The Agents of William Marshal Volume I: A Medieval Romance Bundle Page 4

  “I dinna think so,” he said. “It seemed to me, when he spoke of ye, that he’s used ye before.”

  The Mother Abbess nodded, unable to look at him. She was being reminded once again of her great sins of duty, sins that would never be fully cleansed.

  “He has,” she murmured.

  “But… why ye?”

  Even if Alasdair was not shocked by killer nuns, there was curiosity there. Natural curiosity. She smiled thinly.

  “Suffice it to say that he condemned my brother, the man who assumed the post before him,” she said. “Any works my brother has done, the Holy Father has ruined them. To him, Celestine and the Orsini family, my family, are his greatest enemies. That includes me. What I do, I do to save myself and all that I have. I have built an empire here and I will not lose it. I cannot lose it.”

  Alasdair watched her closely. “So he gives ye orders and expects ye to carry them out.”

  “He does.”

  “No matter how dirty the deed.”

  “No matter.”

  Alasdair was coming to understand the dynamics now, of this powerful Mother Abbess and her relationship with the pope. It was, truthfully, fascinating, and his curiosity was fed.

  “Tell me,” he said, his tone nearly pleading. “What has he asked of ye in the past? Something as grand as what is in the missive ye hold?”

  The Mother Abbess lifted her slender shoulders. “Some would think so,” she said. “The Bishop of Leeds spoke out against the Holy Father, many times, and went to Rome years ago on pilgrimage. He and the Holy Father evidently exchanged harsh words, enough so that the Holy Father could no longer tolerate his contentious presence. When the Bishop of Leeds traveled home again, the Holy Father instructed the man to seek respite during his travels at St. Blitha. The bishop arrived and when he came, he presented me with a missive from the Holy Father. Contained within the sealed parchment was the request from the Holy Father that I ensure the man did not make it home alive. When the bishop returned home, it was to his funeral.”

  Alasdair could sense great sorrow in the woman’s words as well as resignation. “He asks and ye comply,” he said. “Now he asks ye tae complete an even larger task.”

  The Mother Abbess nodded her head, wearily. Then, she tossed the parchment into the hearth and watched it catch fire. She could not leave such a missive intact, for obvious reasons.

  “There is no choice in the matter,” she said. “The Holy Father wishes for my sisters and me to rid England of its king and that is what we shall do. To place this boy upon the throne will, mayhap, be for the best. A young lad who will be pious and loyal to the church will be best for us all.”

  Alasdair could see that she was trying to rationalize the terrible directive, as a woman with no choice at all. “No one will ever suspect nuns as a danger tae John,” he said. “Ye will be able tae get close tae him, tae serve him, and carry out yer task.”

  The Mother Abbess watched as the parchment burned brightly, going up in flames much as she felt her soul was going up in flames. “Simple enough, I suppose,” she said. “The king comes to St. Blitha for her feast day. He has come the past three years, in fact, because St. Blitha is the patron saint of hunters and wine, among other things, and the king considers himself quite the hunter. There is a great feast and it would be a small thing to poison the man’s wine as he takes his confessional. Ironic, really.”

  Alasdair watched the woman closely as if to make sure she was, indeed, planning on carrying out the Holy Father’s orders. There was still something in her manner that was hesitant, as if divulging a great weakness, causing him to distrust her intentions.

  “Ye will see tae it?” he pressed. “I will send a messenger back tae Rome with the news that the Holy Father’s missive was received. He will know that ye read and understood his directive.”

  The Mother Abbess turned to look at him, her dark eyes somehow darker and more hollow. It was the evil she was assuming that created the hollowness within her, hollowness reflected in her gaze.

  The evil within.

  “Tell him what you will,” she said. “I will not fail.”

  Alasdair simply nodded even though he had his doubts. Would she be strong enough to do it? Would he be forced to step in and force her hand? He wondered. Alasdair suspected it would be a good idea to remain in London, close to the Mother Abbess, to ensure the Holy Father’s orders were carried out. Women were weak, after all, especially when it came to matters of death.

  Alasdair would ensure that the Mother Abbess didn’t fail.

  Silently begging his leave, Alasdair left the convent and headed towards the city proper where he could find lodgings for the night. Come the next day, he intended to hire a messenger that would return to Rome with a missive meant for the Holy Father, one that assured the man this his directives for the King of England would come to fruition.

  If Alasdair had anything to say about it, they certainly would.

  CHAPTER TWO

  London

  The Crowned Lion Inn

  South of the Thames in Southwark

  The fist came flying at Gart but, with his catlike agility, he was able to dodge it. Instead, it hit the man behind him, who went sailing back onto the railing of the staircase. Rickety old wood that had seen far too much use and not enough maintenance creaked, groaned, and finally gave way under the weight. Everything splintered and the hapless tavern patron fell back in a heap of rotted wood and embarrassment.

  Gart didn’t stop to help the man because fists and weapons were now coming forth at his expense. They were after him and his three companions, one of which had the propensity of getting fights like this started. Battles were never far off when Achilles de Dere was around because, inevitably, the sometimes tactless and always bold knight would say or do something that triggered an explosion of aggression.

  Like now.

  Now, they were in the thick of it.

  “Behind you!” Gart shouted to Achilles.

  The enormous knight was wise enough to throw himself forward, down and away from whatever Forbes was warning him about. It turned out to be a man with a broadsword who sliced it over Achilles’ head, barely missing the man.

  Infuriated, Achilles regained his footing and lashed out a big boot, catching his attacker in the belly. With a grunt, the man fell backwards and Achilles went after him, all fists and fury. Gart shoved away another accoster by the face, nearly breaking the man’s neck, as a big blond knight ended up beside him.

  “Now what?” Kress de Rhydian asked, elbowing a man in the nose who came too close to him. “How in the hell did this get started? My back was turned on a game of chance and suddenly Achilles is standing up, throwing a man across the room.”

  Gart grunted, unhappy, as he watched Achilles pound a big, well-dressed merchant in the face. “He was speaking with that man’s daughter,” he said, pointing to Achilles and his victim.

  Kress scowled at the pair. “The man currently being beaten within an inch of his life?”

  “Aye, the same.”

  Kress shook his head, exasperated. “Was he foolish enough to throw a punch at Achilles?”

  Gart sighed. “He ordered one of his men to do it,” he replied, “and the rest is as you see. Utter chaos.”

  Kress’ jaw ticked as he watched Achilles kick the half-conscious merchant aside when one of the man’s guards hit him across the shoulders with a chair. The chair splintered but Achilles did not; it simply made him madder. It was like pulling the tail of the bull.

  “Christ,” Kress hissed. “We must remove him from this place before the entire tavern is turned on end. You know how he can be.”

  “Aye, I know how he can be.”

  “He will destroy everything in his path.”

  “He will, indeed.”

  Kress began looking around for the fourth man in their party, spying him over near the hearth in what appeared to be an oddly peaceful conversation with an older man, perhaps a traveler or merchant of some kind. In the midst of the chaotic room, the quiet conversation seemed out of place.

  “Look at Max,” Kress said, pointing to their companion at the other end of the rumbling room. “He does not have a care in this world.”

  Gart spied their companion as well. “He certainly is not afraid of conversation,” he replied. “He has done this ever since we left Baux, speaking with strangers in taverns, on the road, in churches… I have never known Maxton of Loxbeare to be so interested in the rabble of the world. Now, instead of helping Achilles, he is casually conversing.”

  Kress’ blue-eyed gaze lingered on Maxton as the man lifted his hands to emphasize a point, chatting away. Kress opened his mouth to reply but another victim of Achilles’ rage stumbled past him, almost bashing into him, and Kress angrily pushed the man away, right back into Achilles’ orbit, where he was subsequently pummeled to the ground. Kress then continued his conversation with Forbes as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

  “Max was oddly quiet during our time in captivity,” he told Gart. “Do you recall that I mentioned this to you? He rarely spoke and when he did, it was oddly philosophical, like the man was reliving his life and trying to figure out where he had gone wrong. Do you see these people he speaks with? Merchants, holy men, anyone who seems intelligent or well-read. Somehow, someway, Max is rethinking the sins of his life. It is my opinion that now that we are free, he believes he has a second chance to right the wrongs he has committed.”

  Gart’s focus was also lingering on Maxton off in the corner of the smelly, smoky, and noisy room. “He cannot change his life,” he said. “He cannot erase the past and the man is known for the strength of his sins as well as the strength of his accomplishments. The Marshal has a task for the three of you and Max is an
important part of that equation. Has he mentioned to you that he does not wish to agree to The Marshal’s terms?”

  Kress shook his head. “He has not mentioned anything to me,” he replied. “But, then again, we do not know all of it. Mayhap when we do, he shall voice his resistance.”

  “If he does, then William Marshal will send him back to the Lords of Baux, not to mention what Eleanor will do to him when she discovers her money has been wasted.”

  “I would fear Eleanor more than William.”

  “As would I.”

  Achilles, now bored with his fight because every man involved in it was either unconscious or fleeing, rubbed at his bruised knuckles as he made his way back over to Kress and Gart. There were at least a dozen men picking themselves off of the tavern’s dirt floor. But when Achilles de Dere was involved in a fight, that was the normal aftermath. Achilles had no problem single-handedly taking on more men than he could count on his fingers and toes, or at least he boasted that fact. He was mostly right and no one had the courage to argue with him. A fight with Achilles de Dere was a difficult fight to win.

  “Foolish whelp,” Achilles muttered as he came to stand with Kress and Gart. “No man will accuse me of sullying his daughter when all I was doing was talking to the girl. And she was not all that attractive to begin with.”

  Kress simply shook his head, resigned, as Gart spoke. “You have made a mess out of the place,” he observed, watching as the merchant was being helped to his feet by his plain-featured daughter. “Mayhap it would be wiser for us to wait outside for The Marshal. I do not want him to see the state of this room and think we are men without control.”

  Achilles looked puzzled as Gart and Kress turned away from him, heading back to their table to collect their possessions. “What do you mean without control?” the big knight wanted to know, trailing behind them through the upended tables. “I have perfect control. Moreover, we have not eaten yet and I am starving. I am not leaving before I have been fed.”

  Gart was collecting his saddlebags. “We will eat somewhere else,” he said. “The tavern keeper will more than likely poison our food and wait until we are dead to steal from us to pay back the damage you have done to his tavern. I will not be robbed by a vengeful innkeeper.”

  Achilles was frowning greatly but, in a way, he understood. He, too, began to collect his bags.

  “I would not die easily,” he insisted. “It would take a lot of poison to kill me.”

  Kress snorted. “Do you care to test that theory?”

  “I do not.”

  “Then pick up your bags and let us move on.”

  “But what about Marshal?”

  “I shall have to send word to him that we have moved to another tavern. He can find us there.”

  Achilles slung his saddlebags over his broad shoulder, well-used and repaired bags that had been purchased second-hand from an old French smithy when they had left Baux-de-Provence. He didn’t like them, but he didn’t have the money, as of yet, to purchase finer. All of his possessions, including his fine horses and weapons, had been confiscated by forces loyal to the pope when they had been arrested last year. Achilles, much like Kress and Maxton, hoped to one day be outfitted to reflect their quality and status once again. Right now, all three of them looked like paupers.

  “Max,” Kress hissed to his friend in the corner. “Let us depart.”

  Maxton of Loxbeare was what most women would call deliciously formed. With dark hair and deep blue eyes, he was square-jawed and handsome. He was also aloof for the most part, at least towards women, and could be aloof towards men as well, which was why his sudden change in nature over the past several months had seemed so strange to his friends. Maxton was a complex man at best, but he was also extremely brilliant and an infallible commander, which made him something of an odd character. When the man heard Kress’ call, he turned to look at him with a complete lack of concern.

  “Why?” he asked. “My business is not yet complete here.”

  Kress grunted, displeased with the denial, as he looked to Gart for support. Forbes fixed on Maxton.

  “Your business is our business, and our business is outside of this tavern,” he told the man in a tone that was not meant to be contested. “Gather your things, Loxbeare. We must depart.”

  Maxton eyed Gart a moment, simply to convey that he was not so easily ordered about, before finally rising from his chair and moving back to their table where his worn saddlebags lay across the wooden surface. Gart and Kress were already moving for the tavern door, a warped panel that was barely able to close. They were nearly to the door when it abruptly pushed back and blinding white light from late afternoon filtered in. Gart actually staggered back, momentarily blinded, as a well-armed man entered the tavern.

  For the Executioner Knights, their moment of destiny had finally arrived.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Forbes,” William Marshal greeted, amused when Gart stumbled back and tripped down a step, down onto the dirt floor of the tavern. “You looked quite staggered to see me. I was unaware my presence had such an impact on you.”

  Grinning, Gart blinked his eyes, as the light from the open door was still bright. “Always, my lord,” he said seriously. “You cause me to stumble every time I see you.”

  William chuckled, noticing that Gart was with three other very large men. Knights, he assumed, although they weren’t wearing any protection and a quick perusal of their weaponry showed it sorely lacking. He pointed to Kress, who was the closest man next to Gart.

  “Introduce me to your companions, Gart,” he said, inspecting Kress from the top of the man’s blond head to the bottom of his enormous feet. “I would assume this is either Loxbeare or de Dere or de Rhydian.”

  Gart nodded, turning to indicate Kress. “My lord, meet Sir Kress de Rhydian,” he said. “You have never met a man more deadly with a sword.”

  William cocked an eyebrow at the knight. “We shall see,” he said vaguely, throwing a finger in the direction of an empty table over near the front windows of the tavern. “Let us retreat away from the entry so our business is not heard by the entire world.”

  So much for them leaving the tavern to find another, less-hostile place. Gart simply followed William as the man headed for an empty table over near the front window.

  “As you wish, my lord,” he said. “But truthfully, we were not expecting to see you until tonight.”

  William waved him off. “We made excellent time with our travel,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the men following him. “If the big blond man is de Rhydian, then the other two must be Loxbeare and de Dere.”

  They had reached the table, which was empty except for a small man sleeping at one end of it. As The Marshal’s men roused the man and chased him away, the group began to collect their seats. Gart indicated Maxton, who was closest to him.

  “This is Sir Maxton of Loxbeare,” he said, “and the tall brute is Sir Achilles de Dere.”

  As Maxton and Achilles acknowledged William with a nod of their heads, Gart made a point of not introducing The Marshal by name because he didn’t want anyone else in the room to hear the introduction. Already, they were conducting their business out in the open and he was uncomfortable, but William didn’t seem to be particularly concerned. He’d brought about twenty heavily-armed men with him inside, men who fanned out through the room, so that William on the inside was well protected.

  As they settled around the old, worn table, William wasn’t thinking about his men, or the tavern, or anything else for that matter. His attention was entirely upon the three knights he had just been introduced to.

  He’d been waiting a long time for this moment.

  “Loxbeare,” he said to the bearded knight with the dark blue eyes. “I know your father well. He is quite thrilled to have you home.”

  Maxton nodded faintly. “That seems strange, my lord, considering I have not spoken with my father in almost fifteen years.”

  William could immediately sense a serious, if not somewhat morose, man beneath the hulking exterior. He wasn’t quite sure how to respond to what seemed to be a family issue so he simply overlooked it. “Your father is a fine man,” he said politely, turning his attention to the big blond knight who had been more congenial. “De Rhydian, is it? You must be an excellent knight if you are keeping company with Loxbeare and de Dere.”