The Agents of William Marshal Volume I: A Medieval Romance Bundle Page 3

  “And you have come to me to ask me to ransom your friends’ freedom?” he asked.

  Forbes nodded, sighing, as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. “I have, my lord,” he said, relieved that William understood the point he was making. “They would be perfect for the task of eliminating John’s assassins, whoever might come on behalf of the Holy Father. There was a name for these men among the Christian armies.”

  “What name is that?”

  “The Unholy Trinity. Men known as the Executioner Knights.”

  William cocked an eyebrow. “A seemingly ominous moniker.”

  “They would make the perfect weapon.”

  William drew in a long, thoughtful breath, peppered by bouts of coughing. When the weather turned cold as it was, he often suffered issues with his lungs. Winters made him ill. He patted his chest to loosen the phlegm.

  “Mayhap,” he said, “but how long have they been prisoners?”

  “At least nine months.”

  William sighed heavily. “Nine months in the vaults of Les Baux-de-Provence,” he muttered. “I cannot imagine the hell of it. And even if they are still alive, the Lords of Baux may refuse my offer of ransom. We are not exactly allies.”

  “If you offer enough money, they will not refuse.”

  William cast him a sidelong glance. “How much money do you speak of?”

  Forbes pretended to think on the matter but the truth was that he had already arrived at a sum and a plan. He had an idea in mind. “The knights I speak of are Maxton of Loxbeare, Kress de Rhydian, and Achilles de Dere,” he said. “The family of Loxbeare are major landholders in Devon and the House of de Rhydian controls much of the lands near Manchester. De Dere has rich holdings in York. The point is that I am quite sure they would be willing to pay for their sons’ return and you would not be out any money in the matter.”

  The light of recognition went on in William’s eyes. “I know Hugh de Rhydian and Magnus of Loxbeare,” he said. “They are both friends and allies. Their sons, you say?”

  “Aye.”

  William turned towards the half-open solar door and called for his manservant, a valet who did everything from dress the man to write his missives. William could write, and do it well, but his joints ached when it was cold and made writing difficult. As the servant scuffled in, he motioned the man towards his large, cluttered desk.

  “We have missives to send,” he told them servant, a sense of urgency in his voice. Then, he turned to Gart. “It will take time to send the missives and receive a reply. If papal assassins are already in England, then it may be too late.”

  Forbes’ angular face was serious. “It is possible,” he said. “The last I saw my friends was close to a year ago. I then spent two months in Rome searching for them and then I traveled home to inform you of the news. There has been time for the Holy Father to hire more men to do the job.”

  William digested the information before moving swiftly into action. He could no longer linger on surprise or dismay, and he wasn’t a man who was prone to inaction. His entire life was proof of that. Under his expert guidance, missives were soon being sent to Hugh de Rhydian and Magnus of Loxbeare, and both William and Forbes were heading to Winchester Castle where the king was in winter residence. The time for talk was over.

  It was time to take action.

  Regardless of how William felt about John personally, it was imperative that the man know of, and understand, the threat against him. But there was someone else who needed to know, someone more powerful than even John. William sent Forbes to personally deliver the news to Eleanor of Aquitaine who, upon receiving the information of the papal plot against her son, donated money to the ransom cause.

  Eleanor did not want to lose yet another son and with hope presented, she would do what she could to preserve John’s rule. The Marshal had a plan for John’s survival and Eleanor was more than eager to support it. Eleanor even sent men to ride to the Lords of Baux, led by Gart Forbes himself, to deliver the ransom. Both she and William had decided that it would be much better to send the ransom under her banner because, as so many knew, she and John were always in contention with each other and Eleanor was far more French than she was English. Therefore, her banners were more suitable when dealing with the Lords of Baux.

  Seven weeks, four days, and sixteen hours after Forbes delivered the information on that cold and snowy night to William Marshal, Gart Forbes and a gathering of armed men bearing the standards of Eleanor of Aquitaine arrived at Les Baux-de-Provence with a chest of gold and silver marks and a request from Eleanor to deliver the three English knights in the fortress vaults to her custody.

  The Great Lord of Baux, a greedy man named Estienne, happily agreed at the sight of so much coinage. His purpose had been to ransom the knights off, anyway, and if la subvention Anglais reine wanted to pay handsomely for these men, then Estienne would oblige her. The deal was struck and the three dirty, beaten, and weakened knights were purged from his vaults after months of captivity.

  In truth, it had been a slick operation and one that Gart had been quite proud of. Finally, his friends had been released and were very quickly heading back to England, fearful that the Lords of Baux would change their minds. They rode very hard for weeks, in nasty weather and constant storms, only to take an old cog from Calais on one of the very few clear days they’d seen in all that time, a cog that headed straight for the white cliffs of Dover.

  To the three English knights who never believed they’d ever see the light of day again, it was a beautiful sight. But their duties, as explained to them by Forbes over the course of their travels, somewhat dampened that joy. They hadn’t simply been ransomed; they’d been ransomed with a purpose, a purpose that would be revealed when they met with William Marshal.

  However, Gart had hinted at something ominous behind The Marshal’s meeting, leaving the three knights wondering if remaining in the vaults of Baux would have been preferable. Gart wouldn’t give forth any further information and in the weeks leading up to The Marshal’s meeting, Maxton and Kress and Achilles were feeling some trepidation.

  With good reason.

  Little did they know that the fate of a country would soon been placed in their hands.

  The Executioner Knights would become England’s only salvation.

  CHAPTER ONE

  London

  Convent dedicated to St. Blitha of the Order of St. Dominica

  North of the city walls, near Bishopsgate

  Almost Three Months later

  The walls of the old convent were ancient, hundreds of years old at the very least, and emitted an odor that smelled much like time itself, something like dirt and mold and stagnant water. It was an odd scent, one that inevitably created a mood of both religious piety and the inherent doom.

  This must be what sin smells like.

  That was what the man thought as he stood just inside the door of the old convent, his eyes adjusting to the weak light. There was no furniture, a dirt floor, and the ceiling was low to accommodate the short nuns who inhabited the place.

  For a man of normal height, the ceilings weren’t so obliging – he’d already hit his head, twice, the last time being on a beam that smacked him straight on the forehead. The least bit frustrated, he simply stood in one place and waited. He’d come with a purpose and, low ceilings notwithstanding, he would accomplish what he’d been ordered to do.

  But the wait became excessive and he was exhausted. Months of travel had seen to that, and with no place to sit, his legs were beginning to tremble. He also hadn’t eaten in some time. Dirty, worn, and unkempt, he wiped his nose with the back of his hand as he waited for the Mother Abbess to make an appearance.

  It was her he’d come to see.

  But it was a woman who was evidently too busy to see him immediately or had no real desire to. The man with the ragged beard wasn’t beyond charging through the convent looking for the woman; therefore, he hoped, for their sakes, that the nun who had answe
red the door had genuinely gone in search of the abbess as instructed. Men like Alasdair Baird Douglas were not men to be trifled with; he’d killed his share of women right along with his share of men. Even though he was in a holy house, it made little difference to the career killer. If the Mother Abbess didn’t show herself soon, he’d have to go looking for her and eliminate anyone who stood in his way.

  Fortunately, his murder rampage was suspended when the little nun he’d sent to fetch the Mother Abbess returned with three women in tow. They were all wearing unbleached wool habits, heavy and uncomfortable, and the only thing showing was their faces. They all looked the same to him; small-featured, brown-eyed, and dull.

  One of the women, rounder than the rest, gestured to the cold hearth in the chamber and one of the other sisters scurried over to it and began to prepare a blaze. Alasdair glanced at the woman kneeling next to the hearth but he didn’t give her further regard. He was more interested in the women that were standing before him. He looked at the small nun whose features he recognized.

  “Where is your Mother Abbess?” he asked.

  The young nun pointed to the round woman who had ordered the hearth lit. “It is she.”

  Alasdair turned his full attention to the woman in white, now seeing that she was older than the others, her dark eyes sharp and glittering. She made her way towards him slowly, with a massive staff in one hand, like a walking stick, but heavy enough to beat a man to death. She was gazing back at him in an appraising manner.

  “Are ye Seaxburga?” Alasdair asked.

  The woman nodded, once. “I am the Mother Abbess of St. Blitha,” she replied. “Who are you?”

  Alasdair eyed the woman. “Do ye swear this?”

  The woman cocked her head as if insulted by his question. “’Tis you who has sought me,” she said in a heavy accent that was not Scottish or even French. Alasdair had heard it before; it was Italian. “If you do not believe I am who I say I am, then I shall bid you a good day. You will leave.”

  Alasdair didn’t move; he continued to regard the woman, carefully, as if trying to determine if she was truly Seaxburga, the woman he’d been told to deliver the missive to. He caught sight of another nun in his periphery, a woman who was simply passing by the room. She was slender and lovely, with a graceful neck and a pale, pretty face. She was a beautiful young woman who seemed oddly out of place in such a dark and dismal place, but Alasdair wasn’t looking at her beauty. He was looking for confirmation.

  He yelled to her.

  “Ye!” he boomed. “Stop! Who is this woman?”

  He was pointing at the Mother Abbess. The nun he had interrupted, now frozen fearfully where she had come to a halt, gazed apprehensively between the man who had yelled at her and the round woman in the fine robes. Annoyed at the delay, Alasdair boomed again.

  “Who is this woman?” he demanded.

  The interrupted nun jumped at the sound of his voice. “Our Gracious Mother!”

  She fled. Alasdair turned back to the Mother Abbess, now satisfied that an independent source had confirmed the woman’s identity. His annoyance at the situation in general seemed to ease.

  “Ye will forgive me, yer ladyship,” he said. “I bear a very important message. I did not want tae give it tae the wrong person.”

  The Mother Abbess wasn’t so forgiving of his rude behavior. Her expression was unfriendly.

  “What do you have for me?” she asked. “And who has sent you?”

  Alasdair didn’t say a word. He simply presented her with a missive that he pulled out of his saddlebag, extending it to the enrobed woman. The Mother Abbess inspected the long, rolled parchment a moment before extending a hand, retrieving it. She held it very close to her eyes, for they were not very good these days, and inspected the dark red seal.

  Recognition flickered.

  Now, she was very interested in the man’s appearance. Lifting her eyes from the missive, she hissed at the nuns standing around her, ordering them away. She even ordered the nun away who was just now starting the fire in the hearth. Smoke snaked into the room, filling the air with blue haze. As the infant blaze sparked and the nuns fled, the Mother Abbess took a step closer to Alasdair.

  “The seal of the Holy Father is on this parchment,” she said, her voice low.

  Alasdair nodded. “I have just come from him,” he replied. “He has sent me a very long way tae bring ye this missive.”

  The Mother Abbess’ eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why would he send you?” she asked. “The Holy Father has many men who serve him. Who are you to him?”

  “I am his servant,” Alasdair said, sensing her distrust. “He sent me tae England tae deliver the missive because I know the country. I would know where to find ye.”

  “You are not English. You are clearly from Scotland.”

  Alasdair gave a weak smile. “I am,” he confirmed, “but my mother is a Sassenach. I have spent my share of time here.”

  “Where?”

  “In Lincoln.”

  The answer seemed to satisfy her for the moment. The Mother Abbess’ gaze lingered on him before returning to the parchment in her hand. It was clear that she was curious, as well as concerned. Such suspicions made for an odd cast to her expression. After a slight hesitation, she broke the seal and unrolled the parchment, making her way over to the hearth as she did so in order that she might have some light to read by. Alasdair remained by the door.

  The woman read quickly. She read it once and then read it again. Then, she simply stood there, seeming to read the missive in pieces. Mostly, her attention seemed to be focused on the latter part of it. She would read it over many times as Alasdair watched. Finally, she looked at him.

  “Do you know what this missive contains?” she asked, her voice sounding oddly strained.

  Alasdair nodded. “Aye,” he said honestly. “I am aware. The Holy Father and I have had many discussions about it.”

  The Mother Abbess smiled thinly, looking back to the parchment she held. “Prove this to me.”

  “It speaks of the death of the king.”

  The Mother Abbess grunted and lowered the parchment. “You speak the truth,” she said. “Do you know what else it says?”

  Alasdair came away from the door, his expression surprisingly pensive. “It speaks of the perfect weapon tae create death.”

  “And you know what this perfect weapon is?”

  Alasdair’s dark eyes glimmered as he nodded faintly. “I do, indeed,” he said. “Yer ladyship, William the Lion is my king. He has special favor with Rome. The Church of Scotland and Rome are allies. I was sent by William tae Rome as an envoy and a gift of protection for the Holy Father. The Holy Father and Scotland have the same enemy in John, so we understand each other. Not only do I know the perfect weapon of death but I also know of the boy.”

  The Mother Abbess held up the parchment. “The boy spoken of here?”

  “Aye.”

  “The son of Coeur de Lion?”

  “Aye.”

  The Mother Abbess deliberated upon that information for a moment although it was difficult to know what she was thinking. The older woman had learned long ago to control her emotions and did so with skill. Reading her thoughts based upon her expression was nearly impossible.

  “So he would supplant John with Richard’s spawn,” she finally murmured, turning back towards the fire. “He asks for my assistance in accomplishing this.”

  Alasdair nodded, again confirming what he already knew. “Indeed, Yer Ladyship,” he said. “The Holy Father tried tae hire Sassenach men tae eliminate their king, but they refused. He knows that if he sends trained assassins, assassins from Rome or from France, that it will be difficult for them tae get close tae the king.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the king is well-protected by English knights. English assassins would have made it much easier. If men of a different creed approach him, they will be immediately suspected for their difference. It will make their task far more diffic
ult.”

  The Mother Abbess stood by the fire now, parchment in hand as she watched the building flame. “Then you know that I am that perfect weapon of death”

  Alasdair nodded. “I do.”

  The Mother Abbess glanced sidelong at him. “What he asks is an unsavory task.”

  Alasdair sensed her disapproval. “When he first told me of his plan, I was against it,” he said. “Surely nuns canna be assassins. But the more I thought on it, the more brilliant the plan became. Ye will be the last person suspected as being an assassin. Yer ladyship, surely ye canna have loyalty tae the English king. Ye’re not even English.”

  “I do not and I am not.”

  “But ye object tae his death?”

  The Mother Abbess returned her attention to the smoking hearth, clearly in conflict. She put a hand, plump, against the stone of the mantel as she gazed into the snapping flames. When the smoke would blow her way, moving in unseen drafts, she would move aside and wipe at her watering eyes.

  “It is not a matter of objecting or agreeing,” she said quietly. “It is simply a matter of doing what one is told to do. I came to St. Blitha many years ago. I was sent by the previous pontiff, as I was his younger sister. When I came to St. Blitha, I became Mother Abbess Seaxburga. I love my post. The Holy Father knows this; that is why he has sent me such a missive. He will take all of this away from me if I do not do his bidding. He will ruin me, and I have worked too hard for what I have. All of this; it is mine. He has threatened to ruin me before, you will understand. This is not the first time I have received such a directive from him.”

  Alasdair cocked his head. She spoke of her post as if it were a personal possession, something that had always and forever belonged only to her. But her last sentence had his particular attention.