“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 treesthat 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 answerhis 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 itwasa 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 theorder 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.
