Nunnery Brides: A Medieval Romance Collection

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “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.”

  The Scotsman looked up at them in shock. All he knew was that drunken men were suddenly toasting Scotland, and the king, and generally creating a ruckus as they commandeered his quiet little table in the corner of the dirty tavern. As the three men overwhelmed the table, cheering the toast as they took up seats, the Scotsman pushed himself away from the table, mostly for self-protection.

  “I dinna invite ye tae sit with me,” he hissed, snatching his cup from the table because he was afraid one of the men might confiscate it and drink it up. He wasn’t finished with it. “Go away from me. I want tae be alone!”

  Maxton looked at the man, puzzled, before looking to his companions. “He’s unfriendly,” he said, slurping drunkenly from his cup. “You would think the fact that he is in an enemy country, surrounded by Sassenachs, that he would be a little more friendly to someone who is trying to be friendly to him.”

  Kress and Achilles nodded firmly, eyeing the Scotsman with disapproval as they, too, drank noisily from their cups.

  “I’ll drink to Scotland and to William,” Achilles said, slurring his words. “I will drink to the man’s king even if he won’t. I wonder if his king knows that he has a kinsman who will not drink to him.”

  “No respect!” Maxton declared.

  “No honor!” Kress put in.

  “Wait!” The Scotsman sat forward, perhaps a little closer to the table. “I’ll kill ye if ye say I have no respect or honor for my king. He’s my king!”

  “Then drink to him!” Maxton boomed.

  All four of them down healthy swallows of ale but, in the case of Maxton and Kress and Achilles, it was a very small swallow made to look like a big one. They wanted to get the Scotsman drunker than he was, but they didn’t want to follow suit. At least, not at the moment. Maxton smacked his lips and reached out, yanking the Scotsman back to the table by the collar of his cloak.

  “You remind me of my mum,” Maxton said, pretending to get weepy. “Every time I see a Scotsman, it reminds me of her. She was from Edinburgh. Where are you from, lad?”

  The Scotsman was too drunk to pull away from Maxton as the man threw a massive arm over his shoulders in a brotherly gesture. “Dumfries,” he said. “A beautiful place.”

  “Not more beautiful than Edinburgh!”

  Now, the Scotsman pulled away from Maxton and scowled at him. “Are ye mad?” he asked, incredulous. “Are ye blind, man?”

  Maxton geared up to argue with him but then he backed down, pretending to be too drunk to really care. “Edinburgh,” he insisted calmly and feigned another big drink of ale. “What’s your name, Scotsman? I cannot keep calling you Scotsman, you know.”

  The Scotsman’s gaze lingered on him a moment before replying. “Ye dunna need tae know.”

  “Ah,” Maxton looked to Kress and Achilles. “He does not have a name. His mother hated him so much that she did not give him one.”

  That brought a reaction from the man. “I’ll have ye know she gave me a great name,” he said, drinking from his cup and draining it. Achilles quickly filled it up. “I am Alasdair Baird Douglas. I am a Douglas of Clan Douglas and William Douglas is my liege. Do ye know the man?”

  The name confirmed that he was, indeed, the double agent Alexander had been trailing. Now, they definitely had their man, and Maxton shook his head in response to his question.

  “I do not,” he said. “But I have heard is a great man. Let us drink to him, Alasdair.”

  The cups were lifted again and when they came down, Alasdair pointed to Maxton. “What’s yer name, Sassenach?” he demanded, his pointing finger moving around the table. “All of ye; I would know who I’m drinking with.”

  Maxton threw a thumb into his chest. “Magnus,” he lied, giving his father’s name. “Hugh and Archie.”

  He pointed to Kress and then Achilles, giving their fathers’ names as well. Alasdair lifted a cup to them. “Now we are good friends.”

  The cup was back at his lips but, this time, Maxton and the others didn’t drink. They were pretending to, but they had backed off of any more liquor because they needed their wits about them. Alasdair was far gone into his drink, more so now, so Maxton decided to start his interrogation before Alasdair grew too drunk to make sense.

  “Aye, we are,” Maxton said, waving over the serving wench to bring them more ale. “Tell me of yourself, Alasdair. Why are you in London? Surely you’d rather be in Scotland.”

  Alasdair nodded, bobbing his head up and down until he became dizzy with it and he had to stop. “Aye, lad,” he agreed quietly. “I wish I was.”

  “Then you must be here because of a woman,” Maxton said, snorting. That caused Kress and Achilles to snort as well. “The only reason you would be away from your beautiful Scotland is because of a woman. Well? Is she beautiful?”

  Alasdair shook his head, his good humor seeming to fade somewhat. “No beautiful woman,” he said. “I wish it was true, but ’tis not.”

  “Then you must have business for your laird,” Maxton said, snatching the pitcher away from the wench when she came to the table and pouring it into Alasdair’s cup. “We are on business for our lord, you know. De Longley out of Northwood Castle. He’s right on the border of Scotland, far to the north. Maybe you have heard of him?”

  Alasdair’s expression suggested that he was a million miles away, his mind wandering to perhaps the real answer to Maxton’s question. But he shook it off when Maxton grabbed at his shoulder, shaking him good-naturedly.

  “De Longley?” Alasdair repeated. “Nay, lad. I’ve not heard of the man. Do ye fight Scots, then?”

  “Only if they fight me first.”

  Alasdair looked at him a moment before breaking into snorts of laughter. “Scots and Sassenach,” he muttered. “That’s not where the real battle lies, dinna ye know. There are battles greater than we can imagine.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Alasdair pointed at him. “I mean the battles we fight against each other are meaningless,” he said, taking another huge gulp of ale and then smacking his lips. “’Tis all for naught, Magnus. There are higher powers controlling our destinies.”

  He said it with certainty and Maxton thought it might be a very good way to lead in to what they all wanted to know – what Alasdair was really doing in London. Maxton topped off Kress and Achilles’ cups, which didn’t need much refilling considering they had barely been touched. Alasdair was growing more inebriated by the moment.

  “Is that so?” Maxton asked. “Do you know that for a fact?”

  Alasdair nodded, nearly throwing himself off-balance as he did. “No man controls his destiny,” he said. “Do ye know who controls it?”

  “Who?”

  Alasdair winked at him. “God,” he said. “God and the church.”

  “What about the king?” Kress asked, entering the conversation. “Every man is sworn to his king. He creates your destiny.”

  Alasdair waved him off as if he were spouting nonsense. “The king,” he scoffed. “The king? Laddie, the king has nothing tae do with a man’s destiny. Kings come and go. They are frail men, easily removed. Dinna ye know that ye never fight for a king? Ye fight for yer country, no matter who the king is.”

  Maxton was extremely interested in the path of the conversation at this point. He looked at Kress, silently instructing the man to continue. Kress took the hint; they’d played this game before. He or Achilles would engage someone in conversation while Maxton would sit back and observe, noting weaknesses or discovering truths.

  This was a time to discover truth.”

  “Then you don’t fight for William?” Kress asked Alasdair. “He’s your king, man.”

  Alasdair took another sloppy drink of ale before pointing to the cei
ling. “But there is a greater king,” he insisted. “God is our king above all.”

  “That is true, but He’s not here to give you orders. Your earthly king is.”

  Alasdair shook his head. “Nay,” he insisted. “God gives his command through the church, through our Holy Father. It is the Holy Father who truly controls a man’s destiny, even the destiny of a king.”

  He was pointing to his head as if he’d truly come up with the greatest philosophy of all time. Kress had done well in directing the conversation, but Maxton jumped back into it. He was deeply interested in what the man was saying, considering they all knew he’d been to Rome recently and had contact with the Holy Father according to Alexander.

  Now, it was getting interesting.

  “Then you are a man of great faith,” Maxton said, making it sound like a compliment. “I admire a man of strong faith. You listen to your priest and you do as he says. You lead a good life.”

  Alasdair looked at Maxton, his head bobbing unsteadily. “Do ye know where I have been?” he said. “The Lateran Palace. I dunna listen tae just any priest, lad. I listen tae the Holy Father himself. He speaks tae me and I listen. And I obey!”

  Maxton patted him on the shoulder. “You are a good man, Alasdair,” he said, lifting his cup. “To Alasdair. He is a devout man of good faith.”

  Kress and Achilles lifted their cups, feigning a long drink, followed by Maxton and, finally, Alasdair. As they set their cups back to the table and Kress picked up the pitcher to refill Alasdair’s cup, Maxton continued.

  “Did the Holy Father shape your destiny, then?” he asked. “You said he speaks to you. Did he tell you to lead a good life and stay out of taverns like this one?”

  He grinned, making a joke of it, praying that Alasdair, in his drunken state, didn’t realize how much he was probing him. He breathed a sigh of relief when Alasdair responded to his attempted joke.

  “He did not shape my destiny,” he said, winking at Maxton. “But he uses me tae shape another’s. How much do ye like yer king, Magnus? Is he a good king tae ye? Because he and the Holy Father dinna like one another.”

  Maxton glanced at Kress and Achilles, seeing they had the same reaction to that that he did – how much do ye like yer king, Magnus? God, that sounded leading. It sounded as if Alasdair had a reason for asking, as if he knew something they did not. The expression on his face only compounded that suspicion. Maxton knew what he said next would matter a great deal if Alasdair had information they were looking for.

  It was an effort to look disinterested.

  “John is worthless,” he muttered, looking around to make sure no one had heard him. “I pray every night that the man falls dead and we are given a better king. I think most Englishmen have the same prayer.”

  Alasdair’s dark eyes glimmered at him. “Prayers are meant tae be answered, Magnus.”

  “And you know this for a fact?”

  Alasdair grinned, a knowing grin, and turned back to his drink. “I do,” he said. “Prayers are answered when ye least expect it, in ways ye canna possibly imagine.”

  Maxton leaned forward, giving the man a doubtful look. “Does God intend to come down from the sky and pluck John off his throne? Is that what is to happen? Be serious, Alasdair. Like it or not, we are stuck with our king. There is naught any man can do about it.”

  Alasdair shook his head. “Ye’re right,” he said. “But yer prayers are not tae be answered by a man. Just ye wait, Magnus. Yer prayers will be answered and ye’ll get yer new king.”

  “Who says so?”

  “The Holy Father says so.”

  With that, he drained his cup, tossing his head back as he did so, and toppled right over onto the floor. As Maxton, Kress, and Achilles looked down at the man, he lay there unconscious, having hit his head on the floor when he fell. Although it wasn’t a hard hit, he was so drunk that he instantly knocked himself out, which was frustrating for Maxton. No more answers to his questions.

  In fact, if anything, the mystery had deepened.

  CHAPTER TEN

  St. Blitha

  “Gracious Mother, I am very sorry about what happened in the kitchen yard.” Andressa was speaking quickly and her voice was quivering with fear. “I did not mean to knock Sister Blanche down, but I did not want her to hit me again. I am very sorry for creating such a scene. Please forgive me.”

  In the lavish solar that belonged to the Mother Abbess, Andressa stood just inside the door, speaking to the Mother Abbess and three other nuns, women she’d known in her four years of servitude at St. Blitha. They were the Mother Abbess’ personal servants, nuns who shadowed the Mother Abbess, catered to her, and fulfilled her every whim. Andressa had seen more than one of those women take victims to The Chaos, so she feared them as much as she feared the Mother Abbess. To have all four of those deadly women looking at her, she was feeling cornered and terrified.

  But the Mother Abbess, oddly enough, didn’t seem too angry. In fact, there was no hint of rage on her face as she stood over by the elaborate oriel windows of the chamber, the same windows that Andressa assumed provided the woman a clear view of what had happened with Sister Blanche.

  She knew why she was here.

  It must be bad, indeed. After the fight, she had been escorted back to the dormitory by two nuns when Sister Dymphna and Sister Petronilla came to take her to the Mother Abbess. That told Andressa that the situation was dire, indeed, so as she stood just inside the entry door and awaited her punishment, her knees were knocking so badly that it surely must have been clear in her manner. She was certain that the Mother Abbess’ rather calm expression was only a ruse, for she was in arm’s length of the Staff of Truth as it leaned up against the stone wall.

  Andressa was certain that The Chaos awaited her.

  God help me!

  “You needn’t be frightened, Andressa,” the Mother Abbess said in her heavy Italian accent. “We saw the entire happening from here. We saw Sister Blanche strike you first. Why did she strike you, child?”

  It was not the reaction Andressa had expected, which threw her off-balance. More than that, it was a question she didn’t want to answer. She knew it would only make things worse and she wasn’t a liar by nature, so the truth of the matter would come out. That was her problem; she had never been able to deliver a bold-faced lie and make it believable, not even to save her own neck. But perhaps she could soften it a bit with some half-truths. Those were a little easier. Swallowing hard, she prayed her explanation wouldn’t turn the Mother Abbess’ manner from calm to furious.

  Please, God!

  “She was angry because she saw me speaking with a man outside of the postern gate when I was collecting water, Gracious Mother,” she said nervously. “He… he saw me from the road and came to ask if he could draw water for me. I told him to go away, but he insisted on staying. He said that he had gone on the Crusade with King Richard and he spoke of a beastly animal called a camel. He would not leave so I took my water and entered the gate, and that is where Sister Blanche confronted me. She told me I was wicked for speaking to him and slapped me.”

  That was as close to a lie as Andressa could come and she prayed it sounded believable. She honestly didn’t know. She watched the Mother Abbess’ face as the woman digested the information. Her only outward reaction was a slight lift of the eyebrows.

  “I see,” the woman said. “Thank you for telling me the truth. And you do not know this man, Andressa?”

  She shook her head. “Nay, Gracious Mother.”

  “Did he give his name?”

  “Maxton, Gracious Mother.”

  “That is all he gave?”

  Andressa nodded. “Aye, Gracious Mother.”

  The woman’s dark gaze lingered on her for a moment before turning to glance at her minions, standing behind her. They were all looking at the Mother Abbess to see what her reaction would be to the situation so that they could react in kind. If she was angry, they would be angry. But if she wasn’t angry, then
they wouldn’t be, either. In this case, the Mother Abbess seemed strangely thoughtful about the situation.

  “It is true that the world outside our walls is exposed,” she said to the sisters as well as to Andressa. “And the road from the city is not far off. Clearly, our stream and postern gate can be seen from the road. You did nothing to encourage this man, Andressa?”

  Andressa shook her head firmly. “Nay, Gracious Mother. I begged him to leave me alone.”

  That was the truth, for the most part, but she’d only asked him to leave when she was afraid they would be seen. But the Mother Abbess couldn’t know that. Andressa watched the woman pace over to the oriel windows, looking out over the cloister with its vast garden, and feeling a great deal of angst.

  Was she angry?

  Was she not?

  “Did… did I do wrong, Gracious Mother?” Andressa asked, unable to keep silent. “I did not mean to. I was drawing my water and he came upon me.”

  The Mother Abbess shook her head. “You did not do wrong,” she said. “But next time, do not linger on a conversation. Simply come into the cloister and close the gate. It is best not to speak to a man who was bold enough to approach you from the road. He could have meant you harm.”

  Andressa nodded quickly. “He did not seem threatening, Gracious Mother, but next time, I will not speak. I will simply come back to the cloister.”

  The Mother Abbess looked at her. “Did he say there would be a next time?”

  “He did not say, Mother Abbess.”

  The Mother Abbess drew in a long, thoughtful breath. “I hope he will not,” she said. “If he does, you will send for me. I will tell him to stay away.”

  Andressa nodded again, firmly. “I will, Gracious Mother,” she said. “Thank you for your protection.”

  The Mother Abbess turned away from the window, giving Andressa her full attention. “I am here to protect you, child,” she said. “In fact, I wish for you to know that you are special to me. You work hard at your task and your work has fine results. I am pleased.”