Andressa held her ground. “You know where I have gone, Gracious Mother,” she said. “Yesterday morning, a baker was kind enough to feed me, and then I returned to finish the laundry. I delivered Lady Hinkley’s undergarments and then returned last night at her request. Where is it that I am supposed to have gone other than what you already know?”
Before the Mother Abbess could answer, the door opened and Sisters Agnes and Dymphna appeared. One nun was holding a long, thick branch that had been carved out with heavy thorns projecting from it. It was a horrifying device of torture. The other nun was carrying leather bindings, larger versions of what falconers used to tether their birds. When Andressa saw the items, her eyes widened.
“Gracious Mother,” she said, swiftly turning to the woman. “What is it I am supposed to have done?”
“Tell us who the man was who escorted you home last night,” Sister Petronilla burst. “I saw him standing by the postern gate. Who was he?”
Shocked, Andressa turned to the woman. In truth, she hadn’t realized Maxton had been seen and she struggled for an answer.
“A… a man I could not be rid of,” she said quickly, thinking of the first lie that popped to mind. “He saw me returning from Lady Hinkley’s in the dark and would not go away. I told him to go away, but he refused.”
Behind her, Sisters Agnes and Dymphna were closing in. Andressa could feel it. Nervously, she tried to back away, turning so she could see what all of the nuns were doing, and she knew she was in a grave situation. In a panic, she turned to the Mother Abbess.
“Please,” she begged. “What have I done?”
The Mother Abbess showed absolutely no emotion. “Someone has spoken of our command from our Holy Father,” she said. “Someone has told the king’s men that it is our intention to eliminate the king come feast day. I know it could not be my faithful attendants; moreover, none of them have left St. Blitha since we received the orders. But you have left St. Blitha. Who have you told, Andressa?”
Now, it was all out in the open and Andressa had never been so terrified. If she could make it past Sister Dymphna, who was standing near the entry door, she might have a chance to run for her life, but she couldn’t guarantee the sister, who was long-legged and fast, wouldn’t catch her.
Besides… running would make her look guilty. It would make it worse when she was caught. Fighting off tears, she turned to the Mother Abbess.
“You trusted me with information,” she said. “I told you I would not fail you. Why would you think I would speak of something you entrusted with me? Sister Dymphna has several nuns she is in charge of and everyone knows they gossip terribly. She has told them of what you do to women in The Chaos and they spread lies about you and they speak to those on the outside. Why not ask Sister Dymphna what she has told them? It must have been her!”
It was a well-known fact that Sister Dymphna had the inability to keep things to herself, and in Andressa’s panicked state, that was all she could think to say – to try and turn the situation off of her and onto another nun. Unfortunately, it was Sister Dymphna who was holding the thick branch with the thorns, called simply The Rod, and in her rage, she swung the thing at Andressa, catching her in the shoulder.
Andressa screamed in pain, trying to move away as Sister Dymphna went after her, bring the rod down again and barely missing her. By this time, Andressa was running, and she came across the Mother Abbess’ expensive sideboard, grabbing the nearest thing she could, which happened to be a pewter pitcher. It was heavy, like a hammer.
Sister Dymphna came up behind her and swung the rod again, and Andressa ducked beneath it. As Sister Dymphna staggered sideways with the momentum of the swing, Andressa came up and hit her on the side of the head with the pitcher with all her might. A dull, cracking sound filled the air as metal met with bone.
Sister Dymphna dropped like a stone.
Armed with the pitcher, Andressa wielded it like a weapon as she faced the other three nuns. “You’ll not take me down without a fight,” she snarled. “I will not confess to something when there are others who just as easily could have committed such an offense.”
Shocked that someone they had attacked was fighting back, Sister Agnes and Sister Petronilla looked at Andressa with a mixture of outrage and surprise, while the Mother Abbess seemed oddly pleased by the display of force. She appreciated physical violence, in all forms.
“Then all you need say is you did not tell anyone,” she said calmly.
“I did not tell anyone!” Andressa screamed.
It was a lie, but it was a lie to save her life. She saw no sin in lying to murdering, dishonorable women. The Mother Abbess simply nodded her head.
“I believe you,” she said evenly. “And you know nothing of the death of Alasdair Baird Douglas?”
Andressa was poised to swing the pitcher again; she hadn’t moved. When Sister Dymphna stirred, she was close enough to bash the woman on the skull again. Sister Dymphna fell still.
“The Scotsman?” Andressa said, trembling and cocked, pitcher over her head as if to smash Sister Dymphna’s brains in. “He is dead?”
The Mother Abbess nodded slowly. “He is,” she said. “You never saw him last night?”
More lies were to come, but she felt no guilt. “Nay,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
The Mother Abbess didn’t push her. In fact, she put up a hand as if to ease the situation. “It does not matter,” she said. “Please put the pitcher down, Andressa. Come and sit and we shall discuss this calmly. In fact, the feast day is tomorrow and there are still preparations to come. We shall speak of that. All will be well now.”
Her manner was calming, which had a soothing effect on Andressa. But Andressa didn’t put the pitcher down until Sister Agnes set down the bindings that she had in her hands, and the Mother Abbess ushered the two nuns to her fine table. Shaken and still terrified, Andressa reluctantly put the pitcher down, but still within arm’s length should she need to get to it. She sat at the end of the table, where the Mother Abbess indicated.
With the situation calming, Andressa felt somewhat relieved but she was still on edge, still afraid there was something more to come. It was an instinct she should have listened to because as the Mother Abbess took her seat at the table, she passed behind Andressa with the Staff of Truth still in her hand.
And that was when the situation went from bad to worse.
One swing of the big, heavy iron and wood cross at the head of the staff at Andressa’s head, and she was knocked silly. A second blow to the head sent her to the ground where she lay, dazed and nearly unconscious, looking up at the ceiling of the chamber and seeing the three nuns standing over her. The Mother Abbess knelt by her head.
“Now,” she said softly. “If you do not understand the need for obedience and discipline yet, you will by the time we are finished with you. As for telling the king’s men of our plans, it is of little consequence. Men are so arrogant to believe that a woman can do them no harm, and they certainly will never believe that nuns are capable of ending a monarchy. But they will suffer in the end, as will you. Remember that death comes from the most unexpected sources, Andressa.”
The third blow from the Staff of Truth caught Andressa in the left arm, a powerful blow that sent her rolling over onto her side. As the blows from the staff and the thorny rod commenced, all Andressa could do was roll into a ball and protect that life growing inside of her.
Odd how she thought of the child at that moment over herself. To protect the child she’d tried so hard to ignore was the only thing on her mind, that inherent maternal instinct protecting the baby from blows that were drawing blood and leaving gouges in her body. In truth, she was more terrified what would happen to her should they discover the child, so maternal instincts were only part of it.
She had to hide the pregnancy.
She had to protect them both.
Curling up on the cold, stone floor of the Mother Abbess’ fine solar, Andressa could hear her cries o
f pain echoing against the old walls.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Farringdon House
Maxton couldn’t stand it.
He’d been away from Andressa for all of one day, and he was longing after her as he’d never longed for anyone in his life.
The morning of the Feast Day of St. Blitha had dawned surprisingly bright, in stark contrast from the heavy mist they’d had the day before, and for most days over the past few months. But something in the weather pattern had changed today and the sky was clear.
It was a beautiful sunrise that came up from the east, casting golden rays onto the land. Inside the manor home, however, there was a sense of purpose as men prepared for the coming day. Much had happened, and much still needed to happen, and there was a sense of anticipation because so much was at stake. It wasn’t just a king’s life, but also the life of a certain pledge who had risked her life to make sure their task was successful.
They didn’t want to fail her.
The king had gone hunting in the forest of Windsor the day before, as planned, and even though the mist had been heavy well into the afternoon, he hadn’t scrapped his intentions. He’d gone out with his courtiers and military advisors, and they’d hunted for several hours while Maxton, Kress, Achilles, Alexander, Cullen, Bric, and Dashiell had shadowed the group from the recesses of the heavy foliage.
It wasn’t that anyone expected the nuns to make a move against the king out in the wilderness, but more as a preventative measure in case the information they’d received had been wrong and the nuns were the least of their worries. It wasn’t that they didn’t trust Andressa; they knew she was telling the truth. But given that the assassins after the king were of the most unexpected kind, and it was quite possible there was more than one set of assassins, Maxton wanted to ensure they were ready for anything.
Purely a preventative measure.
But it had been an odd day for Maxton as he sat in the wet forest, with water dripping down his face as he listened to the cries of the king’s hunting party. After returning Andressa to St. Blitha the night before, he’d returned to Farringdon House and spent the entire night tossing and turning, dreaming of a green-eyed pledge when he did happen to fall asleep. When he would awaken between dreams, it was to the realization that he had actually proposed marriage to the woman.
And she had actually accepted.
But he’d kept it to himself. He wasn’t sure how to tell Kress or Achilles, or anyone else for that matter. Not that they didn’t realize that something was going on between Maxton and the pale lass from St. Blitha; they would have had to have been deaf and blind not to realize there was something more than polite concern there. It was the fact that Maxton simply wasn’t the marrying kind, or so he’d thought.
As it so happened, he was wrong about that. The idea of marrying Andressa and settling down was as foreign to him as it was wonderful. He’d never hoped for a normal life as far as lives went, with a wife and heirs, so the idea that he might actually attain some peace and happiness had upended everything he’d ever known or thought about himself.
In a wonderful way, of course.
It had been a long day shadowing the king, who mostly remained under a tarp to stay dry while his advisors hunted out in the wet, and when they’d finally returned to Farringdon House that evening, Maxton was disappointed that Andressa wasn’t there, waiting for him. Somehow, he’d hoped that she would have been able to get away from St. Blitha to see him. He even thought about going over to the abbey that night, just to catch a glimpse of her, but decided against it because she would probably be asleep, anyway. He found great comfort in knowing he would see her on the feast day. And with the ending of the assassination threat against the king, he and Andressa could start their new life together.
She’d never have to go back to that Devil’s den again.
Therefore, there was eagerness in his movements this morning. As he dressed in a tunic bearing the crimson and gold of the royal family that Sean had provided, he found himself smiling as he thought of all of the wonderful things he would buy Andressa when all of this madness was finished.
The truth of the matter was that Maxton had been smart when he’d left for the great Quest; he’d been one of the few Crusader knights who had been careful with his money. He’d only taken what he felt he needed, leaving the majority of it with a deposit banker in London, a man who held money for some of the nobility for safekeeping and charged a small fee to hold it.
While many knights lost their fortunes on crusade, Maxton hadn’t. In fact, when the battles were over and the Christian armies were heading back to their homes, Maxton and Kress and Achilles had capitalized on the situation and had taken jobs for wealthy lords in Europe, fighting their wars for them. All three of them had become quite wealthy from that venture, and while in Genoa, had deposited even more money with the banking system there. Being frugal men, and hating to spend their own wealth, they’d lived at the Lateran Palace while the Holy Father had paid their way.
Their hoards remained untouched.
Maxton hadn’t thought much about his money since that time because there hadn’t been a need. But now with the advent of a betrothed, he was thinking a good deal about it. He could easily get his money from the deposit banker in London, but getting it from the bankers in Genoa would take time. He was thinking that a trip after he and Andressa married would be in order, and he could take her to exotic places and buy her more clothing and jewels and finery than she could ever wear. The poor woman who had spent the past four years starving and living in rags would know luxury such as she could have never imagined.
He liked thinking about the things he could do for her.
A knock on his chamber door roused him from his thoughts. Nearly dressed, with the mail hood on and the tunic secure, Maxton opened the door to find Kress standing there, dressed exactly as he was. They were both in the regalia worn by men-at-arms and not seasoned knights, which was something of an insult for men of their station. Maxton cocked an eyebrow at the man.
“You look like the king’s stooge,” he commented. “’Tis shameful and degrading to be forced to wear this garb.”
Kress grinned. “It was your idea, you dolt.”
“I should be whipped.”
With that, he turned back into the chamber to collect his broadsword and Kress followed, snorting as he entered the room.
“I’ve often said the same thing,” he said. Then, he sobered. “Well, my friend. This day should prove interesting. Are you concerned?”
Maxton was fixing the leather belt at his waist. “For what?”
“For the pledge.”
Maxton’s movements slowed a little and he could feel his guard going down. Kress was the best friend he had in the world, outside of Achilles, but Achilles could often be judgmental about things. The man was a virtual volcano of angst sometimes, torn between his religious beliefs and what he did for a living, so sometimes, he could be difficult to speak to.
But not Kress; the man understood how the world worked and didn’t put too much stock in a church that had proven too many times how very immoral it could be. He also understood Maxton; the two of them always communicated well. Therefore, Maxton was thinking seriously on his reply to Kress’ statement before answering.
“I must ask you something, Kress,” he said. “You will be honest with me.”
Kress leaned against the wardrobe built up against the wall. “I always am, Max. You know that.”
Maxton glanced up from his belt. “The meeting at The King’s Gout Tavern two days ago,” he said quietly. “It was about me, wasn’t it?”
Kress’ smile faded completely. “It was.”
“What did you discuss?”
“The contention between you and The Marshal when it comes to the pledge from St. Blitha.”
Maxton wasn’t surprised to hear that. In fact, that was what he’d mostly expected to hear. “And did you come to a conclusion?”
Kress shook
his head. “There was no conclusion to come to,” he said. “We discussed how you have changed. The man who spent those months in the prisons of Baux and then returned to England is not the same man we have known all these years. We have never known you to be confrontational with a man of higher rank, and most especially not with someone like William Marshal.”
Maxton kept his head down, adjusting the sheath on his belt. “He is a stubborn man,” he said. “And I do not care what his credentials are, in some instances, he is wrong.”
Kress smiled ironically, shaking his head. “We are speaking of William Marshal, Max,” he said. “Mayhap he has been wrong in some instances, but he is still the greatest knight England has ever seen. His accomplishments are without question.”
“De Lohr is better.”
That caught Kress off-guard. “What’s that?”
Maxton looked up at him. “I said that Christopher de Lohr is better,” he said. Then, he waved a gloved hand at him. “Oh, I know that Chris and I have never gotten on well. The man is righteous and pious and so bloody moral that it makes me sick sometimes. But he is also unwaveringly brave, brilliantly intelligent, and unquestionable when it comes to his decisions. William is older and has therefore managed by virtue of time to establish a better reputation, but Chris de Lohr will have his moment. The man will shine in the annals of history like no other.”
Kress stared at him a moment. Then, he started to laugh. “You say this about a man you did nothing but criticize the entire time we were in The Levant?”
Maxton made a face. “Because de Lohr and his brother had their noses so far up Richard’s ass, when the man shit, it was the color of the de Lohr tunics. Richard could not take a piss without Chris there to hold his manhood.”
Kress was far gone with laughter by now. “That is what I am used to,” he said. “You bashing de Lohr at every turn. If you praise him again, I will accuse you of being possessed by the Devil and be forced to cut your head off.”
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