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 neverseen 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 therealities 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.”
