of no consequence,” she answered softly. “You must tell Maxton that the Mother Abbess will only be helped by two of her attendants today. The third one is gravely injured. The two are with her right now as she speaks to the bishop and I imagine they will continue to remain with her for the duration of the mass. One woman is fat and round, and the other woman has very dark eyebrows. That is the only way you can distinguish them, considering they are wearing the same habits.”

  The knight, a very tall man with enormous shoulders and piercing, dark eyes, stood up from the stream with the full water bucket. “I will tell him,” he said as he handed the bucket back to her and she grasped it with her good hand. “Tell me what happened to you, my lady. Maxton must know.”

  Andressa didn’t have time to explain everything. Besides, if she did, she had a feeling it might enrage Maxton. She didn’t know the man’s moods or reactions very well, but given he’d killed Douglas so quickly when she’d been threatened, she imagined he didn’t have much self-control. He probably acted on anger very easily, and that wasn’t something they needed at the moment. They had to get through the mass without Maxton running amok because of her injuries.