The Agents of William Marshal Volume I: A Medieval Romance Bundle, page 31
It was Bric’s turn to snort. “Nay,” he said. “I’ve heard what they call you. I’ve no desire to tangle with someone called an Executioner Knight.”
“Now I know you are wise. I hope that means we can discuss our mutual quick tempers over a cup of ale someday.”
“I would consider it an honor.”
With a flash of a grin, Maxton turned away, heading down the length of the wall as he headed for the postern gate. He hadn’t moved too far away from Bric when Achilles suddenly came bolting around the corner of the wall, heading straight for him. Startled, he rushed to meet the man.
“What is it?” he hissed.
Achilles was trying to keep calm but, unlike Maxton and Kress, he sometimes didn’t possess that ability. The man’s talents lay in his ability to disguise himself and kill in stealth, not keep control of his emotions. As he and Maxton came together, he tried to keep his voice low.
“I saw your pledge at the postern gate just now,” he said. “Max, something has happened to her.”
Maxton felt a stab of fear. “What has happened?”
Achilles shook his head. “I do not know, exactly,” he said. “She would not tell me. She is upright and walking, and she is going about her duties, but she looks as if she’s been badly beaten. Her head and hand are wrapped.”
Maxton felt as if he’d been hit in the gut. All of his breath left him and he exhaled heavily, feeling sick to his stomach. “But she is moving?”
“She’s moving. She is able to complete her duties. And she told me to tell you that only two attendants, not three, will be with the Mother Abbess today.”
Maxton frowned. “What happened to the third nun? There were supposed to be four in total.”
“Your pledge said that the fourth nun is badly injured and unable to attend the mass. She also said that the two remaining nuns are with the Mother Abbess and will more than likely stay with her, even inside the church.”
Maxton scratched his stubbled chin. “So they are keeping together in a group,” he muttered thoughtfully. “They are not spread out, which makes our job easier. Where was Andressa the last time you saw her?”
“By the postern gate. And Max… she said you must prepare for what is to come, and to be shocked by nothing.”
He looked at him, greatly confused. “What in the hell does that mean?”
Achilles shook his head. “I do not know, but the way she said it made me think that we must be prepared for anything out of the ordinary.”
Maxton didn’t like the sound of that. He pointed to the entry to the church, several yards away. “Go plant yourself next to that entry and remain there. I will return.”
As Achilles did as he was told, Maxton made his way around the corner of the wall and down to the postern gate. There were about a dozen men-at-arms over on this side, standing spaced out, watching the landscape around them. He passed beneath the grove of trees as they sat scattered along the streambank, the postern gate in sight. But when he drew near, he headed for the stream itself and kept an eye on the gate, as he didn’t want to get too close to it and risk being seen.
Standing next to the stream in the wet grass, he could see through the gate well enough. He could also see women moving around inside for the most part, but they were very far away. He took a few steps closer, standing behind one of the many trees that clustered around the stream, and peered out from behind it so he could get a better look at what was going on inside.
Then, he saw her.
She was talking to a nun who happened to be holding a pitcher of some kind. He didn’t get a good look at the nun when she hurried away, and then he saw Andressa call forth another nun from the kitchen area. That nun was also given a pitcher of something. Considering the nuns planned to kill the king using poisoned wine, he had an idea what was in the pitchers. As the second nun walked away from Andressa and she went back to collect a third pitcher, Maxton hastily made his way over to the postern gate and tried to stay out of sight.
It took two tries, hissing her name, before she finally turned around and saw him. Then, he could see what Achilles’ had been speaking of – her lovely, pale face was bruised on the left side and he could see what looked like bloodstains on her neck. Her left hand was bandaged and when she saw him, she made her way towards him, visibly limping. By the time she reached him, Maxton was nearly beside himself with worry.
“What in the hell happened?” he growled. “What have they done to you?”
Andressa looked around quickly to make sure he wasn’t heard. “Maxton, please,” she whispered. “If they see me speaking with you, it will put everything in jeopardy. Go away!”
“Not until you tell me what happened.”
She was growing exasperated. “I will heal,” she muttered firmly. “We will speak of this when our task is complete. Meanwhile, listen to me now – go back to the church and wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“You will know when it happens.”
With that, she limped away, carrying the pitcher, leaving Maxton nearly crawling out of his skin with concern. He wanted to shout at her, furious she had not only refused to answer his question, but had walked away from him on top of it. He was desperate to find out what had occurred because she was obviously injured. His imagination began to run wild; perhaps upset with the dismembered corpse of Alasdair Douglas and knowing the last thing he’d been doing had been following Andressa, the nuns punished her for his death.
William’s words came back to haunt him, then – you could very well have jeopardized her by killing Douglas and returning the body to St. Blitha. Maxton had known that was a risk, and damned if The Marshal hadn’t been right about it. He’d acted on anger when dumping Douglas’ body and Andressa had paid the price. In truth, he could only think of that as the reason for her injuries.
It was his doing.
As he watched her limp away, he wanted to rip someone’s throat out and he didn’t care if it was a nun’s. He would never again stand by and watch Andressa injured, or worse, especially when he’d been to blame. But he forced himself to calm, seeking comfort in the fact that she was, as Achilles had said, upright and walking. She was limping, but she wasn’t crippled. He had to cling to that comfort until he found out what had happened.
He had to bide his time.
When Andressa was about halfway across the cloister, heading for the open doors leading into the church, he snapped out of his train of thought and quickly made his way back around to the front of the church. He’d passed Bric and Dashiell along his way, noting that Dashiell had accomplished his task without being captured by the killer nuns. Or, at least Bric had saved him from such a fate. He was sure he would hear about it later but, at the moment, he had more important things on his mind as he approached the main entrance to the Church of St. Blitha.
The scene they’d been preparing for was about to be played out.
It was time to catch the assassins.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Ordo Missae
It was the order of the mass.
The Bishop of Essex stood at the altar of St. Blitha with two other priests and several acolytes, intoning the order of the mass. As Andressa stood back by the door leading to the cloister, she could see that the church really only had a few worshippers in it – William Marshal, the de Lohr brothers, and another knight she recognized as Gart Forbes. The king was also there; she knew that because she had seen him in the times he’d previously come to worship on feast days.
The king was surrounded by his courtiers, men finely dressed in the latest style, and she could smell the perfume that some of them wore from where she stood, mixing oddly with the mustiness of the church itself. Old, mossy stone smelled of mildew, creating a rather pungent ambiance.
She could also see many armed men on the perimeter of the church, big knights with big swords. She couldn’t see their faces because they had their helms on, rather bad manners for being inside a church, but they stayed to the shadows for they were there to watch the king and not participate in the mass. She could also see a few men-at-arms back near the entry door, which had been closed, so they stood just inside the door. And she could see, clearly, that one of those men-at-arms was Maxton.
Somehow, she felt safe and comforted simply to see him there. She knew he would not let anything happen to her, which fed her bravery as well as her resolve. She was well out of sight, back in the shadows. But up near the altar, she could see the Mother Abbess along with Sister Petronilla.
Though it was usual for nuns to worship separately from their male counterparts, during the feast day, they were permitted inside the church with the men. They sat off to the side, at the edge of the sacristy, but they were in full view of the priests and the worshippers. And Andressa could see, very clearly, the pitcher of wine that sat on a table near them.
The pitcher meant for the king.
The order of the service proceeded. The Penitential Rights, Kyrie eleison, the Gloria, and the prayers from the Book of Psalms. The bishop was a loud man with a booming voice and a speech impediment, and his words echoed off the walls and up into the arched ceiling. Andressa could see the priests bringing out the large, silver chalices for Communion, and she knew that now was the time for her to act. Everything had to go smoothly.
The right wine for the right chalice.
It was as if everything in her life had built up to this moment, the time in her life when she would change the course of not only a nation, but of her life as well. No death to the king, but death to the assassins, women who had tortured her for four long years. Maxton and his men had no idea what she had planned, but it didn’t matter. It would all end here and now, and she was brave enough to face it.
Her heart was thumping against her ribs painfully as she watched the priests prepare for Communion, and she moved around the rear of the altar, back in an area called the Ambulatory, where she wouldn’t be seen in order to deliver the poisoned wine to the Mother Abbess and Sisters Agnes and Petronilla.
This one moment…
It was finally here.
“I shall take that from you.”
Someone was grabbing at the pitcher in her hand, startling her as she pulled it away. She found herself looking at one of the priests that the bishop brought with him, the man preparing for Communion.
My God! She thought in a panic. He wants this wine!
“You cannot have this,” she said, sounding frightened, but she quickly stilled herself. “The wine for the king is with the Mother Abbess. See? It is on the table next to her. It is wine straight from the barrel and has not been touched, by anyone. It is pure for the king.”
The priest, a man with shaggy blond hair, looked at her oddly. “What is wrong with this wine?”
He was pointing to the one in her hands and she looked at it, struggling to think of a believable reply.
“The… the sisters like it sweet and heavily mulled,” she said. “The king would hate such a wine. It is meant only for them.”
He eyed her. Then, to her horror, he stuck his finger in it and licked it. Immediately, he made a face. “Awful,” he hissed. “By all means, let them have that abomination. I will get the other pitcher.”
Relief flooded Andressa. She seriously thought she might collapse from it, but she forced herself to continue onward, watching as the priest took the pitcher of the king’s wine from Sister Petronilla.
There was the most wicked expression of satisfaction on Sister Petronilla’s face when she handed the wine to him, and when the woman saw Andressa approaching with a pitcher of what she believed to be unpoisoned wine, she nodded her vague approval at Andressa as if to say our mission is complete. They were close to fulfilling their directive from the Holy Father and the expressions of contentment on their faces was obvious.
Cool, collected… and deadly.
Now, it was time to kill a king.
Unaware that he might have the fate of a king’s life in his hands, the priest preparing the chalices made sure to keep John’s wine separate from the wine for the nuns. Since he’d tasted it, he knew it was awful, so when the communal chalices were prepared, Andressa handed over the wine in her hands and watched the man fill the nun’s cup to the rim.
Then, she couldn’t take her eyes from it.
Terrified she might be invited to take Communion from the poisoned cup, she made sure to hide well back in the shadows, watching everything, but ensuring that no one could see her. The priest moved to the Canon of the Mass and the Eucharist, followed by the Sanctus.
Now, it was time for those present to take Communion and Andressa watched, hardly able to breathe through the force of her anticipation, as the king was the first one to receive Communion. He drank deeply of the chalice, licking his lips of the fine wine, and Andressa couldn’t help but notice that the Mother Abbess, Sister Agnes, and Sister Petronilla were watching him with the expressions of hunters sighting prey. Smug in the knowledge that their task was complete, they waited for the monarch to drop dead.
The king was the only one to drink from that particular chalice, which was emptied and wiped, as was the tradition. It was called the Wiping of the Chalice, in fact. Then, others were called forth to take Communion and they did, through the third pitcher of wine that Andressa had prepared for the masses, untainted and pure. The bishop drank from that cup, and so did William, Christopher, David, Gart, and a host of courtiers that had accompanied the king. Andressa breathed a palpable sigh of relief when that was out of the way. Then, came the Communion for the nuns.
It was the moment she’d been waiting for.
Andressa was back to holding her breath again as the priests gave the full chalice of wine to the bishop, who approached the nuns in the sacristy. The chalices weren’t small; they were fairly large, meant for groups. But in this case, it was only three women who would be partaking. Andressa knew she’d put far more poison in the wine than Sister Petronilla had told her to because she knew that the chalice wouldn’t hold the entire pitcher, nor would they drink the entire pitcher at Communion. Therefore, what they did drink had to be very strong.
She couldn’t risk that they would survive it.
As Andressa watched with great anticipation, something happened that she didn’t foresee – the bishop, who had already taken wine out of the Communion cup meant for the masses, also took several swallows of the spicy wine in the chalice meant for the nuns. Then, he handed it to the Mother Abbess. Given that only four people were to drink from this chalice, the Mother Abbess didn’t want to waste the good wine and she, too, also took several healthy swallows. It was passed to Sister Petronilla, who drank her share, and then Sister Agnes, who drained it. There were even dregs in the bottom that she sopped up.
All of it, gone in an instant.
The bishop took the chalice back and wiped it out, handing it back to the priests who had been helping him. Andressa moved out of the shadows, grasping at the wine pitchers that were sitting near the sacristy, including the poisoned wine. She disappeared back into the Ambulatory and stayed out of sight as the bishop gave the final prayers and blessing, offering more prayers to St. Blitha on behalf of the king before finally dismissing the mass.
With the mass ended, people began to rise from a kneeling position. The strains of soft conversation began to fill the church, but Andressa could only see part of the action in the sanctuary as the bishop came away from the altar to speak with the king.
Knowing the man had ingested the poisoned wine, Andressa continued to watch him, wondering how quickly the poison would take effect. She’d put so much of it in the wine, but no one seemed to be reacting to it, causing her to wonder if she had done it correctly.
God, what if I was wrong? What if I failed at this and now nothing will be solved, and no one, not even I, will be avenged against these murderous nuns?
What if…?
Suddenly, something happened out in the sanctuary that caught her attention. The Mother Abbess was moving for the door that led out to the cloister, but she wasn’t moving very well. She seemed to be staggering a bit before finally coming to a halt, her hand to her head as if she didn’t feel well.
There was a bit of commotion around the Mother Abbess as she held her head and finally put her hand to her lips. Sister Petronilla was looking to the Mother Abbess in concern, and trying to help her walk, but she, too, seemed to be unbalanced. She went to grab at the nearest solid structure to steady herself, which happened to be a table, and she ended up pulling a very fine cloth off of it and onto the floor.
She went down with it.
Now, people were noticing. Over by the king, the bishop was suddenly unsteady on his feet and as he pitched to his knees, the king’s personal guard rushed forward to take the monarch away, far away from whatever delirium was happening. They had no idea what was going on, only that the king shouldn’t be anywhere near it, so John hustled out of the church to the cries of “curse” and “the Devil’s work”. The last anyone saw of him, Alexander and Sean, in full personal guard regalia, were dragging him out by the arms.
The shouts were echoing everywhere.
Save the king!
As John was whisked way, some men remained in the church; Andressa could see them from her position back in the Ambulatory. She could see William, Christopher, David, Gart, and a few others, watching the bishop fall to the ground with the inability to breathe. His body was also shaking uncontrollably. Up near the altar, all three nuns were down, with the Mother Abbess on her knees as Sister Agnes lay on her back a few feet away, gasping for air.
If Andressa had wondered if she had, indeed, succeeded in her task, the evidence of her success was now before her. Oddly enough, she felt very calm as she watched the scene unfold. She was still holding on to the king’s pitcher and the nun’s pitcher with her good hand, and with the nun’s pitcher being less than half-full, she didn’t want anyone else ingesting the poisoned wine. It had accomplished its task. Pouring the poisoned wine into the dirt of the Ambulatory, she headed out into the sanctuary.
