He said ye madman with a perfect Scots accent, using a Scottish insult for a drunkard. But Alasdair waved him off.
“Nay,” he said, falling back down on the bed. “No food now. Let me sleep, lad. That’s what I need most. I’ll see yer ugly face on the morrow.”
“You can stake your life on it.”
Alasdair put an arm over his eyes, indicating the great pain in his head, as de Sherrington was pulled away by the other knight and the door was closed behind him. The sound of the bolt being thrown was unmistakable.
The moment the door was shut, however, Alasdair sat up and rushed to the panel with movements that suggested he was much more sober, and far less hungover, than he had let on. Putting his ear to the door, he listened carefully for any sound that de Sherrington might be returning. When he was certain the coast was clear and the man wasn’t about to make a return, he bolted straight to the window.
It was a square window with shutters that Alasdair easily unlocked and threw open. Night had fallen, so all he could see below were houses, lit from the inside by weak fires, and a vacant alley below. There were no walls around the fortified manor because the first floor had no windows, so the alley ran right up to the house itself. There was a gutter down there that he could smell more than he could see it and, better still, no activity.
But it was a good drop from where he was, which is why they hadn’t barred the windows on him. Only an insane man would leap from the window with that kind of drop to the ground below, but Alasdair had never been accused of being sane. His mission to London had been discovered, and there was a mole in St. Blitha, and now the nobles of England knew that the Holy Father had ordered the nuns of St. Blitha to assassinate the king.
Like any good spy, Alasdair wasn’t going to give up easily. He wasn’t going to sit back and nurse an aching head while the entire objective of him being in England was at stake. The Holy Father himself had entrusted this mission to him and even though he hadn’t been the one ordered to eliminate the king, it would still be on his shoulders if the nuns failed.
He had to get word to them.
He had to get out of there.
The chamber he was in hadn’t been stripped; there were curtains around the bed for warmth and linens on the mattress, and he immediately went about constructing a rope from the fabric. With the three pieces of linen on the bed followed by all four brocaded curtains tied end to end, he peered from the open window again to ensure no one was watching before securing the linen rope to the heavy bedframe and throwing the rest of it from the window. With hardly a back glance, he leapt onto the windowsill and began lowering himself down the rope.
Reaching the bottom, he still had about ten feet to go, so he released the rope and fell the rest of the way to the alleyway. He landed awkwardly on his ankle, twisting it, but he didn’t stop to examine it. He was on the run, so he hurried down the alley as fast as his injured ankle would take him and having no idea that, at this time, the very mole he was seeking was also fleeing from Farringdon House down a different avenue, returning to St. Blitha before her overlong absence was discovered.
The mole, and the spy, would soon cross paths.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Where have you been, Andressa?”
Having barely just returned to St. Blitha under the cover of darkness, Andressa was in the dim corridor leading to her tiny cell, and her uncomfortable bed, when Sister Petronilla had come out of the shadows. Andressa hadn’t even heard the woman and now, suddenly, she was standing face to face with her.
For a moment, Andressa simply stared at the woman. She’d barely had five words with the old nun in the four years she’d been at St. Blitha, but now it seemed as if they were to have their first real conversation.
And not a comfortable one.
“I delivered garments to Lady Hinkley,” Andressa answered after a moment. “You heard the Mother Abbess give me permission to do so. Lady Hinkley then asked me to remain for a time.”
Sister Petronilla’s gaze lingered on her for a moment as if debating whether or not to believe her. In fact, she was sizing up the woman altogether. It was clear that she didn’t like the idea of someone new joining the Mother Abbess’ band of attendants, so her scrutiny was on the young woman that the Mother Abbess seemed to favor.
Everyone at the abbey knew that Andressa had turned their laundry into a business, a business that the Mother Abbess was profiting greatly from, but Sister Petronilla didn’t see anything quite so remarkable in the young woman. She didn’t appear all that special to her.
Her jealousy was rising.
“Why did you stay so long?” she asked. “Did she feed you?”
“She did not,” Andressa replied. “I remained in her servant’s kitchen and warmed myself until she told me to go.”
Sister Petronilla’s gaze remained on her for a few more moments before deciding that interrogating the woman any further would be fruitless. It wasn’t as if Andressa didn’t already spend a good deal of time going back and forth between noble households, collecting laundry when the household servants were too busy to deliver it. It was part of her job. Therefore, Sister Petronilla let the subject drop.
For now.
“Our Gracious Mother has plans for you,” she finally said. “As she told you, she feels that our work must be carried on. Unfortunately, we will not live forever.”
Andressa breathed a sigh of relief that Sister Petronilla didn’t press her further about her absence. Still, she received the distinct sense that the older nun was suspicious of her. There was something in the woman’s dark eyes that suggested doubt.
Her guard was up.
“I am honored to carry out God’s work,” she replied steadily. “I am not worthy, but I shall endeavor to do my best. And I am honored to work in the garden with you. You have great skill with the herbs and flowers.”
Sister Petronilla turned away from her, heading back down the corridor and towards the doors that led to the courtyard outside.
“Walk with me,” she said.
“Where are we going?”
“Into the garden.”
“Now? But it is dark outside.”
“Much of what we do is in the shadows, Andressa. Come with me.”
Andressa did. She scooted after the woman, wondering why they were going out to the garden and just the least bit apprehensive about it. They headed back to a main reception chamber where the front door to the church was located and a second set of doors that led to the courtyard beyond. It had been those doors that Andressa had just come through as she’d come in from the yard.
The main reception chamber of St. Blitha was a cavernous room, stripped of all furnishings except for a shrine dedicated to St. Blitha. There was a tapestry of her on the stone wall, the ancient Roman saint who had been martyred by Roman soldiers. Sister Petronilla collected a bank of yellow tallow tapers from the shrine, candles that were always there lighting the tapestry of the saint, and moved to the doors that led to the courtyard.
Andressa followed.
Once outside again, the temperature was brisk and cold, with moisture heavy in the air. Sister Petronilla headed straight into the garden, turning once to ensure that Andressa was still behind her.
“My father was an apothecary,” she said as they walked. “He knew what to grow and how to grow it. He knew the properties of everything that grew on this earth. What I learned, I learned from him. He was a great man.”
Andressa suspected the best way to deal with Sister Petronilla was to make it seem as if she admired the woman greatly. Perhaps flattery would cause whatever suspicions there might be to fade.
“I am sure he was,” Andressa said. “You must miss him, being so far away from him.”
But Sister Petronilla simply shook her head. “He was a great and knowledgeable man, but he was also quite wicked,” she said. “I was beaten every day when I was young, which fed my hatred against him. When I was nine years of age, I put a potion in his soup, a potion he himself had made,
and it killed both him and my mother. That is why I was sent to the convent of Santa Giulia.”
It was a shocking confession but, in truth, it wasn’t surprising. After what Andressa had been told yesterday, it seemed that murder wasn’t something outlandish or new to these women.
It was a way of life.
“And now you find yourself here, in London,” Andressa said, truly having no idea what to say after that horrific confession. “I have no parents, either, as you know. Only an aunt who stole my fortune.”
Sister Petronilla glanced at her. “Then mayhap I can teach you something useful,” she said. “I am sure you have been wondering how we are to accomplish our task for our Holy Father. Our Gracious Mother has asked me to instruct you on our process, and I shall. The king shall be here for the Feast Day of St. Blitha and we intend to have a great feast set out for him, something prepared by our own hands. You, Andressa, shall be in charge of the kitchen that prepares his feast.”
Andressa looked at her with surprise. “But what of Sister Blanche?”
“Sister Blanche has been lost to The Chaos.”
Andressa was horrified by the news but, for her own sake, she knew she had to keep her composure. Guilt swept her; she knew why the woman had ended up there.
“Because… because she struck me yesterday?”
Sister Petronilla glanced at her. “She should not have struck you,” she said. “The Mother Abbess said she would protect you, especially from those who would attack you. Sister Blanche has been punished for her sin. Now, the kitchen shall be your domain and you shall oversee the feast for the king.”
Andressa knew something of the kitchens only because they were right next to her laundry area, so she had seen a good deal of what went on there. There were other nuns who cooked and prepared the food. The truth was that Sister Blanche had only ordered them about. She had been an older nun and she had a sense of self-importance.
But no longer.
Shocked at the cold demise of Sister Blanche, Andressa knew that the only thing she could do was go along with whatever the Mother Abbess and her minions wanted her to do. Any hint of resistance, or doubt, and she knew they would toss her into The Chaos, too. It was the ever-present threat hanging over her head.
She was starting to feel sick to her stomach.
“I will do whatever you wish me to do,” she said. “I do not know a great deal about managing the kitchen, but I shall learn quickly. Will you tell me what to prepare for the feast day?”
Sister Petronilla had led her into the heart of the garden by this time, the forbidden garden where no one but the Mother Abbess and those close to her were allowed to walk. It was damp and dark, only lit by the bank of tapers in Sister Petronilla’s hand, and most of the plants were dormant because of the season. Still, some things were growing in spite of the cold. There were shades of green amongst the brown.
“St. Blitha is the patron saint of hunters and wine, so the feast will be simple, as it is every year,” Sister Petronilla said as she came to a halt. “We will only have meat and wine and bread. There are sisters who will cook these things. All you need to do is ensure it makes it to the Mother Abbess’ table and to the king. But for the king, we shall have a very special wine meant only for him.”
With that, she began to pull at the dried leaves of the very tall foxglove stalks. She pulled off several, then had Andressa hold out her hands. Into her open palms, Sister Petronilla began to pile more leaves and using the tapers as light, she located even more to strip from the stalks. The leaves were shriveled up and ready to fall to the ground. As Andressa looked at the leaves curiously, Sister Petronilla spoke.
“My father taught me that there is great poison in the dying leaves of the foxglove,” she said quietly. “You will take these leaves and you shall crush them into a powder, and that powder shall be put into the king’s wine pitcher. Make sure to grind the leaves up terribly fine so that he will not see them or taste them. Mull the wine a little with cloves and cinnamon to ensure he does not taste any hint of the poison. You will also make sure that the rest of the wine, that not meant for the king, is mulled with cloves and cinnamon so that it all tastes the same. He must not be suspicious.”
Andressa was looking at the leaves in her hands, feeling the familiar taste of fear upon her tongue. “How… how will I know how much powder to use?” she asked.
Sister Petronilla moved to a second stalk and stripped more dead leaves from the base of it. “Crush all of these leaves and that shall be sufficient.” She moved on from the foxgloves to another patch of scrub-looking plants, and pointed to one that was bushy, with fibrous stalks and purple berries. “This is dwale. All parts of this plant are poisonous. Take care not to touch it with open cuts on your fingers. And after you have handled it, you must wash your hands thoroughly with soap and vinegar. It is so deadly that it can be absorbed through your skin.”
Andressa looked at the plant, wide-eyed. “What would you have me do with it?”
Sister Petronilla studied the plant for a moment. “Tear two or three plants out of the ground,” she said. “Mash the roots and put them in an oilcloth to steep in the king’s wine. Remove the oilcloth before you serve it. There are also berries on the plant though, at this time of year, there are few. Pick them and squeeze the juice into the wine as well. The more, the better.”
“And do this in addition to the crushed leaves from the other plant?”
“We want to ensure that the job is done.”
It seemed like a good deal of poison for just one man. “Are you certain that you would not like to do this yourself?” Andressa asked, thinking that something like this was too big for her to manage. “This is a very important task. I do not want to fail.”
Sister Petronilla shook her head. “You shall not fail,” she said patiently. “Andressa, this must be your task. The Mother Abbess cannot do it; she is expected to escort the king. I cannot do it, nor can Sister Dymphna or Sister Agnes because they will have other duties. You must ensure the powder of the leaves, and the juice of the roots, make it into the king’s wine. Be sure to seal the pitcher so we know which one is meant for the king. Seal it tightly with oilcloth that is tied to the mouth of the pitcher.”
Andressa was feeling sicker and sicker with the realization that they expected her to be the one to poison the king. “Then… then you wish for me to do this?” she asked, looking at the woman. “The Mother Abbess said I was to learn, but I did not know she meant that I would be carrying this out alone. It is such an important mission, Sister Petronilla. I fear that I cannot do this all by myself.”
Sister Petronilla didn’t seem overly concerned. “All you need to do is follow my instructions and make sure that the king is the only one who is served that particular pitcher of wine,” she said, sounding oddly reassuring. “You must accomplish this, Andressa. This is your test to see if you are truly worthy to follow in our footsteps.”
So it was a test! Andressa was stunned to hear that such an important task would be placed squarely in her hands. It was like a nightmare, something she wanted no part of, but she had no way to decline. If she didn’t accept the task, the pain of The Chaos would, indeed, belong to her. She would suffer right alongside Sister Blanche and countless other women who had found themselves in that hellish place. It was a do-or-die situation.
They want me to kill the king!
It was becoming increasingly difficult for Andressa to keep her composure. The more she heard about the evil intentions of these women, now imposed upon her, the more she wanted to run away and never return.
Maxton had begged her to, in fact. He’d offered her his protection, asking her to find a corner of the world with him where two sinners could find happiness in each other. It was such a beautiful offer, but she was still deeply torn by it. She still didn’t want to accept an offer on impulse, but she was terrified of remaining at St. Blitha. Was it possible Maxton would have made her the offer even if there hadn’t been a deadly threat in
volved?
She wondered.
She felt as if she were going mad.
“I will do as you ask, Sister Petronilla,” she said, but she was having trouble looking at the woman. “I will ensure the crushed leaves and the root juice make it into the king’s wine.”
“Be very careful, Andressa.”
“I will, Sister.”
Sister Petronilla was watching her closely, perhaps looking for cracks or hints of untrustworthiness. “Do you have any plans to leave St. Blitha tomorrow?”
Did she? Andressa hadn’t really thought about it, but as Sister Petronilla asked, it was as if a light went on in her mind. She had promised Maxton she would return with any additional news and, certainly, she had additional news now. After a brief hesitation, she nodded to the woman’s question.
“Not tomorrow,” she said, daring to glance up at the woman. “But I intend to return to Lady Hinkley’s tonight. When I was there earlier, she had nothing to give me at the time. That… well, that was why I had waited so long. She told me to go away and come back later, which I assumed meant later tonight. I thought to see her before I go to bed. She is such a valuable customer that I do not wish to disappoint her. I want to please her.”
One of Sister Petronilla’s bushy eyebrows lifted. “Tonight? But it is already well into the night, child.”
“As I said, she said return later. I can only assume that meant when she retired so I could have her clothes cleaned in the morning. I would rather go tonight in case that is what she meant.”
Sister Petronilla nodded faintly but didn’t reply. Andressa thought that meant their conversation was ended, but just as she turned away, Sister Petronilla’s hand shot out and grabbed her by the arm.
It was an abrupt move with a clear message. The woman’s long, dirty nails dug into her skin as Andressa looked to the woman with a mixture of curiosity and disapproval. She didn’t like to be grabbed. But Sister Petronilla’s dark-eyed gaze was grim.
“Be sure that is the only place you go this night,” she growled. “You are one of us now, Andressa. The eyes of the Mother Abbess are upon you. Remember that.”
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