“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 isdwale. All parts of this plant are poisonous. Take care not to touch itwith 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.”
