“And you deserve it,” Kress said. “Go and get your pledge’s inheritance back for her, as you told her, and live until you are old and gray and fat. But do not expect to lose me so easily; I may come live with you. Or, I may remain in The Marshal’s service. I’ve not yet decided.”
Maxton grinned at him, lifting a hand to pat him on the cheek. “Wherever you go, you know that all you need do is call me,” he said. “I shall be there, wherever and whenever you need me.”
In spite of the reassurance that the Unholy Trinity would always remain intact, Kress received the distinct impression that it was not to be. It was a sad thought, but one he wouldn’t linger on. Perhaps, like Maxton, he needed to evolve.
But they had one last, final mission, anyway.
And they would see it through.
“We have had some good times, haven’t we?” Kress smiled at the memories, watching Maxton collect his helm from where it had been tossed on the bed. “I will miss our adventures.”
Maxton peered at him. “Who says our adventures are over?” he said as he headed to the door. “A wife will not keep me from having more adventures.”
“You think so, do you?”
It was a foolish statement, Maxton realized, as he looked at Kress and saw the man laugh. No, he couldn’t imagine Andressa would be too happy with him leaving her at Chalford Hill as he roamed about the known world, killing men and making money. Besides… that wasn’t whathewanted now. He had the life he wanted within his grasp and he wasn’t going to let it go.
“Come on,” he said, opening the chamber door. “Let us find the rest of the adventure hounds and get about this business. I failed to see Andressa yesterday and I am eager to see her today, in spite of the circumstances.”
“Then let’s go, lover. Let us not keep the future Lady Loxbeare waiting.”
Grinning at each other, they headed down to the vast interior courtyard of Farringdon House where everyone was gathering before heading out. Now, the business of the day was at hand.
It was the calm before the storm.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
St. Blitha
Her left handwas smashed, but she was trying to do her best with it.
As morning dawned over the winter-cold land, Andressa was already up and moving, with many things to do on this feast day.
The day had arrived.
She’d slept in her own bed last night, surprising since she was positive that she had been headed for The Chaos after her thrashing. That was the only way to describe it; a thrashing of epic proportions meant to intimidate her, denigrate her, and punish her for hurting Sister Dymphna, who was in bed and hardly able to speak or move. The damage to her skull was very bad, and she had a loss of vision in one eye, but the Mother Abbess would not call for a physic. She had one of the other nuns, a woman who tended the sick at the abbey, see to Sister Dymphna’s needs. But she was in bad shape, indeed.
Yet, Andressa felt no guilt. It was one less nun to have to worry about as far as she was concerned. Moreover, she was nursing her own substantial injuries that were mostly to the left side of her body because when she’d curled up in a ball on thefloor of the Mother Abbess’ solar, they’d only been able to beat the left side of her body. As a result, her left foot and left knee were horribly swollen, and her left hand, as it had covered her skull, had been badly mashed. She knew she had some broken bones, but she could at least grasp things with her index finger and thumb. The other three fingers of the hand were useless.
Even so, she was expected to participate in the feast. The Mother Abbess had been very clear about that. After the thrashing, she let Andressa lay on the floor of her solar for about an hour before she had Sister Agnes and Sister Petronilla carry her back to her cell and toss her onto her bed. She’d remained there for the rest of the day and the same healer nun who had been tending to Sister Dymphna came in to tend to her wounds as well. Anything bleeding or exposed had been washed with wine and tightly wrapped in boiled linen, and that included her hand. However, there wasn’t much they could do about the wound on her face.
She had three big gouges on the left side of her face, by the hairline, and they had bled profusely. The healer nun had cleaned them up, so they weren’t oozing, but the damage was obvious. To help conceal it somewhat, Andressa had tied a strip of the boiled linen around her head, like a kerchief to keep her hair away from her bruised face, covering up the wounds. But no amount of cleaning or boiled linen could hide the fact that she’d been soundly thrashed.
However, the fear of another beating hadn’t been her motivation to rise from her bed and get to work. There had been something more to Andressa’s dedication to duty. As she’d lain in bed yesterday, reflecting on the situation in general, she had come to the conclusion that she was in a very important position to save the king as well as every other tortured soul at St. Blitha.
She held the key.
It was true that she was instrumental in protecting the king from an assassination attempt, as Maxton had told her, but there was more to it. So many women had suffered under the hand of the Mother Abbess, and now that Andressa had been given an important role in the function of the abbey, she knew she had to do something about it. Those horrible souls who had beaten her yesterday weren’t going to get away with it. They wanted to humiliate and punish her, and kill those who displeased them, but no more. In the end, Andressa would have the last word.
She had a plan.
Therefore, before dawn, she was out in the laundry area where she’d stashed the dried foxglove leaves, crushing them into a fine powder with her good hand. For good measure, she’d stripped off even more dead leaves and crushed them as well, just to increase the toxicity of the poison. Once she’d finished with that, she’d gone to find thedwaleplants and picked off sixteen fat, purple berries. Then, she’d pulled up three of the plants to get to the poisonous roots.
Washing off the plants in a bucket of water, she’d cut the top section away from the tender roots and proceeded to mash the fat, white roots in a small bowl she used when she made soap. The mashed roots were then placed in a cheesecloth from the kitchens and Andressa placed the leaves and roots into an earthenware pitcher of wine to steep, sinking the ingredients straight to the bottom of the pitcher. Her last act was to mash those sixteen berries and put everything– skins, stems, and juice– into the wine.
The more poison, the better.
It was double the amount she’d been instructed to use, but she wanted to make sure it did the job it was supposed to do. She wanted no room for error. As the very strong poison was flushing into the wine, she’d gathered two more pitchers of wine from the kitchen and used mulling spices to flavor all three of thepitchers, so that all of them would essentially taste the same. She even marked the poison pitcher with a scratch across the bottom of it, and she marked a second pitcher of untainted wine with a gouge on the handle.
