The Mother Abbess knew all of this, of course. She knew how much control she had over these women and it pleased her deeply. Seeing that Dymphna’s questions had been silenced for the moment, her gaze drifted to the other two women in the chamber. The woman with the hook nose was known by her chosen name of Sister Agnes, while the round woman with the dark brows was Sister Petronilla. All names they’d chosen at their consecration, names of Christian martyrs, leaving their birth names behind as one would shed a skin.
The innocence they’d once had, as children, was long since vanished. What was left in its place was nothing short of mindless obedience, women who had convinced themselves that ambition and servitude on behalf of Christ and the Mother Abbess knew no boundaries or no limits. Much as Christ had disciples to do his bidding, she had hers. And in this case, they would understand the significance of this particular undertaking.
It was, perhaps, the most important they’d ever faced.
“As I was saying, Alasdair Douglas brought a message from our Holy Father,” she said, lowering her voice. Even though they were in her private chamber, and she was speaking in Italian, she did not want her words overheard. “He serves the Holy Father as we do, a great and pious servant of God. It seems that the Holy Father has a task for us, a task of the utmost importance. We have never had such an important calling, Sisters. We have been asked to change England’s destiny.”
As Sister Dymphna scratched, Sister Agnes looked at the Mother Abbess most curiously. “But how are we to do such a thing?” she asked. “Surely we cannot change the destiny of an entire country.”
The Mother Abbess lifted a thin eyebrow. “We can,” she insisted quietly. “I shall be plain – we have been asked to remove the king.”
Now, all three of the nuns were looking at her with great confusion, shocked by the words coming out of her mouth.
“Remove the king?” Sister Agnes repeated. “But… how? We have no great weapons, no great armies. The king is surrounded by knights, men we cannot fight. How are we supposed to remove a man who surrounds himself with men who could easily kill us?”
The Mother Abbess shook her head sadly. “Have you learned nothing, Sister?” she asked. “When have we ever used force to accomplish that which has been asked of us?”
That brought Sister Agnes some pause, but she wasn’t sure how to proceed at that point. Sister Petronilla spoke instead.
“We would not know how to use force, Gracious Mother,” she said calmly. “But making our way to the king is much different from any of the other tasks we have accomplished. What is expected of us, then? How are we to accomplish that which has been asked of us?”
Sister Petronilla tended to be the more rational one of the three. The Mother Abbess turned to her.
“Remember the Bishop of Leeds?” she asked. “And you will recall the priests from Kent who sided with the king against our Holy Father. Do you recall what we did for them? We have used ingredients from our garden. Why do you think we grow this great garden of deadly flowers and herbs? It is because they are our weapons in fighting for the rights of the church. It will simply be a matter of using those weapons again, this time against our king. He will die a death that looks to be from the heart or from the brain. Nothing sinister will be expected, and it will truly be the Will of God. He has provided us with the necessary tools, as evidenced by our great and beautiful garden. He allows it to grow by giving us the sun and the rain. All we need to do is use what God has provided.”
She made it sound so very simple, as if it were merely another task in a long line of tasks the four of them had undertaken over the years. Anything that displeased the Holy Father, or his minions in Essex or Ely. In fact, the nuns had accomplished several tasks for the Bishop of Essex, and both bishops that had been known to give a command to remove a rival or enemy. In any case, no one ever suspected the method of delivery – when they were looking for armed men, they failed to notice the unarmed women.
And it was their downfall.
Who would suspect a nun?
“It is the Will of God,” Sister Petronilla agreed without reserve. She tended to be the first one to follow Mother Abbess in all things. “When are we to complete this glorious mission?”
There was no reserve with any of them. It was simply another request from the Holy Father in a long line of them. As far as they were concerned, they were doing God’s work; that was how they rationalized it. The Mother Abbess moved to the window of her solar, the one that overlooked her lovely garden. She was looking to at the tall stalks of foxgloves in particular.
“The Feast of St. Blitha is next week,” she said. “The missive from the Holy Father was a great coincidence to this feast because the king has come every year for three years. I have been told that he will be in attendance this year again, eager to pray to the patron saint of hunters. He will take Communion and it will be a simple thing to poison the man’s wine.”
Sister Petronilla stood up, making her way over to the windows where the Mother Abbess was. “But the king surely has tasters,” she said. “They will taste the wine before it goes to the king.”
The Mother Abbess looked at her. “Let them,” she said. Then, she returned her focus to the garden, pointing to the tall, purple foxglove stalks. “Some of those plants are just preparing to blossom. Cut the leaves from them, dry them, and crush them into fine powder. We shall mix the powder with the king’s wine. Even if he has someone taste it first, there will be no evidence of the poison and the taster will not become ill right away. It will take time and, by then, the king will have ingested enough to kill him.”
It seemed like a logical enough plan. It was something they’d done once before with the Bishop of Leeds. The man had died in his sleep after a fine meal at the Mother Abbess’ table.
“I shall prepare the wine myself,” Sister Petronilla said quietly. “I will all ensure it is the only wine the king drinks.”
The Mother Abbess nodded but she seemed to be distracted by what she was seeing out the window, beyond the garden. Sister Petronilla looked to see a few nuns milling about, including the nun who managed the kitchen and the pledge who tended to the laundry. It was difficult manual labor, given to the young and the strong. As Sister Petronilla tried to figure out what had the Mother Abbess’ attention, the older woman pointed from the window.
“The du Bose girl was there when Alasdair arrived, as I mentioned,” she said, gesturing to the woman who had just come in from the postern gate and seemed to be engaged in an animated conversation with the kitchen nun. “I have been watching her, you know. She is an orphan and her aunt, the woman who gave her over to us, paid me a mighty sum to keep the girl here for always. She says that the woman is headstrong and rebellious, but I have never seen that in her. She is an excellent worker and she is obedient.”
By this time, Sister Dymphna and Sister Agnes were moving to the window, straining to see what the Mother Abbess was pointing to.
“I have been thinking, Sisters,” the Mother Abbess continued. “The truth is that we are not growing any younger. If St. Blitha is to remain loyal to the Holy Father, then we must bring in new blood to serve him, as we do. We must bring in young women who understand the importance of fulfilling his wishes, in any circumstance. Women with no ties to family, no ties to the outside world. Women who could disappear from this earth and no one would mourn them. Women who have nothing else to live for.”
Now, all four nuns were looking from the windows at the laundry yard, where the tall and pale du Bose girl was in what seemed to be an increasingly heated conversation with the kitchen nun, Sister Blanche.
“I know Andressa,” Sister Agnes said, her gaze on the girl in the distance. “She is joyful and she never complains. She does as she is told.”
The Mother Abbess nodded. “She pleases me,” she said. “Her wash commands a fine price and she is quite valuable to me. I have been thinking of rewarding her for her work by asking her to serve as one of us. She would never have to want, and never ha
ve to worry. She would know my care and protection. She is young and strong and bright, and she could carry on our work and traditions long after we are gone.”
Sister Dymphna looked at her. “Do you wish her to replace you when the time comes, then?”
“Mayhap.”
“But what if she refuses? What we do is only for the most faithful, Mother. What if her faith is not strong enough?”
The Mother Abbess’ dark eyes flickered, a ripple of evil in the black depths. “Then she shall belong to The Chaos,” she said simply. “No family will miss her when she disappears, and I’ll not have her out in the world where she can tell others of our business. If she does not agree to my offer, she will die. And I am sure she will choose life and dedication to the Holy Father over anything else. As I said, she is a bright woman. She will understand and she will be grateful.”
The woman said it without any remorse or grief whatsoever, as if discussing something as benign as the weather. She’d lived with her evil so long that, to her, it was normal. It was the way of things.
And they needed new blood to continue their way.
Before anyone could speak again, the object of their attention was slapped by a very angry kitchen nun and, as they watched in shock, Andressa struck back and sent the kitchen nun to her arse. Then, she jumped on top of her and they lost sight of the fight behind the vast garden that was between them and the kitchen yard. The Mother Abbess snapped her fingers.
“Go,” she instructed her followers quickly. “See what has happened. Bring Andressa to me and confine Sister Blanche to her room. I will decide what is to be done with her.”
The three nuns scattered, fleeing the fine chamber, rushing out to do the Mother Abbess’ bidding. As they fled, the Mother Abbess returned her attention to the yard where more nuns were now rushing to break up the fight. She saw clearly when two of them pulled Andressa to her feet and began pulling her away while the kitchen nun, Sister Blanche, continued to scream angrily.
It was a chaotic scene, but one thing was for certain – Sister Blanche struck first. The Mother Abbess didn’t know why the woman had lashed out and it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that the woman had struck out at someone the Mother Abbess had her eye on, and that kind of thing could not be tolerated. There was no fighting or violence at a convent, as Sister Blanche was about to find out. No matter the reasons, Andressa was about to discover that the Mother Abbess would protect her from a nun out to do her harm. Perhaps, it would make the offer to join their exclusive little group that much sweeter, knowing the Mother Abbess would protect her and keep her in all things.
If not, then she, too, would eventually find herself buried deep in The Chaos along with Sister Blanche, never to see the light of day again.
CHAPTER NINE
The Saucy Pigsy Tavern
The wharf along the Thames (also known as the docks)
“It’s about time you came,” Kress said. “Where have you been?”
Maxton had come around the corner of an alley, heading onto the main thoroughfare along the river’s edge, when a hand shot out from the shadows and grabbed him around the collar. His dirk was unsheathed faster than the blink of an eye and Kress very narrowly missed being shanked. When Maxton saw who it was, he rolled his eyes and sheathed his blade.
“You idiot,” he growled. “You know better than to do that.”
Kress cast him a long look, a smile playing on his lips. “We’ve been waiting for you,” he said. “Sherry is down here, you know.”
“I know.”
“He told us about the man he’s been trailing and we found him.”
“Where?”
Kress threw his thumb in the direction of the tavern behind him. “In there,” he said. “Sherry is scouting the exterior of the place to see if there are any escape routes.”
“And Achilles?”
“He’s already inside.”
That caused Maxton to roll his eyes again. “Are you mad? Achilles, alone, in a tavern?”
Kress put up a hand. “Easy,” he admonished. “He simply secured a table and some drink. We have a plan.”
“What kind of a plan?”
About that time, Alexander appeared down the alley that skirted the east side of the tavern. Kress lifted a hand to the man, who noticed both Kress and Maxton, and began making his way towards them swiftly.
Around them, there was the usual hustle and bustle of the docks, with dozens of cogs lined up on the shore. Men were hanging from the riggings, offloading supplies and materials, as those on the shore busied themselves around the ships like bees in a hive. There was quite a bit going on, and Maxton glanced at the activity as he waited for Alexander. He also noticed a very strong, very foul smell of fish and sewage, one of the more unpleasant things about being down at the river’s edge.
“Nice of you to join us, Max,” Alexander said as he came near. “I’d nearly given up on you.”
Maxton turned his attention to the man. “My business at St. Blitha took me longer than I thought,” he said, quickly changing the subject because he didn’t much want to elaborate on what had kept him several hours, including a stop at The King’s Gout to make arrangements with the tavern keeper about Andressa. “What’s this I hear about a plan?”
Alexander nodded. “I found Douglas,” he said, successfully diverted from the subject of St. Blitha. “He’s inside this tavern and was fairly drunk when I found him. He’s still in there and I have sent Achilles in to watch him to ensure he doesn’t slip away.”
“What is the plan to capture him?”
Alexander crooked a finger, pulling both Maxton and Kress out of the main street where people were bustling about. He didn’t want to be heard with what he was about to say.
“I have been thinking about our conversation earlier, Max, when I mentioned that Douglas might be our papal assassin,” he muttered as they stood beneath the shadows of the tavern’s upper floor. “I have told Kress and Achilles my theory, too, but now I want to discuss this with you. If I go in there and capture him, there is a great chance that he will never confess to anything and we will never know if he is the assassin you are seeking. I have a feeling the man is a wealth of information, and he’s quite drunk now. As we know, drink loosens the tongue, so it might be worth trying to press him for information. I am fairly certain he knows me on sight, but he does not know you or Kress or Achilles. Mayhap, if you go in there and drink with him…”
Maxton caught on right away. “Then mayhap we can find out about him and any papal directives.”
“Exactly.”
Maxton nodded, glancing at Kress as he did so. “I am willing to give it a try if it will help in finding our assassin,” he said. “I still have not recovered from my drinking binge last night, but I suppose I’ll have to push that aside and forge ahead for king and country.”
Alexander grinned. “I’ll wait out here and watch the doors in case he tries to flee,” he said. “There is this front door and then a kitchen door into a yard behind the tavern. I can watch them both while you’re inside.”
“And if the man confesses?”
“Get your confession and then bring him out to me. I still have a task to complete.”
“You’ll kill him?”
“That was my order. But in this case, I think we shall take him to The Marshal. The man may wish to interrogate him more. It is not often we have a double agent in our possession.”
Maxton couldn’t disagree. With the plans laid out, he ventured into the tavern with Kress in tow, entering the low-ceilinged structure. He was immediately hit in the face with the warmth and stench of it; it smelled like dozens of unwashed sailors straight off the cogs on the river who had been at sea for months or even years on end. They had seawater in their blood and they reeked of it.
Kress tugged on him, pointing to the corner near the front window of the tavern where Achilles was sitting. Pushing through the crowds of smelly, laughing men and women, they made their way over to Achi
lles, who had a cup of ale in his hand, half-full. He greeted them both amiably.
“No fights and no women, Max,” he announced as if proud of himself. “See? I am behaving myself.”
Maxton snorted. “For once in your life, you dolt,” he said. Then, he looked around the common room of the tavern. “Where is our man?”
Achilles lifted the cup to his mouth, using one of the fingers wrapped around the cup to discreetly point. “Over there by the hearth,” he said. “The man with the shaggy dark hair. He’s wearing a long tunic like the Scots do, hose, and a very big sword. I can see it beneath his cloak.”
Maxton didn’t turn to look at the man right away. He poured himself some ale first before casually looking in that direction. “I see him,” he said. “Is he alone?”
Achilles nodded. “For the most part,” he said. “There has been a wench at his table from time to time, but she hasn’t been back in a several minutes.”
“Then it is time for us to move,” Maxton said quietly. “He’s a Scotsman, correct?”
“Correct.”
“Then we all suddenly have family in Scotland, too. Follow my lead.”
They did. Cup in hand, Maxton stood up and began to meander his way over to the table with the lone Scotsman as Kress and Achilles followed. As they crossed the room, they passed by a table of drunken men, singing one of the typically bawdy songs that could be heard in any of the taverns in England. Every squire to old man knew the song.
There once was an old whore named Rose,
With a wart on the end of her nose,
She’d give you her best,
With the swell of her breast,
And lick you from your bung to your toes!
One of the singers grabbed at Kress, demanding he sing along, but the blond knight politely refused. He continued on with Maxton and Achilles as they headed to the Scotsman’s table. They had the pitcher of ale with them and the first thing Kress did was slam the pitcher on to the table to catch the man’s attention.
“Do dhia agus Alba,” Maxton said happily, in Gaelic. To God and Scotland. It was a traditional Scottish toast. “I see that you are from the land of my mother’s people, lad. Have a drink with us to celebrate the greatness of Scotland and to William, our very own lion.”
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