The Agents of William Marshal Volume I: A Medieval Romance Bundle, page 7
“St. Blitha.”
His eyebrows lifted. “St. Blitha?” he repeated. “Are you a nun?”
“A pledge, my lord.”
Now, he was becoming confused. “And they do not feed their pledges?”
“It is a poor order, my lord.”
“You did not answer me. Do they not feed you?”
She shook her head, once, and tears filled her eyes, tears that she quickly blinked away. She turned to the baker and his wife, standing a few feet away.
“I swear I will work for the bread,” she said, her voice trembling with shame. “Please show mercy. I’ve not eaten in two days, but you did not let me explain.”
The baker’s expression was dark. He’d heard what she’d told the very big knight. “St. Blitha,” he muttered. “I should have known. I won’t punish ye this time, but stay away from my stall. If I see ye again, I’ll take a switch to ye.”
With that, he pulled his wife away, who wasn’t so happy about not being able to club the girl. She was so unhappy, in fact, that she took a swing at her husband with the club, who yanked it out of her hands and slapped her. Now, they were fighting amongst themselves and the sounds of slaps and scolding faded as they headed back to their stall, leaving Maxton standing with the quivering girl still in his grip.
Once the pair was gone, it was oddly and uncomfortably silent between them. Maxton’s gaze drifted over the long-limbed, slender creature in his grasp. His initial shock at their painful and chaotic introduction was turning into curiosity.
“What did he mean by that?” he asked her. “When he mentioned St. Blitha, it seemed as if he knew something about it.”
The girl’s quivering was growing worse. “It is of little matter, my lord,” she muttered. “As I said, St. Blitha is a poor order and…”
He cut her off because he was starting to understand the situation. “So the merchants around here are used to the starving nuns that wander about, stealing food. Is that it?”
It wasn’t as if she could deny it. All signs pointed to it and, clearly, she’d silently admitted it not a few moments earlier. But she didn’t want the man’s pity.
“The Mother Abbess sets a fine table,” she said, trying not to sound as ashamed as she felt. “The senior nuns eat well, but the unfortunate truth is that the rest of us must fend for ourselves most of the time. You are correct. Clearly, you could see by the baker’s reaction that this is not the first time someone from St. Blitha has been discovered taking his food. Ask any merchant in London and they will tell you the same thing – it happens all the time. My lord, if I could work for my food, I would, but there are those who feel it would be improper to employ a pledge or postulate, or even a nun. They would rather give charity but, unfortunately, very few do. And when they do, it is not enough for all of us.”
Maxton could hardly believe what he was hearing. “And your bishop allows this?” he asked, aghast. “Who is your bishop?”
“Essex, my lord.”
That stopped Maxton’s building rage. He rolled his eyes and looked away. “That makes sense now,” he mumbled. “I may have been away from England for a few years, but some things never change. Essex is a man who is only concerned for his own coffers and leaves the rest of his parishes to govern on their own.”
“It seems so, my lord.”
His eyes narrowed at her. “Seems so? Of course it is true. It has always been truth with Essex. You are a living example of that.”
She opened her mouth to reply but abruptly seemed to catch sight of something behind Maxton and he turned to see what had her attention. It was another woman in the same shapeless woolen clothing stumbling along the street. But when she saw that she had been sighted, she suddenly disappeared into a side alley.
Jaw ticking, Maxton returned his focus to the woman in his hands.
“How many of your fellow pledges are out looking for food?” he asked, though not unkindly.
“At least twelve, my lord.”
Maxton shook his head in disgust. There were things he could stomach, and things he couldn’t. A woman, in poverty by dire circumstances, had his pity. Maxton was many things – brutal, deadly, and at times, cruel – but he wasn’t heartless. That was a little fact he kept deeply buried but, in this case, that compassion he kept so tightly guarded was coming forth. He couldn’t help it. He finally released one of her arms but held tight to the other.
“Come with me,” he rumbled.
She looked at him, fear in her eyes as she dug in her heels. “Where?”
“You wish to eat, don’t you?”
She hesitated a split second before nodding, and Maxton pulled the woman along, heading back into the merchant district.
He had a nun to feed, but he realized as they walked through the streets that it wasn’t completely altruistic. Aye, he felt sorry for her, but there was more to it than that. Perhaps when he stood before St. Peter to recount the deeds of his life, feeding a starving pledge might offset some of the horrible things he’d done. A holy man he’d spoken to on his trip home from Les Baux-de-Provence told him that God weighed a man’s good deeds against his bad deeds. Some were weighed more heavily than others and, Lord only knew, Maxton had very little good deeds to outweigh the bad.
He didn’t want to pass up this opportunity to give himself a few good marks. He could have just left her on the street, and probably should have, but instead, he wanted to do something good for a change.
Altruistic, indeed.
CHAPTER FIVE
The King’s Gout Tavern
London
Maxton had never seen anyone so hungry in his entire life.
He’d picked this tavern because it seemed to be relatively busy, and the smells of food coming forth were delicious, so he’d procured a table and a meal for the lady, and watered ale for himself. Now, he sat and watched her eat.
It was an experience.
Maxton had seen plenty of poverty while traveling to and from The Levant, and although he thought himself hardened to it, the truth was that he wasn’t. For years, he’d pretended not to care, and his actions had proven that, but ever since departing The Levant and his bout with the Lateran Palace that caused him to question everything, he was starting to feel emotion more than he wanted to. He was starting to question things more than he should, and perhaps the starving pledge before him was an excellent example of that.
He had come to see that the church was nothing he’d been taught. Perhaps, somewhere buried deep, there were still good men there, men who truly upheld the code of Christ. But the realities of the evil that infected it were evident at the highest levels. Were selfishness and wickedness really the base of the religion? Was that what he had been fighting for all of these years?
The woman before him only fed those questions and doubts.
“When was the last time you’ve eaten a decent meal?” he asked her quietly.
The woman’s mouth was so full she could barely speak. “I cannot recall, my lord,” she said. “Martinmas, mayhap?”
He watched her carefully. “That was some time ago.”
“Aye, my lord.”
“What did you have to eat?”
She swallowed the enormous bite in her mouth as she thought seriously on his question. “There was goose,” she said. “And we had bread that had been made sweet with honey. It was delicious.”
He nodded faintly, watching her spoon more peas into her mouth. His thoughts moved from her situation to her appearance once again. His initial observations of her were not incorrect, for she was quite lovely beneath all of that dirt, but she was as skinny as a child from what he could see. Her wrists and hands were gaunt, her fingers slender but elegant.
“I do not even know your name,” he said after a moment.
She swallowed the bite and took a very big gulp of watered ale. “Andressa du Bose, my lord,” she said. Then, she paused, a flicker of sorrow crossing her face. “At least, that is who I used to be. Lady Andressa du Bose. Now… I do not know who I am. It is not who I thought I would be.”
His brow furrowed. “Explain.”
Andressa shrugged, scooping more peas into her mouth. “It is nothing, my lord,” she said, averting her gaze to focus on her food. “Pay no attention to me. I suppose all girls believe they will be a great lady when they grow up. That is all I meant.”
He eyed her; he didn’t believe her, that was clear. There was something quite wistful in the way she’d spoken. He took a thoughtful drink of his watered ale.
“Lady Andressa du Bose,” he repeated softly. “You were born into nobility.”
“Aye, my lord.”
“Where are you from?”
“Culverhay,” she said. “I was also known, once, as Andressa of Culverhay. My family home is Chalford Hill Castle, south of Gloucester.”
“Does your father know what goes on at St. Blitha?”
She shook her head. “My father is dead, my lord, as is my mother,” she said quietly. “Four years ago, in fact, this past winter.”
“I see,” he said, sensing her sorrow. “Who assumed your guardianship, then? Surely the man has checked on your welfare.”
With the peas gone, she was starting in on the juicy boiled beef. “My father’s sister assumed my guardianship upon the death of my parents,” she said. “It is she who sent me to St. Blitha.”
“Does she know of the conditions at St. Blitha?”
Andressa looked at him, then, and he could see the tears pooling. That told him everything he needed to know, even before she said a word. But she quickly blinked her eyes, dashing them away, not stopping to wipe anything away because that would have taken time away from eating.
“In truth, I do not know,” she said, subdued. “Even if she did, I am sure that she would not care. Shall I be plain, my lord? I was my father’s heiress. When my aunt assumed my guardianship, she quickly sent me away, as far away as she could, and now she lives at Chalford Hill while I am confined to St. Blitha. If you think to write her for reimbursement for this meal, do not waste your time. If it pertains to me, she will not pay.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it has happened before.”
Maxton stared at her a moment before leaning back in his chair, frowning greatly. “You are her niece. If she assumed your guardianship, then she is responsible for you.”
Andressa swallowed the bite in her mouth, looking up at him with a dignity that wasn’t taught. It was inherent; one either had it or they did not. It was a steely strength, perhaps a steely strength that had kept the lady from losing all hope these past years. But he could see in her eyes that her hope in life was beginning to dim.
“I did not tell you of my situation to complain,” she said. “I told you because you asked, and because I wanted to impress upon you not to seek recompense for the money you have spent on this meal. If you wish for me to work this off, my lord, I am happy to do so. I am strong. I can sew and scrub. I can clean your clothes if you wish. I am more than willing to do almost any work you wish.”
Maxton believed her implicitly. This was not a wilting flower; he could see that. Strong, well-bred, well-spoken… his curiosity about her grew.
“That is not necessary,” he said. “It has been a long time since I have shared company with an intelligent woman. That is repayment enough.”
Now, it was Andressa’s turn to be curious. “But we’ve hardly spoken, my lord.”
“We’ve spoken enough.”
She returned to her food, hesitantly, but her attention was drawn to him. For the first time, she permitted herself to be curious about him, this savior of starving pledges. He was very handsome. In fact, she’d never seen finer. He had dark eyes, a dark shade of blue that flickered in the weak light of the inn, and thick dark hair, cropped short, that had bits of gray in it around the temples. But his face… that’s what mostly had her attention. His lips were shaped like a bow, and he had a square jaw with a big dimple in his chin.
All of that male beauty was wrapped up in a man who was easily twice her size, and more than twice her weight, with fists that were nearly the size of her head. He was as powerful as he was beautiful, but there was something unsettled behind those glittering eyes. Something that suggested that the man’s soul was not at all at ease.
There was an air of mystery about him.
“May… may I ask your name, my lord?” she finally asked.
“Sir Maxton of Loxbeare,” he said without hesitation. “My family home is Loxbeare Cross in Devon.”
She smiled faintly, revealing surprisingly lovely teeth. “I fostered at Okehampton Castle,” she said. “It is also in Devon. Do you know where it is?”
He lifted his eyebrows. “Of course I do,” he said. Then, he peered at her as if genuinely surprised. “You fostered at Okehampton?”
“Aye.”
“When did you foster?”
She shrugged, putting more food in her mouth. “I was there from the time I was eight years of age until I had seen sixteen years,” she said. “I was called home because of the death of my parents, of a fever. It was my aunt who greeted me at Chalford Hill to inform me of their passing and the very same day, I was sent to St. Blitha. I have been there ever since.”
He pondered that information. “Okehampton is a fine castle,” he said. “It is commanded by de Courtney, or so it was the last I heard.”
“It is, still.”
“And being that it is a fine castle, there are many fine knights there. The wards would also be from fine families. Not just anyone would be accepted as a ward.”
“My father knew Hugh de Courtney,” she said simply. “They were friends and allies.”
For Maxton, that was a surprising bit of knowledge. The de Courtney family was extremely powerful, and they were also allies of Maxton’s father, Magnus. They would not be allied with anyone other than a powerful family, and Maxton was starting to sense something quite tragic about the young woman’s situation. An heiress who has been sent to live in poverty by her guardian. He sat forward, collecting his cup again, thinking on the circumstances as he saw them.
“So you fostered in a fine home and you were the heiress to your father’s fortune,” he said pensively. “Your father died and your aunt assumed your wardship, recalling you from Okehampton and sending you to a convent where you would never have a chance to find a good husband. She essentially threw you in the rubbish pile.”
Andressa looked up at him sharply. “My lord?”
He held up a hand, begging her patience while he clarified. “The woman assumed your guardianship, yet sent you to an order she knew you would never return from,” he said. “Women are not sent to convents to return from them unless there is an offer of marriage, but it seems to me your aunt knew you would never receive a marriage offer at St. Blitha. No marriage, no husband to inherit your father’s legacy. That way, it all belongs to her, and will forever. She has stolen your inheritance. Am I wrong?”
Andressa lowered her gaze. Her chewing slowed and when she finally swallowed the bite, she didn’t put more food in her mouth. She simply sat there, looking at her lap.
“I cannot know her motives, my lord,” she said. “But I do know I am of age now, yet she does not recall me home. I assume she wants me to become a nun. It is her right to do with me as she wishes, given she is my guardian.”
Oh, but he could sense such sorrow in her words. In the months or even years past, Maxton would have never given thought to such a tone, nor would have he even indulged in such a conversation but, at this moment, he was doing both. He was starting to feel things again, that newly awakened compassion wreaking havoc with his thought processes. He simply wasn’t any good at gauging it or controlling it.
He didn’t like what he was hearing.
It didn’t seem right, this woman who had clearly had her inheritance stolen by a greedy aunt. At least, that was her story. As a seasoned knight, perhaps he should have been more suspicious of her than he was. The truth was that his background with women was spotty; those who weren’t liars usually had some other issue – selfishness, perhaps greed. He’d never met one he fully trusted and, as a rule, he stayed clear of them. But this pale, slender woman had him believing her story. All signs pointed to it being the truth.
He hoped he wasn’t being made a fool of.
“Finish your meal,” he said after a moment, scratching at his neck and looking around the room, wondering if this wasn’t the first time she’d coerced a meal out of someone with her sad story. “If this inheritance is rightly yours, why do you not stand up for yourself? Why starve away at St. Blitha?”
He seemed dubious and the least bit irritated. Andressa could sense a sudden change in his mood. He’d been very interested in speaking with her at first but, suddenly, he seemed oddly distracted. Perhaps, he was even nervous. She was coming to think that he was sorry he’d bought her a meal if he knew now that her aunt wouldn’t pay for it. That seemed to be when things changed with him. With that in mind, she daintily wiped her mouth with the cloth that had come with the food.
“I fear I have taken too much of your time and money already, my lord,” she said, quickly standing up. “God bless you for what you have done for me. I shall not forget it. If you do not wish for me to work off the meal, then I shall pray for you every morning for the rest of my life. God appreciates those who are generous and compassionate, and you have been both.”
He looked at her, sharply. Compassionate. There was that word again. How could she know he’d brought her here hoping that the good deed of feeding the woman might take some of the sting out of his life of sin? It was his own fault for feeling sorry for her, for wanting to show God he wasn’t just a murder. A killer.
An assassin.
It wasn’t her fault that he’d forced her here.
“Sit down,” he said, reaching out and pulling her back into her chair. “Finish your food.”
His manner still seemed edgy. “Truly… it is not necessary,” she said. “I have eaten enough. I should return to St. Blitha soon.”
