The woman could hardly breathe, and hard labor was difficult, but she gamely did her best. She had been kind to Andressa and had taught her what she needed to know about doing the laundry and pleasing the Mother Abbess. She taught her how to boil the water for washing and use the wood ash from the fire to make the tallow soap for the laundry.
Andressa had become quite adept at making the soap from wood ash and tallow that was gathered from any fat source – beef was preferable, but she had also used mutton. Goose fat was frowned upon because it smelled so badly, and Andressa made new soap about once a month. Lumpy, slimy bars of yellowish soap, but it was a good product because it cleaned well.
Sometimes, she even added lavender to it from the wild bunches of lavender that grew in the herb garden of the abbey, and the nuns throughout St. Blitha used her soap on hands and dishes and even bodies from time to time. Her soap, along with the starch she made from flour and water, made her quite a skilled laundress thanks to the old nun who had taught her.
But the old nun had soon passed away after teaching Andressa what she knew, so for the past four years, Andressa had been the laundress of St. Blitha. The skin on her once-soft, pale hands had long turned red and chapped. Sometimes it even bled. She would rub oil on it, oil from the lamps inside the abbey when no one was looking, and that provided her with some relief. But even now, she’d been scrubbing most of the morning and her knuckles were already raw and chaffed. She was down to her last few items to wash for the day and thankful for it. Most of it was hanging to dry, kept off of the ground by hemp rope strung up in the yard. The Mother Abbess didn’t give a care to many things around the abbey, but she cared about the laundry, so Andressa had everything she needed for quality work.
St. Blitha was located outside of the city walls of London, but built with sturdy walls of its own. It had a neighbor in St. Mary’s Hospital to the south but, for the most part, the order kept to itself. The chapel and dormitories were clustered together on one end of the rectangular-shaped compound, while the kitchens, stable yard, and vegetable garden were on the other.
Because the Mother Abbess didn’t like the smell of the barnyard, a large and strangely out of place flower garden was between the stables and the chapel and dorms, including the Mother Abbess’ fine quarters. It was out of place because it looked so luxurious in the midst of a poor order, and no one was allowed in the flower garden but the Mother Abbess and Sister Petronilla. Carefully tended rose bushes filled the area, as well as foxglove, nightshade, hemlock, a variety of lavender, and other things.
The laundry was lodged by the kitchens, as they shared many of the same big fires for water boiling, but Andressa had an area all to her own. There were several large willow trees on the other side of the wall, hanging partially over her area and creating pleasant shade on warm days. The postern gate was here, a heavy iron gate with an enormous lock on it, through which a small stream was accessed.
Andressa passed through the gate several times a day, hauling water from the stream to boil, so much so that the gate was only locked at night. They didn’t worry about anyone invading their sanctuary; no one ever had, so they moved rather freely even outside the massive walls.
On this particular day, Andressa had moved better and faster than she had in some time because of the meal she’d had that morning. Her belly had been full for the most part, and she’d returned to St. Blitha feeling satisfied, which was a rare occurrence in her world. She began her chores immediately, hauling water from the stream and putting it on to boil. It was so much easier to work with food in her belly, but all the while she kept thinking of the enormous knight with the deep blue eyes who had made the food possible.
A man who had been as handsome as he had been generous.
It was strange, really… Andressa had spent the last four years living with women, essentially isolated from men, which had been a drastic change from her days at Okehampton Castle. Not that Lady de Courtney allowed her charges to interact with the men at the castle without restraint, but she had been around them constantly. There had even been one man she’d been fond of but she didn’t think of him any longer, a young warrior who had lied his way into her heart and then had ripped every last shred of dignity she had from her.
A relationship that had been as tragic as it had been disappointing.
As Andressa went to the stream for more water for the last of her afternoon washing, she found herself entertaining thoughts of Rhyne de Leybourne. After that fateful August day when he’d seduced her, she’d fought to put him out of her mind. Her humiliation ran bone-deep, humiliation in her own foolishness for having believed him in the first place. She’d known him the entire time she’d been at Okehampton Castle, a vain but handsome knight, someone she’d been very attracted to, and he towards her.
For the first year at St. Blitha, she’d thought of him quite often, wondering where he was and if he was well. Secretly, she hoped he’d come for her at St. Blitha, but the truth was that he probably had no idea where she was and she was sure her aunt would never tell him. He’d been away when her aunt had summoned her from Okehampton, and then she’d been sent straight on to St. Blitha.
But Rhyne had been clever. She saw that in hindsight now. In Andressa, he saw the opportunity to marry well and inherit a substantial fortune, and he wouldn’t let her get away so easily. She remembered when he finally came to St. Blitha and had laid in wait for her to tend to her washing, as she did every day. It had been in this very spot by the stream when he’d found her and coerced her into the barn of a neighboring farm, where he’d told her how much he loved her before stealing her innocence away.
Oh, he’d promised to return for her, but that promise wasn’t as important as a marriage to a French heiress. In truth, Andressa didn’t even really know why he’d come to St. Blitha that day; it was clear she had nothing to give him. Her aunt had seen to that. Perhaps Rhyne thought he could fight for her inheritance and steal it back from the aunt, but it must have been too hard for him to work for it. The French heiress he married must have been an easier catch. Or, at least, he probably hadn’t had to fight for her. It had been wealth for the taking, leaving Andressa at St. Blitha with nothing but a memory she had all but pushed from her mind.
She wouldn’t think of him.
She couldn’t.
Kneeling down beside the stream for the twentieth time that day, she fought off thoughts of Rhyne. Any fondness she’d ever felt for him had turned into bitter hatred those months ago. Lost in thoughts of the brash young liar, she was startled from her thoughts when a deep voice came from behind.
“I’ve never been to St. Blitha before. And when I do, I see that you are drawing water? Have you no well?”
Stumbling forward and nearly falling into the stream, Andressa was able to catch her balance in time, looking over to see Maxton approaching beneath the willow branches.
For a moment, her breath caught in her throat. It was a surreal experience to watch the powerful knight as he moved beneath the trees with the gait of a hunter stalking prey. There was something so magical about the way he walked, powerful strides from a powerful man. He was clad in the same clothing she’d seen him in earlier in the day, leather breeches and a tunic and heavy, fur-lined coat. But as he came closer, she noticed that there was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. There was… warmth.
Was that even possible?
Her stomach began to twist in knots.
“Considering this is a female order, I am not surprised that you have not visited before, my lord,” she said, standing up with the bucket in her hand. “And, aye, I am drawing water because I am the laundress. We do have a well, but the water has a tint to it, making it no good for the laundry.”
“The laundress, eh? An honorable duty.”
“What are you doing here?”
Maxton didn’t quite smile at her, but his lips twitched as if he were entertaining the thought.
What was he doing here?
It was a question with more than one answer. The first answer was, of course, a fact-finding mission. After his conversation with Alexander at Farringdon House, he had to come to the focus of their discussion – this mysterious, treacherous place called St. Blitha. An order of poor nuns, and a Mother Abbess who apparently had no trouble committing murder. It was a distorted and complex place, indeed, if all of that was true, and if Douglas had, indeed, been here, it only added to that chaotic concept. Maxton wanted to scout the place out, because reconnaissance was the smart thing to do.
Perhaps St. Blitha was not all it seemed.
But the second answer, of course, was a certain young woman who lived here. That was, perhaps, the more prevalent answer, especially now that Maxton had laid eyes on her. Pale, graceful, with the face of an angel, Maxton had never been smitten with anyone in his life but, oddly enough, he suspected he might quickly be approaching that state with Andressa. He couldn’t explain his curiosity towards her, and his interest, any other way.
“I had business outside of town and happened to be passing by,” he lied. “I could see you from the road.”
That part was true. The angle of the road made it so the area beneath the trees and the stream were visible from it, but only briefly. Briefly enough that Maxton had seen the movement and spied her, making his story believable.
But Andressa didn’t question him, even if she did look past his shoulder to the distant road beyond, just to make sure she could really see the road. “I see,” she said, fixing him in the eye. “Then I am glad to see you again to apologize for my behavior this morning. I ran from you rudely when I should not have. You were simply being kind and trying to help me from my… well, my predicament here.”
He shook his head, cutting her off, though it was gently done. “I should not have been so bold as to suggest finding a place for you away from St. Blitha,” he said. “It is your home, right or wrong, and it was improper of me to suggest you leave. Forgive me.”
Her face brightened as she realized he wasn’t upset with her. “There is nothing to forgive, my lord. Please allow me to thank you once more for the meal this morning. It was most generous of you, my lord. You must be a very kind and generous man to all those in need.”
He lifted his eyebrows, averting his gaze as he looked for a place to sit down. Now that he’d finally found her, he had no intention of leaving. “There are many, many people who would dispute that.”
Andressa watched him meander around until he found a stump from a long-dead willow tree worth sitting on. “But I cannot believe that,” she said. “Clearly, you are a pious man who gives greatly of himself. I am sure God will reward you.”
Maxton snorted as he planted his buttocks on the stump. “Lady, I cannot permit you to entertain the thought that I am anything other than what I am,” he said, looking up at her. “I am a knight of the highest order. I have just returned from The Levant after many years away. You cannot possibly imagine how unkind and ungenerous I am.”
Her brow furrowed curiously. “The Levant,” she repeated. “You went on Richard’s Crusade?”
“I did.”
She gasped softly, suddenly quite interested in his presence whereas only moments before, she’d been seemingly wary of it.
“I have never met anyone who went on his Crusade,” she said. “Will you tell me of it? If you have the time, of course. I can only imagine how glorious it must have been, wielding the word of God against the savages. What a great and fearsome sight that must have been.”
It was a dreamy and misguided opinion; he could see it in her face. The woman was naïve, living sequestered as she did. “Do you truly wish to know what kind of a sight it was?” he asked. “I do not think you will like the answer.”
She nodded eagerly, sinking to her knees in the grass with her bucket still in her hand. “I very much want to know,” she said. “Will you please tell me?”
Maxton looked at her. He wasn’t a man with tact, nor did he couch harsh realities. In fact, his blunt honesty was one of his traits. But in this case, he was considering softening that particular talent because, somehow, Andressa seemed like a delicate flower, idealistic and innocent, and he didn’t want to crush that spirit in her. He found it intriguing because in his line of work, he didn’t often meet people with such an ingenuous view of the world.
He cleared his throat softly.
“The Levant is a land with golden sand as far as the eye can see,” he said. “Everything is golden for the most part. And it is very hot.”
She was already hanging on his description. “Hot? It is never cold?”
“Hardly ever. And they have amazing creatures there called camels. They look like a very large horse with big lips, big eyes, and big feet. They also have a hump on their back that stores their water for times when they cannot drink.”
Her eyes widened. “Camels,” she repeated in awe. “They sound like monsters.”
He grinned, lopsided. “They are most assuredly not, though they are ugly enough,” he said. “Many of the Muslims travel with them instead of horses. They have more endurance than a horse.”
She was fascinated with the idea of a camel. “It seems incredible to imagine such a beast, truly. Are there any in England?”
He shrugged. “I have not seen any,” he said. “I think they prefer the hotter climate. They would not do well in our cold and wet seasons.”
He suddenly stood up from the stump, making his way over to where she was sitting. Andressa watched him curiously, perhaps a bit fearfully, preparing to leap to her feet if he came too close. When she saw him pick up a stick, she was very close to scrambling away from him, but he came to a pause by a strip of mud near the stream, something that didn’t have any growth or grass on it. He began to draw in the mud with the stick.
“This is what they look like,” he said as he sketched out a shape. “Very tall, very big. They have also been known to spit when displeased.”
Very interested, Andressa moved so that she could see what he was drawing. It looked like a horse with a big, flat head and a hump on its back.
“Fascinating,” she said, grinning. Then, she sat back, looking up at him. “What else did you see? Were the savages truly dressed in skins and speaking the language of Satan?”
He shook his head. “Nay, they were not dressed in skins,” he said. He thought carefully on his answer because his reply was something that was not conventional thought amongst the Christian armies. “If you want to know the truth, many were men of intelligence and education. Their families are thousands of years old. They have strange customs, that is true, but there were some I came to know and I found them inoffensive.”
Andressa listened seriously. “But they worship their own god.”
“They worship one god, as we do, and it is the same god. They simply call him a different name.”
It was clear she had never heard such a thing. “What do they call him?”
“Allah.”
She thought on that. “What a strange name,” she said. “Why do they not simply call him God, as we do?”
“Allah means God in their language.”
“Mother Abbess has said it is Satan’s language.”
He finished with the camel drawing, standing back to take a look at his handiwork. “It is not Satan’s language,” he said. “It is an ancient language, and quite beautiful if you listen closely. Ladayk jamal alshams almushriqa.”
Her eyes widened. “Is that their language?” she gasped. “What did you say?”
A smile played on his lips. “I said that you have the beauty of the rising sun,” he said. “The Muslim poets are great flatterers. That is part of a song I heard once. I was riding down an alley in the city of Caesarea, north of Jerusalem, and I heard a young man singing as he played a harp he had made himself. The words went something like this – In a world of darkness, you are my only light, with the beauty of the rising sun. It was a lovely song.”
Andressa was enchanted with the entir
e conversation, swept up by his deep, rumbling voice and stories of the great and mysterious Levant. But it also brought her back to the days of Okehampton Castle, when she was exposed to the beauty and excitement of life. Minstrels, plays, book reading… they had been everyday occurrences and as Maxton spoke of faraway lands, she began to realize just how much she was missing tucked away in St. Blitha.
The loneliness and isolation were something she’d long struggled with, even as memories of her former world were shoved aside. She was so very lonely in this cold, terrible place, and she missed the beauty of the world outside the walls of St. Blitha. Hearing Maxton’s words was like a stab to her tender heart because she could see just how isolated she had become from things that used to bring her joy.
“It is very lovely,” she said, feeling sad. “Thank you for telling me of it. But I am sure I have kept you long enough; surely you must be on your way now.”
She stood up, taking her bucket with her, and Maxton tossed the stick in his hand aside. “I have men waiting for me near the docks, but they can continue to wait,” he said. “I thought to spend some time speaking to a former charge of Okehampton. It is not often I come across someone who is from Devon, from places that I know.”
She smiled weakly, glancing over to the old walls of the abbey and the open postern gate as if looking for those who would see her speaking with a man, which would be greatly frowned upon. There weren’t many nuns in the kitchen area or stables, but there were a few. She truly didn’t want to be seen because such information would undoubtedly make its way back to the Mother Abbess.
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.”
Nunnery Brides Page 76
